Читать книгу Treason Play - Don Pendleton - Страница 15

Yuri Sokolov sat in the cabin of his Gulfstream executive jet. He listened to the engine’s whine as the craft cut through the air over Asia. Thoughts of what lay ahead rolled through his mind. It comforted him to think of such things, distracting him from the horrible thing sealed in a special smuggling compartment built into the aircraft, one normally reserved for weapons or drugs.

Absently he grabbed at the cloth napkin folded over his left thigh, dabbed imaginary beads of sweat from his upper lip and returned the napkin to his lap. He’d meet Haqqani in Karachi in a matter of hours, at the airport, where he could pass along the horrible substance the plane carried.

Then he’d get back on the plane and get his ass back out of Karachi. Fast.

He noticed his left foot tapping out a rapid-fire beat and willed himself to stop. What the hell is the matter with you? he wondered. Quit acting like a damn child and do this.

A tumbler of vodka was clutched in his right hand. Bringing it to his lips, he drained it, thankful he was alone. If the others—the ones who signed his paychecks—saw him acting this way, jumping at shadows that existed only in his mind, they’d kill him.

A rueful smile crossed his lips. Rising to his feet, he crossed the cabin to a wet bar and poured more vodka. After ten years with the KGB and then with the FSB, you’d think you’d be used to danger, he told himself. And used to bad bosses. He’d had more than his share of both through the years.

But these people, the ones with the Seven, were the worst. It’d all seemed so good up front. They’d showered him with money. And with women, lots and lots of women, he thought, allowing himself another smile. And it’d all seemed pretty easy. Carry a couple of suitcases filled with the money to Sunnis insurgents in Iraq. Ferry precision-machined centrifuge parts to Iran. He essentially was a well-paid delivery man. Very well paid.

But this…

This could start a war. Start many wars.

Enough, he told himself. His job was to deliver, not to worry about consequences. He was a foot soldier and foot soldiers, in his view, did what they were told. They let smarter people worry about the consequences.

He sank back into one of the jet’s plush seats. Besides, they’d assured him all this was temporary, essentially a ruse. He’d pass along the materials. They’d take them back later—by force if necessary. Sokolov ran his fingers through his thinning, reddish-brown hair. He didn’t trust Daniel Masters as far as he could throw the little British fuck. Didn’t trust any Englishman, for that matter, especially not one willing to undercut his homeland. But even that oily bastard wouldn’t lie about something so important.

No, he told himself, Masters wouldn’t lie about this.

And, if he did, frankly, it wouldn’t matter. Masters had the Council of Seven convinced he knew what he was talking about. Therefore, he held all the cards. In Sokolov’s little world that meant shutting up and doing as he was told.

And he’d do that.

Even if it brought Armageddon down on the whole world.

SOKOLOV WATCHED NAWAZ Khan push his way through the door of the aircraft, followed by an entourage of maybe a half dozen men.

The Russian made no effort to hide his disgust at the Pakistani. Sokolov’s brother, a Spetsnaz soldier, had been killed in Afghanistan, the personnel carrier he was traveling in pulverized by a Stinger missile, one presumably supplied by the United States. In light of that, he had little use for the Pakistanis, or the United States, for that matter.

Nawaz Khan marched up to within a foot of the Russian and stood, his fists cocked on his hips, and stared at Sokolov.

“You have it?” Khan asked finally.

“Yes.”

Khan nodded approvingly. “And you can show us how to use this material?”

“Of course,” Sokolov replied.

“Good.”

A phone trilled from somewhere in the knot of men positioned behind Khan. From the corner of his eye, Sokolov saw one of the men bring a phone to his ear and heard him utter what the Russian assumed was a greeting, though he didn’t understand the language. The man paused and listened. When he spoke again, the volume of his voice rose. Though Sokolov couldn’t understand what the man was saying, he easily recognized the distress in the man’s voice. By now Khan had turned to look at his assistant. The arch of the Pakistani’s eyebrows, the ripple of his cheek muscles as he clenched and unclenched his jaw betrayed his worry, Sokolov thought.

When the man hung up the phone, he looked at Khan.

Khan gestured at Sokolov with an open palm. “Excuse me,” he said. He turned and walked with his assistant to another section of the cabin, out of earshot of Sokolov, at least at first. As the conversation progressed, Khan’s voice rose to a point where Sokolov could hear the conversation even though he couldn’t interpret the words spoken. Khan occasionally punctuated his statements by jabbing his index finger into the man’s chest. When the conversation ended, the man turned and exited the airplane while Khan came back to Sokolov, a strained smile plastered across his lips.

The Russian flashed a smile of his own. “Trouble?”

Khan shook his head. “Nothing we can’t handle. This business we’re in, it occasionally yields some surprises, yes?”

“Expect the unexpected,” Sokolov replied.

“Certainly.”

Sokolov stepped forward, bent his head until his face hovered within inches of Khan’s own. The former KGB agent’s smile faded. “If you have trouble on your hands,” he growled through clenched teeth, “you better damn well deal with it before it becomes our trouble, too. You understand me, yes?”

Khan swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes.”

“Good, I feel better already,” Sokolov said.

Khan nodded in the direction of his entourage. “You can supervise them as they unload the cargo? You know better than they do how to handle the material.”

“Damn straight I do.”