“Really? I had no idea.”
Azarov turned toward Cara. “I’d like you to meet Mitch. We know each other from Saudi Arabia.”
“Hi,” she said, extending a hand. “I’m Cara. So you’re in the oil business, too?”
“I am.”
They had actually met once before. It had been dark, though, and he’d had a silencer pressed to her boyfriend’s head. It’d be interesting to know how Azarov had explained that one away.
“And this is Claudia,” the Russian said.
She twitched visibly at the fact that he knew who she was, but managed to look reasonably relaxed as they exchanged greetings. Her B-plus grade moved to a tentative A minus.
“Have you been on the trail behind the restaurant yet?” Azarov asked. His accent had softened noticeably, taking on a bit of the Spanish that surrounded him.
“I haven’t,” Claudia responded.
“Why don’t you take her on a tour, Cara?”
“Sure. The toucans are usually out this time of the afternoon. Grab your wine. It’s easy walking.”
Rapp watched the two women descend from the deck and disappear into the jungle.
“May I join you?” Azarov asked.
“Please.”
They sat and Rapp took the opportunity to examine the man. The cuts from the glass that had shattered in his face were long healed and whatever scars remained were obscured by his tan. He’d put on a few pounds, taking the edge off the gaunt, professional endurance athlete look he’d had before. Rounding out his new softer image was a blond head of hair about the same shade as Scott Coleman’s.
Most of the change, though, wasn’t physical. The man was extraordinarily talented and well trained, but had lived most of his adult life as little more than a slave to Maxim Krupin. Now he looked . . . happy. In fact, he looked happy enough to make Rapp wonder if he’d made a mistake coming there.
“Vacation?” Azarov said, sipping an ice water. “Or have you managed to bring in a team that I missed?”
“No team. Just us.”
“Why? You’ve had two opportunities to kill me and you’ve taken neither. I assume your people are watching me, and if that’s the case, you know I’m no longer in contact with the Russian government.”
It was true as far as anyone had been able to tell. Azarov’s first order of business after divesting of most of the foreign property that he no longer needed was learning to surf. The fact that he’d been an -Olympic-level biathlete and was sleeping with a full-time instructor hadn’t hurt. With the exception of a run-in with three territorial Hawaiian locals—one of whom was still relearning how to walk—his pursuit of the sport had gone spectacularly.
Recently, though, he’d reconnected with the successful consulting company he’d used as a cover operation, appointing a new CEO and taking over as chairman of the board. It wasn’t a particularly demanding position but it also wasn’t one he in any way needed. As far as the Agency could tell, he had a net worth of more than one hundred million dollars and spent less than two thousand of it every month.
Rapp’s silence caused the Russian to become wary. “I trust your friend Scott Coleman is still doing well?”
“Yeah. Should be back in a year or so. That’s not why I’m here.”
“What, then?”
“How’s the quiet life?” Rapp asked, not yet ready to answer the man’s question.
“I enjoy it. I enjoy my time with Cara. The freedom. And how about you? I have to admit that, based on your history together, a relationship with Claudia Gould is surprising.”
“Sometimes you have to let things go.”
“An enlightened attitude, but not one I would have ascribed to Mitch Rapp. How is her daughter? Anna, isn’t it? After your late wife. She must be what? Six?”
“Seven.”
“Ah,” he said noncommittally, and then took another sip of his drink.
“So,” Rapp said, glancing behind him to make sure Cara hadn’t reappeared. “You wouldn’t be interested in a small side job.”
Azarov’s initial surprise was obvious but then he gave an understanding nod. “I took out the head of your backup team. You need a replacement and you feel I owe you.”
“No. I’ve gotten tangled up in something Scott and his boys can’t be involved in.”
“I see. And if I say no?”
“Then we’ll have dinner and I doubt we’ll ever see each other again.”
Azarov looked past him at the clouds building on the horizon. “How long?”
“A few weeks. Certainly no longer than a month.”
“Details?”
“There’s someone I want to talk to.”
“Can I assume that he doesn’t want to talk to you?”
“Safe assumption.”
“But your government doesn’t agree about the importance of you meeting with this person.”
“Fair to say.”
“Not a personal vendetta, though. That would be something you’d handle yourself.”
“I’m looking forward to the conversation,” Rapp said honestly. “But the goal here isn’t personal satisfaction.”
“I’m intrigued. Payment?”
Rapp shrugged. “I can offer you a lot of money, but the most expensive thing you bought in the last six months was a new board.”
Azarov’s brow furrowed, considering the issue. “U.S. citizenship?”
“Sure. But it’d be easier to just make Cara an honest woman and get it that way. Besides, you live in Costa Rica. Why pay the taxes?”
“True, but I think we would agree that someone with my skill set shouldn’t be expected to work for free.”
Rapp pulled out his wallet, extracted a single dollar, and laid it on the table. The Russian stared at it for a few seconds, finally reaching out and stuffing it in his pocket. “But you’re picking up the dinner bill.”
CHAPTER 21
Riyadh
Saudi Arabia
THE phone on Aali Nassar’s desk buzzed and he snatched it up. “Yes?”
“Aali, how are you?” King Faisal said. “Are you all right?”
Nassar let out a relieved breath. Perhaps premature, but at least the waiting was over. He’d called the palace multiple times since his return to Riyadh only to be told that the king was indisposed. Generally these periodic breaks in communication were the result of the man’s failing health, but that had now become a dangerous assumption. Had Faisal been avoiding calls because he’d heard about the disastrous meeting with President Alexander? Had he been made aware of the Americans’ suspicions regarding Talal bin Musaid?
“I’m well, Your Majesty. And you?”
“Me? Let’s not speak of me. I’m told that you suffered serious injuries defending yourself against those cowards in Mauritania.”
“I assure you that the reports have been wildly exaggerated.”
In fact, they had been entirely fabricated. The story was that Nassar had been drawn personally into a desperate fight with the terrorists. Accounts of his heroics were beginning to cross the line into the improbable, but no one had any reason to question them.
“Exaggerated? Modesty doesn’t suit you, Aali. The terrorists themselves are corroborating accounts of your actions.”