? ? ?
Rapp’s satellite phone started to ring just as he stepped through the hospital’s front gates. The humidity was still oppressive, but the heat was down. Coleman had taken Joe Maslick’s place behind a massive planter and was scanning the empty road in front of him. Mas had disappeared somewhere into the landscape.
It still seemed improbable that the Russians would attack the hospital in search of Azarov, but not so improbable that security wasn’t a concern. If Krupin wanted him dead badly enough to take down a third of Costa Rica’s power grid, there was no reason to believe he’d draw the line at shooting up a rural medical facility.
He pulled the phone from his pocket and put it to his ear. “Hello, Irene.”
“How is she?”
“Alive, but it sounds like she might not stay that way. If she does, she’s going to need a liver.”
“I’ll make some calls. In the meantime, do you have any idea what happened there? Why Maxim Krupin would go to these lengths to see Grisha dead?”
“We haven’t had that conversation.”
“I know it’s a bad time, Mitch, but you’re going to need to broach the subject. We’re in crisis mode here. This isn’t a completely isolated incident. There’s also the recent attacks on Russian protesters and now we’re seeing increasing military activity in Ukraine as well as on the borders of the Baltic states.”
“You must have some idea what’s happening.”
“That’s the problem. I don’t. It’s impossible to see Krupin’s current behavior as anything but erratic and counterproductive to his own interests.”
“Doesn’t sound like him.”
“Our thoughts exactly. The fact that he’s not a man prone to rash action or self-sabotage suggests that he’s working toward something. Something we’re blind to but that Grisha might have some sense of.”
They’d debriefed Azarov when he’d walked away from Krupin but hadn’t gotten anything actionable. They could have pushed harder of course, but what was the point? Krupin was a rational actor surrounded by a massive military and nuclear arsenal. Azarov undoubtedly had some interesting dirt locked up in his brain, but it wouldn’t change anything.
Now, though, the chessboard had changed. Krupin seemed to be blowing a gasket, and any residual loyalty that Azarov might have felt for the man had disappeared along with his house and Cara’s liver.
“I’ll talk to him,” Rapp said. “And if we end up putting Cara on a plane to Bethesda, you’ll have a chance for a face-to-face.”
“I’ll look forward to that. But in the meantime, anything at all would be helpful. I have a meeting scheduled with the president and I’d like to tell him something more than we’re working on it.”
“Understood.”
He disconnected the call and adjusted his trajectory toward Coleman. “Where’s Grisha? I looked for him inside and he’s not there.”
“He left.”
“What do you mean, he left?”
The former SEAL shrugged. “He came out, turned right, and walked away.”
“Why didn’t you stop him?”
“You told me to keep the Russians out of the hospital. Not to keep them in.”
Rapp reached up to grab him by the throat and have a serious conversation about how his orders should be interpreted, but managed to stop himself. His old friend was the best in the business and knew damn well what was expected. The fact that he’d decided to do only the bare minimum on this op was understandable. He’d follow specific directives, but going out of his way to protect the man who had nearly crippled him was a bridge too far.
Rapp turned and walked toward the road, dialing Kennedy as he went.
“That was faster than I thought,” she said by way of greeting.
“Grisha’s gone.”
“What do you mean? Gone where?”
He stopped and looked out into the darkness. “I can’t say for sure, but I have a pretty good guess.”
CHAPTER 11
NORTHWEST OF ZHIGANSK
RUSSIA
“IT’S on every news station across the country!” Prime Minister Boris Utkin’s voice continued to rise in pitch. “It’s virtually all that’s being reported on.”
Krupin reached for the volume knob on the console in front of him. Utkin could screech like an old woman when his comfortable existence was disrupted.
“Try not to get hysterical, Boris.”
The fog of his breath was barely visible in the glow that filled the shipping container. It had been moved into the warehouse on his orders and set up as a secure communications center. Internet was now fully functional, as was encrypted satellite phone, and various news feeds were playing out on screens attached to the steel walls. Other than that, the claustrophobic space contained little more than a scavenged chair and a desk made from a plank of wood. Not the surroundings he’d become accustomed to, but adequate. Comfort was no longer a consideration. All that mattered was security.
“Hysterical? The press has videos of my homes and their grounds. A detailed inventory of my car collection. Photos of my personal closet, Mr. President! How is it possible these things fell into their hands?”
Of course, this conversation was little more than a game. They were both perfectly aware of how the state-run media got that information—Krupin had ordered it gathered by Utkin’s security detail. A more courageous man would have simply voiced that accusation. But courage was hardly a word that anyone would use to describe the prime minister. He was a flatterer and back room dealmaker. A man who could always be counted on to protect what he had in place and pursuing more.
“I don’t know how they got it,” Krupin said, not bothering to hide his boredom with this contrivance. “I have no access to television and can barely hear you on this link.”
“Then perhaps you should consider returning from your wilderness trip.”
As far as anyone in Russia knew, he was on one of his beloved hunting expeditions.
“I hardly think I should be forced to cut short one of my few vacations because the Russian people are discovering that you like the finer things in life.”
“They’re not just making a fool of me, Mr. President. They’re making accusations of corruption.”
“Perhaps you should have thought of that before you gilded your doghouse.”
There was a short pause over the line. “And yet I’m a pauper compared to you.”
Krupin leaned back in the old chair and smiled at the pathetic attempt at defiance. Utkin was barely fifty years old, a good-looking sophisticate who had an ability to connect with the younger and more liberal elements in Russia. This made him a convenient political partner, but one whom Krupin kept distanced from the reins of power.
Still, Utkin wasn’t entirely without ambition, nor was he without powerful allies in the government. Despite his pampered upbringing and political cowardice, he wasn’t to be underestimated. If he saw an opportunity—a weakness—he would exploit it.
“A pauper when compared to me,” Krupin repeated. “Perhaps. But I don’t wear ten thousand dollar Italian shoes. Nor do I fly in British pop stars to entertain the guests at my parties. My focus is on more substantive matters.”