Contents ( 55)
- In Memoriam
- Epigraph
- Cast of Characters
- Americans
- Russians
- Canadian
- Prologue
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Epilogue
- Acknowledgments
- Weapons and Acronyms
- Weapons
- Acronyms
- About the Author
- Also by Dale Brown
- Copyright
- About the Publisher
But now, Grishin thought with growing delight, he’d broken free. Close to six billion dollars, sheltered in an impenetrable web of dozens of secret accounts, represented both security and continued power and influence for himself and for his family. Even if Zhdanov tried to throw him to the wolves, he would fail. Grishin could safely ride out the coming economic and political storm abroad—biding his time until the moment arrived to choose the next winner in Russia’s ongoing cycle of internecine power struggles.
Jubilantly, he clapped Voronin on the shoulder. “Well done, Pavel!” He chuckled out loud. “Now you’re a rich man, too!”
Voronin had been promised a 1 percent share for his work in coordinating and orchestrating Vanishing Act. Perhaps such a sum was not true wealth when compared to that possessed by his employer, but it was a fortune nonetheless and ample reward for his labors, Grishin believed. Somewhat smaller shares had been promised to Bondarovich and the other ex-Spetsnaz soldiers Voronin had hired for the real dirty work. More, naturally, had been promised to Colonel Alexei Petrov for his part in the conspiracy.
“Which nation’s payment will we honor?” Voronin asked dryly. “After all, I need to let Petrov know in which direction the bomber should fly—once the winds ease up enough for it to take off again.”
Grishin shrugged. “Tell him to return the PAK-DA prototype to our own country, of course.” He turned back to the rail and looked out across the water again. “I’m willing to bleed Zhdanov and his cronies, but I’m no traitor. Not to the Motherland.” He glanced at the younger man. “The Americans were dupes, leverage to use against Moscow—never anything more.”
“Naturally,” Voronin agreed.
Grishin eyed him. “Once the stealth bomber takes off, are your men ready to clear off themselves?”
The other man nodded. “Bondarovich and the others have their orders. They’ll head for the Canadian border by snowmobile, where I have a bush plane waiting to pick them up. Nothing at the camp can be traced back to us.”
“And Colonel Petrov?” the oligarch asked quietly. “What arrangements have you made for him?”
Casually, Voronin leaned against the railing. His eyes were hooded. “Regrettably, Alexei is a proud and volatile man,” he said reflectively. “Somehow, I don’t think he’s really suited to a quiet, discreet life of luxury. It would be very hard for him to accept the need to disappear completely.”
“Perhaps so,” Grishin agreed.
“Which is why my men will take the necessary action on their way to the border,” Voronin assured him. “You can be very sure that no one will ever see the colonel again.”
In the Hills Overlooking Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson, near Anchorage, Alaska
That Same Time
On the slope of a hill climbing steeply two hundred feet above a frozen stream, two men crouched near the base of a Sitka spruce tree. They wore thick parkas, ski pants, and fur-lined hoods against the intensifying cold. Besides their civilian winter clothing, they also had powerful night vision–capable binoculars slung around their necks. As storm clouds rolled across the sky above them, driven by high winds whistling down out of the north, daylight was fading fast.