Arctic Storm Rising Dale Brown (literature books to read TXT) 📖

a bunch of rebels or terrorists or freedom fighters in faraway,godforsaken places—depending on what they’re calling themselves on any particular day of the week.”

“Not at all, Captain Flynn,” the older man said with a dry laugh. “We leave idiocy along those lines to the amateurs, likethe CIA.”

“So who are you?” Flynn challenged him. “Defense Intelligence Agency? Homeland Security? FBI?”

“None of those,” Fox said with some amusement. “I run a little outfit of my own.”

Flynn looked at him. “Called what?”

The older man shrugged. “Many different names, depending on the task in hand.” Casually, he seated himself in one of the chairsnext to the bed. “What matters is that I’m always on the lookout for people who might be useful.”

Flynn glanced up at Laura Van Horn. “So, our whole dinner date? What was that, just an artfully managed job interview? Complete with a carefully arranged dud aircraft engine?”

Reddening a bit more, she shook her head.

“That, Captain Flynn,” Fox said calmly, “was serendipity.” He shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Oh, given time, I would have askedLaura here to find a way to talk to you . . . to size you up, one could say. You’ve been on my radar as a possible recruitto our little band of brothers and sisters for quite a while.”

Flynn stared at him. “Why me?”

“You have language skills, high intelligence, intuition, tenacity, and daring,” Fox told him frankly. He smiled. “Those aren’tcommon anywhere, and certainly not in our government’s more . . . established . . . intelligence bureaucracies.” Behind his lenses, his pale eyes gleamed. “Besides, you’ve demonstrated a remarkable talentfor pissing off all the wrong people by doing exactly the right thing. A talent like that should be put to even wider use.”

Flynn looked across at Van Horn. “You work for this guy,” he said quietly. “What does it really involve?”

“No bullshit this time?” she asked, with the faint echo of a laugh.

“No bullshit,” he confirmed.

Van Horn nodded, looking relieved at his change in tone. “Well, Nick, basically the job involves travel to a variety of unsavory,exotic places, frequent danger, and the occasional risk of getting killed. All for relatively low pay and uncertain benefits.”

“So, pretty much the same as serving in the armed forces, then,” Flynn pointed out with a quick, sidelong grin.

Fox nodded. “True enough,” he allowed, with a fleeting smile of his own. “But with one rather significant exception . . .especially to someone like you.”

“And what’s that?” Flynn wondered.

“The opportunity for truly independent action, without being held back or second-guessed by superiors who are more interested in protecting their careers than in accomplishing the mission,” Fox said bluntly.

For a time, Flynn considered that, looking back and forth between Laura Van Horn and Fox. How far could he trust them? Maybenot far, he thought. At least not yet. Then again, if even half of what they said was accurate, it could turn out to be onehell of a ride. He nodded. “Okay, count me in.”

Côte d’Azur, France

That Same Time

Dmitri Grishin’s huge luxury yacht was anchored off a small, cliff-circled harbor on the French coast. One of the hundred-meter-longvessel’s auxiliary craft, a beautiful teak motorboat, rumbled softly across the azure waters of the Mediterranean, swung througha graceful curve, and glided in alongside a centuries-old stone quay. Quickly, crewmen tied the motorboat up and then turnedto help their only passenger, the oligarch himself, up a short ladder.

At the top, Grishin paused to thank them. “Your service during this vacation has been superb, and will be amply rewarded,”he said cheerfully. “I only wish the press of business didn’t require me to return so soon to Moscow.”

They bobbed their heads in gratitude. Their employer, though demanding, paid well—and tipped even better when he was pleased.And everyone aboard the yacht had noticed the sea change in his mood over the last few days. With a final, genial wave, Grishinturned toward the limousine that would take him back to the airport in Nice.

And then his head exploded—blown apart by a subsonic 9mm round. Without a sound, his corpse toppled off the quay and splashedinto the Mediterranean.

Three hundred meters away, high up on the rocky cliff overlooking the little village, the man who’d shot him began methodically disassembling his scoped VSS Vintorez sniper rifle. This silenced weapon had been specially developed for use by Spetsnaz-trained assassins.

Two other men stood nearby, watching impassively while the murderer quietly and efficiently stowed the tools of his tradein a carrying case. One of them was a senior officer in Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service, the SVR. He turned to the tall,elegantly dressed younger man at his side. “Moscow is grateful for your cooperation and patriotism, Mr. Voronin,” he said.“Without your information, this traitor might have managed to escape detection. And only your inside knowledge enabled usto retrieve the two hundred billion rubles he had been paid as ransom.”

Pavel Voronin smiled modestly. “What else could I have done, once I learned the true extent of Grishin’s crimes?” he said.He sighed. “The old man betrayed us all in the end, every single one of those who trusted him.”

Somberly, the SVR officer nodded. “A nasty business, indeed. President Zhdanov took the news of this treachery on Grishin’spart very badly.”

“Please assure the president that both he and Mother Russia can always count on my loyal service,” Voronin assured him earnestly.

Later, watching the two other Russians depart, Pavel Voronin smiled more genuinely. With a single, simple act, he had freedhimself from his unnecessary apprenticeship to Grishin. The oligarch had always been too cautious, too narrow in his thinking.Soon, Voronin thought coldly, he would be able to realize the full extent of his own personal ambitions—a task that wouldbe made considerably easier by the billions of dollars the Americans had so generously and foolishly paid into secret accountsthat were now his . . . and his alone. Whistling softly, Voronin turned and walked away from the cliff.

Behind him, in the gathering darkness, Dmitri Grishin’s body floated slowly out to sea.

Acknowledgments

Again, a big Thank-You to Patrick Larkin for his expertise, talent, and support.

Weapons and Acronyms