Johann Brandt, acting as his chauffeur and bodyguard for this covert meeting, stiffened suddenly. “They’re here.”
Reichardt peered through the windshield and saw two cars pull up and park just across the darkened street. Both were brand new Mercedes.
Russia’s criminal classes had a well-developed appreciation for fine German automotive engineering.
Three hardfaced men in black leather jackets and slacks climbed out of the first car and fanned out — scanning the immediate area for any signs of trouble. They were heavily armed.
One carried a shotgun. The other two cradled Uzi submachine guns.
Satisfied, one turned and flashed a thumbs-up toward the second Mercedes. Its high-beams flashed once.
Responding to the prearranged signal, Reichardt and Brandt climbed out of their car and walked slowly toward the middle of the street. Except for a briefcase carried by Brandt, they were unencumbered, and they were careful to keep their own hands in plain view. The rear doors of the second Mercedes popped open.
Two men stepped out and came forward to meet them.
Both were well dressed and middleaged, but one, a wiry, white-haired man, bore jagged scars on his face that testified to a hard life. A brightly colored tattoo on the back of his left hand showed he had spent time in the Soviet prison system.
Reichardt recognized Felix Larionov from earlier business dealings.
The vory v zakone, the “thief professing the code,” controlled several of Moscow’s most powerful and active criminal gangs. The second man, fleshier and softer-looking, was Larionov’s sovetnik, his “adviser” — a term meaning everything from legal counselor to second-in-command.
Larionov stopped just out of arm’s reach. He nodded once.
“Herr Reichardt.”
“Vor,” Reichardt said politely, carefully masking his irritation at having to come hat-in-hand to this criminal for help. The unexpected persistence of Major Alexei Koniev and his two American colleagues was proving extremely troubling. Gasparov’s heroin smuggling had proved a remarkable stroke of luck — one he had been quick to seize on. Ordinary police investigators would have been quite satisfied to close their case with Grushtin’s apparent suicide.
The memory of the Russian officer’s screams brought him a brief moment of pleasure. Orchestrating Grushtin’s death had seemed a masterstroke — the capstone on the intricate heroin smuggling cover story he had so rapidly contrived to blind the official inquiry into the An-32 crash.
Reichardt’s mood darkened again. But Koniev and these two Americans had not taken the gift he offered them. Instead, they were coming dangerously close to piercing the security screen he had erected around his activities at Kandalaksha. That could not be tolerated or ignored.
Not any longer.
It especially irked him to involve others outside his control in the Operation, but time was short, and his resources, though enormous, were not inexhaustible. He looked steadily at Larionov.
“Can your people handle the disposal of these packages for me? The ones we discussed over the phone?”
The Russian smiled thinly. “They can.” Then he held up a cautionary hand. “But the proper question, Herr Reichardt, is whether or not I will order them to undertake such a task.”
“Of course. My apologies.” Reichardt gritted his teeth. Beggars could not be choosers, he reminded himself coldly. His own security teams were still scattered around the world. He needed the Russian Mafiya chieftain’s assistance and manpower — for now. “Will you accept this commission, Vor?”
“You can assure me this work is not done at the behest of any government?” Larionov asked. The refusal to perform any work for the authorities was an integral part of the Russian thieves’ code.
“Yes,” Reichardt said firmly. “This is a private endeavor. And so I swear it.”
“Then so I accept it,” Larionov agreed. He motioned toward his adviser. “I believe Kiril told you our price?”
Reichardt nodded slowly. Two hundred thousand American dollars plus expenses was well over the ordinary fee for such services, but it was reasonable — given the short notice, relative importance of the targets, and the fact that he insisted on having one of his own men in direct command.
At his signal, Brandt stepped forward and opened the briefcase he carried for the Russian’s inspection. It contained bundles of small-denomination greenbacks and a stack of airline tickets.
“Good.” Larionov smiled more broadly, showing a set of yellowing, tobacco-stained teeth. “Then our business here is concluded.
My boys will rendezvous with this man Kleiner of yours in Murmansk tomorrow evening.”
Prince Ibrahim al Saud looked up impatiently as his personal secretary, Hashemi, brought Massif Lahoud into his private office.
The Egyptian-born head of the Persian Gulf Environmental Trust looked weary. He had traveled half the night from Damascus to Riyadh and from there to Taif. Under other circumstances, Lahoud’s report could have been made in a five-minute phone call, but Ibrahim maintained a single, inflexible rule in these matters. Where possible, his subordinates would never discuss their involvement in terrorist activities electronically. Phone calls, faxes, and electronic mail could all be intercepted, and Ibrahim had a high regard for the code-breaking abilities of intelligence organizations like Israel’s Mossad and the American National Security Agency.
“Well?”
“The Radical Islamic Front agrees to your condition, Highness. One of our freelance Syrian operatives attended the meeting. They have contacted Afriz Sallah and hired him for this operation. Everything is proceeding according to plan.”
Ibrahim smiled. “Very good, Mr. Lahoud. Then I authorize you to release the necessary funds from the trust’s private account.
Take the usual security precautions.”
Lahoud nodded. “Of course, Highness.”
When he was gone, Ibrahim sat back in his chair. A single prearranged order from Lahoud would set events in motion. The funds released from the trust’s account would flow through an intricate network of dummy accounts set up in half a dozen banks — some in the Middle East, some halfway around the world. By tomorrow, the Radical Islamic Front would have the cash it needed to arrange the assassination of the American Undersecretary of State for Arab Affairs. And if anyone ever tried to trace the ultimate source of the Front’s money, they would find only the equivalent of an empty desert — with all the tracks filled in by the wind.
CHAPTER SIX
MANIFEST DESTINY
Colonel Peter Thorn pivoted slowly through a full circle, carefully checking their immediate surroundings. Broken windows stared back at him from the abandoned buildings visible in every direction. The rust-eaten Lada staff car that had brought them here was parked in front of a large, metal-roofed concrete building enclosed by a sagging chainlink fence. Railroad tracks ran parallel to the fence for a hundred meters before angling off toward the woods around the base perimeter.
Nothing was stirring. Nothing except the hairs on the back of his neck. They were nearly four kilometers from the busier portions of Kandalaksha, and this place was too quiet — too isolated.
He glanced at Koniev and shook his head meaningfully. “I don’t like this, Major. Not one goddamned bit.”
“Neither do I,” Koniev agreed. He jerked a thumb toward the sullenfaced Russian sergeant who had picked them up at the airfield’s main gate. “But this man insists that General Serov himself ordered him to bring us
