Red War

by Flynn Vince

  “I didn’t bring you back to be my welcoming committee.”

  Sokolov put a hand on his old friend’s back and guided him down the hall. “Did everything go well? I imagine it was a taxing day.”

  Krupin had spent the last twenty-four hours moving from one wilderness camp to another by helicopter. Attended by a film crew and makeup people, he’d been documented hunting, white water rafting, and using an open fire to cook the game he’d ostensibly killed. The photos and video would be parceled out to state media as his treatments were carried out—providing an excuse for his absence from the Kremlin and depicting him at his most robust.

  The white walls and linoleum floors gave way to the red carpet and rich paneling that had been inadvisable in the medical area. Lighting was now provided by chandeliers, and paintings of pivotal moments in Russian history adorned the walls.

  “You’ve accomplished a great deal in the days you’ve been back,” Krupin observed absently.

  “I doubt you’ll be here long, but I wanted you to be comfortable,” Sokolov said, opening a door at the end of the corridor. The room it led to was just over ten meters square, consisting of a bedroom and living area furnished with Russian antiques.

  The president’s personal doctor, Eduard Fedkin, was waiting by an immense leather chair with an IV cart set up at its side. The custom cocktail of poisons it contained would be the first phase in Krupin’s treatment.

  “Are you ready, sir?” Fedkin said. “If so, please take off your suit jacket and we can get started.”

  Krupin laid it carefully across a table and sat, finally meeting Sokolov’s eye as Fedkin tied a rubber band around his biceps. “What news of Azarov?”

  It was improbable that this issue was at the forefront of Krupin’s mind at that moment. More likely he needed to be distracted from what was happening to him.

  “Our people believe he’s currently in Maryland,” Sokolov said. In truth, this was no more than speculation based on the location of Cara Hansen. There was no reliable information at all as to Azarov’s whereabouts.

  “And the people who helped him?”

  The intelligence report identifying Scott Coleman hadn’t yet been signed off on, so once again Sokolov demurred. “Likely mercenaries he had on retainer. The loss of electricity would have made him suspicious. You trained him to be paranoid and he learned his lesson well.”

  “Tarben Chkalov?”

  The aging oligarch was debatably the second most powerful man in all of Russia. His personal fortune was in excess of ten billion U.S. dollars and his largely legitimate business empire stretched across the globe. He was equally well respected by his contemporaries, Russian government officials, criminal organizations, and foreign governments. Most dangerous, though was Chkalov’s uncanny gift for feeling the winds of change before others did. If anyone could ferret out what was happening and take advantage, it was this decrepit old man.

  “He’s at his home outside of St. Petersburg, sir. Major Pushkin is completing plans for dealing with the situation. He seems quite anxious to prove himself after what happened in Costa Rica.”

  Krupin winced as the IV catheter entered his arm. “Azarov isn’t in Maryland.”

  “Sir?”

  “I know him, Andrei. I made him. And I can tell you, he’s coming for me.”

  “I’ll look into the progress of the investigation personally, but remember that he’s just one man. A talented killer? Absolutely. But there’s no way he can find you here and it would take an army to penetrate the security at the Kremlin. Certainly, Azarov would be aware of this.”

  Krupin fixed his eyes on a blank section of wall as the chemicals began to flow into him. “You’re dismissed, Andrei. Get out.”

  CHAPTER 17

  EAST OF KOSTOMUKSHA

  RUSSIA

  GRISHA Azarov was forced to slow his vehicle to a crawl when it finally started to rain. The Soviet era Škoda had been provided by Finnish smugglers he’d kept on retainer for the better part of a decade. It was comfortingly nondescript but otherwise not particularly confidence inspiring. The windshield wipers did little more than smear the glass, disbursing the glow from headlights that barely projected past the front bumper. Somewhere out there, though, past that dim halo, was Maxim Krupin.

  Azarov had spent years in the man’s employ, but it had taken only the first six months to discover that Krupin was a backstabbing monster whose life was ruled by fear and who believed that loyalty was a one-way street. In light of that realization, Azarov had funneled hundreds of thousands of euros to criminal organizations that kept multiple escape routes open to him. And while he’d cut those ties some time ago, the leader of one of those organizations had agreed to help him. The choice Azarov had presented him—earn a generous fee or die along with his family, friends, and everyone he’d ever met—turned out to be an easy one.

  The clouds to the north parted for a moment, allowing the moonlight to illuminate a lake to his left and the empty expanse in every other direction. He accelerated again, trying to use the winding road to fend off the emotions threatening to overwhelm him. Was she dead? Alive? Had she woken to find him gone? To discover that she was alone again like she had been for so long?

  He rolled down the window and let the cold, wet air fill the car. There was no way for him to answer those questions. He was a hunted man—not only by Krupin, but now undoubtedly by the Americans. Rapp could be trusted to make sure Cara was cared for, but his debt of honor ended there. Irene Kennedy was a cautious woman who would not want a wild card running loose in Russia. In the end, Rapp’s loyalty was to her and to his country.

  The darkness closed in again and he glanced at the GPS he’d been provided. Sixteen hours to Moscow.

  And then what?

  He’d never felt this way—or to some extent any way—before. Even in childhood, he had a strange sensation of detachment from the world. More an observer than a participant. He stood in the background, weighing alternatives, gathering data, and making carefully vetted assumptions. Only when satisfied that he understood all variables did he act on even the most trivial matters.

  Now, though, he’d escaped Costa Rica with the very much non-trivial purpose of assassinating a man many had deemed the most powerful in the world. No data gathered, no alternatives weighed, and no assumptions made. Overall, less thought than he’d put into the surfboard he’d had shaped for Cara’s birthday.

  Sixteen hours from now, what was he going to do? Storm the Kremlin with a pistol? No. He had to put the girl out of his mind and become the person he’d once been. But was that even possible anymore? It was surprising how distant that man felt. Surprising to find himself wondering what Grisha Azarov would do in this situation.

  A cinder block and clapboard gas station emerged from the darkness, prompting him to pull in. He tried one of the pumps, idly musing about exotic poisons and how far an electrical current would travel along the puddles in Red Square. Things that the old Grisha Azarov would have already examined from every angle. The new Azarov, though, was more concerned with how unaccustomed to the cold he’d become and how far he felt from home.

  The pump didn’t work. Undoubtedly, he needed to pay first but no one seemed willing to brave the rain to take his money. He started for the dimly lit building, pondering Krupin’s estranged family and the men close to him. Could they be the key to access? Their loyalty was based more on fear and patronage than any real kinship with the president or his rule. Unfortunately, the amount of fear and patronage Krupin could bring to bear was considerable.

  The window was open to the left of the door and Azarov made note of it, glancing instinctively behind him. On a night like this, it was unusual but not outrageously so. The scent of mold was noticeable flowing from the building and it was likely that the cashier didn’t want to be closed up inside. Still, Azarov’s hand moved a bit closer to his weapon.

  Shelves were plentiful and filled with staples needed by the few people who called this rural area home. Hea
ring the tinny audio of a Russian game show, he headed for it, finally spotting two booted feet propped next to a cash register.

  “Could you turn on the pump?” he said over the sound of the television sitting on the counter.

  “No gas. But the canned tuna’s on sale.”

  Azarov ripped the pistol from his waistband at the American voice, holding it in front of him as he slowly drifted right.

  Mitch Rapp was leaned back in an old office chair, seemingly intent on the television screen. His left hand was out of sight in his lap and was almost certainly holding the Glock 19 he favored. Worse, the open window behind Azarov offered a clean shot for a sniper outside. Almost certainly Charlie Wicker—one of the best in the business.

  Despite his dire situation Azarov found it impossible to focus on his survival. “Is she alive?”

  “Last I heard.”

  The gun wavered for a moment at the impact of those words.

  “How did you find me?”

  “Claudia’s husband used those same smugglers to get into Russia when he killed Nestor Mushket.”

  “That was Louis Gould? I don’t think our intelligence service ever determined who carried out that hit.”

  Rapp’s hand began to rise and the Russian tensed, but he was only holding Russia’s version of a Twinkie.

  “So what’s the plan,” Rapp said, unwrapping it. “Just walk into the Kremlin and shoot the president?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The CIA man dropped his feet to the floor and turned in the chair to face him. “What did you do to Krupin to make him send that team?”

  “Nothing. I swear to you,” Azarov said, shoving his gun back in his pants. “What could possibly motivate me to anger the man? And if I did, why would I be completely unprepared when he retaliated?”

  Rapp’s expression softened a bit. “I have to admit that I was a little surprised they caught you standing in the window.”

  “I know Krupin, Mitch. He wasn’t happy when I left him, but that’s not enough to make him take action—particularly one this overt. I was the instrument he used in these kinds of situations and I can tell you that he used me sparingly. Only when an objective threat needed to be removed or a message needed to be sent. My death serves neither purpose.”

  Rapp didn’t respond, instead biting the end off the Twinkie and chewing thoughtfully.

  “So are you here to help me or kill me, Mitch?”

  “Help you charge the Kremlin? I think I’ll pass.”

  “With both of us and the CIA’s resources, we might have a chance at killing him.”

  “Do you have people you trust in Russia?”

  “No. Krupin made sure of that. He gave me everything and built my reputation into something that bordered on the supernatural. Anyone who knows who I am either hates me or fears me.”

  “Then this is starting to look like kind of a one-sided deal, isn’t it? I gather the intel, provide backup, and run the risk of massive blowback on me and the Agency while you . . . What? Take the shot?”

  “What are you asking me to do, Mitch? Walk away? You did that once. You showed mercy to the man who killed your wife. And, as I recall, that decision ended in the death of your mentor.”

  Rapp stood and leaned over the counter. His left hand was now behind a stack of cigarette cartons. Was that where the Glock was hidden? Azarov suddenly regretted speaking so plainly. He was in a box and even if he wasn’t he wouldn’t be able to draw his pistol before Rapp could reach his.

  Instead of making a move, though, Rapp took a step back. “What I’m asking you to do is help me figure out what’s caused Krupin to go off the rails. If it’s not a problem for the United States, I go home and you have whatever we’ve learned to help you with your vendetta. You kill Krupin or more likely he kills you and none of it makes any difference to me or the Agency.”

  “And if his issues are a problem for America?”

  “Then you’ll have me and Irene behind you, which I think you’ll agree improves your chances of getting back to Cara in one piece.” He paused for a moment. “If that’s what you really want.”

  “What do you mean if it’s what I want?”

  “You lied to her about who you are and if you survive you’re going to have to come clean on that. My wife knew who I was from the beginning. She was free to choose. Cara wasn’t.”

  Azarov tensed, but Rapp didn’t acknowledge it, instead coming out from behind the counter and heading for the door. Once again, he’d been wrong about the Glock. It hadn’t been behind the cigarettes.

  The Russian didn’t immediately follow, instead thinking about what Rapp had said and finding more truth in it than he would have liked. When he finally walked back out into the rain, Rapp was gassing up the Škoda.

  “What’s our first move, Grisha?”

  “Tarben Chkalov, I think.”

  “The fast food restaurant guy? He’s still alive?”

  “Old for certain, but by far still the most powerful oligarch in the country. He despises disruption and has sources everywhere. If anyone can explain Krupin’s recent behavior, it will be him.”

  “Then let’s go,” Rapp said, replacing the pump and slipping into the vehicle’s cramped passenger seat.

  Azarov scanned the dark tree line. “What about your men?”

  “What do you mean?” Rapp said, reaching for the broken door handle. “What men?”

  CHAPTER 18

  NORTHWEST OF ZHIGANSK

  RUSSIA

  ANDREI Sokolov hesitated in the doorway of the opulent bathroom, hovering silently. Laid out on the marble floor was Maxim Krupin. His bespoke slacks had been replaced by a pair of sweatpants and his thick torso was bare and pale. He was asleep, or perhaps unconscious, with his head propped against the base of the toilet. A streak of vomit had dried across his cheek beneath sunken eyes.

  Sokolov had hoped that the president would be one of the lucky patients whose chemotherapy reaction would be mild. In the end, though, it wasn’t a matter of strength or will. It was just the luck of genetics and how a person’s unique body chemistry reacted to the powerful toxins.

  It was difficult for him to see the president like this and impossible to allow anyone else similar access. Maxim Krupin didn’t just represent Russia. In many ways, he was Russia. Is this how the proud country of their fathers was to end? Weakened and rotting from within?

  Sokolov began to worry about the man’s stillness and crouched beside him. It took a few moments but Krupin’s eyes finally fluttered opened.

  “I’m dying, Andrei.”

  Sokolov lifted him to his feet and helped him to the bed in the adjoining room. “You’re not dying, Maxim. It’s just the side effects of the therapy.”

  Another half-truth. When pressed, Fedkin had put Krupin’s chance of lasting a year at less than forty percent. And based on Sokolov’s own assessment, even that number might be optimistic. Fedkin was thinking only about the cancer. There were many other threats that were just as grave.

  “Can the brain tumor be removed, Andrei?”

  He considered lying, but dismissed the thought after only a few seconds. While some things were better kept from Krupin, others had to be presented at face value. The president had to know what was coming in order to participate in planning.

  “Removing all of it is impossible, but removing the bulk of it may not be. Having said that, the subject we operated on who had a similar tumor suffered complications.”

  Krupin raised himself on his pillows, squinting in Sokolov’s direction. “What kind of complications?”

  “Localized paralysis and some reduction in mental function.”

  “Where is she? I want to see her.”

  In fact, she was still in the infirmary under examination, but would be euthanized later that day. The condition she’d been left in wasn’t relevant because Krupin would never find himself in that state. Sokolov would personally put a bullet in his head and the country would be told he died in a hunting a
ccident. Perhaps attacked by the bear he was stalking. A glorious battle before succumbing to the only symbol of Russia more potent than him.

  “I’m sorry, sir. She was of no further use, so she’s gone.”

  Krupin sank back in the pillows, his eyes going out of focus. Sokolov was going to lower the lights to allow him to sleep but then thought better of it. He didn’t need sleep. He needed a reminder of who he was.

  “The video team has finished editing your outdoor footage,” he said, picking up a remote and aiming it at a television hanging on the wall.

  Images of Krupin sitting in camp by a lake, on horseback, shirtless and armed with a hunting rifle, began revolving across the screen. They seemed to have the desired effect, prompting him to sit up a little straighter against the headboard.

  “When you’re feeling strong enough, sir, we have matters we need to discuss.”

  “Now,” Krupin said.

  “It isn’t necessary to—”

  “If action needs to be taken, I’ll take it. As I always have.”

  “Of course,” Sokolov said, relieved to see the reemergence of the man he’d known for so long. “The first order of business is your treatment. Your reaction to the chemotherapy notwithstanding, we still need to start radiation and other complementary therapies immediately. It could exacerbate your discomfort, but it’d be unwise to wait. In the meantime, we’ll be exploring unconventional therapies and techniques to make a possible future surgery as advantageous as possible.”

  “Surgery and unconventional therapies,” Krupin repeated in a voice that had lost the force it once had. “I wonder if your scheming has the power to change anything, Andrei. If I don’t submit to these treatments, I die. If I allow them to be performed I’ll be weakened to the point that my enemies will fall on me like a pack of rabid dogs.”

  It was a realistic analysis. Loyalty at the Kremlin was directly correlated to power and constantly realigning with every perceived shift in it.

  Absent the trappings of democracy or royal blood to legitimize succession, Russia’s next ruler might be ordained in a violent and lengthy power struggle. Anyone with designs on Krupin’s crown would have begun quietly laying the groundwork some time ago. They would not only be looking for opportunity, they would be in a position to seize it.