by Vince Flynn
“Four,” Rapp said. “But one died almost immediately and never got a chance to breed with the local pack.”
His unusually detailed memory had saved his ass too many times to count and this was quickly becoming another example.
“I understand you were a lacrosse player, Mitch.”
Their legends included lacrosse for him and biathlon for Azarov. Always best to stay as close to the truth as possible.
“Yeah. Back in school.”
“Intriguing sport. I was watching a match recently on television.”
Rapp calculated the chances of that at around zero.
“Maybe you could clear something up for me. What does FOGO stand for?”
“Face off get off,” he said, using a machete to hack through a bush that opened up to a rock-strewn slope.
Finally, it was possible to accelerate enough to get Sergei huffing instead of running his mouth. The route to the top of the mountain was in full sun with virtually no air movement. Rapp would keep the Russian near his limit—not hard enough to make him demand a break, but hard enough to make him suffer. With a little luck, his heart would give out.
Rapp took the path of most resistance, glancing back at Sergei’s glistening face and Azarov bringing up the rear.
The ground underfoot was dangerously loose, creating minor slides that left dust trails leading back toward the trees. Rapp aimed for a comfortable-looking boulder but then turned before reaching it, finding an even steeper line to the distant summit. As expected, Sergei didn’t follow, opting instead to take a seat on the boulder. His tracksuit was soaked through, as were the nylon straps holding the Makarov PM pistol beneath his left arm. He’d undoubtedly worn the holster for the purpose of intimidation, but was now likely regretting the extra weight.
“How much longer?” he panted.
Rapp squinted at the ridge looming above. “Maybe two hours?”
“And how long have we been climbing?”
“About ten minutes,” Azarov said.
“At least it’s not hot yet,” Rapp said. “The way back’s going to be brutal.”
“And I hear that there’s been a lot of bear activity in the area later in the day,” Azarov added.
The possibility of an animal attack was the last straw.
“I have a conference call with the Kremlin early this evening,” Sergei said.
“I don’t think we’re going to make that,” Rapp responded, shooting for a tone of sincere regret, but going a bit wide of the mark.
The Russian nodded gravely as his breathing finally began to slow. “I’m afraid I can’t miss it.”
“No problem,” Rapp said. “We’ll just head on up and see you back at camp tonight.”
The political officer looked at them, going from one face to the other, finally settling on Azarov. “You’ve not said much on our journey. Why don’t you tell me a bit about what you hope to accomplish with your research?”
“We’re studying the persistence of radiation-induced genetic mutations passed down through generations of wolves.”
“That sounds like something you read in a book.”
“What do you mean?” Rapp said, coming to Azarov’s rescue. “We’re biologists. Everything we talk about came from a book.”
Sergei returned his attention to Rapp. “You’re very convincing, Mitch. But your friend here . . . I don’t trust him.”
“What do you mean?” Rapp said. “What’s to trust? We’re going to go over this mountain, dart a few wolves, get a few blood samples, and go home. I mean, I know about all the stuff that’s going on in Latvia, but what’s that got to do with us? Wars start, wars end, nothing’s accomplished. Science goes on, man.”
Sergei lit a cigarette, drawing on it and letting the smoke roll from his mouth as he spoke. “Your presence online is impressive, but there’s a flaw.”
“Flaw?” Rapp said as Azarov looked on with an increasingly dead expression. “What are you talking about?”
“There isn’t a single clear picture of either of your faces. Always just a bit out of focus, a bit distant, or bit shaded. What do you think the chances of that are?”
Pretty fucking low, actually. Those photos had been processed in a way that would make them impossible to identify by Russian intelligence.
“Are you kidding? With phones, people take a million pictures a minute and all of them suck. You want to see what we look like? You’re staring right at us.”
Sergei stood. “We’ll go back to camp and talk more. Perhaps take some clearer photos and send them to Moscow. If all goes well, you can come back out later this week.”
Rapp let out a long, slow breath. “No way I can change your mind?”
Something in his voice or expression alerted the Russian and he dropped his cigarette, jerking his hand toward the gun holstered beneath his arm.
Rapp slammed a palm into his nose, hard enough to disorient him, but not hard enough to drop him. The gun came out but the Russian’s grip was no longer strong enough to keep Rapp from plucking it from his hand.
“What . . . What are you doing?” he said, stumbling back against the boulder while his nose poured blood down the front of his tracksuit.
Rapp ignored the question, dropping his backpack and pulling out a rope. It took just a moment for him to fashion a noose and slip it around Sergei’s neck. The Russian panicked and tried to get it off, but Azarov pinned his arms behind his back. Rapp attached the other end of the rope to the back of his pack and started up the side of the mountain again. Sergei stumbled along behind, grabbing at the rope but unable to generate enough slack to escape.
“You fucked with the wrong people,” Rapp said over the man’s gagging. “We Americans take our research seriously.”
They made it to the ridge in just under the two hours Rapp had predicted. Sergei had probably fallen to his knees fifteen times over the last three hundred yards but credit where credit was due. The fat fuck was still alive.
They stripped off their packs and looked down the back side of the mountain at the river and the endless wilderness beyond. Sergei was on all fours, clawing the noose off and gasping for breath. He finally tried to get to his feet, but Azarov slammed a foot into his ribs and left him writhing on his back.
“Steep and narrow here,” Rapp said. “Lots of loose rock. An accident waiting to happen.”
Azarov grabbed Sergei’s ankles and Rapp took his wrists. They carried the struggling man to the edge of the slope and after a few vigorous swings, let go. He screamed as he arced out over the steep terrain, going silent again when he hit ground thirty feet below and began cartwheeling down the slope. His broken body finally came to rest against a boulder a good three hundred yards from the summit.
“He didn’t start a slide,” Rapp said, disappointed.
“Perhaps he was too light.”
Rapp emptied most of the contents of their backpacks and threw the items to create a trail that made it look like they’d gone down the same way.
The next task was more difficult: trundling boulders off an outcropping until one finally started the chain reaction they were looking for. They ended up with an obvious slide that buried most of their gear but left Sergei’s body partially visible.
“How much time do you think we have?” Azarov said.
“They won’t start to worry until we’re at least a couple hours overdue. A few more hours to put together a search party and then four more to get up here. Maybe another couple days before they’re sure our bodies aren’t in that slide.”
“Not much time,” Azarov said.
Rapp just jumped off the ledge in front of him and started down the slope.
CHAPTER 46
EAST OF ZHIGANSK
RUSSIA
“ENTER!”
The voice barely carried through the door and Andrei Sokolov didn’t immediately comply, instead taking a moment to collect himself. These personal visits to Krupin’s medical facility were long and complex—something the genera
l had neither the time nor energy for. There was nothing that could be done, though. The secrecy surrounding Krupin’s illness and the handling of the man’s growing weakness became more critical every day.
Sokolov finally entered Krupin’s opulent living quarters, but instead of finding the Russian president wallowing in bed, he was sitting behind a modest desk, clear-eyed and wearing a business suit. The slight shaking of his hand was an indication that he was once again under the influence of Dr. Fedkin’s stimulants.
Even more concerning was the presence of Nikita Pushkin standing silently in the far corner of the room. Sokolov saw no reason to acknowledge him. He was nothing. A weapon was only as dangerous as the man wielding it.
Krupin’s attention lingered on his general for a moment and then returned to a television hanging on the wall. The screen depicted a high-altitude flyover of the Baltic Sea and the smoke plumes that represented the fate of the Russian fleet there.
“Where to from here, Andrei?”
Sokolov had been prepared for a number of specific recriminations, but not for a question so open-ended. He found himself in the rare position of fumbling for a response.
“We fight on, sir.”
Krupin laughed. “That’s the strategy you’ve devised for me? We fight on?”
“NATO has been a more aggressive opponent than we expected. But at their foundation, they’re weak. They—”
“Weak!” Krupin shouted, leaping to his feet with the power the stimulants had temporarily given him. “Half my navy is at the bottom of the ocean and the other half is either being hunted or trapped in port. And you did nothing.”
“Our ability to attack naval targets from Latvian soil hasn’t come online as quickly as we hoped. We’ve prioritized those systems and within forty-eight hours we’ll be in a position to retaliate against NATO vessels.”
“What NATO vessels, Andrei? My understanding is that they’re abandoning the Baltic.”
Sokolov didn’t immediately answer. While true, he wasn’t certain where Krupin acquired the information. Had the international media started reporting on the pullout while he’d been traveling incommunicado from Moscow? Or had the president reinitiated direct communication with Russia’s other military commanders?
“They’re one step ahead of you, Andrei. They attacked with everything they had knowing that you weren’t ready. And now they’re moving their vulnerable surface ships out and leaving their submarines to supply the insurgency. I don’t look strong. I look like an idiot.”
“I’m aware that we’ve lost control of the media narrative but we’ll regain it. Latvian terrorists have carried out a number of brutal attacks on our troops. We’ll be able to regain the sympathy of the Russian peop—”
“You think Russia is run by being the object of pity?” Krupin shouted. “Our disinformation efforts are dead! You’ve provided the West the external enemy they needed to end their squabbling and pull together. And what of the glory the Russian people crave so deeply? What have they been provided? The defeat of our navy, mounting economic sanctions, and the capture of cities inhabited only by people too old or infirm to leave.”
“These Latvian terrorists will—”
“They aren’t Afghan animals,” Krupin yelled, the red of his face turning vaguely unnatural around bulging eyes. “The international press is portraying them as courageous patriots trying to repel invasion. The success of this operation turned on a quick and decisive victory lauded by Latvia’s ethnic Russian population. A demonstration that the country would be stronger backed by the stability of Russia rather than the constant upheaval of democracy.”
His strength faltered and he lost his balance. Pushkin was immediately in motion, helping the man back into his chair.
“Sir, you’re not well,” Sokolov said. “Dr. Fedkin—”
“Fedkin is of no consequence,” Krupin said, lowering his voice to a sustainable level. “There will be no more procedures and no more treatments until I’ve gained control of this situation.”
Sokolov nodded respectfully, but felt his anxiety deepen. Krupin didn’t have the stamina to lead this war effort and he was increasingly hampered by his inability to differentiate between himself and Russia. The quick, easy victory he needed was no longer possible. Sacrificing focus on the larger battle to concentrate on his political survival would create a slow moving disaster that the country might never recover from. This war was now about Russia’s future while Krupin was becoming part of its past.
“Contact your counterparts in the West, Andrei. Reiterate that we’ve moved nuclear weapons into Latvia and make sure they understand that they’ll be used at the first hint that the Latvian insurgency is being assisted from the outside.”
It was precisely the wrong strategy, devised with a man who was thinking in terms of days and weeks instead of years and decades. NATO had indeed surprised them, but it was too early to determine if it would matter to the final outcome of the war. Certainly, a tactical nuclear strike might eventually become necessary, but the timing, target, and retaliation would have to be carefully considered.
“Yes, sir.”
“This isn’t an idle threat, Andrei. It can’t be. What’s the least populous major city within easy reach of our weapons?”
“Sir, I think we—”
“Answer me! I have no more time for your failures. Every minute that passes without a victory strengthens my enemies in Moscow. They’re plotting against me. I can feel it. I’ve always been able to feel it.”
“Copenhagen,” Sokolov said, finally. “Approximately three quarters of a million people.”
“Then make the threat specific—choosing the major city with a low population will convince them. We’ll see just how much the West is willing to bleed to try to take back a country that’s rightfully ours.”
“I understand,” Sokolov responded, not sure what else there was to say.
“I want you to set up a video conference between us and the rest of my military commanders, Andrei. Fifteen minutes from now.”
“Then you’ll have to excuse me so I can make preparations.”
He turned on his heels and heading for the door.
The breakup of the Western alliance and the resurgence of Russia was within reach, but it would be a long and difficult path. Their fist would have to be slowly closed around Latvia, proving to the surrounding nations that NATO was powerless to protect them. Internet disinformation campaigns would have to be expanded and modernized, turning countries and citizens against each other. The election of autocratic leaders sympathetic to Russia would have to be supported. Chaos would have to be fomented in Syria and North Africa in an effort to create a refugee crisis that would overwhelm Europe.
Krupin had started this process, but it was increasingly obvious that he was no longer capable of finishing it. It was time for Sokolov to begin laying the groundwork for taking control of Russia. Krupin would have to be isolated in such a way that he could still be used as a power base but would have no involvement in generating strategies or setting policy. His strength and intelligence would be missed, but it was the only way that Russia could live on in his image.
CHAPTER 47
CENTRAL RUSSIA
THEY’D been slower than even Rapp’s worst-case scenario. The back of the mountain they’d come down had been more treacherous than expected, and they’d nearly been taken out by two separate rock falls. Worse, Azarov hadn’t been kidding when he’d said his fitness had slipped. The superhuman he’d been when he trained six hours a day and pumped himself full of PEDs was just a memory now.
It wasn’t all bad, though. The Russian was still one of the top five operators in the world and the wolf pack had been content to just watch the two men intruding on their territory instead of tearing them apart.
Even better, the gear they’d been promised was right where it was supposed to be. Bushwhacking across seventy miles of some of the world’s most rugged terrain with no food or water and then attacking a fortif
ied ammo dump with sticks and rocks wasn’t something that was going to turn out well.
Rapp dragged a waterproof duffel from where it had been buried and emptied the contents onto the ground. Their tents, sleeping bags, and a raft were already lined up in the dirt—all brands commercially available in Russia. The dry bag contained more technical equipment, including night-vision gear, a GPS, and solar powered chargers. Weapons were limited to a couple of hunting rifles and two Serdyukov SPS pistols. The Agency got high marks for putting together all this weathered Russian crap, but he doubted it would be enough for anyone to buy them as a couple of buddies on a fishing trip. Particularly with Sergei’s body rotting on the side of that mountain and theirs missing. Survival now turned on moving fast and not being spotted.
He finally found their communications equipment packed with a bunch of freeze-dried Russian provisions. Borscht and beef Stroganoff? He’d have to get Azarov to read the labels.
He turned on a portable satellite radio receiver he found, using the included Bluetooth earpiece. It was tuned to an English language station out of Moscow, and despite the government spin, he was able to get an idea what was happening.
All the talk about NATO’s “ambush” of peaceful Russian navy ships and subsequent “cowardly retreat” suggested that Western forces were continuing to kick ass on the water. The price would be high, though. It was hard not to wonder how many men and women he’d served with over the years were now on the bottom of the Baltic Sea. Just as bad, it appeared that Krupin had threatened Copenhagen with a nuclear strike. At the behest of the “treacherous American government” the “cowardly Danes” were abandoning their capital city. Based on the chances Rapp gave himself of pulling off his mission, he hoped they were running, not walking.
Beyond that, information was hard to come by. There was no thumb drive with an encrypted briefing or additional reports on the war effort. Not even an update on the whereabouts of Krupin or Sokolov. No big surprise. They’d been cut loose at this point. If they got caught, the Agency would say that he’d never been officially reinstated to the CIA after his actions in Saudi Arabia and feign ignorance of his actions. If pressed, Kennedy, would cite his personal debt to Azarov and point out something that Krupin understood better than anyone: if you hit Grisha Azarov, he was going to hit back.
