Order to Kill

CHAPTER 44

PERSIAN GULF

OFF THE COAST OF SAUDI ARABIA

GRISHA Azarov watched two men climb down the dhow’s cargo net and slip silently into the water. Instead of immediately following, he remained on deck, staring out over the water. As had been predicted by Krupin’s forecasters, the region was enjoying a brief respite from the wind before it returned with the sunrise now only a few hours away. Free from the suffocating heat of the vessel’s hold, Azarov breathed in the salt air and examined the outline of an empty shore.

There were no lights visible other than the vague urban glow of Dammam, sixty kilometers to the south. A slightly shorter distance to the north was Al-Jubail, the city this vessel would soon set sail for in order to unload its legitimate cargo. Until then, the captain stood near the bow, looking nervously to the horizon.

Azarov finally put on a well-used dive mask and followed the men into the water. Even rudimentary scuba gear had been impossible to bring. It would have been discovered by the Coast Guard boarding party and might have raised suspicions.

He dipped beneath the swells and kicked toward the two similarly equipped men working beneath the hull. A single glow stick cast a green haze over their effort to open the container attached near the keel. They worked with impressive efficiency, something Krupin had assured him would be the case. Both men had trained on an exact replica of the dhow’s hull submerged in a Russian lake.

Azarov surfaced, turning again toward shore. His mask fogged and he lifted it, making out the shadow of a small fishing boat approaching from the west. As instructed, it was equipped with an electric motor that made far less noise than a conventional outboard.

Something bobbed to the surface to his right and he glanced briefly at what would be the first of six black balloons. The men in the fishing boat were equipped with night-vision gear, making it a simple matter for them to intercept.

Azarov maintained his distance, watching them pull the crate dangling beneath the waves onto their craft. Once safely aboard, a knife was used to deflate the balloon and send it to the bottom of the Gulf. This process continued for another ten minutes. A float would splash to the surface, the men would collect the attached crate, and then the evidence would disappear. When the last crate had been retrieved, Azarov pulled himself over the side of the small vessel.

After confirming that their cargo was adequately hidden beneath a stack of fishing nets, he threw his wet clothes overboard and changed into baggy pants and a sweatshirt similar to those worn by the man steering the skiff toward shore.

Behind, he heard the engines of the dhow as it started toward deeper water. Job done, they would go back to their lives as traders and petty smugglers, as though none of this had ever happened.

The boat grounded on shore and Azarov jumped out. An SUV with two men standing next to it was visible about fifty meters away and he jogged through the sand toward them.

The vehicle turned out to be an impeccable Range Rover. The two men were equally well appointed, in tailored silk suits and traditional headdresses. In most places, their appearance would be less than subtle, but in the context of Saudi Arabia, it was relatively mundane. In fact, these men really were who they portrayed themselves to be-minor royalty who had enjoyed lives of unimaginable privilege since the day of their birth. Like so many young men with similar backgrounds, though, they had become bored. Now they played at jihad.

“Praise be to Allah that you were delivered to us safely,” one of the men said, extending a hand. He had been educated in America and spoke flawless English.

“Indeed,” Azarov replied, allowing his still-damp hand to be clamped in the crushing grip of overconfident youth.

While the benefit of using these men was obvious-their station in life made them largely above the law-they were not to be trusted. Creatures of comfort and entitlement, they would turn on him, and the God they professed to serve, at the first sign of danger.

The fisherman approached from behind and loaded the first two crates into the Range Rover. Of course neither of the Saudis made a move to help. Azarov knew from his time working as an energy consultant that it would be pointless to ask. They would be genuinely confused by a request that they participate in physical labor.

He wanted to minimize their time on this empty beach, so he turned and ran back down toward the boat. With his participation, they could be loaded and on the road to Al-Hofuf in less than five minutes.