Red War (Mitch Rapp #17)
Vince Flynn & Kyle Mills
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It takes a village to get a book from vague idea to finished product, and I’m lucky to be surrounded by people whose knowledge, enthusiasm, and work ethic take some of the sting out of the process.
I wouldn’t be where I am today without my agent, Simon Lipskar. Emily Bestler and Sloan Harris are always there for me when I need them. David Brown and his amazing team get the word out like no one else in the industry. Ryan Steck is a double threat—a tireless champion of the series and an encyclopedia of all things Rapp. My mother and wife slogged through my rough draft and gave me critical first impressions. Rod Gregg returned to clear up any questions I had about firearms. And, finally, Steven Stoll lent me some much needed lacrosse knowledge.
Finally, I can never thank Vince’s fans enough for the warm welcome. I’m still amazed at how many people take the time to reach out and offer their encouragement. Without your energy, I would have never made it through the first book.
PRELUDE
THE KREMLIN
MOSCOW
RUSSIA
THE streets were overrun.
Despite his idiot advisors’ assurances, the president of Russia found himself watching protesters enter Red Square. Current estimates were that more than two hundred thousand people had joined together to shut down Moscow’s commercial districts and now a reckless few were marching on its seat of power.
The gray column of humanity was probably ten meters across and of indeterminate length, snaking out of sight in the steady rain. At its head was Roman Pasternak, clad in the red jacket and baseball cap he wore like a target, daring Russia’s security forces to move against him. Maxim Krupin squinted down at the scene but couldn’t make out anything but the vague shape of the man. There had been a time not long ago that his eyes would have been capable of taking in every detail, but no longer. The episodes of blurred vision were coming with increasing frequency, lasting hours now instead of minutes.
At his age, perhaps it was time to reconsider his opinion that glasses were a sign of frailty. Or perhaps not. He’d learned to exploit weakness and illness in others, but had suffered from neither since he was a child. He only availed himself of the medical system for injuries sustained during sports or hunting, the scars from which he wore proudly.
Men like Pasternak would never understand that control over Russia didn’t flow from economic growth or freedom or security. No, it flowed from the perception of power. Krupin’s own was unshakable of course, but it had become that way by providing his people with the illusion that they were the source. That he was nothing more than an instrument to carry out their will. A weapon to be wielded against a long list of carefully fabricated threats. The Americans. The Europeans. Gays. But most of all, the democratic forces seething just beneath the surface of their society.
In contrast to the willowy man organizing his followers below, Krupin was a bear of a man. Two hundred pounds of bulk hung on a six-foot frame. Still solid, but becoming less so every day. His black hair was thick on not only his head but across his broad chest and back. He was the soot-covered coal miner that had provided the heat and electricity so critical to Soviet domination. The factory worker who had built its machines and weapons. The farmer who had fed its hungry people. And, finally, the soldier who had made the world tremble.
He watched the people milling below and the security forces scrambling to maintain control. Predictably, most of the protesters were young—pampered university students or people involved in what had come to be called the new economy. Work that economists believed would be the future of the country but that produced nothing tangible. No military equipment, grand buildings, or massive public works. Just lines of computer code and an endless array of services to provide comfort to this new generation.
The pampered children marching solemnly through Red Square existed not for love of country but for love of themselves. They never spoke of the glory of Mother Russia, instead droning incessantly about their individual rights and the Western luxuries denied to them. But now the nature of the conversation was changing. In increasingly bold terms, they were defining themselves as the future of Russia. And relegating him to its past.
Krupin noted a series of dull flashes in his peripheral vision and braced himself for the wave of nausea that always immediately followed. Other than that, he didn’t react. There was still time before the disorientation and searing pain descended. That time would be shorter than it had been during the last episode, though. It always was.
In an act of defiance that would have been unthinkable a few years ago, the protesters spread out beneath the tower where he was ensconced. And in response, he did nothing but stare through the dripping window at them.
His underlings were increasingly hesitant to move against the country’s fragmented, but growing, political opposition. Instead of crushing it, they relied on the state media’s ability to either ridicule it or to simply deny its existence. Anything more overt, they warned, could lead to a backlash that might careen out of control. The tide that for so long had risen and fallen only by the force of his gravity, could overwhelm him as it had Hussein, Gaddafi, and others.
The subtle loss of balance came even more quickly than Krupin expected, forcing him to turn away from the disturbing images filtering through the wet glass. The blinding headache would be next, starting as a nearly imperceptible pulse and growing to a level that was at the edge of his ability to tolerate. Then, finally, the confusion. That was the worst of it. For a man in his position, even a momentary lapse could be deadly.
He carefully lowered himself into a utilitarian chair behind an even more utilitarian desk. The tiny office was located in an uninhabited corner of the Kremlin that hadn’t been upgraded since the Soviet era. The clock on the wall had stopped functioning years ago, but the numbers reading out on his cell phone were unwavering. 11:59.
He pulled a folder from a stack at the desk’s edge and removed the band holding the cover closed. Its contents were meaningless, but they helped him hide the cracks in the fa?ade that he’d worked so long to build.
The knock on the door came less than a minute later. Punctuality in others had always been one of the benefits of his near omnipotence within the borders of Russia.
“Come.”
The man who entered walked with a slight hunch that made him seem older than his sixty years. Soft eyes and white hair worn a bit too long normally would have suggested weakness to Krupin, but now hinted at a hidden wisdom that put him uncharacteristically ill at ease.
He looked up from the folder and examined his personal physician, being careful not to squint in an effort to focus. His visits were typically for the purpose of routine checkups or minor complaints. They were never reported to the media unless they involved an injury that could enhance his image, but neither were they kept secret.
Today was different.
Eduard Fedkin had never been called to that forgotten corner of the Kremlin and would be startled to find Russia’s leader there. Perhaps it was this surprise that had left him shifting his weight nervously from foot to foot. Or perhaps it was more.
“What news do you bring, Doctor?”
“Our tests, sir . . .” The man hesitated, but was unable to remain silent under the weight of Krupin’s stare. “They’ve uncovered an abnormality in your brain.”
A surge of adrenaline flooded Krupin, magnifying the growing pain in his head. His face, though, betrayed nothing.
“What kind of abnormality?”
“A tumor.”
“And?”
“It’s likely that it’s the cause of the symptoms you’ve been experiencing.”