“Ah yes, the glory of Mother Russia,” Utkin said. “But I don’t see how a corruption investigation into your prime minister enhances your position. You speak with great skill to people nostalgic for Soviet domination, but those memories are fading. The country is in and out of recession and slowly being surrounded by Western forces. The potential that NATO will offer Ukraine membership is quite high, something that will nearly complete the encirclement of our country under your leadership. Is now the time for a scandal in your administration?”
Krupin felt his anger rise at the man’s tone and with it he felt the first twinges of pain at the base of his skull. “I think you’re right, Boris. It may benefit all of us if you were to leave the country for a time. A goodwill tour. You can use your magnificent political skills to allay the world’s concerns over the protests that I’ve been forced to put down. And in your absence I will—reluctantly—return to Moscow and deal with the media’s coverage of your lifestyle.”
“Leave Russia?” he stammered. “It’ll look like I’m trying to run from the issue. We—”
“I’ll have my people set up an itinerary,” Krupin interrupted. “You’ll depart in three days.”
“Three days? How long am I to be gone?”
The flashing in Krupin’s peripheral vision obscured the rusted walls of the shipping container. He suddenly realized that he couldn’t remember what Utkin had said.
“Repeat that, you cut out.”
“When will I return?”
“When your presence is required.”
Krupin disconnected the call and closed his eyes, blotting out everything but the empty white light at the edges of his eyelids. Azarov would be dead by now and Utkin would soon be making empty speeches in Europe. There were still internal and external threats that needed to be dealt with, but those had been two of the most pressing. His next actions would be dictated by the contents of the medical report waiting for him just outside the steel walls surrounding him.
He sat silently for a few minutes before stepping from the container and locking it behind him. The only guard he’d allowed inside the warehouse snapped to attention and Krupin indicated for him to stay where he was.
At this point, the risks posed by additional interior security outweighed the benefits. The man he was striding away from was one of his most trusted and understood that neither he nor the medical personnel would communicate with the outside world until all this was over. The more substantial security force outside knew Krupin was there, but had no idea for what reason. They would assume that this was some top secret military or intelligence site and would have no reason to speculate further.
He took a circuitous route through the ruined interior of the building, heading for a still intact row of offices against the building’s east wall. Dr. Fedkin would be waiting for him there while his people remained confined in a makeshift dormitory on the other side of the structure.
The door was closed and Krupin stopped in front of it, smoothing his suit jacket. After the hours spent in a hospital gown, it had the comforting sensation of armor. For a similar reason, he’d set the location for this meeting as far from the medical tent as the structure would allow. Surrounded by his machines and needles, Fedkin was a godlike creature. Without them, he was nothing. Just another meaningless technician.
Krupin opened the door without knocking, causing Fedkin to leap from his chair. The physician had done what he could to clean the room, pushing years of debris to one side and righting the furniture in a way that suggested less a practical need for order than compulsion.
“Mr. President. How are you feeling?”
“Quite well, thank you, Doctor.”
The lie that rolled so easily from Krupin’s tongue was apparently less convincing than it should have been. Fedkin looked straight into his face, probing eyes that Krupin suspected were slightly glassy and unfocused. Not enough that most people would notice but, somewhat dangerously, Fedkin wasn’t most people.
“Are you in pain?”
“A bit of a headache,” Krupin admitted. “It’s nothing.”
“I have medications that might help.”
“I said it’s nothing,” Krupin repeated, lowering himself onto the stool that Fedkin had abandoned. “I understand your tests are complete. What do they show?”
The physician didn’t immediately answer, instead licking his lips and reaching for an iPad lying on the table. It was unlikely that he needed it to recall the results, but instead saw it as a piece of his own armor. Krupin intercepted the man’s hand, denying him that shred of protection. “I have to be on a plane to Moscow in a matter of hours, Doctor.”
The physician withdrew almost to the door. “We’ve confirmed the size and position of the abnormality in your brain. Based on that, it’s now almost certain that it’s the cause of the issues you’ve reported.”
“Is it cancerous?” Krupin said with practiced calm.
“At your request, we performed only minimally invasive tests. In order to be absolutely certain we’d have to perform a biopsy which would involve drilling a small hole in your—”
“Out of the question!” Krupin shouted, and then waved a hand around the room. “All this and you still have no information? It makes me begin to wonder what use you are.”
The threat was intentionally vague, but Fedkin was smart enough to pick up on it.
“Based on our tests, I would say that there is at least a ninety-five percent chance that it is cancer, sir.”
Krupin froze. Despite all the pain and other symptoms, he’d been completely unprepared to hear those words. The air seemed stuck in his chest. When he could breathe again he opened his mouth to speak but then paused, waiting until he was sure his voice would be steady.
“What does this mean?”
“That we need to start aggressive treatment immediately. The tumor is in a delicate area to access so I need to consult a surgeon, but it’s possible that removal of at least part of the growth will be indicated. Then we’ll follow up with a number of therapies including chemotherapy and radiation. Either way, we need to transfer you to a hospital that is—”
“What would the side effects of those treatments be?”
“If we deem the surgery necessary, obviously, there would be recovery time. How long would depend on—”
“What about the drugs and radiation?”
“Again, it depends on exactly what protocols we decide will be most effective and, of course, on your specific physiology. I won’t lie to you, Mr. President. Even if everything goes well, it’s going to be a difficult time.”
“Time . . .” Krupin said numbly. “How much? How much time?”
“The worst of it should be over in three to four months. Maybe less.”
His mind filled with images of him lying helpless in a hospital bed, head shaven, naked and unconscious. Three to four months? He couldn’t afford a single hour of weakness. Even an unsubstantiated rumor of it could provide his enemies the opening they needed to depose him.
“Prognosis?” he said numbly.
“Your condition is quite serious—”
“We’ve already established that, Doctor.”
Again, he hesitated. “If we move quickly, I believe you have many high-quality years ahead of you.”
“Quality years,” Krupin mumbled, wanting to stand but lacking the strength to do so. He controlled the largest country in the world. A nuclear arsenal that could destroy the planet. The lives of a hundred and fifty million people. And yet he was being spoken to like an old woman wasting away in a nursing home.
“Sir, you—”
“And if I do nothing?” he interrupted.
The aging physician seemed confused. “The symptoms you’re experiencing will worsen until you’re debilitated. I doubt you’d last six months.”
Krupin’s mind turned from his many enemies to his allies. In light of what he was being told, could they be counted on? How long before they started seeing him as part of Russia’s past instead of its future? In their desperation to positioning themselves for what came next, would they turn on him?
“Perhaps you could temporarily step down and allow the prime minister to handle your duties,” Fedkin said, trying to fill the silence.