by Vince Flynn
There was a short pause over the line. “And yet I’m a pauper compared to you.”
Krupin leaned back in the old chair and smiled at the pathetic attempt at defiance. Utkin was barely fifty years old, a good-looking sophisticate who had an ability to connect with the younger and more liberal elements in Russia. This made him a convenient political partner, but one whom Krupin kept distanced from the reins of power.
Still, Utkin wasn’t entirely without ambition, nor was he without powerful allies in the government. Despite his pampered upbringing and political cowardice, he wasn’t to be underestimated. If he saw an opportunity—a weakness—he would exploit it.
“A pauper when compared to me,” Krupin repeated. “Perhaps. But I don’t wear ten thousand dollar Italian shoes. Nor do I fly in British pop stars to entertain the guests at my parties. My focus is on more substantive matters.”
“Ah yes, the glory of Mother Russia,” Utkin said. “But I don’t see how a corruption investigation into your prime minister enhances your position. You speak with great skill to people nostalgic for Soviet domination, but those memories are fading. The country is in and out of recession and slowly being surrounded by Western forces. The potential that NATO will offer Ukraine membership is quite high, something that will nearly complete the encirclement of our country under your leadership. Is now the time for a scandal in your administration?”
Krupin felt his anger rise at the man’s tone and with it he felt the first twinges of pain at the base of his skull. “I think you’re right, Boris. It may benefit all of us if you were to leave the country for a time. A goodwill tour. You can use your magnificent political skills to allay the world’s concerns over the protests that I’ve been forced to put down. And in your absence I will—reluctantly—return to Moscow and deal with the media’s coverage of your lifestyle.”
“Leave Russia?” he stammered. “It’ll look like I’m trying to run from the issue. We—”
“I’ll have my people set up an itinerary,” Krupin interrupted. “You’ll depart in three days.”
“Three days? How long am I to be gone?”
The flashing in Krupin’s peripheral vision obscured the rusted walls of the shipping container. He suddenly realized that he couldn’t remember what Utkin had said.
“Repeat that, you cut out.”
“When will I return?”
“When your presence is required.”
Krupin disconnected the call and closed his eyes, blotting out everything but the empty white light at the edges of his eyelids. Azarov would be dead by now and Utkin would soon be making empty speeches in Europe. There were still internal and external threats that needed to be dealt with, but those had been two of the most pressing. His next actions would be dictated by the contents of the medical report waiting for him just outside the steel walls surrounding him.
He sat silently for a few minutes before stepping from the container and locking it behind him. The only guard he’d allowed inside the warehouse snapped to attention and Krupin indicated for him to stay where he was.
At this point, the risks posed by additional interior security outweighed the benefits. The man he was striding away from was one of his most trusted and understood that neither he nor the medical personnel would communicate with the outside world until all this was over. The more substantial security force outside knew Krupin was there, but had no idea for what reason. They would assume that this was some top secret military or intelligence site and would have no reason to speculate further.
He took a circuitous route through the ruined interior of the building, heading for a still intact row of offices against the building’s east wall. Dr. Fedkin would be waiting for him there while his people remained confined in a makeshift dormitory on the other side of the structure.
The door was closed and Krupin stopped in front of it, smoothing his suit jacket. After the hours spent in a hospital gown, it had the comforting sensation of armor. For a similar reason, he’d set the location for this meeting as far from the medical tent as the structure would allow. Surrounded by his machines and needles, Fedkin was a godlike creature. Without them, he was nothing. Just another meaningless technician.
Krupin opened the door without knocking, causing Fedkin to leap from his chair. The physician had done what he could to clean the room, pushing years of debris to one side and righting the furniture in a way that suggested less a practical need for order than compulsion.
“Mr. President. How are you feeling?”
“Quite well, thank you, Doctor.”
The lie that rolled so easily from Krupin’s tongue was apparently less convincing than it should have been. Fedkin looked straight into his face, probing eyes that Krupin suspected were slightly glassy and unfocused. Not enough that most people would notice but, somewhat dangerously, Fedkin wasn’t most people.
“Are you in pain?”
“A bit of a headache,” Krupin admitted. “It’s nothing.”
“I have medications that might help.”
“I said it’s nothing,” Krupin repeated, lowering himself onto the stool that Fedkin had abandoned. “I understand your tests are complete. What do they show?”
The physician didn’t immediately answer, instead licking his lips and reaching for an iPad lying on the table. It was unlikely that he needed it to recall the results, but instead saw it as a piece of his own armor. Krupin intercepted the man’s hand, denying him that shred of protection. “I have to be on a plane to Moscow in a matter of hours, Doctor.”
The physician withdrew almost to the door. “We’ve confirmed the size and position of the abnormality in your brain. Based on that, it’s now almost certain that it’s the cause of the issues you’ve reported.”
“Is it cancerous?” Krupin said with practiced calm.
“At your request, we performed only minimally invasive tests. In order to be absolutely certain we’d have to perform a biopsy which would involve drilling a small hole in your—”
“Out of the question!” Krupin shouted, and then waved a hand around the room. “All this and you still have no information? It makes me begin to wonder what use you are.”
The threat was intentionally vague, but Fedkin was smart enough to pick up on it.
“Based on our tests, I would say that there is at least a ninety-five percent chance that it is cancer, sir.”
Krupin froze. Despite all the pain and other symptoms, he’d been completely unprepared to hear those words. The air seemed stuck in his chest. When he could breathe again he opened his mouth to speak but then paused, waiting until he was sure his voice would be steady.
“What does this mean?”
“That we need to start aggressive treatment immediately. The tumor is in a delicate area to access so I need to consult a surgeon, but it’s possible that removal of at least part of the growth will be indicated. Then we’ll follow up with a number of therapies including chemotherapy and radiation. Either way, we need to transfer you to a hospital that is—”
“What would the side effects of those treatments be?”
“If we deem the surgery necessary, obviously, there would be recovery time. How long would depend on—”
“What about the drugs and radiation?”
“Again, it depends on exactly what protocols we decide will be most effective and, of course, on your specific physiology. I won’t lie to you, Mr. President. Even if everything goes well, it’s going to be a difficult time.”
“Time . . .” Krupin said numbly. “How much? How much time?”
“The worst of it should be over in three to four months. Maybe less.”
His mind filled with images of him lying helpless in a hospital bed, head shaven, naked and unconscious. Three to four months? He couldn’t afford a single hour of weakness. Even an unsubstantiated rumor of it could provide his enemies the opening they needed to depose him.
“Prognosis?” he said numbly.
“Your condition is quite serious—”
“We’ve already established that, Doctor.”
Again, he hesitated. “If we move quickly, I believe you have many high-quality years ahead of you.”
“Quality years,” Krupin mumbled, wanting to stand but lacking the strength to do so. He controlled the largest country in the world. A nuclear arsenal that could destroy the planet. The lives of a hundred and fifty million people. And yet he was being spoken to like an old woman wasting away in a nursing home.
“Sir, you—”
“And if I do nothing?” he interrupted.
The aging physician seemed confused. “The symptoms you’re experiencing will worsen until you’re debilitated. I doubt you’d last six months.”
Krupin’s mind turned from his many enemies to his allies. In light of what he was being told, could they be counted on? How long before they started seeing him as part of Russia’s past instead of its future? In their desperation to positioning themselves for what came next, would they turn on him?
“Perhaps you could temporarily step down and allow the prime minister to handle your duties,” Fedkin said, trying to fill the silence.
The sound of his voice returned Krupin to the present. He’d spent his entire life beset by enemies. He’d fought wars. Influenced foreign elections. Amassed the greatest personal fortune in modern history. Survival and victory were simple questions of strength, cunning, and will.
He finally stood, meeting Fedkin’s eye. “I’ll need a detailed report on your proposed treatment protocols, their success rates, and their side effects. After I’ve reviewed that, we’ll discuss which procedures will be acceptable and which won’t.”
“Of course. I’ll start on it as soon as I get back to Moscow. I need to consult—”
“You won’t be going back to Moscow, Doctor. You’ll write the report here and any consultations or outside communications will have to be approved beforehand by me. Further, all the procedures will be done here.”
“Here? That’s not possible, sir. I—”
“It is possible, Doctor. Along with your report, I’ll expect a list of equipment and additional personnel that you’ll need.”
Fedkin didn’t seem to fully grasp what he was being told. “I have other patients, Mr. President. A family. And your procedures will be periodic. I can’t just stay in this place until the full course of your treatment is completed.”
“Let me be clear, Doctor. You’re not just staying here until my treatment is done. You’re staying here until I’m cured. If I’m harmed or killed by your therapies or if I die of my illness, you and your people will never leave this place.”
CHAPTER 12
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
USA
“JUST us, sir?”
President Joshua Alexander flashed Kennedy the smile that had charmed millions and indicated toward one of the Oval Office’s sofas. She sat and reached for a cup of tea as he settled into a chair opposite.
More and more, their meetings were private affairs. As the country divided itself along ideological lines, the White House became increasingly prone to leaks. With her, Alexander could speak his mind without fear of his words being replayed on the news that evening. And she could do the same, though generally less colorfully.
In this case, though, it would have been advantageous to have his national security advisor and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs in attendance. Unfortunately, both were in Europe taking part in a massive NATO exercise centered on Poland.
“You’re on my list, Irene. You promised me Krupin would take it down a notch if I didn’t crucify him for the shit he pulled in Saudi Arabia. That was a nuclear attack on a sovereign nation and we had enough to lay in sanctions like the world’s never seen. But we didn’t. And now here we are.”
“I don’t recall promising anything, Mr. President.”
“Of course, not. You probably said something like ‘forgoing immediate retaliation could have advantages that might slightly outweigh the drawbacks. Over time. Maybe.’ You may be the master of the hedge, but I’m the president of the United States. So I get to hear whatever I want.”
“One of the benefits of the office?”
“This office has benefits?”
She smiled and took a sip of her tea. “What he tried to do in Saudi Arabia was an act of desperation, Mr. President. Krupin bet a lot on the success of that operation, and when Mitch stopped him, it weakened his grip on power. I’m still convinced that it wasn’t the time to press our advantage.”
“Looking at it from the opposite perspective, I might say that pressing your advantage when your opponent’s weak and desperate is how you win.”
Alexander had been a talented quarterback in college and while he normally held an admirably nuanced worldview, some of the hyper-competitive athlete remained.
“Unless your opponent is guarding the end zone with nuclear weapons.”
“I’m impressed.” His smile looked a bit forced this time. “I would have bet that you wouldn’t know an end zone from a hole in the ground.”
“I try to stay informed on a wide variety of subjects.”
“Yeah? Then tell me what the hell’s going on in Russia.”
It was both the question that she was here to answer and the question she most dreaded.
“We don’t know.”
The silence between them stretched out for a few seconds before the president broke it. “That’s it? You don’t know?”
“Our analysts and our people on the ground are working around the clock but haven’t been able find anything unusual happening in Russia. It’s a country in a slow, but relatively steady, decline. Certainly, Krupin is losing some support as his older constituency dies off, but it’s not really a threat to his position. Obviously, the Europeans are making noises about accepting Ukraine into NATO, but considering the Russian presence in that country and your opposition, it’s more posturing than—”
“But this isn’t business as usual, Irene. The crackdowns on protesters, the attack on Azarov, the sudden jailing of his main rival. And now I’m hearing that his prime minister is going on an impromptu goodwill tour with no known agenda. Chaos isn’t how Krupin operates. He hates it.”
She nodded in agreement. “You called this meeting, so I’m a little embarrassed to ask this but . . .” Her voice faded.
“What?”
“Well, sir, while your experience is different than Krupin’s, you’re a very good politician who’s managed to maintain power in a large, complex country.”
“Hold on now. You’re telling me you came here to listen to what I think?”
“I did.”
He sank back into his chair and looked through the windows at the softening evening sun. “As the number of his supporters declines, he needs to increase the intensity of support from the ones he has left. Because of that, there’s no way he can let Ukraine go to NATO. His entire persona is as a tough guy who scares the shit out of the rest of the world. He’s not capable of making Russia stronger, so he has to make everyone else weaker. I’m sorry to say that it’s human nature. People don’t want their lives improved. They want the lives of people they hate made worse.”
“So that explains the troop movement we’ve been seeing,” Kennedy said. “But what about the crackdown on the protest in Red Square?”
“I can’t explain that. Sure, his hardcore supporters would get a thrill from seeing the police bust a bunch of young liberal heads, but the blowback—both internal and external—would hit hard. The Krupin I know is a calculator. His gift is his ability to keep his incredibly complicated corruption machine humming along smoothly. He doesn’t care about Russia or his people or his family and friends. All he cares about is staying in power. And it’s hard to blame him. My retirement’s going to be about getting paid half a million dollars to make a speech and playing too much golf. He’s made too many enemies for that. More likely he’ll end up with a bullet in the head or in jail.”
“What
about Prime Minister Utkin? Odd to send him on a tour so abruptly. We’re concerned it could be a distraction. Maybe he’s reinforcing his position in Ukraine for more than show. It’s possible he’s building a force that could move north and take control of the country.”
Alexander frowned. “My gut says no. This isn’t about Russia. It’s about Utkin. Krupin’s allowed the press to go after him and now he’s going to make it look like he’s turning tail. The question is, why? Sure, Utkin is more popular with young people, but nowhere near powerful enough to challenge Krupin. The only real threat to Krupin is time, Irene. He’s not going to be able to hold on to that country forever and he doesn’t seem to have an exit strategy. Ideally, he’d pass the crown to a relative and they’d protect him. But he isn’t a king. He’s a dictator in a country that’s hard to keep your arms around.”
“So we end where we started,” Kennedy said. “With erratic behavior from the least erratic man alive.”
“I hate to even suggest this because it’s so terrifying, but could he be losing his mind?”
“It’s something we’ve considered but it seems too sudden and too . . .” Her voice trailed off for a moment. “Coordinated.”
He nodded and focused on the windows again. “I despise the Russians. At least the Iranians and Chinese are pressing their countries’ agendas. Russia’s just a drunk loser sitting in a bar at two a.m. looking for a fight. What I’ve learned over my life is that you don’t provoke people like that. You patronize them. Russia’s economy is smaller than New York’s. And sure they’re spending themselves into the poorhouse to build a big scary military but it’s still only a fraction of the size of ours. The Russians don’t need land—they live in the largest country in the world. What they want is respect.”
“But we’ve given Krupin that, sir. And for reasons we don’t understand, it doesn’t seem to be enough.” She picked up her cup and warmed her hands with it. “Maybe we should have pushed back against him. Even if we got bloody doing it.”
CHAPTER 13
