by Vince Flynn
“Air?”
“We have complete superiority.”
“So you’re telling me that we’ve met no resistance?”
“Not at all. In fact, we’ve had higher than expected casualties due to a more extensive SAM capability than we anticipated. Also, the Latvians are flying cross-border sorties from Estonia and Lithuania, which has slowed our ability to set up our own defenses. We’ll get them in place over the next week, though.”
“But no NATO aircraft, Andrei? Just Latvian planes?”
Sokolov considered lying, but it was difficult to tell just how engaged Krupin was. Not the man he had once been, but likely still the most formidable political leader in the world.
“We’re seeing more sorties than we would have expected the Latvians to be capable of. That suggests that NATO is reflagging planes and using them to supplement the Latvian force. We don’t have any hard evidence of that yet, though. If we can shoot one down and capture a foreign pilot—”
“It’s just the beginning,” Krupin said. “Their navy will move into the Baltic. They . . .” He fell silent for a moment. “You have to finish this, Andrei. Quickly. We can’t get bogged down in another Afghanistan.”
“Sir, this isn’t Afghanist—”
“It’s worse!” he shouted, and then descended into a brief coughing fit. “These aren’t Middle Eastern animals. They’re people many of our troops can trace their roots to. They’re citizens of a peaceful, prosperous country! NATO can afford to bleed us forever. Before, Westerners were concerned only with money and privilege and bickering among themselves. Now they feel threatened.”
Sokolov didn’t immediately respond. His affection and respect for Krupin only went so far. Had the man weakened to the point that he was now controlled by fear? It took a great deal to win a war but very little to lose one—a severed supply line, an unanticipated move by the enemy, a momentary lack of commitment from leadership. Throughout history, if anything had differentiated victors from the defeated, it was execution without hesitation. Now was not the time to pursue moderation or compromise.
Perhaps it was time to convince Krupin to have surgery. He was losing his ability to see clearly. It was understandable with the physical and emotional stress he was under, but still unacceptable. Allowing the president’s temporary weakness to destroy Russia would be a dereliction of Sokolov’s sworn duty to protect both.
“You need rest, Maxim. Standing in this corridor is a waste of the strength your country desperately needs from you. I’m meeting with your generals this evening and I’ll fly back as soon as possible to report what they said. By then we should have a clearer picture of our strategic position and detailed recommendations for our next steps.”
Krupin examined him for a moment and then lowered his gaze to the medals adorning his uniform. Then he just turned and shuffled off.
CHAPTER 41
PANAMA CITY
PANAMA
PRIME Minister Boris Utkin found himself beset on all sides, unable to see the lobby of the Waldorf Astoria for the crush of security men guiding him through it. Not Russians, though. Krupin had sent only a bare-bones detail, the head of which was conspicuously absent at this moment. No, his life was now in the far less than capable hands of the Panama police.
While his line of sight was obscured, he could still hear the shouts of the press. Questions in English, Russian, and Spanish mingled with the chants of the protesters who had forced him to cut short his press conference with the Panamanian president.
Utkin tried to pick up his pace, pushing against the guard in front as cameras sparked around them. Even if he wanted to speak, he’d have nothing to say. Krupin hadn’t informed him of his insane plan for an invasion of Latvia and had returned none of his calls since it had occurred. Of course, Utkin had quietly made contact with his supporters in the military and the Federal Assembly—some of whom had been injured in the highly suspicious attempt on the president’s life. But they’d been able to tell him little.
From the Western news agencies he knew that Russian forces had faced little resistance and that despite Article V being declared, NATO was proceeding cautiously. In all likelihood, they would continue to do so. Any overt attempt to retake Latvia would at best be a bloodbath and at worst prompt a nuclear response. No, NATO would take the long view—reinforcing their presence in vulnerable member nations, further isolating Russia economically, and perhaps even attempting to expand into Ukraine and Georgia while Russian troops were bogged down in the Baltics.
He finally reached the open elevator and retreated to the back as two of his borrowed security detail slipped in with him. The doors closed, bringing a welcome change from chaos to stillness. Perhaps it was preferable that he was here, he thought as the elevator began to rise. Certainly better than being impaled by a shattered flagpole at Krupin’s recent speech.
• • •
“Stay out here,” Utkin said to the men with him.
They posted in the hallway as he entered his suite and slammed the door behind him. The room was certainly less than he was used to, but adequate considering where he was—the marble floor was spotless, the furniture was modern and, most important, there was a well-stocked bar at the far end.
“Leonid. Make me a drink.”
No answer.
His assistant hadn’t picked up his call on the way back from the presidential palace, nor had he answered various texts. Had Krupin called him back to Moscow? Was that to be the latest humiliation? Would he now have to make his own travel arrangements? Perhaps carry his own luggage and write his own speeches? The latter would be interesting. He certainly had a great deal to say about Russia and its leader.
“Leonid!” he shouted, feeling his anger rise along with his growing sense of impotence.
“He’s not here.”
Utkin spun at the sound of the woman’s voice and found himself face-to-face with Irene Kennedy.
She approached and held out a hand, smiling in a way that was intended to be disarming but was very much not. How had she gained access to his room? Was she here to kill him? No, that was idiotic. If she wanted him dead, she wouldn’t come personally. She’d send her attack dog Mitch Rapp.
“Where . . . Where is he?” Utkin stammered. An irrelevant question designed to give him time to assess his situation.
“Leonid? On his way to Washington. I hope you won’t be upset when I tell you that he’s been on our payroll for years.” She indicated to a seating area in the middle of the room and he followed her to it. The upper hand was obviously lost. Best to let her lead for the time being.
“Part of the game,” he said calmly. “My compliments.”
Another mollifying smile as she sat. “President Alexander wanted to have a personal conversation with you about what’s happening in Russia. Unfortunately, it’s difficult for him to travel without attracting attention.”
“So he sent you? It seems that a State Department representative would be more appropriate.”
“No. I don’t think it would be.”
He nodded knowingly. “You think I’m a traitor. That I’m an ambitious man who can be convinced to betray my president in hopes of American backing when it comes time for succession.”
“Something like that.”
“Then you’ve gravely misjudged me, Dr. Kennedy.”
She remained the epitome of outward civility but seemed to look right through him. “I know you’re a busy man, sir, so I’ll get straight to the point. Maxim Krupin has brain cancer that is likely terminal. He’s not in a bunker hiding from assassins, he’s in a secret medical facility outside of Zhigansk getting medical treatments.”
Utkin tried to keep his expression passive while he struggled to absorb what he’d just heard. The only reasonable conclusion was that it was true. Everything that had happened—the crackdown on protesters and opposition, the fool’s errand he’d been sent on, the endless hunting trips. Sokolov and the war. It all made perfect sense now. Chaos had turned to
order again. Krupin, the consummate strategist, was doing exactly what a man in his position needed to do in order to cling to power.
“You’re lying,” he said, unwilling to put himself in a position to be blackmailed by this woman. “Maxim has shown America and NATO for what they are and now you’re willing to go to any length to undermine him. Desperation doesn’t flatter you, Dr. Kennedy.”
She seemed to understand his position. “I’m not recording this conversation, Mr. Prime Minister. It wouldn’t be in the best interest of either one of us.”
He wasn’t sure whether to believe her but his curiosity was overwhelming his sense of caution. “If you want to talk, talk. I’m sure Maxim will be quite interested when I tell him of our conversation.”
She nodded politely. “He’s betrayed your country, Mr. Prime Minister. His actions are calculated entirely to keep himself in power with no regard to Russia’s prosperity or even survival. Your country simply doesn’t have the resources for a prolonged confrontation with the West. But he doesn’t care. Russia isn’t his concern.”
Utkin remained silent. He’d always been a careful politician—building alliances from the shadows, generating and collecting debts, waiting for an opportunity. Was this it? Was this his moment? The moment to leverage all that groundwork and act boldly?
“If what you’re saying is true, Dr. Kennedy, I don’t know what you want me to do about it. I can assure you that my return to Russia without the president’s consent would not be a triumphant one.”
She seemed to consider her next words carefully. “What would you say, Mr. Prime Minister, if I told you that there’s a small chance I can neutralize Krupin?”
His eyebrows rose involuntarily. “Are you speaking of assassinating the leader of Russia?”
“I’m talking about precipitating the already inevitable death of a man who seems intent on bringing your country and the world down with him.”
The sensation Utkin had of hovering over the point of no return became overwhelming. Was he being set up? Could this woman see something he was blind to?
“You believe that you can put me in power and have a grateful puppet in the Kremlin. I think you’d be disappointed, Dr. Kennedy. I despise America. Its arrogance, its hypocrisy and lack of stability. If you want Krupin out, there’s nothing I can do about it from my exile in Panama. But should I succeed him, I’d feel no debt at all to you or your country.”
She fixed her gaze on the wall behind him, seeming to use the blank slate to help form her thoughts. “Over the years, I’ve come to believe that we need enemies. They’re how we define ourselves and fighting them gives us purpose. In the absence of a viable external threat, we begin turning on ourselves. I don’t want Russia as an ally. I just want to keep the cold war between us from becoming hot.”
He stared silently back at her.
“You’re surprised?”
“It’s a clearer view of the natural order of things than I would expect from an American.”
“People in my position don’t have the luxury of illusions, Mr. Prime Minister.”
“Nor mine. Perhaps one day when we’re old and senile, we can have a drink and contrive stories about the nobility of our species.”
This time her smile seemed a bit less dangerous. “I’ll look forward to it, Mr. Prime Minister.”
CHAPTER 42
SOUTH OF PĀVILOSTA
LATVIA
THE trees closed in again as the southeastern wind turned salty. Rapp and Coleman had hobbled their horses a mile back and were moving silently through the intermittent glow of a half moon.
“Should be just ahead,” Coleman whispered as Rapp passed by him and scanned the landscape through a night sight mounted to his borrowed HK G36.
Latvia had a lot of coastline and this section was one of the most remote—undoubtedly the reason it had been chosen for his escape from the country. On the downside, the Russians would be heavily focused on these out-of-the-way beaches as obvious paths for supplies, equipment, and men.
Rapp started forward again, staying low. Another three minutes brought them close enough to the sea to hear the lapping of waves. When they were about twenty yards from the edge of the sand, Rapp stopped and held a hand out. Coleman froze for a moment and then took cover behind a tree.
There had definitely been a flash of movement ahead, but it took almost a minute to pick it up again. A lone man standing behind something mounted on a tripod. Even with light amplification, though, it was impossible to confirm what that thing was.
He motioned Coleman forward.
“You see him?” Rapp said, pointing.
“I don’t see shit.”
The man had gone still again, blending perfectly into the terrain.
“Likely machine gun placement. Pointed out to sea. One operator.”
“We could go around,” Coleman suggested.
“Where there’s one, there’s bound to be more. My guess is that they’ve got assholes like this set up at intervals.”
“Yeah, but the fact that he’s alone is a good sign. It means they’re still in the process of securing the beaches with limited manpower.”
“If we can quietly take this guy out and the intervals to the next placements are wide, we’ll have a straight shot to the water.”
The former SEAL nodded. “Those are big ifs, but I’m willing to gamble. We’re right where we need to be and I want to keep this swim as short as possible. We don’t know what the currents are like and that water’s gonna be barely sixty degrees.”
Rapp laid his assault rifle on the ground and motioned for Coleman to stay put, moving forward with just his tactical knife. The brittle foliage beneath his feet slowed his pace considerably, forcing him to consider every footfall. It took more than ten minutes to close to within twenty feet of the Russian and he stopped there, pressed against a tree to obscure his outline.
The man had his back to the forest, looking out over the empty beach in front of him. The weapon was indeed a tripod-mounted machine gun—some kind of PK with a long belt inserted. A number of other ammunition boxes were stacked along with food and other gear. They were digging in for a long fight.
This close to the water, the wind was gusting intermittently and Rapp synchronized his approach with the rustling of the trees. It allowed him to get to within ten feet but then he was compelled to stop again. Whether it was natural or planned, the machine gun placement was surrounded by a carpet of dried leaves. Silent and easy wasn’t going to be doable.
Rapp examined the man’s broad back and the white glow of his hands resting on the gun. If you couldn’t be quiet, a good substitute was quick.
He sprinted as hard as he could across the leaves but as fast as he was, sound traveled faster. The man began to spin, swinging an arm out as Rapp slammed into him at a full run. They both went down, rolling across the ground until the trunk of a tree stopped them. The Russian was a bull of a man—easily Joe Maslick’s size and suddenly flooded with adrenaline.
Normally not a problem, but Rapp’s priority was less killing him than keeping him quiet. There was no way in hell he was the only Russian out there but it was impossible to know how near his comrades were. Certainly within shouting distance, but maybe even closer than that.
Rapp managed to snake an arm around the Russian’s neck, cutting off enough of his breath to stop a cry for help. As he was focusing on that, though, powerful fingers dug in around his knife hand. The man rolled and slammed him into the tree again, but Rapp ignored the impact, keeping the pressure on his throat.
Unfortunately, his assessment of the man being as powerful as Maslick was spot-on. The Russian leapt to his feet as though Rapp’s one hundred and eighty pounds didn’t exist. The pressure of his grip increased to the point that the bones in Rapp’s wrist felt like they were on the verge of shattering. The chances of him keeping hold of the knife for much longer were falling fast.
He was dangling from the man’s neck, unable to let go and finish the jo
b out of fear that he’d have time to shout a warning before he died. The third impact with the tree was expected, but also significantly harder than the first two. They bounced off and the Russian prepared to drive back into the trunk again, but Rapp tangled a foot in his legs and caused him to stumble.
They landed in a pile of brush and Rapp ended up on the bottom. The Russian’s movements were noticeably less violent than before, though. The lack of air was starting to weaken him. Not enough that he didn’t start driving his elbow repeatedly into Rapp’s ribs, though. The CIA man wrapped his legs around him from behind, interfering with the momentum of his arm and trying to keep the sound of snapping branches to a minimum.
Rapp had resigned himself to taking a serious beating while slowly choking the life out of the man when the Russian suddenly stiffened. A moment later, the grip on Rapp’s wrist relaxed and fell away. Tilting his head to the side, he saw the hilt of a knife protruding from the Russian’s chest. Beyond was the blond head of Scott Coleman.
“What took you so long?” Rapp murmured, sliding out from beneath the weight of the body.
“It looked like you had him.”
Rapp was extracting a broken branch from his side when a Russian voice became audible only a few feet away. They spun in its direction but the tinny quality immediately identified it as a radio. Both waited in silence for a response, but none came. Instead, the same voice crackled to life, this time more insistent.
They were calling for the dead man.
