WHEN the front door opened, Rapp was confronted with an unwelcome sight. There before him was the big Russian who less than twelve hours ago had come within an inch or two of tearing off his head. Rapp’s left temple began to throb just looking at the guy. The bodyguard had a bandage around his throat and a hell of a shiner from where Reavers had tagged him, but here he was at his post, which said a lot about the guy. After having your ass kicked like that, most guys wouldn’t be too willing to show up for work the next morning. The guy was either very devoted or extremely stupid. Rapp hoped it was the former, because guys who suffered from the latter were hard to teach a lesson.
This time the guy eyed Rapp a bit more cautiously. He pointed at Rapp’s waist and in a really hoarse voice that was English with a Russian tinge said, “Open your jacket.”
Rapp popped the one button and pulled open both sides, revealing the gun on his left hip.
“Leave your toys outside,” the man ordered.
“No thanks.” It was important not to back down. Rapp had no outward physical mark from their last meeting.
“Not a choice.”
“Fuck you,” Rapp said. “This is my town, not yours.”
The big Russian stared him down for ten seconds and finally said, “Wait.” Then he closed the door.
Rapp stood there and wondered how he was going to handle this if they came back and told him to hit the road. He’d told Kennedy in very vague terms where he was headed, just to cover his ass in case some other federal agency was running surveillance, but he had no real backup if things went south, and the Russians weren’t exactly known for playing by the rules. He’d learned long ago that you could never let down your guard and think you were okay without your gun. He didn’t even like handing it over when he went to the White House. He sure as hell wasn’t going to go in here without it.
The door finally opened. This time it was Sidorov. He was in bare feet, torn jeans, and a faded blue V-neck T-shirt. He looked more like a hungover rocker than a billionaire financier. The Russian whiz kid smiled and said, “Are you always so difficult?”
Rapp thought about it. “I suppose I am. No offense to you, Peter, but I don’t know you that well, and I have no idea who you have in there. I’ve made a few enemies over the years.”
Sidorov pushed the door the rest of the way open. “I can relate to your paranoia. I myself have had three attempts on my life.” Sidorov turned and moved across the black-and-white-checkered marble foyer.
Rapp stepped over the threshold and scanned right and then left as he closed the door. A big curved staircase wide enough for four people looped up and around to his right. Sidorov moved ahead down a center gallery that divided the house in half down the middle. Rapp followed him, checking the rooms on the left and right as they went. There was a music room, a library, a sitting room, a dining room and another sitting room. All were empty. Finally, at the back of the house they entered a colossal kitchen that looked as if it had been painstakingly restored to its original 1930s condition. A babushka in a gray house dress was standing on the other side of the kitchen island staring at Rapp.
Sidorov spoke rapidly in Russian to the woman and continued through the kitchen and into a solarium. He took a seat in a white wicker chair and gestured to the one on the other side of the table. Rapp sat and Sidorov offered him his choice between the Financial Times and the Wall Street Journal. Rapp took neither.
Sidorov began scanning the front page of the Financial Times and asked, “So what can I do to help the famous Mitch Rapp?”
“I had a nice talk with your boy Max last night.”
“Very talented man,” Sidorov said while still reading the paper. “I’m shocked your CIA couldn’t find more use for him.”
“I suppose there was a time where they would have, but things have changed.”
“Yes, they have. That is what I just told my bodyguard, who for obvious reasons doesn’t like you.”
“For the record, I did not want to tangle with him, but he didn’t leave me many choices. I just wanted to collect Johnson and leave.”
“Why did you want him so badly? Surely it wasn’t my business dealings with him.”
This was the part Rapp wasn’t sure about. Had Johnson sold any additional information to Sidorov, or anyone else, for that matter? It would take a while to sort all of that out, but for now Rapp wanted to discuss something else. “His dealings with you are not my concern. At least not at the moment. Let’s just say he’s been involved in some stuff that has a few people upset.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“The kind of stuff he should know better than to get involved in.”
“Fair enough.” The babushka dropped off the service tray of coffee and poured a fresh cup for each of them. Sidorov took his with cream and sugar. Rapp took his black. “So what can I do for you at this early hour?” Sidorov asked.
“Early? It’s almost noon.”
Sidorov smiled. “I am a young man, Mr. Rapp. Early is relative.”
“I suppose so.” Rapp took a sip and said, “Max told me about the moves you’re making in Cuba.”
“He did? I paid him a considerable amount of money. I would think he would at least know how to keep his mouth shut.”
“I can be persuasive.”
“Yes… I suppose.” He regarded Rapp for a moment and then asked, “So, why are you here?”
“It involves Cuba.”
“Go on.”
“You’ve had some business dealings with General Ramirez?”
“Anyone who wishes to get things approved in Cuba eventually must deal with General Ramirez.”
“So I’ve heard.” Rapp nudged his coffee cup and then said, “I need to meet with him.”
“I would think that could be arranged.”
“In private.”
“Of course, but why would you need my help?”
“I don’t want him to know he’s sitting down with me until it’s too late for him to back out. And I would prefer to meet him on neutral ground.”
“The general,” Sidorov said, “is a very dangerous man.”
“And what would you call me, Peter?”
Sidorov exhaled while he thought about it and said, “I have spent three years building my relationships down there. I have significant sums of money invested in my various endeavors. Why would I want to risk all of that on a situation that is so obviously combustible?”
Rapp had anticipated this response. “Because I think you can turn it to your advantage.”
“How?”
Rapp smiled. “This is all unofficial, but there’s a man who lives not far from here. Big white house. You get the picture. For reasons that
I’m sure you can understand he is not happy with the events of last week.” Rapp prepared to exaggerate a bit. “He has directed me to punish anyone who was involved in aiding the terrorists.”
“And how does General Ramirez fit into that?”
Rapp told him how the drugs had been stolen and flown to Cuba. How Ramirez had allowed the terrorists to use Cuba as a staging area for their attack and in exchange was given a large cut of the stolen drugs.
Sidorov’s face grew pained as the details unfolded. When Rapp was done he said, “I hate the drug trade. I avoid it like the plague. It’s all very bad for business, especially my business, but I do not condemn those who choose to make their living that way.”
“And I’m not asking you to take a position against Ramirez.”
“You just want me to help you kill him.”
Rapp didn’t answer right away. “I would like to give the general a chance to make amends.”
“By doing what?”
“By providing me certain information about the person he was dealing with.”
