by Flynn Vince
“It will be a difficult time,” Sokolov admitted.
Krupin met his gaze for a moment before turning away. Normally, he’d be calculating every move, every consequence. Prioritizing actions, identifying threats, and formulating strategies. None of those things read in his eyes, though. The only thing visible was exhaustion combined with something Sokolov had never seen in the man before. Fear.
“I assume you have a recommendation?” Krupin asked finally.
“I do, sir.”
“Let’s hear it then.”
“Your violent reaction to the chemotherapy and the potential for surgery in the future is going to degrade your ability to personally interact with the people, media, and government officials. In light of that, we need a distraction. Something that will pull the country together and make you look strong, among other things.”
“You’re speaking of Ukraine.”
Sokolov shook his head. “A few days ago, I would have been. But your treatment is going to be much longer and more debilitating than we’d anticipated. I fear that a move in Ukraine wouldn’t be sufficient to keep your enemies at bay.”
He used the remote to replace the images of Krupin in the wilderness with a map of their country’s western border. Current Russian troop concentrations were shown on the borders of Latvia, Estonia, and Lithuania where extensive exercises were taking place. Russia’s military presence in southern Ukraine and Crimea was also depicted, including updates on their increasing concentration at the northern edge of the territory they controlled.
Krupin pointed with a shaking finger. “We’ve continued to move troops to Ukraine in a way that’s obvious to the West. We’ve also stepped up the propaganda campaign aimed at convincing the ethnic Russian community that they’re the subject of organized violence and discrimination. The hope is that if we move to take control of the rest of the country they’ll join us. More importantly, though, it would give us a pretense for the invasion like in Crimea. We could say to the international community that military action was forced on us to protect our Russian brothers.”
“I’ve familiarized myself with your preparations and I think victory is all but assured,” Sokolov said. “Your hackers have excellent penetration into Ukraine’s systems and would be able to shut down a significant portion of their communications and power grid. Resistance would likely be light and the West has only a token contingent of advisors there right now.”
“And yet you sound unimpressed,” Krupin said.
“Certainly if the alternative is Ukraine joining NATO, then this would be a reasonable course of action. Even a membership vote would be a huge humiliation. I fear that your enemies would use it against you and that in your current condition they could inflict damage.”
“Then we should attack now, yes? Move north, secure the country and set up Iskander missile batteries. Make it clear that we consider Ukraine Russian territory and that any move to take it back will be met with nuclear retaliation against Western Europe.”
Sokolov examined the map, examining every detail in the ensuing silence. Finally, he turned back to the ailing politician. “My fear is that it would only be a glancing blow, sir. This isn’t a defeat of NATO—Ukraine isn’t a member. What it may accomplish, though, is to pull Western Europe together against a shared threat. Worse, it could cause America to renew its wavering commitment to the alliance. Finally, it seems a foregone conclusion that the West would increase their economic sanctions, further harming our economy and further turning away Russia’s youth.”
Krupin seemed a bit confused, having counted on Sokolov above all people to support military action. He swung his feet off the bed and walked unsteadily across the room, putting on a bathrobe and lowering himself into a chair along the far wall.
“You’ve become timid, Andrei. Perhaps I should have expected it. So many years in that dacha, away from Moscow and your military post. Have I made a mistake in choosing you for this position?”
“You misunderstand me, Mr. President.”
“Do I?”
Sokolov widened the map view to include Poland and parts of Western Europe. “As I said, prior to knowing the full ramifications of your illness, the Ukraine gambit might have been a workable strategy. Now, though, I think we need to consider something more bold.”
“More bold?” Krupin said, clearly relieved to find that the head of his military wasn’t recommending retreat before the battle had even begun. “Explain.”
“I believe that we find ourselves in a very rare position, Maxim. We’re in the right place at the right time in history with the right tools at hand.”
“To do what?”
“To annihilate NATO.”
Krupin didn’t respond, so he continued. “We’ve already spoken of this. The French are focused on internal terrorism, but they’ll turn outward again when they get it under control. The British are off balance now because of Brexit, but it’s inevitable that the divisions will heal and they’ll remain aligned closely with Europe. Germany continues to be reluctant to project power but their fear of their own history is fading with the new generation and there are indications that they’re becoming more amenable to the expansion of their military. Turkey, NATO’s second largest army, is distracted by Syria and the Kurds, as well as its ongoing transformation into a dictatorship. And, finally, the United States has turned inward and is consumed with fighting over political divisions we helped create but that won’t last.”
The Russian president just stared at him. The sound of the antique clock in the corner seemed impossibly loud as the seconds ticked by. Sokolov hadn’t mentioned the other factor in their favor—Krupin’s cancer. While he’d been a bold and aggressive leader who had strained against international norms, his instinct for self-preservation had demanded that he stay within them. Was that still the case? Sokolov had just described an environment that could lead either to a quick and decisive victory over the West or to World War III. Krupin would be well within his purview to have him dragged outside and shot.
He didn’t, though. Instead, his eyes moved to the map on the wall. “I’m still listening.”
Sokolov forced himself to remain calm as the weight of the moment became unbearable. “I propose that we use the troop buildup in Ukraine as a feint and attack NATO in the Baltic states.”
“You’re suggesting a simultaneous attack on Latvia, Lithuania, and Estonia?”
“We have a substantial number of well-drilled troops doing exercises on their borders. With some quiet reinforcement, we’d have a sufficient force to overrun all three countries before NATO could react.”
“We’d be at war with America and the whole of Europe,” Krupin said, sounding a bit awed at the prospect of it.
“Another benefit of the scale of this operation—beyond its ability to create a nationalist wave inside of Russia—is its ability to isolate you. We could use the pretense of assassins and potential American drone attacks to move you to an undisclosed location.”
Krupin’s mind had been slowed by his treatment but not so much that he couldn’t grasp the potential of his general’s plan. “It’s hard to see how the Western alliance wouldn’t be torn completely apart. The Europeans wouldn’t risk retaliation against their major cities to retake the Balkans and the Americans are in no mood to expend blood and treasure on countries their citizens have never heard of.”
“That’s my analysis, too, sir. NATO would have no choice but to pull back to Poland and set up a defensive position. But what would it mean at that point? Having failed to prevent an attack on three of its members and having no ability to retake the territory, NATO would be exposed as the paper tiger it is. Why would Ukraine or Georgia risk angering you to join a meaningless military alliance? Why would its existing members—particularly America, which doesn’t need Europe to help defend it—maintain their membership? It’s possible that we won’t just be looking at the dissolution of NATO, but also the shattering of the European Union.”
Krupin ac
tually managed a weak smile, the dried vomit still clinging to his cheek. “Can you imagine the humiliation, Andrei? Even if NATO didn’t dissolve they would have to revoke the membership of the Baltic states or agree to give us a vote in their council.”
Sokolov actually laughed out loud at that, and at the expression on Krupin’s face. His agreement was a foregone conclusion at this point. Krupin understood that the geopolitical complexities he’d faced his entire life were meaningless in light of his illness. He had nothing to lose by this war and everything to gain. Even if he eventually succumbed to cancer, Sokolov would make sure he was remembered as the man who dared to return Russia to greatness.
CHAPTER 19
OUTSIDE OF SOSNOVO
RUSSIA
RAPP opened his eyes, shading them against the sunlight in order to see the dashboard clock. It was one of the few things in the Škoda that still worked. “Shouldn’t we be there by now?”
“We are,” Azarov responded. “In fact, we’ve been on Chkalov’s land for almost a half an hour.”
The area was wooded and undulating, encompassing thousands of acres starting about a hundred miles outside of St. Petersburg. According to the CIA’s dossier, Tarben Chkalov had built a modest house on the land just a few years after the fall of the Soviet Union. Since then it had been added to many times over, growing into something hovering in the fifty-thousand-square-foot range.
Reliable floor plans were hard to come by because of the haphazard construction method and because the Agency had never been all that concerned about the man. His net worth was in the eight-billion-dollar range, barely getting him into the top fifteen wealthiest men in Russia. His holdings were unusually international for an oligarch and diversified more along his lines of interest than a quest to maximize profits. He appeared to maintain the organized crime connections that had given him his start under the Soviets, but only peripherally.
“How old is this guy, Grisha? We don’t have anything solid.”
“I don’t think anyone knows exactly. Over ninety, I would imagine.”
“You’ve met him?”
“On two occasions.”
“Is he still all there?”
“Mentally you mean? Very much so.”
“What else?”
“Well, while he’s not the wealthiest oligarch, he’s unquestionably the most powerful.”
“Why?”
“First, his businesses have largely moved outside of Russia.”
“So he’s not competing against the others.”
The Russian nodded. “He’s also a very reasonable and courageous man. Most important, though, he’s extremely likable. It’s a combination that makes him uniformly revered by the others.”
In the distance, a gate came into view. It looked more like a border crossing than an entrance to an estate, though. Two guard shacks flanked a hand-actuated barrier. Dense, strategically placed trees stretched out on either side, taking on the role of a fence.
Rapp hadn’t seen any reason to get fancy. Calling ahead hadn’t been viable because of Krupin’s control over communications, and slipping in under the cover of darkness would have been unnecessarily risky. Better to just do away with the melodrama and drop by.
“So security is five guards total?” Rapp confirmed as they approached.
“Unless something’s changed. All former top operators from various countries and all very loyal. Also he has a lot of dogs.”
“What do you mean by a lot?”
“Twenty? Maybe more. I’m not sure they’re actually trained as attack animals, though. He may just enjoy their company.”
One man appeared from each guardhouse to watch the Škoda’s approach. Both had assault rifles across their chests and both had their hands on them. They didn’t seem to be gripping them very tightly, though.
Azarov made a move for his gun but Rapp grabbed his hand and put it back on the wheel. “If we’ve been on his land for a half hour, they know we’re coming and they know who we are. Relax.”
Not surprisingly, Azarov was struggling to take that advice. He was one of the best killers in the world, but his ops had always been laid out for him in nauseating detail. The man despised improvisation and unknowns.
They eased to a stop at the gate and a man who looked to be from India leaned down toward the open driver’s window. “Good afternoon, Colonel Azarov. Mr. Chkalov is expecting you. This road will take you straight to the front entrance.”
The other man lifted the gate and Azarov pulled through, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror. “I don’t mean to state the obvious, but that was too easy.”
“Seems like.”
“They didn’t even look for weapons.”
“Nope.”
He pointed to the house beginning to blot out the horizon. It was an odd combination of French chateau, the Kremlin, and the Taj Mahal. Azarov was most interested in the erratic roofline. “They could fire down from there. An easy shot with a rocket launcher.”
“They could. But it’d make a hell of a mess of Chkalov’s lawn.”
There was still no sign of contrails when they stepped out beneath a broad portico.
A British man in his early sixties met them on the steps. “Please come in. Can I take your jackets?”
Both refused, not wanting to make their shoulder holsters any more obvious than they already were.
“Coffee? Tea?” the man said, leading them up a grand staircase that led from the entryway.
“We’re fine,” Rapp said.
Azarov was scanning the space below them while still trying to keep one eye on the man in front. There was no question that Chkalov could be leading them into an ambush, but Rapp doubted it. If the old man wanted to make a move, he wasn’t going to do it in a house filled with enough original artwork to make Claudia faint.
Their guide stopped at a nondescript doorway and motioned them inside. Azarov went through first, leaving Rapp to guard his flank.
“Colonel!” the man waiting for them said in accented English. “I’m so sorry to hear about what happened to Cara. I trust you don’t think I’d have anything to do with something so sordid.”
Chkalov was mostly bald, with a few wisps of gray hair floating around gnarled ears. The unnatural curve in his back threw his head forward and down, but it didn’t seem to slow him down. The most remarkable thing about him was his eyes—an intense blue, still full of curiosity and youthful enthusiasm.
“No,” Azarov said. “I know who’s to blame.”
With that out of the way, Chkalov turned his attention to his other guest. “Mitch Rapp. You’ll excuse me, but I have to admit to being a bit of a fan. Colonel Azarov is a very competent soldier, but in a cold, boring way. You, though. You’re different.”
He stopped a couple of feet from Rapp, examining him as though he was one of the paintings in his entry hall. “Do you have your weapon?”
Rapp nodded. “You should probably talk to your security people about that.”
He dismissed the thought with a wave of an arthritic hand. “If it had been just the Colonel, I’d have defended myself. But both of you? Why sacrifice men who’ve been loyal to me when the outcome is inevitable?”
Azarov was right. The guy was impossible not to like.
Chkalov pointed to the slight bulge in Rapp’s jacket. “May I?”
Rapp pulled the weapon from its holster and handed it to the man.
“Is this the one you’ve always had? I mean, since you switched from the Beretta?”
Chkalov wasn’t kidding. He really was a fan. “No. A few have gotten away from me over the years.”
“I’m surprised it’s stock. I was expecting something more exotic—like the one the Colonel carries.”
Rapp just shrugged.
“Of course it’s stock,” Chkalov said after a few seconds. “Why wouldn’t it be? It’s not the gun. It’s the man behind the gun!”
He aimed at a marble bust near the wall and sighted along it, smiling broadly
. “Did you know that I once met your mentor, Stan Hurley? Is it true that before he died, he used his teeth to rip out Louis Gould’s throat?”
“Yeah. It’s true.”
Chkalov returned the Glock and limped back to his desk to sit. “A fitting death for a warrior. But you didn’t come to talk about that. You came to talk about Maxim.”
“He’s run off the rails,” Rapp said. “Why?”
“I have no idea.”
“I didn’t come here to play games, Tarben.”
“I think it’s clear that I know who you are and what you’re capable of. I haven’t lived this long by misunderstanding the situations I find myself in.”
“Then tell me what I want to know and we’ll walk out of here.”
The man’s brow furrowed and he fixed his blue eyes on Rapp. “Maxim Krupin is a destructive sociopath. But I and the others tolerate him because he shares our passion for political stability. But now that stability has disappeared. Why? Clearly he feels threatened—by NATO’s overtures to Ukraine, by younger politicians, by the performance of the Russian economy. Even by Grisha here.”
“But how’s that any different than his situation a month ago?”
“Exactly! I don’t know. All these situations are controllable. I see no evidence that he’s losing his grip on power.”
“So there’s nothing you can tell me that I can use.”
“I didn’t say that. Something you probably don’t know is that Maxim recently tapped Andrei Sokolov to lead the military.”
“The war criminal?”
Chkalov nodded. “Andrei is a dangerous man prone to fevered visions of Russia’s past glory. He’s the only man Maxim trusts, though I’ve often wondered if that trust is well placed.”
“What about you? Would he see you as a threat?”
The dull thud of chopper blades became audible, still distant enough to be more a vibration in Rapp’s chest than a sound. Chkalov’s hearing aids apparently picked it up, too. “That may be your answer, Mitch.”
