Sokolov sat behind his desk and poured himself a shot of vodka, downing it in one swallow. The unfamiliar burn flared in his throat for the first time in more than twenty years. If not today, when?
In some ways, the logistics necessary for Krupin’s illness were even more complicated than the administration of war. While the external threats to him were significant, it was the internal threats that were most dire. Any hint of weakness would be identified and capitalized upon. He was a public figure in constant contact with the public, world leaders, and staff. Even with full control of the media, the symptoms of his illness would have to be carefully hidden, his absences during treatment would have to be explained, and any side effects would have to be anticipated. It was vital that Krupin continue to exude the strength, confidence, and brilliance that made him so feared and admired.
Given the opportunity, Krupin’s traitorous political opposition would bring down everything he’d accomplished. They’d turn the country inward, slashing military and intelligence budgets, bribing Russia’s youth with consumer goods and freedom. Russia would fade into irrelevance—a sparsely populated landmass with a languishing military capability and inconsequential economy. No longer would the Europeans tremble and the American presidents genuflect. No longer would countries in crisis seek their patronage. No longer would they be included at the table of the world’s great powers. The last vestiges of the glory of the Soviet Union would disappear forever.
Sokolov opened a file in front of him and was faced with a young Grisha Azarov in a Spetsnaz uniform. He shuffled through the hastily prepared background information but found it too incomplete to be useful. Not particularly surprising of a man who had lived his life as a ghost in the president’s employ.
The spotty intelligence was of little importance. Sokolov was intimately familiar with the man and his gifts. Much more interesting was Krupin’s relationship with him. Why had he attacked this man? Why was he more frightened by a retired assassin than he was by Prime Minister Utkin? And what of the imprisoned Roman Pasternak and the nationwide demonstrations in support of him?
Was this an example of the periodic confusion that he’d described? The venting of pointless rage at a man who had abandoned and defied him? Subconscious jealousy of his youth and vitality? How had a puppet master like Maxim Krupin concluded that there was profit in moving against—and ultimately failing to kill—Grisha Azarov?
Sokolov shuffled to the back of the file in order to scan the most recent update. The photo he found had been taken by Russian intelligence only a few days before. It depicted two still officially unidentified men standing in the courtyard of a hospital in Costa Rica. The one in shadow wore his hair long enough to hang across his bearded face. The other, a blond man with a military style haircut, was in full view.
He didn’t need Russia’s intelligence service to tell him that the latter was Scott Coleman. And if that was Coleman, it was likely that the man in shadow was none other than Mitch Rapp.
He ran a hand over the photo, trying to imagine a scenario that would have brought the CIA man there. The details of his relationship with Azarov were hazy but it was clear that a relationship existed. If he was there with a combat team, it seemed certain that the Agency had discovered Russia’s involvement in sabotaging Costa Rica’s power grid, as well as the fact that it had been done in support of the effort to eliminate Azarov.
And with this trivial operation, Krupin had created a number of non-trivial problems. The first was obvious. Grisha Azarov, one of the most effective killers in the world, would be seeking revenge. Second, it was feasible that Mitch Rapp, undoubtedly the most effective killer in the world, would help him. And, finally, Krupin had added needlessly to the impression that his behavior had become erratic—something that would not be lost on the formidable Irene Kennedy.
There was a knock on his door and he closed the file. “Yes.”
An impeccable young colonel recommended by Krupin entered with yet another file in his hand.
“We have some initial information on the medical matters you were interested in, General. Would you like to see them as they’re received or—”
“As they’re received,” Sokolov said, tapping an empty spot on his desk. “And bring my car around. We’ll be leaving for Moscow within the hour.”
“Of course,” he said, sliding the folders into position. “Is that all, sir?”
Sokolov nodded and waited for the man to disappear before shuffling through the recently gathered intelligence. He stopped at a printout of a cranial MRI, holding it up to examine a tumor growing in the brain of a woman being treated in Voronezh. It was similar in size and position to Krupin’s, so he made a note on the file that action should be taken. The second folder contained information that was more theoretical—a collection of articles on various experimental and unconventional cancer therapies being carried out in other parts of the world. It was too much to go through before he left, but he would have enough time to digest it before his arrival in Moscow.
Sokolov walked to a mirror that he’d hung that morning. After smoothing a few imaginary wrinkles from his uniform, he turned his attention to the insignia designating him Marshal of the Russian Federation. As the second man in history to hold such a rank, he was keenly aware of its weight and of the challenges ahead.
He finally exited the office, starting down the hallway to the unfamiliar click of dress shoes against tile. His housekeeper appeared from the dining room, her weathered face registering shock at seeing him in a military uniform.
“Are you . . . Are you leaving?”
Her confusion was understandable. She had spent the better part of a decade caring for the needs of a man she’d come to know as a reclusive scholar. There had been no excursions into the outside world, no visitors, no communiqués. And now that reality had been turned upside down.
“I am.”
“When will you return?”
“Soon.”
“And President Krupin? Will he be coming again?”
Sokolov smiled. “Why don’t you make me some tea for my drive?”
He watched her turn and limp toward the kitchen. Oskana was almost eighty years old and completely alone. Her only son had been killed in Afghanistan and her husband had been gone for almost as long.
She’d served him well, but she’d seen Krupin and there was no telling what she had overheard or surmised since then.
He opened the polished flap on his holster and pulled the pistol from it. The round hit her in the back of the head and she collapsed, having felt nothing. She would be missed by no one but him.
Sokolov was gratified to see his new assistant rush in with his own weapon drawn. He’d been chosen for his efficiency and intellectual capacity but it appeared that he had a backbone as well.
Sokolov started toward the door as the young colonel stared down at the fallen woman.
“Take care of this,” he said as he passed.
“Of course, General. Don’t think anything more about it.”
CHAPTER 16
NORTHWEST OF ZHIGANSK
RUSSIA
ANDREI Sokolov stepped over the cable powering temporary overhead lighting and continued down a freshly painted hallway. The steel and concrete warehouse was no longer open in layout nor filled with refuse. On the contrary, it had been transformed into a state-of-the-art medical facility and temporary command center befitting Russia’s leader.