Red War

by Flynn Vince

  Krupin would say it was weakness. Others might say it was humanity. Whatever it was, it was tearing him apart.

  Maybe he should return to Russia. Not to kill Krupin, but to help him. To retreat into the money, power, and women that had been heaped on him in his home country. To wrap himself in the numbness that had protected him for so long.

  Rapp had been through something similar years ago. Had he felt the same crushing weight? The longing for the simplicity of killing and waiting for the day that it came to an abrupt end at the hands of someone just a little younger and faster?

  No. He had Claudia now. Her daughter, Anna. A home. He’d sought to replace what he’d lost. Not to turn away from it.

  Azarov forced himself to enter the building and follow the directions he’d been given. There were a number of armed men who didn’t fit into the medical setting, but none made a move to stop him. Likely, security provided by Irene Kennedy.

  The door to Cara’s room was closed and he peered through the strip of glass in it. Her eyes were closed and her face uninjured. If he blocked out the oxygen line in her nose and the arm full of needles, she could have been sleeping in the hammock by their pool. It was almost possible to tell himself that they would soon be going home to a house that was still standing and a life that still existed.

  Maybe it would be better to come back later. As he began to back away, though, her eyes opened and fixed directly on him. He thought the glare of the sun would make it impossible for her to see through the glass but her expression suggested otherwise.

  Azarov slipped silently into the room and let the door swing closed behind him. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you woke up.”

  “Who wasn’t here? Grisha Azarov? Who is that exactly?”

  Her voice was just a whisper, forcing him to move closer.

  “I don’t know what to say to you, Cara. I’ve been thinking about it for days . . .” His voice faltered. “I’m so sorry. There’s no explanation for what happened. If I’d have thought for a moment—”

  “No explanation?” she said, the pain in her eyes deepening. She thought he was lying to her. Again.

  “No. I didn’t mean it that way. When I say—”

  “Stop. Just stop talking.”

  She looked at a cup next to her bed and he picked it up, holding it for her as she sipped through the straw.

  “My real name is Grisha Filipov. But I haven’t used it for many years—not since I was in the Russian Special Forces.”

  She finished drinking but didn’t speak. He took her silence as permission to continue.

  “I was recruited by Maxim Krupin to work as . . . An assistant of sorts.”

  “An assistant,” she repeated and he cursed himself silently. Honesty was something that had been beaten out of him over the years.

  “I killed people he considered a threat.”

  She nodded weakly. “Tell me more. I’m curious about the man I’ve been sleeping with.”

  “I spent my early years on a farm in rural Russia. No siblings. I was taken from my family at a young age to train at a Soviet Olympic camp for biathlon. The doctors eventually found a small defect in my heart and I was ejected from the program. There was nothing for me to go home to, so I joined the military.”

  “You were good at it,” she prompted.

  “Yes. Good enough to attract the attention of Krupin, who had just risen to power and needed someone to help him keep it. I was taken from the special forces and put through a much more rigorous training program—not only combat but languages, culture, psychology. I was given more money than I knew existed in the world. Prestige, respect . . . Women.”

  “Olga,” she said, referring to the woman he’d lived with before her. “Where is she?”

  “I buried her on the hill above the house.”

  “Did you kill her?”

  His breath caught in his chest. If anything had ever hurt him as much as those four words, he couldn’t remember it.

  “No. Krupin did. As a punishment for one of my failures.”

  A single tear rolled down her face and onto the pillow.

  “It’s why I never paid any attention to you, Cara. Because if he ever found out how I felt, he could use you against me. It wasn’t until I left him and Russia that I invited you to dinner. I swear to you that Krupin had no reason to send those men for me. I have nothing to do with his world anymore.”

  Her eyes closed and he watched her for a long time. Thinking she’d fallen asleep, he started to back away.

  “I have more questions,” she said, stopping him in his tracks.

  “All right.”

  “Your friend, Mitch. He was there, wasn’t he?”

  “He saved us.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Like me. But for the American president.”

  “Another murderer.”

  “He would argue against that characterization, but yes.”

  She fell silent again, but this time it was clear that she wasn’t asleep. Eventually, the stillness in the room became unbearable and Azarov felt compelled to fill it.

  “I assume you want to leave me and I understand. Obviously you’ll never need to worry about money or—”

  “They tell me I need a new liver, Grisha. But they don’t know when they’ll have one. It could be . . .” Her voice cracked and he held the cup out for her again.

  “It could be a long time. No more hikes through the mountains. No surfing. No exploring. Just this room. This bed. And the tubes running in and out of me.”

  “Mitch is a powerful man with powerful friends. He can—”

  “No,” she said firmly. “There’s a waiting list and my name’s going on it where it belongs. I won’t cheat someone out of their chance to live because my boyfriend knows people everybody’s afraid of.”

  “I asked if I could give you part of mine but our blood types aren’t compatible.”

  He was surprised when a nearly imperceptible smile appeared at the edges of her mouth. “I heard. Doesn’t matter. They say you should never accept a liver from a Russian.”

  He reached out hesitantly and took her hand. To his great relief she squeezed it.

  “I figure I won’t live long enough for the liver to be a problem anyway. Don’t they call Maxim Krupin the most powerful man in the world? You weren’t very smart about who you picked for an enemy.”

  Azarov laid her hand back on the bed. “Neither was he.”

  CHAPTER 22

  THE KREMLIN

  MOSCOW

  RUSSIA

  NIKITA Pushkin entered through the double doors and walked across the expansive office with a soldier’s precision. Krupin didn’t rise or even look up from the report he was reading. Instead, he left the young man standing at attention on the other side of the desk while he pretended to finish digesting the document. The side effects from his initial treatment had faded, leaving him gaunt and weak but capable of returning to Moscow. Subtle makeup done by a woman who was now a permanent resident of the Kremlin helped his appearance, as did the beginnings of a beard. His frailty and the shaking of his hands, though, weren’t so easily camouflaged.

  Krupin finally leaned back and examined the young man through glasses tinted to hide bloodshot eyes. “I’m running out of men for you to lead, Nikita. First the casualties in Costa Rica and now this. How many people does it take to kill one old man?”

  “Resistance was more significant than we anticipated. The intelligence I had stated five well-trained mercenaries who would retreat in the face of a government action. Instead, we found seven men with significant motivation.”

  “Tarben has had the same five guards for years and our intelligence is that nothing had changed as recently as last week,” Krupin said, concentrating to ensure that his voice carried the same weight as it had so effortlessly in the past. “Who were the other two?”

  “I only saw one of them personally.”

  “And?”

  “I’m ninety percent sure tha
t it was Mitch Rapp.” Krupin’s stomach clenched, causing a wave of nausea that he struggled to hide.

  “If Rapp was there,” he managed to say through clenched teeth. “Then I think we can be certain who his companion was.”

  “Grisha Azarov.”

  “And you let him escape a second time!” Krupin’s accusation was intended to come out as a shout but fell short. Pushkin’s brow furrowed slightly, providing critical information that was the subtext for this meeting. The boy was blinded by his new status and the privilege that went with it. He saw Krupin as father, benefactor, and vengeful spirit. Despite that, he’d managed to get a glimpse of something behind the façade. If he was able to penetrate it even slightly, more cunning men would be able to stare right through.

  “I had no authorization to kill America’s top operative and Azarov couldn’t be taken without going through him first.”

  Krupin’s anger continued to build, but he now knew that he wasn’t capable of displaying it with the force that had terrified so many over the years. The chemicals and radiation were still affecting him, and when his body finally rebounded, Fedkin would poison him again. For the time being, his normal fire would have to be replaced by ice.

  “You’re not a simple soldier anymore, Nikita. You’re expected to think. Why was Azarov so useful to me? Because of his speed? His accuracy? No. Because he could think! The missions in the world you now inhabit aren’t straightforward and they aren’t static. Why are you unable to understand what he grasped so easily?”

  Pushkin stood completely still, fixing on the flag behind Krupin’s desk to avoid meeting the man’s eye. Grisha’s legend had been an extremely effective tool in the younger man’s training. Azarov had been elevated to godlike status—a shining example of perfection in all things. As intended, living up to that impossible standard had become an obsession for Pushkin.

  “Sir, it was—”

  “I don’t want to hear your excuses, Nikita. I want you to find Azarov and to kill him like you should have done in Costa Rica. If Mitch Rapp tries to interfere, deal with him, too.”

  Pushkin straightened with a jerky nod.

  “Now get out of my sight.”

  He turned on his heels and strode toward the door, but stopped when Krupin spoke again. His rage wasn’t the only thing that motivated this boy.

  “Rapp and Azarov were young once, too. If I didn’t think you had the potential to rival them, I wouldn’t have brought you to Moscow.”

  When Pushkin started forward again, his stride had taken on a purposefulness that it had lacked a moment before.

  The door closed and Krupin sagged in his chair. The exchange—his first of any consequence since returning to Moscow—had left him more exhausted than he expected. He had needed to familiarize himself with his capabilities and a meeting with a moderately intelligent child who worshipped him had been a relatively safe experiment.

  First, the positive. His appearance seemed fine. At normal levels, his voice was steady and reliable. His vision and his mind were both clear, though that could change without warning.

  On the other hand, raising his voice made him sound weak. He was also surprised at how quickly his strength faded. The meeting had lasted barely five minutes and he felt utterly spent.

  Krupin rose and started for a nondescript door behind him. His hunched posture was reflected by a large mirror in the corner, and he forced himself to straighten as he reached for the knob.

  The private room beyond was smaller and simpler than the intentionally overwhelming office where he received visitors. Bringing in a bed was out of the question, but a sofa had been installed. He lay down on it, glancing at his watch. One hour to a meeting that could prove to be not only his defining moment, but a defining moment for the modern world order.

  • • •

  Not finding the president in his office, Sokolov knocked on the door at the back. When there was no answer he cautiously opened it. Krupin was lying on the sofa, utterly motionless. A television across from him was playing a shaky, chaotic cell phone video. It went dark and immediately looped back to the beginning, allowing Sokolov to identify the subject matter: the brutal death of Muammar Gaddafi at the hands of his own people.

  “Mr. President?”

  Krupin’s eyes fluttered open, but he seemed confused as he struggled into a sitting position. Sokolov made no offer to help, instead examining the awkwardness of his movements and the blank expression on his face. Would he be capable of doing what had to be done? One hour was all that was needed. After that, the die would be cast.

  “Are you all right, sir?”

  “It was Rapp,” Krupin said by way of an answer. “He was at Chkalov’s house. With Azarov.”

  “It may be true, but what of it? Semieducated assassins, sir. I hardly—”

  “Don’t underestimate them, Andrei. And don’t forget that Rapp rarely moves without the knowledge of Irene Kennedy.”

  “They’re two men armed with pistols, Maxim. And Kennedy is constrained by America’s useless politicians. While they flail in the darkness, you’ll be using your army to reshape the world.”

  Krupin managed to get to his feet without assistance and smoothed his suit in a way that was familiar to everyone who spent time with him. His eyes were partially obscured behind new glasses and his face was a bit drawn beneath uncharacteristic stubble, but otherwise he looked much like he always did.

  The hallway had been cleared of personnel and they passed through it in silence. At the end, Sokolov opened the door to an ornate conference room and allowed the president to enter. The military leadership sitting around the table stood out of respect for Krupin but their attention was focused on Sokolov.

  They had been informed of his new leadership position but none had actually seen him since his appointment—particularly not with the insignia of the Marshal of the Russian Federation. Sokolov knew all of them to some extent from the time before his forced retirement. Krupin had chosen them carefully and all were reported to be competent commanders.

  “Be seated,” Krupin said, taking a position at the head of the table. “I believe all of you know General Sokolov?”

  There were murmured greetings and respectful nods, but little more. None of these men knew why they’d been called there and all knew of the war crimes accusations that had led to Sokolov’s removal. They would remain guarded and analyze their new operating environment. At least for now.

  “I’ve developed a plan for dealing with the challenges presented by NATO and Andrei’s been instrumental in developing a strategy for carrying out that plan. In acknowledgment of that, I’m going to allow him to give the initial briefing.”

  Krupin punctuated his words with a regal nod and Sokolov responded with a calculatedly subservient one. It was uncommon for the president to cede leadership, but their history together and the military nature of the meeting would provide cover.

  Sokolov stood next to a map of the region and met the eye of each of the officers now under his command. “As you all know, Russia is being encircled by its enemies. The Baltics are gone and Finland’s military is increasingly coordinating with NATO forces. If Ukraine falls, then it’s likely Georgia won’t be far behind. Belarus will be all that remains of what was once a significant protective buffer. This is something that we can’t tolerate. The last time we showed weakness to the West, Hitler murdered millions of our people and hung their bodies from trees to protect his soldiers from the wind.”

  There were a few nods and a murmur of assent, though not from everyone.

  “President Krupin has determined that now is the time to act, and he intends to do so decisively.” Sokolov turned his attention to the commander of the Russian ground forces. “What is our state of readiness?”

  The old soldier seemed confused by the question. “Disastrous, General. My best troops have been reassigned from Ukraine to join the exercises on the borders of the Baltics. Our equipment is also being diverted. And while replacements have been comin
g in—flooding in, really—all are reservists or men recalled from retirement. Some haven’t trained in decades and are as old as fifty. As far as the replacement equipment . . .” His voice faded for a moment. “Much of it isn’t in working order and some is so old that finding the correct ammunition will be virtually impossible. It’s my understanding that all of this was done at your order.”

  “It was,” Sokolov said simply.

  The man shrugged. “If we achieve air superiority quickly we can still take Ukraine, but the fight will be more difficult and longer than we anticipated.”

  Sokolov once again scanned the faces of the men at the table. Their confusion was expected. They still believed that Ukraine was the objective. He’d purposely left them in the dark, interested in seeing their reaction when they learned the truth.

  “The plan devised by the president is a simple one. We will continue to ratchet up our pro-Russia propaganda campaign in Ukraine and we’ll continue flooding the country with the men and equipment you find so inadequate. The West will become focused on the situation and the precariousness of it will exacerbate the rifts between the Americans, Ukrainians, and Europeans.”

  He tapped a finger against the map near eastern Poland. “NATO’s current exercises will be coming to a close before long and the foreign forces will be returning home. Their men will be spent both physically and mentally, and their equipment will be in need of servicing.”

  The generals were beginning to lean forward, gazing intently at the map, unclear where he was going with this.

  “After the NATO forces disperse—but before most have returned to their bases—we’ll use the troops we have massed on our western border to simultaneously attack Lithuania, Latvia, and Estonia. If we act decisively, we can gain control over all three countries before NATO forces can respond. Once secured, we’ll set up tactical nuclear missile batteries in those countries and make it clear that we consider them Russian territory. That any counterattack will be treated as an incursion into Russia itself.”

  The men’s attention turned to Krupin, who managed a smile behind his artificial tan. The illusion was an impressive one. The great man, undiminished.