Page 19 of Order to Kill (Mitch Rapp 15)

“Why would they use me to do that? You’ve already given me a new life. You owe me nothing. Why would they think you’d care?”

Because he did. But he wasn’t ready to say that.

“I don’t know.”

“If this wasn’t about Louis and the men involved are dead, does that mean you’re taking us home?”

“No. I need to make sure your identity hasn’t hit the street and that no one’s going to try to follow up on this. The plane’s going to drop me off and then take you to Washington. A very trustworthy man named Mike Nash is going to pick you up from the airport and take you to my apartment. You’ll be safe there while I work this out.”

“And by that you mean while you kill everyone involved.”

If he’d been talking to his late wife, this would be where the fancy footwork started. But there was no point. Claudia understood how this worked.

“Yes.”

“Can I help?”

“I think I can handle it, but thank you.”

“I can help, you know. As ashamed as I am to say this, I was good at what I did.”

“I know,” he said honestly. “And if I wasn’t one hundred percent confident in my team, I’d be taking you up on your offer.”

She reached out and laid a hand on top of his. “I should be dead or in prison, Mitch. Instead, I live in the most beautiful house I’ve ever seen, in the most beautiful place I’ve ever been. Anna has a wonderful school and wonderful new friends. I want to find a way to repay you.”

Rapp’s phone chimed and he glanced down at it, expecting to find an update on the CIA crew being brought in to clean up the mess he’d left. Instead, it was a threat. But not from the Pakistanis or Russians. It was a warning that if he didn’t make a decision in the next hour, his kitchen counters would be topped with pink Formica.

Rapp glanced up at Claudia. “Is that a serious offer?”

“Of course it is.”

He turned the phone and showed her the text. “I’m finishing up building a house outside D.C. and this woman’s driving me crazy. I’m going to set up a meeting between the two of you for tomorrow. After that, the only thing I ever want to hear on this subject is that the key’s waiting for me under the mat.”

CHAPTER 9

ISLAMABAD

PAKISTAN

GRISHA Azarov strode purposefully across the lobby of the Islamabad Marriott. It was after midnight, so it was virtually empty. A haggard-looking English couple was giving instructions to a bellboy in the corner and an attractive young woman was manning the reception desk. In his peripheral vision, he spotted a man coming through the door behind her but immediately registered him as benign. The hotel manager.

“It’s nice to have you back, sir.”

Azarov nodded politely, but didn’t stop. He suspected that the man had stayed this late solely to provide that greeting and to make certain that the details relating to Azarov’s arrival had been attended to.

As expected, the elevator was empty and he inserted the key for the top floor. As was customary, the hotel’s most luxurious suite had been rented for him in the name of the Russian energy consulting firm he was the president of. The company had been bankrolled by Maxim Krupin with the help of the oligarchs who now made up a significant portion of his client list.

It was a cover that allowed him to take in enormous amounts of money with little scrutiny, travel to dangerous parts of the world without raising suspicion, and meet with wealthy, powerful men unnoticed. After more than a decade in business, the cover operation had become, for all intents and purposes, real. He had hired top talent in the areas of economics and geology, expanded his clientele to include such corporations as Exxon, BP, and Aramco, and gained enough expertise in the field to hold his own in a roomful of petroleum engineers.

Azarov exited the elevator and opened the door to his suite with the card key he’d been sent. The main room didn’t feel much different than the lobby—an ornate mix of figured marble, rich wood, and expensive rugs.

The floor at the center was sunken and contained a conversation pit consisting of chairs and sofas surrounding a glass coffee table. A lone man rose from the chair farthest from the door, bowing slightly in greeting.

Marius Postan was fifty-one, balding, and wearing an expensive but ill-fitting suit that hinted at constant fluctuations in weight. He was another of Krupin’s extra-governmental “advisors” and had been in the employ of the Russian president even longer than Azarov himself had. His sphere of influence was more the technical side.

“It’s my understanding that you have information for me?” Azarov said, walking to the bar. A bottle of Blanton’s Gold Edition was waiting for him along with an elaborate arrangement of fresh flowers and a personal note from the manager.

“I think you’ll want a clear head for our conversation,” Postan said.

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