by Vince Flynn
“I hope so,” Rapp said, though he was less than confident. As much as he’d like to believe that he’d rammed that RPG right down Nikita Pushkin’s throat, he doubted he was that lucky. “Where do we stand on finding Grisha?”
“Irene and I agree with you that he’s on his way to Russia, but we’re not sure what he’s planning on doing there when he arrives. I know he’s good, but taking on Maxim Krupin by himself? No one’s that good.”
Rapp looked out the window as they started across the Potomac. She was right. At this point, all Azarov could do was create a mess or get himself killed. Neither outcome was in the best interests of the United States. At least not yet.
“Russia’s a big place, Claudia.”
“I know. We’re working on it. Grisha’s operating in a way he never has before. He’s angry, he’s alone, and by now Krupin will know he survived and assume he’s coming. That means he can’t use any of his normal methods or contacts. Basically, we’re in a race against the Russians to find him.”
Rapp rolled his head left and watched the city lights wash across her face. “That’s fine. As long as we win.”
They fell silent for almost a minute before Claudia spoke again. “Are we done with business?”
“Yeah.”
She leaned over and kissed him, keeping one eye on the road. “I’m glad you didn’t get shot or squeezed by a python.”
He grinned. “You didn’t tell me about the pythons.”
“Or the scorpions with giant fangs. I didn’t want to scare you.”
“Where’s Anna?”
“I left her with the Nashes. We can just walk over and get her in the morning.”
Mike and Maggie Nash had recently finished building a home in Rapp’s subdivision. The security benefits of being surrounded by loyal shooters turned out to be significantly overshadowed by the benefits of built-in childcare. The Nashes had a brood large and chaotic enough that it could take them two days to even notice Anna had moved in with them.
“We can swing by on the way home if you want,” Rapp said.
She shook her head. “What I need tonight is a bottle of good wine and some adult time.”
CHAPTER 15
NORTHEAST OF TUAPSE
RUSSIA
ANDREI Sokolov opened the safe that had been delivered two days before, taking comfort in the substantial weight of the door. As one of the men responsible for the early subversion of digital communications, he had a strong preference for paper and steel.
The file in his hands was more than a centimeter thick and contained everything known about Maxim Krupin’s medical condition. Despite having spent the last twenty-four hours poring over both it and a mountain of supplemental material, he found himself staring uselessly down at it.
The news was worse than even his most pessimistic expectation. Ironically, Krupin had been betrayed by the strength and toughness that had allowed him to rise to power. He’d ignored the worsening symptoms, allowing the tumor to wind its tendrils through his brain. At this stage, surgery would be dangerous and potentially debilitating, while the standard radiation and drug therapies would be of questionable efficacy.
He replaced the file, selecting three others before locking the safe again.
The world was becoming unmoored. America was retreating while China pressed its advantage. Western Europe was teetering between implosion and a newfound sense of interdependence. North Korea was creating instability that could lead to a war that would be certain to turn both nuclear and biological. New technologies were driving the world away from fossil fuels and toward a future of safe, cheap renewables.
It was a time of historic danger, but also one of opportunity that Maxim Krupin should have been able to exploit. But now the best-case scenario was a significant reduction in his ability to lead his country through the obstacles ahead. The worst-case was that his treatments would fail and he would leave behind a power vacuum that would tear Russia apart.
Sokolov sat behind his desk and poured himself a shot of vodka, downing it in one swallow. The unfamiliar burn flared in his throat for the first time in more than twenty years. If not today, when?
In some ways, the logistics necessary for Krupin’s illness were even more complicated than the administration of war. While the external threats to him were significant, it was the internal threats that were most dire. Any hint of weakness would be identified and capitalized upon. He was a public figure in constant contact with the public, world leaders, and staff. Even with full control of the media, the symptoms of his illness would have to be carefully hidden, his absences during treatment would have to be explained, and any side effects would have to be anticipated. It was vital that Krupin continue to exude the strength, confidence, and brilliance that made him so feared and admired.
Given the opportunity, Krupin’s traitorous political opposition would bring down everything he’d accomplished. They’d turn the country inward, slashing military and intelligence budgets, bribing Russia’s youth with consumer goods and freedom. Russia would fade into irrelevance—a sparsely populated landmass with a languishing military capability and inconsequential economy. No longer would the Europeans tremble and the American presidents genuflect. No longer would countries in crisis seek their patronage. No longer would they be included at the table of the world’s great powers. The last vestiges of the glory of the Soviet Union would disappear forever.
Sokolov opened a file in front of him and was faced with a young Grisha Azarov in a Spetsnaz uniform. He shuffled through the hastily prepared background information but found it too incomplete to be useful. Not particularly surprising of a man who had lived his life as a ghost in the president’s employ.
The spotty intelligence was of little importance. Sokolov was intimately familiar with the man and his gifts. Much more interesting was Krupin’s relationship with him. Why had he attacked this man? Why was he more frightened by a retired assassin than he was by Prime Minister Utkin? And what of the imprisoned Roman Pasternak and the nationwide demonstrations in support of him?
Was this an example of the periodic confusion that he’d described? The venting of pointless rage at a man who had abandoned and defied him? Subconscious jealousy of his youth and vitality? How had a puppet master like Maxim Krupin concluded that there was profit in moving against—and ultimately failing to kill—Grisha Azarov?
Sokolov shuffled to the back of the file in order to scan the most recent update. The photo he found had been taken by Russian intelligence only a few days before. It depicted two still officially unidentified men standing in the courtyard of a hospital in Costa Rica. The one in shadow wore his hair long enough to hang across his bearded face. The other, a blond man with a military style haircut, was in full view.
He didn’t need Russia’s intelligence service to tell him that the latter was Scott Coleman. And if that was Coleman, it was likely that the man in shadow was none other than Mitch Rapp.
He ran a hand over the photo, trying to imagine a scenario that would have brought the CIA man there. The details of his relationship with Azarov were hazy but it was clear that a relationship existed. If he was there with a combat team, it seemed certain that the Agency had discovered Russia’s involvement in sabotaging Costa Rica’s power grid, as well as the fact that it had been done in support of the effort to eliminate Azarov.
And with this trivial operation, Krupin had created a number of non-trivial problems. The first was obvious. Grisha Azarov, one of the most effective killers in the world, would be seeking revenge. Second, it was feasible that Mitch Rapp, undoubtedly the most effective killer in the world, would help him. And, finally, Krupin had added needlessly to the impression that his behavior had become erratic—something that would not be lost on the formidable Irene Kennedy.
There was a knock on his door and he closed the file. “Yes.”
An impeccable young colonel recommended by Krupin entered with yet another file in his hand.
“We have some initial in
formation on the medical matters you were interested in, General. Would you like to see them as they’re received or—”
“As they’re received,” Sokolov said, tapping an empty spot on his desk. “And bring my car around. We’ll be leaving for Moscow within the hour.”
“Of course,” he said, sliding the folders into position. “Is that all, sir?”
Sokolov nodded and waited for the man to disappear before shuffling through the recently gathered intelligence. He stopped at a printout of a cranial MRI, holding it up to examine a tumor growing in the brain of a woman being treated in Voronezh. It was similar in size and position to Krupin’s, so he made a note on the file that action should be taken. The second folder contained information that was more theoretical—a collection of articles on various experimental and unconventional cancer therapies being carried out in other parts of the world. It was too much to go through before he left, but he would have enough time to digest it before his arrival in Moscow.
Sokolov walked to a mirror that he’d hung that morning. After smoothing a few imaginary wrinkles from his uniform, he turned his attention to the insignia designating him Marshal of the Russian Federation. As the second man in history to hold such a rank, he was keenly aware of its weight and of the challenges ahead.
He finally exited the office, starting down the hallway to the unfamiliar click of dress shoes against tile. His housekeeper appeared from the dining room, her weathered face registering shock at seeing him in a military uniform.
“Are you . . . Are you leaving?”
Her confusion was understandable. She had spent the better part of a decade caring for the needs of a man she’d come to know as a reclusive scholar. There had been no excursions into the outside world, no visitors, no communiqués. And now that reality had been turned upside down.
“I am.”
“When will you return?”
“Soon.”
“And President Krupin? Will he be coming again?”
Sokolov smiled. “Why don’t you make me some tea for my drive?”
He watched her turn and limp toward the kitchen. Oskana was almost eighty years old and completely alone. Her only son had been killed in Afghanistan and her husband had been gone for almost as long.
She’d served him well, but she’d seen Krupin and there was no telling what she had overheard or surmised since then.
He opened the polished flap on his holster and pulled the pistol from it. The round hit her in the back of the head and she collapsed, having felt nothing. She would be missed by no one but him.
Sokolov was gratified to see his new assistant rush in with his own weapon drawn. He’d been chosen for his efficiency and intellectual capacity but it appeared that he had a backbone as well.
Sokolov started toward the door as the young colonel stared down at the fallen woman.
“Take care of this,” he said as he passed.
“Of course, General. Don’t think anything more about it.”
CHAPTER 16
NORTHWEST OF ZHIGANSK
RUSSIA
ANDREI Sokolov stepped over the cable powering temporary overhead lighting and continued down a freshly painted hallway. The steel and concrete warehouse was no longer open in layout nor filled with refuse. On the contrary, it had been transformed into a state-of-the-art medical facility and temporary command center befitting Russia’s leader.
He passed beneath a laborer securing gilt molding along the ceiling and then turned down a corridor still in the drywall phase. Based on his most recent briefing, there were only three workmen left—all cleared for top secret projects and all toiling outside the building’s nerve center. They knew nothing of the structure’s connection to Krupin or even where they were in Russia. And after being paid, they would have no reason to care.
The corridor evolved into something that felt more like a hospital than he would have liked, but the demands of hygiene had to be met. At its end, the plastic tent was gone, replaced with an elaborate glass surgical theater. Inside a number of masked and gowned medical personnel were huddled around an operating table. On it was a middle-aged woman whose extremities were strapped down and whose head was secured in a metal frame. She shifted her eyes desperately from one side to the other, but couldn’t otherwise move.
She was one of a number of people throughout Russia who had been identified as having health issues similar to Krupin’s. They’d been offered inclusion in fictitious medical trials sold as having a high probability of saving their lives. The reality was somewhat different. While they were indeed involved in critical medical studies, the goal was to subject them to experimental drugs and procedures too dangerous to test on Krupin. This particular participant had a brain tumor similar in size and position to the president’s.
One of the nurses spotted Sokolov through the glass and pointed him out to the man standing next to her. He was one of the top brain surgeons in the country, an arrogant little man of questionable politics and loyalties. At this point, he knew nothing of Krupin’s situation or presence at the facility. His only task was to attempt to remove as much of the tumor from this meaningless woman’s brain as possible. Potential dangers and benefits needed to be assessed and her recovery process had to be recorded in case it should become necessary for Krupin to submit to a similar procedure.
Judging by his gait as he rushed toward the glass doors leading from the theater, it wasn’t a role he was happy about.
“Are you in charge?” he said, coming to a stop less than a meter away and examining Sokolov’s uniform with open contempt.
“I am.”
“What is all this? I was taken from my house in the middle of the night and told there was an emergency. Then I was put on a plane and brought here. I’ve not been allowed to communicate with my family and I have patients in St. Petersburg who—”
“Then complete your assignment here,” Sokolov said, making an effort to ignore the lack of respect. The members of Russia’s intellectual class were becoming unbearably arrogant, believing with increasing certainty that the state existed to serve them and not the other way around.
“Compete my assignment here?” he said, pointing at the terrified subject on the other side of the glass. “You mean operate on that woman?”
“I do.”
“Then obviously you know nothing about brain tumors or surgery.”
“On the contrary. I understand that she has a malignant tumor that will be extremely difficult to remove surgically.”
“The chances of surgery significantly improving her prognosis are extremely low,” he said in an exasperated, pedantic tone. “The dangers of a surgical intervention by far outweigh any—”
“And yet, surgery is exactly what you’re going to do,” Sokolov said, cutting him off.
The surgeon just stared at him, looking a bit dazed. “I will not.”
Sokolov nodded, keeping his voice even. “Either you operate or I’ll tape your eyes open and make you watch me dismember your children.”
The man took a hesitant step back, trying to process what he’d just heard. And in that brief lull, Sokolov decided he’d had enough. He slapped the man across the face hard enough to leave him on all fours, staring down at the blood draining from his nose.
“I want to be very clear, Doctor. What I just said to you isn’t shorthand for some as yet undefined punishment. I will handcuff you to a chair in that operating theater, tape your eyes open, and make you watch while I use your instruments to cut your family apart. Am I understood?”
The physician didn’t answer, instead reached up to try to stop the flow of blood. Sokolov used a meticulously polished boot to shove him onto his back before stepping down on his throat. “That wasn’t a rhetorical question, Doctor.”
“Yes!” he choked out. “Yes, I understand.”
Sokolov started back down the corridor. “Then I look forward to reading your report on the procedure.”
• • •
Sokolov picked up his
pace, noting that he was running almost two minutes behind schedule. While undoubtedly productive, his meeting with the brain surgeon had taken longer than anticipated.
He approached a split in the corridor and struggled to recall which led to Krupin’s private rooms. But then he saw the president standing in the middle of the hallway on the right.
“Sir! What are you doing out here? The area’s not secure yet.”
Krupin didn’t react, instead continuing to stare silently through the glass wall in front of him. On the other side was an infirmary filled with people secured to beds. Most were sedated but a few were undergoing experiments that precluded it. Those few stared back at them through the window, a mix of rage, confusion, and fear playing across their faces. Slightly more concerning was the obvious recognition, but in the end it mattered little. None would leave that place alive.
“Who are they?” Krupin said finally.
“Patients suffering from ailments similar to yours and a few healthy prisoners who’ll assist us with more general medical inquiries,” Sokolov responded. “The man in the back with the tattoos, for instance, is undergoing an aggressive experimental chemotherapy that may have the ability to attack your tumor. He’s about your age and like you quite powerful—still one of the most feared men in the Black Dolphin Prison. We’ll use him to help understand the side effects should it be deemed safe and effective enough to administer to you. We’ll use the information to adjust your schedule and duties.”
Again, Krupin didn’t respond, squinting into the glare coming off the glass. He seemed to be struggling to focus and, more concerning, to process what he’d just heard. Whether his confusion was physical or emotional was difficult to know. What was evident, though, was that the agelessness he’d always exuded was gone. He looked drained. Small.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there to meet you when you arrived, sir. It—”