MOSCOW, RUSSIA
Vladamir Krupnov sat alone in the back of a black Mercedes sedan with today’s edition of Kommersantt—a Russian business newspaper—folded across his lap. “Misha, how much longer to the airport?” he asked his driver.
“Another twenty or twenty-five minutes,” Misha replied.
“Goddamn Moscow traffic,” Krupnov mumbled. He opened his newspaper and was just beginning a fresh article when his cell phone suddenly buzzed in the pocket of his blazer.
“Da?” he answered.
“Vlad, it’s Sashko,” said a man in Ukrainian. Alexandre “Sashko” Melnik was Krupnov’s most trusted lieutenant and was currently in charge of all of Krupnov Energy’s operations in the United States. “We just picked up two more signals from Thurmond,” he continued.
“The Soviet team?” asked Krupnov, switching seamlessly from his native Russian to Ukrainian.
“Yes. It appears so. We’re going out to find them now. I just wanted to let you know before you got on your flight.”
“Excellent. They may have valuable information for us, maybe the material itself. Make sure you bring them in alive. And, Sashko?”
“Yes?”
“Do not fuck this one up, understand?”
“Tak. I understand.”
“You bring them in immediately no matter what you have to do. Is that clear?”
“Yes. The men are assembling now, and we’ll have a chopper in the air within twenty minutes.”
“Make it ten. I will not tolerate another mistake like you made with Malachi. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And speaking of Malachi, any sign of him?”
The man on the other end of the line hesitated a moment. “No,” he replied quietly. “We’re still looking for him.”
Krupnov cursed under his breath and terminated the call. Why is this so difficult? He leaned forward and tapped Misha on the shoulder. “Step on it. I don’t want to miss my flight.”