“It’s something we’ve considered but it seems too sudden and too . . .” Her voice trailed off for a moment. “Coordinated.”
He nodded and focused on the windows again. “I despise the Russians. At least the Iranians and Chinese are pressing their countries’ agendas. Russia’s just a drunk loser sitting in a bar at two a.m. looking for a fight. What I’ve learned over my life is that you don’t provoke people like that. You patronize them. Russia’s economy is smaller than New York’s. And sure they’re spending themselves into the poorhouse to build a big scary military but it’s still only a fraction of the size of ours. The Russians don’t need land—they live in the largest country in the world. What they want is respect.”
“But we’ve given Krupin that, sir. And for reasons we don’t understand, it doesn’t seem to be enough.” She picked up her cup and warmed her hands with it. “Maybe we should have pushed back against him. Even if we got bloody doing it.”
CHAPTER 13
NORTHEAST OF TUAPSE
RUSSIA
MAXIM Krupin stared through the limousine’s window, squinting against the sun despite dark sunglasses that Fedkin suggested might help stave off attacks. Yet another equivocation from a man who seemed unable—or unwilling—to make statements that carried any force.
The afternoon light bleached the rocky coastline and flared off the Black Sea, providing a setting of such serenity that it seemed to mock him. He’d been returning to Moscow in the back of a cargo plane when he’d ordered the pilot to divert. It was dangerous to delay his reappearance at the Kremlin but there was little choice now. Despite the overwhelming resources he’d been provided, Nikita Pushkin had failed in the most spectacular way possible.
Not only had Azarov escaped, but his woman was badly—perhaps terminally—wounded. Initial reports were that the unidentified Americans who had intervened were now standing watch over the hospital treating her. Azarov was likely there, too, but it was impossible to confirm. And irrelevant. Whether it was today, tomorrow, or next week, he would be coming. He would take his revenge or die trying.
For the first time in his life, Krupin had to acknowledge that instead of being the master of the events taking place around him, he was at their mercy. His diagnosis and upcoming treatment schedule. Azarov’s survival. The inexplicable American meddling. NATO’s continued overtures toward Ukraine. Any one of those issues would have been difficult, but combined they were beyond anyone’s capacity to handle. Particularly if that capacity was diminished.
He needed an ally. A formidable one.
Unfortunately, those were hard to come by in his world. Men strong enough to protect him in a temporary situation like this one or indeed in a lengthy retirement were too dangerous. Conversely, controllable, less ambitious men would be too weak to hold the country together and shield him from his enemies.
There was one exception, though. General Andrei Sokolov.
Krupin had first met the young Soviet army officer during his KGB days and their friendship had endured as they’d risen through the ranks. When Krupin became president, one of his first acts had been to promote Sokolov to head the Russian armed forces.
He was an unusually brilliant man who, in another time and place, might have become a researcher or preeminent university professor. In what field, though, one could only speculate. His interests seemed to shift almost daily. Physics, technology, history, psychology. All were equally valuable pursuits in his eyes. He’d even become obsessed with chess for a time, finally challenging the top player in Russia to a match. He’d been soundly defeated, of course, but in three times the number of moves as had been predicted.
It was Sokolov who had initially developed the idea of applying Krupin’s internal disinformation methods to the rest of the world. At the time, it had seemed unlikely that a fledging technology called the Internet would ever provide a sufficient platform. But Krupin had indulged him with money and resources as he always did. And now that ridiculous little program started in a shed outside of Omsk had been used to undermine the European Union, destabilize Ukraine and the Baltics, and influence the political tide in America.
The concept of power was shockingly nebulous in the modern world. There had been a time when it flowed from surging economies, political alliances, and military hardware. Now it sprang magically from the keyboards of children.
Krupin shifted in his seat at a sudden sharp pain in his side. So many times before he’d attributed this kind of discomfort to age, but now it was accompanied by a surge of adrenaline. Had the cancer spread? Was it invading his body, siphoning off the strength and cunning that made him who he was?
A modern structure built into a hill came into view and the vague sense of panic eased. It was the only home in sight, and the nearest town of any importance was more than fifteen kilometers away. While the world’s intelligence agencies were fully aware who lived there, no one in the region was. Sokolov never left the grounds of his opulent prison. He had no desire to. His role in leading Mother Russia had ended long ago and he was content to live in the company of his books.
As the limousine turned up the winding drive, Krupin realized that he hadn’t communicated with Sokolov in almost five years. He had the man watched, of course, but it was an afterthought—more to ensure that he didn’t fall into enemy hands than anything else.
It was an incredible waste to have such a man languishing in banishment like this, but there were few alternatives When it had been discovered that he had ordered the torture and execution of civilians in Georgia, the world demanded that he be tried for war crimes. Krupin refused, but the outcry made it impossible to keep him as the head of the armed forces or even to shift him to a less prominent role in the government.
And so this had been the compromise that had been struck. The most gifted and loyal man he had ever known would be relegated to obscurity and eventually buried in this Black Sea wilderness.
The building was constructed entirely of white stone block, a sprawling structure that Sokolov had personally designed to hint tastefully at Russia’s past. Krupin’s limousine paralleled a narrow pool looking over the Black Sea, finally coming to a stop at the main entrance.
He stepped out, waving his men back and starting toward the door. No one knew he was coming and Sokolov had no security. His only human contact was with an old local woman who cooked and cleaned for him.
It was she who answered, eyes widening in shock at finding the president of Russia on her doorstep. It was doubtful that she had any idea whom she worked for. In all likelihood, she assumed that Sokolov was just another minor oligarch attempting to live out his retirement in peace.
“Is Andrei at home?” Krupin said, already knowing the answer. He was always at home.
“Yes . . .” she stammered. “Please. Come in. I’ll . . . I’ll tell him you’re here.”
He accepted the invitation, stepping into the towering dome of an entryway as she scurried off to find her master. Of course, Krupin had paid for all of it. He’d also offered to provide young, beautiful women whose skills went well beyond housekeeping. Sokolov always refused, maintaining that they would distract him from his study and contemplation.
The former general appeared at the end of the hallway, moving at a surprisingly effortless jog. His tan slacks and starched white shirt still had a noticeable military precision, as did his close-cropped hair. He was four years Krupin’s junior, with a less bulky physique maintained in an elaborate gym at the back of the house.
“Mr. President, why didn’t you call? I would have prepared something.”