by Vince Flynn
NORTHEAST OF TUAPSE
RUSSIA
MAXIM Krupin stared through the limousine’s window, squinting against the sun despite dark sunglasses that Fedkin suggested might help stave off attacks. Yet another equivocation from a man who seemed unable—or unwilling—to make statements that carried any force.
The afternoon light bleached the rocky coastline and flared off the Black Sea, providing a setting of such serenity that it seemed to mock him. He’d been returning to Moscow in the back of a cargo plane when he’d ordered the pilot to divert. It was dangerous to delay his reappearance at the Kremlin but there was little choice now. Despite the overwhelming resources he’d been provided, Nikita Pushkin had failed in the most spectacular way possible.
Not only had Azarov escaped, but his woman was badly—perhaps terminally—wounded. Initial reports were that the unidentified Americans who had intervened were now standing watch over the hospital treating her. Azarov was likely there, too, but it was impossible to confirm. And irrelevant. Whether it was today, tomorrow, or next week, he would be coming. He would take his revenge or die trying.
For the first time in his life, Krupin had to acknowledge that instead of being the master of the events taking place around him, he was at their mercy. His diagnosis and upcoming treatment schedule. Azarov’s survival. The inexplicable American meddling. NATO’s continued overtures toward Ukraine. Any one of those issues would have been difficult, but combined they were beyond anyone’s capacity to handle. Particularly if that capacity was diminished.
He needed an ally. A formidable one.
Unfortunately, those were hard to come by in his world. Men strong enough to protect him in a temporary situation like this one or indeed in a lengthy retirement were too dangerous. Conversely, controllable, less ambitious men would be too weak to hold the country together and shield him from his enemies.
There was one exception, though. General Andrei Sokolov.
Krupin had first met the young Soviet army officer during his KGB days and their friendship had endured as they’d risen through the ranks. When Krupin became president, one of his first acts had been to promote Sokolov to head the Russian armed forces.
He was an unusually brilliant man who, in another time and place, might have become a researcher or preeminent university professor. In what field, though, one could only speculate. His interests seemed to shift almost daily. Physics, technology, history, psychology. All were equally valuable pursuits in his eyes. He’d even become obsessed with chess for a time, finally challenging the top player in Russia to a match. He’d been soundly defeated, of course, but in three times the number of moves as had been predicted.
It was Sokolov who had initially developed the idea of applying Krupin’s internal disinformation methods to the rest of the world. At the time, it had seemed unlikely that a fledging technology called the Internet would ever provide a sufficient platform. But Krupin had indulged him with money and resources as he always did. And now that ridiculous little program started in a shed outside of Omsk had been used to undermine the European Union, destabilize Ukraine and the Baltics, and influence the political tide in America.
The concept of power was shockingly nebulous in the modern world. There had been a time when it flowed from surging economies, political alliances, and military hardware. Now it sprang magically from the keyboards of children.
Krupin shifted in his seat at a sudden sharp pain in his side. So many times before he’d attributed this kind of discomfort to age, but now it was accompanied by a surge of adrenaline. Had the cancer spread? Was it invading his body, siphoning off the strength and cunning that made him who he was?
A modern structure built into a hill came into view and the vague sense of panic eased. It was the only home in sight, and the nearest town of any importance was more than fifteen kilometers away. While the world’s intelligence agencies were fully aware who lived there, no one in the region was. Sokolov never left the grounds of his opulent prison. He had no desire to. His role in leading Mother Russia had ended long ago and he was content to live in the company of his books.
As the limousine turned up the winding drive, Krupin realized that he hadn’t communicated with Sokolov in almost five years. He had the man watched, of course, but it was an afterthought—more to ensure that he didn’t fall into enemy hands than anything else.
It was an incredible waste to have such a man languishing in banishment like this, but there were few alternatives When it had been discovered that he had ordered the torture and execution of civilians in Georgia, the world demanded that he be tried for war crimes. Krupin refused, but the outcry made it impossible to keep him as the head of the armed forces or even to shift him to a less prominent role in the government.
And so this had been the compromise that had been struck. The most gifted and loyal man he had ever known would be relegated to obscurity and eventually buried in this Black Sea wilderness.
The building was constructed entirely of white stone block, a sprawling structure that Sokolov had personally designed to hint tastefully at Russia’s past. Krupin’s limousine paralleled a narrow pool looking over the Black Sea, finally coming to a stop at the main entrance.
He stepped out, waving his men back and starting toward the door. No one knew he was coming and Sokolov had no security. His only human contact was with an old local woman who cooked and cleaned for him.
It was she who answered, eyes widening in shock at finding the president of Russia on her doorstep. It was doubtful that she had any idea whom she worked for. In all likelihood, she assumed that Sokolov was just another minor oligarch attempting to live out his retirement in peace.
“Is Andrei at home?” Krupin said, already knowing the answer. He was always at home.
“Yes . . .” she stammered. “Please. Come in. I’ll . . . I’ll tell him you’re here.”
He accepted the invitation, stepping into the towering dome of an entryway as she scurried off to find her master. Of course, Krupin had paid for all of it. He’d also offered to provide young, beautiful women whose skills went well beyond housekeeping. Sokolov always refused, maintaining that they would distract him from his study and contemplation.
The former general appeared at the end of the hallway, moving at a surprisingly effortless jog. His tan slacks and starched white shirt still had a noticeable military precision, as did his close-cropped hair. He was four years Krupin’s junior, with a less bulky physique maintained in an elaborate gym at the back of the house.
“Mr. President, why didn’t you call? I would have prepared something.”
There was no fear evident, despite the possible ramifications of a surprise visit such as this one. If Krupin decided that the former general’s continued existence was no longer in Mother Russia’s best interest, Sokolov would accept that assessment without question.
“Andrei,” Krupin said, embracing the man. “It’s been too long.”
“Not long enough,” Sokolov disagreed as they pulled away. “You shouldn’t be here, sir. The Americans watch everything.”
“Of course. Is there somewhere we can talk?”
Sokolov led him to a modest office in the east wing of the house. It was almost identical to the one he’d insisted on at the Kremlin so many years ago—windowless and lined with books on every subject under the sun. The volumes on his desk suggested that his interests were currently centered on the Roman Empire under Trajan.
On the rear wall was a map of western Russia and the countries bordering it. Sokolov had inserted red pins representing the Russian military presence on the borders of Latvia, Lithuania, and Estonia, as well as troops stationed in Ukraine. Blue pins depicted NATO forces, including surprisingly accurate information on the ongoing exercises in Poland. Undoubtedly the intelligence had been gleaned from news reports in English, Russian, and German, the languages he’d spoken when forced into retirement. Perhaps there were more now.
“Tea, Mr. President? Coffee?”
“Something st
ronger, I think,” Krupin said, rearranging a few of the pins to create a more accurate picture. Sokolov froze for a moment, calculating the strategic ramification of the changes before continuing to a disused bar.
Krupin tossed back the vodka he was given while Sokolov pretended to sip at his. He’d never been much of a drinker. Dulling that magnificent mind apparently made him uncomfortable.
“You think you can intimidate NATO into refusing to accept Ukraine as a member?” Sokolov asked, glancing at the modified map again.
“You don’t?”
“It’s hardly my place to comment.”
“It’s always your place, Andrei. I greatly regret that I had to remove you. Your absence has been keenly felt.”
“I put you in that position,” Sokolov said. “It was my failure alone and I’m grateful for the generous way in which you handled the situation. I deserved less.”
Krupin laughed. “Always the dutiful soldier. In fact, you deserved more than I could give. Do you know that in some American polls, I’m more popular than their president? Me, the man dedicated to destroying the Western alliance! That and everything else began with your vision, Andrei.”
“Human nature can’t be denied, sir. The world is so complex that the average person is no longer able to understand it. In the face of that, they can be counted on to retreat into tribalism. Nationalism. People need something to hate to reinforce their own identities. And it’s the internal threats—the people they interact with every day—whom they hate and fear most.”
“An astute observation made at just the right moment in history,” Krupin said, taking a seat behind Sokolov’s desk. It was the only chair and his exhaustion was starting to drag at him.
“But you’ve taken it far beyond anything I ever imagined, Maxim. And you fanned the flames of chaos in Syria quite effectively. The refugee crisis you created has widened the cracks in Europe.”
“But is it enough?”
“NATO spending is significant,” Sokolov said. “But largely wasted creating theatrical displays instead of pursuing real readiness. Britain has left the EU behind, Poland, Turkey, and Hungary are moving back toward authoritarianism. And America is pulling back from its leadership role in the world with its democracy in turmoil. In many ways, the West is as weak as it’s been in modern history.”
He fell silent and Krupin watched as the former general ran a finger absently around the rim of his still full glass.
“I know you too well, Andrei. You’re flattering me before dropping the other shoe.”
“No,” the man said. “I’m long retired. Let’s drink and talk about old times.”
“You don’t like to drink.”
Sokolov stared at him through a silence that wouldn’t last long. He was a respectful man but one who found it difficult to hide the force of his intellect. The wait was even shorter than Krupin anticipated.
“The meddling in U.S. politics has been successful in weakening them but it’s made them more volatile than docile. Further, now that they’re aware of our disinformation campaign, they’ll learn to combat it. And while the Europeans are suffering from divisions, their nationalist politicians are struggling to win elections. The rise of Russia and the United States turning in on itself has given Europe a sense of interdependence and purpose. Their reliance on America’s strength has always given them the luxury of being weak. They’re now realizing that time has passed.”
“And what will the Europeans do with their newfound resolve, Andrei?”
“I don’t know. But I wouldn’t dismiss the possibility that they’ll accept Ukraine into NATO. And if that’s the case, Georgia and perhaps even Finland won’t be far behind. Our buffers will be lost and with them our strategic flexibility. With a resurgent European military alliance posted a few hundred kilometers from Moscow, the Russian bear will be declawed.”
Krupin reached for the bottle on the desk and poured himself another drink. His head was clear and pain free, making his time with Doctor Fedkin seem like a fevered dream. At that moment, he could almost make himself believe that the tests were a lie and Fedkin was working for the Americans. That the attacks had been a temporary affliction that would never reappear.
“I spoke out of turn,” Sokolov said, misinterpreting the lengthening silence between them. “It’s still a weakness of mine. I hope—”
“No,” Krupin said. “You said what needed to be said. And now I’ll do the same.”
“Sir?”
“I’m sick, Andrei. Cancer.”
“What?” Sokolov said, looking genuinely stunned. “What kind of cancer?”
“It’s in my brain. They’re talking about surgery and then starting a course of chemotherapy, radiation . . .” His voice faded.
“Prognosis?”
Krupin forced a smile. “It will take more than cancer to kill me, Andrei. But I’ll be weakened during the treatment. Significantly so.”
“Are you suffering from symptoms now?”
“At this moment? No. But I have episodes. Debilitating headaches. Blurred vision . . .” He paused. It was against his every instinct, but he had to disclose everything. “As well as brief periods of confusion.”
Sokolov began to pace across the office. There was no guile in the man’s expression, no indication of ambition. He had been presented with a problem and was now calculating a solution.
“Who knows about this?” he said finally.
“A handful of medical personnel know I’m ill. I haven’t told them about the mental confusion, though it’s possible they can extrapolate it from their examinations. One loyal guard knows I’m having medical tests done, but not the type or results.”
“Where are these people?”
“I’m holding them in a hidden facility outside of Zhigansk with no way to contact the outside world.”
Sokolov nodded thoughtfully. “I assume that you need to start treatment immediately?”
“That’s what I’m told.”
“Have you looked into unconventional protocols? I’ve read a great deal about them. Stem cells, viral ther—”
“My doctor is considering all possibilities, but he discounts many as too experimental, ineffective, or dangerous.”
“Doctors!” Sokolov said in disgust. “They’re nothing more than technicians. What do they know of science?”
“Whatever course of treatment I decide on, I’ll need the help of someone capable of operating the political machine I’ve built. And more important, someone whose loyalty I don’t question.”
Sokolov stopped pacing, looking genuinely confused. “Me?”
“You’re the only one, Andrei. The only one I’ve ever been able to trust.”
CHAPTER 14
JOINT BASE ANDREWS
MARYLAND
USA
RAPP disconnected one of the Gulfstream G550’s last remaining passenger seats and shoved it through the open door. The plush leather cushioned its fall, leaving it to bounce across the dimly lit tarmac. He jumped out after it and handled one end of the gurney containing Cara Hansen. She wasn’t particularly heavy, but the IVs and ventilator equipment made three people necessary.
A military ambulance was already backing toward him, its taillights turning her pale skin a deep pink. She’d taken a turn for the worse a couple days ago, forcing him to transport her in a CIA jet he’d virtually gutted to make room for medical gear and personnel. Now they were in a race to get her to a waiting surgical team at Walter Reed.
The ambulance crew loaded her into their vehicle under the supervision of a navy doctor who had cared for her on the flight. A few moments later, they were speeding up the runway in the swirling blue and red glare of their light bar.
It was déjà vu all over again. Not long ago it had been Scott Coleman clinging to life on a similar gurney. For some reason, seeing this girl he barely knew fighting for her life hit him almost as hard. Maybe it was because she hadn’t chosen a life in harm’s way like Coleman had. Or maybe it was because when
he looked into Cara’s face, it wasn’t just her he saw.
Rapp grabbed his duffel and started for an Audi Q5 parked about fifty yards away. Claudia Gould didn’t get out to greet him as she normally would, so he tossed his bag through the open back window and into Anna’s empty booster seat.
He climbed in and Claudia accelerated away without a word. The night air flowing through his open window wasn’t as heavy as it had been in Costa Rica. The feel of it on his skin and the familiar scent of city was comforting in a way that took him a moment to identify.
It was good to be home.
“How is she?” Claudia said finally.
“I don’t know. They say the next twenty-four hours will tell. But they’ve been saying that for days.”
“I should have had a medical team there,” she said. “It’s my fault.”
“I wouldn’t have authorized it. You can’t plan for luck this bad, Claudia.”
“We could have—”
“We could have done nothing. You play the percentages in this game. If you try to plan for every lightning strike and shark attack you just end up paralyzed. I’m not telling you anything you don’t know here.”
When she didn’t respond, he leaned the seat back and closed his eyes. There hadn’t been much time for sleep over the last few days. Now, though, Cara was inside U.S. borders and would soon be tucked away in Bethesda under an alias. Krupin might have gone nuts, but not nuts enough to assault an American military hospital to try to finish off a girl who probably couldn’t find Russia on a map. She was safe and, just as important, someone else’s responsibility. For now at least.
“What’s happening in Costa Rica?” he said, breaking the silence in the car. There wouldn’t be even a hint of a relationship between them until they got home. In an effort to make this situation work, they’d decided to completely separate personal from business. Coleman put even money on it working. Rapp saw the odds as somewhat worse.
“The Russians cleaned up pretty well and the local authorities are stretched to the breaking point by the power outage,” she said switching to the French she was more comfortable with. “For now, they’re satisfied that the fire is out at Grisha’s house and Cara’s left the country.” She glanced over at him. “Did you blow someone up in the jungle?”
