Order to Kill, page 9
part #15 of Mitch Rapp Series
Chkalov fell silent, looking down and concentrating on the empty table before him. Anyone else might have seen the pause as an indication that his mind was weakening, but Krupin knew better. The useless old woman was simply choosing his next words carefully.
“While what you say is true about the corruption of the West, there is still a great chasm between their system and ours. . . .”
Another lengthy pause, this one longer than Krupin had ever personally experienced. Maybe the insufferable old bastard was finally losing his mind.
“May I speak plainly, Mr. President?”
Krupin tensed, but not in a way that would be visible to the others. He’d occasionally been asked this question early in his presidency, but quickly demonstrated how he dealt with anyone too frank in their opposition. Chkalov, though, was in a very different category than the bureaucrats and minor elected officials that infested the Kremlin. There was only one answer Krupin could give.
“Of course, Tarben. We’ve been friends for many years and I value your opinion.”
“The situation in Russia is getting bad enough that the people are beginning to see through the fog you’ve created. I sense that you’re aware of this and I believe that the growing danger has made you act rashly.”
Another infuriating lull.
“Ukraine offered a brief populist boost to you personally but the Western sanctions are slowly bleeding us. And your ban on the importation of Western food products was the result of anger, not calculation. Putting images of the government burning millions of rubles worth of perfectly good food in a country where people are going hungry has had disastrous results.”
Krupin’s anger grew with every word. He managed to keep his face impassive, but the skin on his cheeks started to burn.
“I believe that the low energy prices punishing Russia’s economy will persist. The Americans are producing increasing amounts of oil and gas, and the Saudis are committed to keeping prices low in order to hamper the development of renewables and to bankrupt American producers—both battles they are losing. Technology moves inevitably forward and no one in this room or in similar rooms around the world can stop that progress.”
Krupin found it impossible to remain silent any longer. “Are you finished?”
It was a question that was always answered in the affirmative by the fearful men and women who worked for him. But Chkalov wasn’t one of those people.
“I’m afraid not, Mr. President. I apologize if this sounds disrespectful but hard talk is preferable to the alternative.”
“Then by all means go on,” Krupin snapped. “But do it quickly. I have other matters to attend to.”
The old man nodded respectfully. “Russia is becoming irrelevant, sir. The Americans are good villains for your television programs, but the truth is they don’t hate us. They’re indifferent to us. Of course, we can get their attention by occasionally flexing our military muscle, but we all know this is ultimately meaningless. The question is, why should we continue to support you? It used to be that our laws were more flexible than those in America. Now, though, there’s no real danger of prosecution for men like us as long as we contribute to the right congressmen. Why shouldn’t I spend my money buying influence in a country with a future instead of Russia, which has only a past?”
“Everything you have is because of the Russian government!” Krupin said, his voice echoing throughout the room. “And you continue to possess it only because I allow you to.”
“What you say is true of my Russian assets, Mr. President. But they’re worth less every day. I wonder if soon I won’t be hoping for you to nationalize them or distribute them to the other men in this room.”
Krupin swallowed his anger. There was no profit in escalating this confrontation. He had to acknowledge the limits of his power. For now.
“You’re too much of a pessimist, Tarben. All these things you speak of are easily fixed.”
A man near the far end of the table leaned forward and spoke uninvited. “And if we ask how, will you send Grisha for us, too?”
Pyotr Druganin was the youngest and most reckless of the men in the room. He’d bet heavily on energy and his empire was teetering on the verge of collapse. While the danger Chkalov posed flowed from his status and the respect he commanded, this man’s flowed from his desperation.
“Your government is bankrupt, Mr. President. Too cash strapped to even make payments to the corrupt local officials that keep your house of cards from collapsing. They’re pursuing their own interests now, squeezing my businesses, creating red tape that I pay you to cut though. And I’m not so easily blinded by glorious reports of your military exploits.”
Chkalov motioned for him to be silent but he refused. “You’re too polite, Tarben. Too diplomatic. We talk about our demands amongst ourselves like a bunch of frightened children. Now here we are. What better time to present them?”
“I don’t think—” Chkalov started, but Krupin spoke over him.
“Demands? I’m intrigued. Please go on.”
He expected the other men around the table to become uncomfortable but they displayed surprising resolve. Perhaps this had been the plan all along. Let Chkalov play the respectful general while the pup took on the suicide mission.
“Western sanctions must be removed,” Druganin said.
“And how do you suggest I achieve that?”
“Frankly, we don’t care. But most likely it will involve ceding some of your military gains.”
Krupin actually laughed at that. “You’re not serious.”
“I am, Mr. President. And that’s not all. The lifting of sanctions alone won’t be enough to stop Russia’s slide. We need significant free market reforms and a crackdown on corruption. You’ll also have to begin to decentralize your power. Russia is the largest country in the world and this isn’t the seventeenth century. It can’t be run for the benefit of only one man.”
Krupin stared at Druganin, but the man refused to look away.
“You can’t send Grisha for us all, Mr. President. We have the means to fight back. And we will use—”
“Enough!” Chkalov said, sensing that his young comrade was stepping over the line. He focused his hooded eyes on Krupin. “We’re all aware that you ordered the death of Dmitry Utkin for his opposition. And we find this understandable. His—”
“Are you giving me your approval, Tarben? Do you believe that because I agreed to meet with you that I now serve at your pleasure?”
Chkalov refused to be drawn into a fight. “Dmitry was incautious and his actions were counterproductive. I spoke with him about this on a number of occasions. We aren’t happy about what has happened, but we acknowledge that it was inevitable.”
“I care very little about what you do or do not acknowledge, Tarben.”
Again, the old man seemed not to hear. “Make no mistake, Mr. President. If this was the first shot in a war against us, it’s a war we are capable of fighting.”
The threat was completely unveiled and Krupin’s jaw clenched as he looked at the stoic faces around him. He seriously considered calling in his guards and having these men executed on the spot. The government would reabsorb their companies and throw their families into the streets.
But it was impossible. They wouldn’t have come here without taking precautions. Krupin was certain they had men inside the Kremlin—perhaps even among his most trusted advisors.
He couldn’t afford to underestimate them. A drop of poison, a disgruntled guard, a hidden explosive. It was almost certain that plans for his assassination were laid and that these traitors were already squabbling about who would replace him.
Silence descended on the room as Krupin considered his next move. For now, there was only one course. The oligarchs had to be put at ease. Then, when his power was fully restored, they could be dealt with.
“Can I assume that all of you are familiar with the Ghawar oil field in Saudi Arabia?”
Unsurprisingly, all nodded. It was the largest in the world and, along with the others around it, responsible for the vast majority of Saudi Arabia’s output.
“As Tarben mentioned, the Saudis are increasingly committed to keeping oil prices artificially low. It harms them very little as it still provides plenty of income for the royal family. It is, however, extremely damaging to countries that aren’t governed by backward tribal monarchies. Venezuela and Iran, for instance. And, of course, Russia.”
“We’re aware of all this,” Druganin interrupted.
Krupin nodded impassively. This man would die first. Grisha would carve the flesh from his bones while his family watched.
“If I may continue. I intend to end all meaningful production in Ghawar and the surrounding fields permanently. That will significantly reduce worldwide supplies as well as removing Saudi Arabia as the world’s swing producer. In all likelihood, it will also collapse the monarchy and cause the country to descend into a civil war. The other small oil-producing states like the UAE and Kuwait will be threatened by the chaos on their borders, particularly from a strengthened ISIS, and this will significantly reduce their output as well. My economists expect oil prices to increase to as much as two hundred fifty dollars per barrel, which would translate to a tripling of gasoline prices. The U.S. will be forced to use its military to secure critical production areas at great expense to them—something that will further drag on an economy damaged by the sudden rise in energy prices. Russia’s budget deficit will turn into surplus almost overnight, which I will use for economic stimulus and the expansion of our military in order to reassert Russia’s influence in the region.”
Krupin rose from his seat and looked down at the men. While he had hoped that it wouldn’t be necessary to reveal this much of his plan, he enjoyed their stunned expressions and mute stares. “Can I assume that this will be satisfactory?”
CHAPTER 15
FAISALABAD
PAKISTAN
THE soldier was angling in from the right, running across an empty lot piled with garbage. His weapon was still holstered but he was young and respectably fast. Avoiding a confrontation was going to be impossible if Rapp wanted to get into position for the chopper closing from behind.
They continued on their collision course, with Rapp at a full sprint, dodging through the alarmed pedestrians sharing the sidewalk. Predictably, the soldier slowed when he got within ten yards, shouting for Rapp to stop and reaching awkwardly for the pistol on his hip.
The problem with military men in this part of the world was that they expected people to do what they were told. A good bet ninety percent of the time, but today he was going to get an education in the other ten.
Despite the stifling heat and his aching lungs, Rapp managed a brief burst of additional speed, aiming directly at the young soldier. The gun snagged before clearing its holster and Rapp stuck an arm out, clotheslining the man. He landed hard, the back of his head hitting the concrete with a dull crack.
The maneuver had multiple benefits. First, the kid was done with his chase but still breathing. And second, the pedestrians crowding the area started to panic. Instead of his having to dodge them, now they were getting out of his way.
No plan was perfect, though. The two cops coming at him from the north saw the soldier go down and pulled their weapons. Neither looked like he could hit the broad side of a barn, but that actually made the situation worse. If they decided to open up, the most likely outcome would be that they’d take out a bunch of innocent bystanders.
The buildings that Maslick had told him about appeared on his right and Rapp abruptly slowed to a walk, stepping through a set of doors as he wiped at the sweat pouring down his face.
He had no idea what the people working in the building did and there were no clues in the modest lobby. A receptionist sitting at a desk to his left looked at him with a friendly but inquisitive expression. There was a single open door at the back and he could see the cubicles lined up beyond it.
“Hi, I have an appointment to see Mr. Gajani,” Rapp said, trying to control his breathing. It was the most common Pakistani name he could think of on the spur of the moment and he got lucky. The woman still looked a little perplexed but there was apparently someone working there by that name and the idea that an American might visit him was within the realm of possibility. She reached for the phone but Rapp waved a hand and gave her as friendly a smile as he could muster. “Don’t bother. I’ll just go on back.”
He picked up his pace as he passed through the door. The receptionist didn’t protest, instead just nodding submissively. In terms of her cultural situation, she was the exact opposite of the soldier he’d left lying on the sidewalk. In male-dominated Pakistan, he would expect deference while she would expect to be dismissed.
His luck held as he weaved through the cubes. A few people glanced up at the sweat-drenched man in their midst but most remained focused on what they were doing. By the time the sound of the front doors being thrown open reached him, he was already approaching the back of the building.
Demanding shouts reverberated through the building, but a moment later they were drowned out by the dull thud of chopper blades. The people around him began to stand and wander out of their cubicles when the vibration started to shake the structure.
“Stop!”
Rapp ignored the shout, continuing to walk casually toward a door in the back wall. More yelling and the sound of running feet didn’t prompt him to look back. The combination of the cops and the fact that the chopper was close enough to start knocking pictures off the walls was creating a panic that would be enough to cover him for the next few seconds.
Yanking the door open created a blast of air that felt like a convection oven. He used a hand on the jamb to pull himself forward into the hurricane of rotor wash. There was a red climbing rope whipping around the narrow alley and Rapp went for it, catching the carabiner dangling from the end and attaching it to the harness beneath his shirt. A quick wave and the helicopter started to rise, lifting him off the ground.
Rapp reached for his fanny pack and retrieved his weapon, pumping a couple rounds into the wall next to the door when one of the cops poked his head through. He disappeared back inside and stuck a hand out, firing blindly around the jamb. The rounds ricocheted through the alley but by then Rapp was well clear. The chopper continued to rise until he was out of practical range of anyone on the ground and then dipped its nose and started in the direction of the warehouse Coleman had infiltrated.
A voice crackled to life in his earpiece but he couldn’t understand what was being said over the roar of the air around him. He grabbed the rope to steady himself and looked up, spotting Joe Maslick hanging out of the helicopter’s open door. He pointed and Rapp followed his finger to a large building to the north. It took up the entire block and had a ring of windows around the top. Despite the sun glare, intermittent flashes of gunfire were visible through them.
With no idea of Coleman’s position, the floor plan, or the strength of the opposing force, entering through one of the broken skylights was a no-go. Instead, Rapp motioned toward the roof of an adjacent building.
“Scott!” Rapp said, activating his mike. “I’m going for the high ground on the northeast side of the building. I should be in position in two.”
There was no response as the aircraft started to descend. Rapp hit hard, rolling across a melting asphalt roof and coming to his knees near the low concrete wall that encircled it. The rope dropped on top of him and he looked up, pointing at the HK416 assault rifle in Maslick’s hand. The former Delta operator nodded and let it drop. The rotor wash put it into a flat spin as it fell but Rapp managed to catch it. He moved right, lining up on a broken window in the side of the warehouse.
As planned, he was high enough to see about seventy percent of the building’s floor. The relative darkness inside didn’t make for great visibility, but it was enough.
The chopper started to rise, taking the noise and the wind with it. The oppressive heat, though, remained.
“Scott, I’m in position. I can’t see the first fifteen feet of the north side of the floor because of the wall and I’m blind to the last thirty feet at the back because of the light. I have full view of the center section all the way to the east and west walls. That’s your cover area. Do you copy?”
Rapp could see muzzle flashes coming from the back but they weren’t enough to pick out individual targets. About all he could do was make an educated guess that Coleman was dealing with three to four men with automatic weapons.
“Scott, do you copy?”
“Fifteen feet from the north and thirty from the south,” Coleman repeated back.
Rapp let out a relieved breath and swept the rifle’s scope right, searching for targets. “Mas. Get your ass in position over that building and make sure nothing comes out.”
“Copy that, Mitch. I’m on it.”
CHAPTER 16
COLEMAN eased right, taking cover behind a rusting metal-forming machine before sprinting across the open five yards to a pile of rotting pallets. He stayed near the wall and in the shadows, which obscured him from the men spraying bullets in his direction but also made it impossible for Rapp to track him.
The automatic gunfire emanating from the back of the building started arcing to the right in search of him and he darted across another gap, rolling through the debris before coming up onto a single knee. He lined up on the flashes but couldn’t find a target reliable enough to risk giving away his position. Instead, he crawled away from the wall, hoping to enter Rapp’s field of view without being forced to cross into the sunlight beaming through the windows.
