it into the bathroom.
There, he slung it up and over the door, attaching it to the doorknob on the other side.
Stripping off Minayev’s clothing, he dressed him in the women’s lingerie he had brought along and then scattered hard copies within reach of the child porn Nicholas had made sure would be discovered on all of his devices.
Out in the hallway, Alexandra didn’t feel like talking. This was the part of it that she didn’t like, the pornography. Her reaction was exactly what he was hoping other Russians would feel when the news broke.
As they left the building, he gave the okay for her anonymous source to contact the local paper.
It would not be a good day for the GRU. One of its most distinguished Generals would be found hanged, by his own hand, via autoerotic asphyxiation and surrounded by child porn.
With two down, there was only one left to go.
CHAPTER 81
* * *
* * *
If you asked Muscovites who, on the social scene, they hated the most, privately, they would all give you the same answer. Misha.
Misha was the diminutive of Mikhail, and everyone knew who it referred to—Mikhail Peshkov, pride and joy of the Russian President, Fedor Peshkov.
It was said that the only thing the elder Peshkov loved more than his money and power was his son. He was his sole offspring, the only living memory of the President’s deceased wife, who had also been his childhood sweetheart. The boy represented the continuation of the family bloodline, but like many only children, he had been recklessly spoiled by his over-adoring father.
The blinders the Russian President wore when it came to Misha had seen a spoiled child grow into a dangerous young adult.
Though barely into his twenties, the young man had become known not only for his gluttony and abandon, but also for his cruelty. Even the local Russian mafia despised him. Had it not been for his all-powerful father, he would have already been taken out.
But because of the elder Peshkov, he was free to run wild, free to terrorize businesses throughout Russia, legitimate and otherwise, with impunity.
He had caused grievous damage “bottling” prominent rich Russian night-club goers by slamming their heads with champagne bottles, crippling and even killing prostitutes, and had pioneered a sick new form of polo that entailed running down stray dogs with cars.
Immediately after Harvath had read the dossier Nicholas had compiled, he couldn’t wait to get his hands on him.
This target, though, was more difficult than the others. This one was a “twofer” and as such, it had to be executed flawlessly.
Even more than the son, Harvath wanted the Russian President to suffer. He wanted to grab the elder Peshkov by the throat, cut his eyes out with a penknife, and slowly lower him into a vat of acid, but that pain would have only been temporary. That wasn’t good enough.
Harvath wanted Peshkov to suffer, as he had suffered in losing Lara, Lydia, and the Old Man. He wanted the Russian President’s pain to last for years. That was why he and Alexandra were here now.
The Federal Security Officers sitting in the cars outside Misha’s loft hated the President’s son as much as the rest of Moscow did. Harvath and Alexandra had no problem slipping past.
The officers posted inside the building were a different story.
Affixing a suppressor to the Old Man’s 1911, Harvath had Alexandra in her short skirt, dark wig, and thigh-high boots come in the front door, while he entered from the back.
Having done presidential protective details, Harvath knew the extent to which the United States went to keep the children of prominent politicians safe. What he saw in the lobby was stunning.
There were two security agents in total. They were both focused on the front door, which allowed him to come in from the back unchallenged.
While Alexandra engaged Tweedledee and Tweedledum, telling them she was supposed to meet a girlfriend there for a party in one of the lofts, and they stared transfixed at the tops of her breasts in her low-cut top, Harvath hit the stairs.
He had no idea if the twenty-six-year-old would be by himself or surrounded by some lowlife “posse.” Either way, Harvath had a plan.
Creeping up to the top of the stairs, a pair of latex gloves on, he slowly pulled back the exit door and looked out.
For a moment, he couldn’t believe it. Then he had to remind himself that he was in Russia. There were absolutely no guards on this floor.
That didn’t mean there