The CIA man dropped his feet to the floor and turned in the chair to face him. “What did you do to Krupin to make him send that team?”
“Nothing. I swear to you,” Azarov said, shoving his gun back in his pants. “What could possibly motivate me to anger the man? And if I did, why would I be completely unprepared when he retaliated?”
Rapp’s expression softened a bit. “I have to admit that I was a little surprised they caught you standing in the window.”
“I know Krupin, Mitch. He wasn’t happy when I left him, but that’s not enough to make him take action—particularly one this overt. I was the instrument he used in these kinds of situations and I can tell you that he used me sparingly. Only when an objective threat needed to be removed or a message needed to be sent. My death serves neither purpose.”
Rapp didn’t respond, instead biting the end off the Twinkie and chewing thoughtfully.
“So are you here to help me or kill me, Mitch?”
“Help you charge the Kremlin? I think I’ll pass.”
“With both of us and the CIA’s resources, we might have a chance at killing him.”
“Do you have people you trust in Russia?”
“No. Krupin made sure of that. He gave me everything and built my reputation into something that bordered on the supernatural. Anyone who knows who I am either hates me or fears me.”
“Then this is starting to look like kind of a one-sided deal, isn’t it? I gather the intel, provide backup, and run the risk of massive blowback on me and the Agency while you . . . What? Take the shot?”
“What are you asking me to do, Mitch? Walk away? You did that once. You showed mercy to the man who killed your wife. And, as I recall, that decision ended in the death of your mentor.”
Rapp stood and leaned over the counter. His left hand was now behind a stack of cigarette cartons. Was that where the Glock was hidden? Azarov suddenly regretted speaking so plainly. He was in a box and even if he wasn’t he wouldn’t be able to draw his pistol before Rapp could reach his.
Instead of making a move, though, Rapp took a step back. “What I’m asking you to do is help me figure out what’s caused Krupin to go off the rails. If it’s not a problem for the United States, I go home and you have whatever we’ve learned to help you with your vendetta. You kill Krupin or more likely he kills you and none of it makes any difference to me or the Agency.”
“And if his issues are a problem for America?”
“Then you’ll have me and Irene behind you, which I think you’ll agree improves your chances of getting back to Cara in one piece.” He paused for a moment. “If that’s what you really want.”
“What do you mean if it’s what I want?”
“You lied to her about who you are and if you survive you’re going to have to come clean on that. My wife knew who I was from the beginning. She was free to choose. Cara wasn’t.”
Azarov tensed, but Rapp didn’t acknowledge it, instead coming out from behind the counter and heading for the door. Once again, he’d been wrong about the Glock. It hadn’t been behind the cigarettes.
The Russian didn’t immediately follow, instead thinking about what Rapp had said and finding more truth in it than he would have liked. When he finally walked back out into the rain, Rapp was gassing up the ?koda.
“What’s our first move, Grisha?”
“Tarben Chkalov, I think.”
“The fast food restaurant guy? He’s still alive?”
“Old for certain, but by far still the most powerful oligarch in the country. He despises disruption and has sources everywhere. If anyone can explain Krupin’s recent behavior, it will be him.”
“Then let’s go,” Rapp said, replacing the pump and slipping into the vehicle’s cramped passenger seat.
Azarov scanned the dark tree line. “What about your men?”
“What do you mean?” Rapp said, reaching for the broken door handle. “What men?”
CHAPTER 18
NORTHWEST OF ZHIGANSK
RUSSIA
ANDREI Sokolov hesitated in the doorway of the opulent bathroom, hovering silently. Laid out on the marble floor was Maxim Krupin. His bespoke slacks had been replaced by a pair of sweatpants and his thick torso was bare and pale. He was asleep, or perhaps unconscious, with his head propped against the base of the toilet. A streak of vomit had dried across his cheek beneath sunken eyes.
Sokolov had hoped that the president would be one of the lucky patients whose chemotherapy reaction would be mild. In the end, though, it wasn’t a matter of strength or will. It was just the luck of genetics and how a person’s unique body chemistry reacted to the powerful toxins.
It was difficult for him to see the president like this and impossible to allow anyone else similar access. Maxim Krupin didn’t just represent Russia. In many ways, he was Russia. Is this how the proud country of their fathers was to end? Weakened and rotting from within?
Sokolov began to worry about the man’s stillness and crouched beside him. It took a few moments but Krupin’s eyes finally fluttered opened.
“I’m dying, Andrei.”
Sokolov lifted him to his feet and helped him to the bed in the adjoining room. “You’re not dying, Maxim. It’s just the side effects of the therapy.”
Another half-truth. When pressed, Fedkin had put Krupin’s chance of lasting a year at less than forty percent. And based on Sokolov’s own assessment, even that number might be optimistic. Fedkin was thinking only about the cancer. There were many other threats that were just as grave.
“Can the brain tumor be removed, Andrei?”
He considered lying, but dismissed the thought after only a few seconds. While some things were better kept from Krupin, others had to be presented at face value. The president had to know what was coming in order to participate in planning.
“Removing all of it is impossible, but removing the bulk of it may not be. Having said that, the subject we operated on who had a similar tumor suffered complications.”
Krupin raised himself on his pillows, squinting in Sokolov’s direction. “What kind of complications?”
“Localized paralysis and some reduction in mental function.”
“Where is she? I want to see her.”
In fact, she was still in the infirmary under examination, but would be euthanized later that day. The condition she’d been left in wasn’t relevant because Krupin would never find himself in that state. Sokolov would personally put a bullet in his head and the country would be told he died in a hunting accident. Perhaps attacked by the bear he was stalking. A glorious battle before succumbing to the only symbol of Russia more potent than him.
“I’m sorry, sir. She was of no further use, so she’s gone.”
Krupin sank back in the pillows, his eyes going out of focus. Sokolov was going to lower the lights to allow him to sleep but then thought better of it. He didn’t need sleep. He needed a reminder of who he was.
“The video team has finished editing your outdoor footage,” he said, picking up a remote and aiming it at a television hanging on the wall.
Images of Krupin sitting in camp by a lake, on horseback, shirtless and armed with a hunting rifle, began revolving across the screen. They seemed to have the desired effect, prompting him to sit up a little straighter against the headboard.
“When you’re feeling strong enough, sir, we have matters we need to discuss.”
“Now,” Krupin said.
“It isn’t necessary to—”
“If action needs to be taken, I’ll take it. As I always have.”