It was improbable that this issue was at the forefront of Krupin’s mind at that moment. More likely he needed to be distracted from what was happening to him.
“Our people believe he’s currently in Maryland,” Sokolov said. In truth, this was no more than speculation based on the location of Cara Hansen. There was no reliable information at all as to Azarov’s whereabouts.
“And the people who helped him?”
The intelligence report identifying Scott Coleman hadn’t yet been signed off on, so once again Sokolov demurred. “Likely mercenaries he had on retainer. The loss of electricity would have made him suspicious. You trained him to be paranoid and he learned his lesson well.”
“Tarben Chkalov?”
The aging oligarch was debatably the second most powerful man in all of Russia. His personal fortune was in excess of ten billion U.S. dollars and his largely legitimate business empire stretched across the globe. He was equally well respected by his contemporaries, Russian government officials, criminal organizations, and foreign governments. Most dangerous, though was Chkalov’s uncanny gift for feeling the winds of change before others did. If anyone could ferret out what was happening and take advantage, it was this decrepit old man.
“He’s at his home outside of St. Petersburg, sir. Major Pushkin is completing plans for dealing with the situation. He seems quite anxious to prove himself after what happened in Costa Rica.”
Krupin winced as the IV catheter entered his arm. “Azarov isn’t in Maryland.”
“Sir?”
“I know him, Andrei. I made him. And I can tell you, he’s coming for me.”
“I’ll look into the progress of the investigation personally, but remember that he’s just one man. A talented killer? Absolutely. But there’s no way he can find you here and it would take an army to penetrate the security at the Kremlin. Certainly, Azarov would be aware of this.”
Krupin fixed his eyes on a blank section of wall as the chemicals began to flow into him. “You’re dismissed, Andrei. Get out.”
CHAPTER 17
EAST OF KOSTOMUKSHA
RUSSIA
GRISHA Azarov was forced to slow his vehicle to a crawl when it finally started to rain. The Soviet era ?koda had been provided by Finnish smugglers he’d kept on retainer for the better part of a decade. It was comfortingly nondescript but otherwise not particularly confidence inspiring. The windshield wipers did little more than smear the glass, disbursing the glow from headlights that barely projected past the front bumper. Somewhere out there, though, past that dim halo, was Maxim Krupin.
Azarov had spent years in the man’s employ, but it had taken only the first six months to discover that Krupin was a backstabbing monster whose life was ruled by fear and who believed that loyalty was a one-way street. In light of that realization, Azarov had funneled hundreds of thousands of euros to criminal organizations that kept multiple escape routes open to him. And while he’d cut those ties some time ago, the leader of one of those organizations had agreed to help him. The choice Azarov had presented him—earn a generous fee or die along with his family, friends, and everyone he’d ever met—turned out to be an easy one.
The clouds to the north parted for a moment, allowing the moonlight to illuminate a lake to his left and the empty expanse in every other direction. He accelerated again, trying to use the winding road to fend off the emotions threatening to overwhelm him. Was she dead? Alive? Had she woken to find him gone? To discover that she was alone again like she had been for so long?
He rolled down the window and let the cold, wet air fill the car. There was no way for him to answer those questions. He was a hunted man—not only by Krupin, but now undoubtedly by the Americans. Rapp could be trusted to make sure Cara was cared for, but his debt of honor ended there. Irene Kennedy was a cautious woman who would not want a wild card running loose in Russia. In the end, Rapp’s loyalty was to her and to his country.
The darkness closed in again and he glanced at the GPS he’d been provided. Sixteen hours to Moscow.
And then what?
He’d never felt this way—or to some extent any way—before. Even in childhood, he had a strange sensation of detachment from the world. More an observer than a participant. He stood in the background, weighing alternatives, gathering data, and making carefully vetted assumptions. Only when satisfied that he understood all variables did he act on even the most trivial matters.
Now, though, he’d escaped Costa Rica with the very much non-trivial purpose of assassinating a man many had deemed the most powerful in the world. No data gathered, no alternatives weighed, and no assumptions made. Overall, less thought than he’d put into the surfboard he’d had shaped for Cara’s birthday.
Sixteen hours from now, what was he going to do? Storm the Kremlin with a pistol? No. He had to put the girl out of his mind and become the person he’d once been. But was that even possible anymore? It was surprising how distant that man felt. Surprising to find himself wondering what Grisha Azarov would do in this situation.
A cinder block and clapboard gas station emerged from the darkness, prompting him to pull in. He tried one of the pumps, idly musing about exotic poisons and how far an electrical current would travel along the puddles in Red Square. Things that the old Grisha Azarov would have already examined from every angle. The new Azarov, though, was more concerned with how unaccustomed to the cold he’d become and how far he felt from home.
The pump didn’t work. Undoubtedly, he needed to pay first but no one seemed willing to brave the rain to take his money. He started for the dimly lit building, pondering Krupin’s estranged family and the men close to him. Could they be the key to access? Their loyalty was based more on fear and patronage than any real kinship with the president or his rule. Unfortunately, the amount of fear and patronage Krupin could bring to bear was considerable.
The window was open to the left of the door and Azarov made note of it, glancing instinctively behind him. On a night like this, it was unusual but not outrageously so. The scent of mold was noticeable flowing from the building and it was likely that the cashier didn’t want to be closed up inside. Still, Azarov’s hand moved a bit closer to his weapon.
Shelves were plentiful and filled with staples needed by the few people who called this rural area home. Hearing the tinny audio of a Russian game show, he headed for it, finally spotting two booted feet propped next to a cash register.
“Could you turn on the pump?” he said over the sound of the television sitting on the counter.
“No gas. But the canned tuna’s on sale.”
Azarov ripped the pistol from his waistband at the American voice, holding it in front of him as he slowly drifted right.
Mitch Rapp was leaned back in an old office chair, seemingly intent on the television screen. His left hand was out of sight in his lap and was almost certainly holding the Glock 19 he favored. Worse, the open window behind Azarov offered a clean shot for a sniper outside. Almost certainly Charlie Wicker—one of the best in the business.
Despite his dire situation Azarov found it impossible to focus on his survival. “Is she alive?”
“Last I heard.”
The gun wavered for a moment at the impact of those words.
“How did you find me?”
“Claudia’s husband used those same smugglers to get into Russia when he killed Nestor Mushket.”
“That was Louis Gould? I don’t think our intelligence service ever determined who carried out that hit.”
Rapp’s hand began to rise and the Russian tensed, but he was only holding Russia’s version of a Twinkie.
“So what’s the plan,” Rapp said, unwrapping it. “Just walk into the Kremlin and shoot the president?”
“I don’t know.”