Krupin concentrated on keeping his voice even. “Is it cancer?”
“Our tests were only preliminary. They weren’t designed to determine that.”
At Krupin’s insistence, the exam had been done at his home with only equipment that could be transported in and out with complete secrecy.
“You must have formed some opinion.”
“Given that you’re only experiencing blurred vision and moderate headaches, my hope is that it’s benign and slow growing,” Fedkin said, choosing his words carefully.
Krupin hadn’t been entirely forthright about the intensity of his headaches, nor had he mentioned the mental confusion that always followed. Fedkin was one of the finest physicians in the country, but hardly a loyalist. As near as Russia’s intelligence services could discern, the man was largely non-political—one of the many Russian intellectuals who considered themselves above such pettiness. Still, information had to be carefully controlled.
“Obviously, we’ll need to perform a more thorough examination, sir. This needs to be done immediately.”
“I don’t think there’s any reason for hysterics,” Krupin said with calm he didn’t feel. “I’ll have my assistant find a convenient time in my schedule.”
Fedkin didn’t immediately move, instead staring down at Krupin as though he was trying to decide whether to try to argue his position. Instead, he turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.
When the latch clicked, Krupin sagged over the desk, supporting his head in his hands and fighting back the nausea gripping him. Cheers erupted outside, loud enough to vibrate the walls, reminding him of the protesters clogging Moscow’s streets. Enemies to be sure but not his most dangerous. That distinction was held by the men closest to him. The men who knew his age and were quietly positioning themselves for what was to come next.
He fought to focus his mind, assessing the strength, vulnerabilities, and ambition of men who would be the most likely to move against him. This was his true gift. Not economics or geopolitics. Not even military strategy. No, he ruled the largest country in the world because he was as good as anyone in history at keeping enemies—both external and internal—off balance. He meted out information and disinformation, flattery and threats, rewards and punishments, all designed to create a web that trapped everyone who came in contact with it. Effective, but also extraordinarily difficult to maintain. Without constant tending, it would collapse almost overnight.
More cheers from outside, this time followed by the amplified voice of Roman Pasternak.
“Why are we here?”
Krupin lost his train of thought. Pasternak had not only marched his ragtag followers onto Red Square, but now he was going to make a speech? The very idea would have been laughable five years ago. Time, though, could be controlled by no man and neither could the changes it brought.
He started to stand, but then fell back in his seat. No. Pasternak was a threat, but not an immediate one. He would be dealt with in due course.
“Russia teeters in and out of recession year after year, dependent entirely on the value of things we can dig from the ground. Our teachers and other workers don’t get paid. Our infrastructure is collapsing . . .”
Krupin used a pencil to begin a list that only a few months ago he would have had no use for. The first name he added was that of Boris Utkin, his prime minister.
He was relatively young and technologically savvy, capable of connecting with the generation that held Krupin at arm’s length. A skilled politician, he feigned loyalty but always positioned himself in the middle ground—a bridge between the iron-fisted control of Krupin’s administration and the anarchy offered by the man outside shouting into his bullhorn.
“We have a motivated, educated populace, but what do we make? What do we invent? Innovation is the future and all we can do is strip our land of its wealth and sell it to more prosperous countries for table scraps.”
Grisha Azarov. The killer who had once worked so effectively for him. He had walked away from the power and wealth that Krupin had given him and was now living an anonymous life in Central America. Not a threat on his own, but unimaginably dangerous if recruited by others.
“Maxim Krupin is the wealthiest man in the world, doling out patronage to his inner circle while the rest of us starve.”
Tarben Chkalov. The most powerful of the oligarchs, a man too old and too well diversified internationally to fear Krupin anymore. He sought only stability and would back anyone who could provide it.
“Five percent of our economy is devoted to the military. For what? Expansion? Our adventures in Crimea and Ukraine have cost billions of rubles and left us bowed beneath the weight of international sanctions. Protection from invasion?” Pasternak’s amplified laugh was partially obscured by electronic feedback. “Who would want this country?”
Krupin let his pencil drop from numb fingers. The sensation of rage rising in him was familiar, but there was more. Something lurking behind it. Something alien.
Fear.
“The president keeps our old people blinded with nationalism and memories of Soviet glory, but those days are over forever. And I say good riddance.”
It occurred to Krupin that he had forgotten to write the name of his most potent adversary: time. What did this abnormality in his brain mean for him? A slow decline into dementia and insanity? Invasive medical treatments that would leave only a husk of the man he was now? Would he rot while the weaklings around him maneuvered to be the first to thrust a knife into his back?
He thought of the meaningless people in the square, of the youth and vitality they wore so effortlessly. Of the millions of people who would continue their obscure lives while his own faded. Of a world that would cease to fear him and would be emboldened by that newfound confidence.
“Russia has a proud history but we can’t stand at odds with the rest of the world any longer . . .”
The pain in his head continued to grow, pushing beyond anything he’d experienced before.
“We need to take our place in the world order, not to lose ourselves in an old man’s fantasy of dominating it.”
“Shut up!” Krupin screamed, terrified by how his voice was swallowed by the tiny office around him. He leapt to his feet, shouting again as he grabbed for the phone on the desk. “Shut up!”
CHAPTER 1
EAST OF MANASSAS, VIRGINIA
USA
MITCH Rapp slowed, letting Scott Coleman’s lead extend to ten feet.
They were running on a poorly defined dirt track that switchbacked up a mountain to the west of the one he’d built his house on. By design, it was late afternoon and they were in full sun. Temperatures were in the high eighties with humidity around the same level, covering Rapp in a film of perspiration that was beginning to soak through his shirt.
Coleman, on the other hand, looked like he’d just climbed out of a swimming pool. He was pouring so much sweat that the trail of mud he left behind him would be visible from space. His breathing was coming in random, wheezing gasps that made him sound like the soon-to-be victim in a slasher flick. On the brighter side, his pace was steady and he wasn’t tripping over the roots and loose rocks beneath his feet.
So, three quarters of the way to the summit, he was moving about as well as anybody could expect under the circumstances. Rapp wasn’t anybody, though. It was time to see what the former navy SEAL could do.