by Vince Flynn
Rapp moved to the window as Azarov took a position next to the partially open door.
The view was onto the expansive back lawn which dead ended into trees after about two hundred yards. The sky had turned a deep blue but appeared to be empty. “I don’t see anything. It must be coming in from another direction.”
“The hall’s clear,” Azarov said.
“Is this common?” Rapp asked turning back to the old man.
“Uninvited helicopters flying over my property? No.”
Chkalov pulled a cigar from his desk drawer and lit it. “I’ve been saving this for a long time. Cuban. I was told that they’re rolled between the thighs of young girls. A lie, of course, but it conjures a wonderful image. Sun, sand—”
His voice was drowned out by an explosion that rocked the entire house. Rapp and Azarov crouched when the automatic fire started, but Chkalov just kept puffing.
“If the two of you would be so kind as to kill Maxim Krupin and that son of a whore Andrei Sokolov, I’d be forever grateful.”
Rapp grabbed the man by the shirt and dragged him out from behind the desk. “Time to go.”
“I’m not as fast as I once was. I think I’ll just stay here.”
Rapp shook his head. “You might not know much about what’s happening but you know more than we do. Irene Kennedy’s going to want to talk to you.”
The name of the CIA director seemed to pique his interest. “I’ve always wanted to meet her.”
“Here’s your chance,” Rapp said, pulling him toward the door. Azarov was already moving down the hallway, disappearing into the thickening smoke. The sprinkler system went off a few seconds later, drenching them as they approached the stairs.
It turned out to be a bad call. Both staircases leading to the entry had men coming up them, two on the right and one on the left. None were clad in the heavy armor their colleagues in Costa Rica had worn, which was a positive since Rapp’s magazine was full of standard ammo. On the downside, the lack of weight was allowing them to move with impressive speed.
Azarov spotted them and retreated, going for the thicker smoke behind him. Rapp took a corridor that split off the main hallway, keeping Chkalov in front of him.
“I saw three. Are there any more?” Rapp asked.
“Not that I could make out,” he responded as they backed along the corridor, getting out of the worst of the smoke. Not great for their cover, but it had been getting hard to breathe and Rapp’s eyes were starting to water. Chkalov was still puffing on the cigar, unperturbed. He seemed to think he was just a spectator in all this.
“That’s a hell of a lot of guns shooting outside,” Rapp said. “More than I can differentiate. What kind of team would Krupin send?”
“Nikita Pushkin with at least fifteen,” Azarov calculated. “Particularly after what happened in Costa Rica.”
Rapp pointed to a bulky chest of drawers behind them and then at Chkalov. “Get behind that.”
“Are you sure? I’d be happy to help.”
“Go!”
The old man looked a little disappointed as he wandered toward it. Rapp spotted a disturbance in the smoke and both he and Azarov froze. A moment later that disturbance had become the outline of a man wearing goggles and a gas mask. His assault rifle was sweeping smoothly back and forth but he hadn’t yet picked up his targets.
Rapp took careful aim and put a single round through one of the lenses covering his eyes. He hadn’t had time to screw on his suppressor and the noise would be sure to bring the dead man’s comrades running.
Before he could even turn, they appeared, guns on full automatic. The muzzle flashes reflected off the falling water and haze, creating enough visual chaos to make it impossible to aim.
Rapp spun and sprinted in the opposite direction, diving to the soggy carpet near the chest of drawers where Chkalov had taken refuge. When he finally managed to get behind the piece of furniture, he saw that Chkalov was down. The bullet had been enough to kill him but not enough to dislodge the cigar or smile.
The piece of furniture was holding up surprisingly well to the fire it was taking, but it wouldn’t last. He suspected that not much of the other side was still intact and that he was being saved by whatever had been packed into the drawers.
For a moment, he thought Azarov had abandoned him, but then he saw a muzzle flash from the far end of the hallway. One of the automatics firing at the chest of drawers went silent while the stream of bullets from the other arced toward the Russian’s position. Rapp rolled from cover and fired a shot that hit the remaining man in the throat, putting him down.
Instead of retreating, Rapp ran forward, stripping two of the bodies of their AKS-74U carbines and spare magazines. The man he’d hit in the throat wasn’t dead yet, but he was definitely on his way out. Rapp pulled a grenade off his vest as he choked on what had once been his Adam’s apple.
Approaching shouts were audible coming from the stairs and Rapp ran back to Chkalov’s body. He rolled the old man onto his face and then pulled the pin from the grenade before slipping it carefully beneath his body. After a life that long, Chkalov deserved one last fuck-you.
The voices behind were getting louder and he took off again, turning left into the hallway Azarov had taken.
“This place is a fucking maze, Grisha. Find us a way out. I’ll slow these guys down.”
The Russian took off with a brief nod, disappearing through a set of double doors on the right.
Rapp stayed low, exposing just enough of his head to keep one eye on the men appearing through the sprinkler mist. The smoke was starting to dissipate, but what remained, combined with the water falling from the ceiling, was enough to keep him hidden if he stayed dead still.
The question was how motivated these pricks would be after they discovered their target was dead. Why stick around and risk getting taken out fighting with Chkalov’s hired guns? It’s not like anyone was ever going to investigate the oligarch’s death.
He identified three tangos moving cautiously in the confined space. Two knelt with assault rifles while one moved, leapfrogging each other. Well-trained for sure. But how smart?
His question was answered a moment later when the lead man reached Chkalov’s body and reached for it.
“Nyet!”
The shout came from someone too far down the hallway to be seen, but it was a split second too late. With wet goggles, the man hovering over Chkalov didn’t see the grenade until it was too late and his two companions were even more in the dark. He tried to run, but the blast hit him before he could make it ten feet.
Rapp was forced to pull back to avoid the shrapnel, but then immediately peered around the wall again. The fact that all three men were down was expected. Less so was the fact that what was left of the chest of drawers had started burning with an intensity that was taking hold on the wet carpet and walls. He had no idea what Chkalov had stored in that thing, but in retrospect, using it for cover probably hadn’t been a great idea.
Rapp watched as a silhouette on the other side of the growing fire approached. Whoever he was, he stayed back far enough to prevent him from becoming a target, but also far enough to make it impossible to get off an accurate shot through the flames and steam.
The way he moved, though, was familiar even through the distortion. Apparently, the RPG in Costa Rica had missed.
Rapp stepped out and the two men faced each other for a moment before he turned to follow Azarov.
“Another time, Nikita.”
CHAPTER 20
CIA HEADQUARTERS
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
USA
“MORNING, Irene. Sorry I’m late. Things in my world are literally blowing up.”
Kennedy came from around her desk and indicated a conversation area in the corner of her office. Anton McCormick, the head of the Agency’s Russia operations, stalked toward a sofa, looking even more harried than normal.
He was one of Kennedy’s most gifted people, having spent his first fif
teen years of life in the Soviet Union before his mother’s defection. About a decade ago, the Agency had hired him away from a St. Petersburg–based consulting firm that helped Western interests navigate the complexities of operating in Russia.
Of course, much of what he’d done in his prior job had been illegal—bribing government officials, providing women and drugs to the right people, and handling in a very direct manner the problems posed by Russia’s organized crime network. Kennedy had been happy to overlook any past transgressions, as well as a few more recent ones, in exchange for his unusual ability to win on Maxim Krupin’s distorted playing field.
“Coffee?” she asked as she took a seat across from him.
He shook his head. “Too much already.”
“I take it things aren’t going well?”
“You could say that. Tarben Chkalov’s house is gone. And I mean gone, Irene. Burned to the ground. We think he’s dead.” McCormick’s normally undetectable Russian accent started to emerge with the stress he was under.
“Mitch was there,” Kennedy said.
“What? In Russia?”
“At the house.”
“Are you telling me he did this? You moved against—”
“No,” Kennedy said, holding up a hand in a call for calm. “He went to talk to Chkalov about what’s happening in Russia. The fact that he was there during the attack is just another example of the bad luck that seems to be following him lately.”
“I assume he got out okay?”
She nodded. “But I’m afraid you’re right about Chkalov. He didn’t.”
“Fuck! I loved that old guy. It had to have been Krupin. None of the oligarchs have any reason to move against Tarben.”
“There was an attack helicopter and what appeared to be a Spetsnaz team.”
“Son of a bitch . . . Did Mitch get to talk to him before he died?”
“He did, but Chkalov didn’t seem to have any ideas about Krupin’s recent behavior. He did have one interesting piece of information, though.”
“What?”
“That Andrei Sokolov’s been installed as the head of the armed forces.”
McCormick wiped nervously at his mouth, but didn’t otherwise respond.
“I assume you’re familiar with him, Anton? I only know him from the war crimes in Georgia.”
“Yeah,” he said, leaning back into the cushions in a way that suggested he’d lost the strength to sit up without them. “Sokolov is a nut. A brilliant psycho blinded by visions of Russian tanks rolling over every country in the world. He sees the West as fundamentally weak and Russia’s failure to thrive as being caused entirely by its restraint. He believes we’ll split at the seams at the first sign of Russian aggression. And even if we don’t, he doesn’t think we have the balls to do what it would take to win anymore.”
“Is he loyal to Krupin?”
McCormick let out a long breath. “That’s a complicated question. The short answer is yes, but Sokolov sees Russia as more of an idea than a political entity or landmass. There’s no question that he admires Krupin and thinks he’s doing a great job of representing that idea. He might even have some genuine affection for that prick. But in the end, it’s his vision that he’s loyal to.”
“So, I should be worried?”
“We prayed that he’d just get old in exile and choke on a chicken bone or something. Reactivated—and I’m not exaggerating here—he’s the most dangerous man in the world.”
She considered what she’d heard for a moment before changing the subject. “Putting aside General Sokolov for the moment, what more have you learned about Krupin?”
“Not much. Honestly, I’m embarrassed sitting here this empty-handed.”
“I was in the same situation in my last meeting with the president. It wasn’t a comfortable place to be. He wants answers. And so do I.”
“We’re pulling out all the stops, Irene. I have every informant on this and we’re examining every news report right down to local papers in fishing villages. So far, nothing. That doesn’t mean there isn’t anything, though. We may just be getting another lesson on how much control Krupin has over information in Russia.”
“Ukraine?”
“That’s a problem,” McCormick admitted. “He’s moving more and more troops in there and ramping up the propaganda campaign aimed at the local Russian population. Have you seen it? Russian children being attacked, anti-Russian graffiti, reports of gang rapes by Ukrainian men. Just a heavier-handed version of the bullshit he sells all over the world.”
“Do you think he’ll try to take over the rest of Ukraine if it’s admitted to NATO?”
“I think he’ll do it even if it just comes to a vote. I know Krupin makes a lot of noise about the military dangers of being encircled by NATO, but he doesn’t really believe it. NATO doesn’t acquire territory and if we did, we’d pick something better than Russia. What he’s afraid of—what keeps him up at night—is the idea of regime change. Losing Ukraine to NATO would make him look weak and that’s something he can’t afford. Particularly at his age. All I have to say is that if NATO wants to bring Ukraine’s membership to a vote, we better be ready to fight. And with Sokolov back in power we better be ready to fight hard. He’d push into Poland and Germany if it was up to him.”
“What you’re telling me is that Russia’s in exactly the same mess as it was a year ago,” Kennedy said. “Or five years ago. Or ten.”
“In a nutshell, yes. Russia’s stable. But for reasons we can’t figure out, suddenly Krupin’s not.”
“He certainly doesn’t look like a man who’s concerned about his situation.”
“You mean all the hunting videos? Yeah, but you’ve got to read the subtext. All that shirtless bear stalking and vodka drinking is designed to make him look like a badass to his supporters. They also serve to create a contrast with the prime minister who’s going around the world wearing five thousand dollar suits and getting blindsided by questions he can’t answer. Strong versus weak. And the Russians hate weak like the stink of death.”
“I said this earlier but I’m going to repeat it, Anton. I need answers. If I have to go back to the White House and tell the president that we still have no idea what’s happening in Russia, I’m taking you to deliver the message personally.”
“I know, Irene. Just give me a few more days. If there’s something to find, I swear we’ll find it.”
CHAPTER 21
WALTER REED NATIONAL MILITARY MEDICAL CENTER
BETHESDA, MARYLAND
USA
“THERE,” Azarov said, pointing at a set of doors. “It’s that one.”
They’d been on the ground for only an hour and the Russian looked about half-dead from the events of the last few days. His face lost what remained of its color when Rapp let the Dodge Charger drift to a stop in front of the hospital building.
Their escape from Chkalov’s property had been hairy but nothing that would have an impact on someone like him. They’d climbed through an east-facing window and used the dense smoke to cover their sprint to the woods. Chkalov’s three surviving guards had followed a similar course and, after a few tense moments of everyone pointing guns at each other, Rapp had managed to organize them into a cohesive force.
Not surprisingly, Chkalov had chosen solid former soldiers—two were from Poland’s GROM and one from Shayetet. They’d formed up and beat an orderly retreat through difficult terrain that severely reduced the effectiveness of an already uninspired chase. Spetsnaz’s target had been Chkalov, not a bunch of extremely dangerous hired guns who just wanted to get the hell out of Russia and find new jobs.
“Are you planning on getting out?” Rapp said. “Or are we just going to sit here?”
Azarov’s face had gone from gaunt to visibly scared. His eyes flicked from the door to the road and back again as though he was a wounded animal looking to escape a predator.
“I wasn’t here, Mitch. She woke up alone.”
Rapp had pretty much
passed out the minute they’d gotten on the Agency’s G550, but Azarov had spent the entire flight wide-awake and obsessing about this moment. Cara had regained consciousness almost twenty-four hours ago and was now coherent enough to wonder what the hell was going on.
“All right, Grisha. Pay attention. Here’s the situation. Claudia’s been in to see her a few times but hasn’t told her anything other than that you’re all right. Cara’s aware of her condition—that the surgeries went well, but that her liver’s sho—”
“Does she remember what happened?”
“Unfortunately, every bit,” Rapp sighed. “And my understanding is that she’s getting pretty pissed about all her questions being evaded.”
Azarov bit his lower lip, speaking in a low, nervous tone. “It’s hard to push her too far. But when you do, she . . .”
It was the second time Cara had seen him attacked—the first time was when Rapp had put a gun to his head and marched him into the jungle. With a little fancy footwork, the first round could usually be explained away. Things got tough when it became a habit, though.
Rapp leaned over Azarov and threw open the passenger door “Take it from me. She’s just lying there getting madder.”
The Russian climbed out but then poked his head back through the open window. “What am I authorized to say?”
“Good try,” Rapp said, starting to pull away from the curb. “But you’re not getting me involved in this. Say whatever you want.”
Azarov stepped back onto the sidewalk and watched the car recede before turning his attention to a young family leaving the building. He examined their stunned faces and listened to the quiet sobs of the youngest as her mother tried to comfort her. He’d seen similar expressions in the past—sometimes worn by the relatives of the men he’d killed. Why did he feel such horror now when before he would have felt nothing? Why, when Chkalov’s mansion was attacked, had the battle elicited fear instead of the calm clarity it always had in the past?