“Another benefit of the scale of this operation—beyond its ability to create a nationalist wave inside of Russia—is its ability to isolate you. We could use the pretense of assassins and potential American drone attacks to move you to an undisclosed location.”
Krupin’s mind had been slowed by his treatment but not so much that he couldn’t grasp the potential of his general’s plan. “It’s hard to see how the Western alliance wouldn’t be torn completely apart. The Europeans wouldn’t risk retaliation against their major cities to retake the Balkans and the Americans are in no mood to expend blood and treasure on countries their citizens have never heard of.”
“That’s my analysis, too, sir. NATO would have no choice but to pull back to Poland and set up a defensive position. But what would it mean at that point? Having failed to prevent an attack on three of its members and having no ability to retake the territory, NATO would be exposed as the paper tiger it is. Why would Ukraine or Georgia risk angering you to join a meaningless military alliance? Why would its existing members—particularly America, which doesn’t need Europe to help defend it—maintain their membership? It’s possible that we won’t just be looking at the dissolution of NATO, but also the shattering of the European Union.”
Krupin actually managed a weak smile, the dried vomit still clinging to his cheek. “Can you imagine the humiliation, Andrei? Even if NATO didn’t dissolve they would have to revoke the membership of the Baltic states or agree to give us a vote in their council.”
Sokolov actually laughed out loud at that, and at the expression on Krupin’s face. His agreement was a foregone conclusion at this point. Krupin understood that the geopolitical complexities he’d faced his entire life were meaningless in light of his illness. He had nothing to lose by this war and everything to gain. Even if he eventually succumbed to cancer, Sokolov would make sure he was remembered as the man who dared to return Russia to greatness.
CHAPTER 19
OUTSIDE OF SOSNOVO
RUSSIA
RAPP opened his eyes, shading them against the sunlight in order to see the dashboard clock. It was one of the few things in the ?koda that still worked. “Shouldn’t we be there by now?”
“We are,” Azarov responded. “In fact, we’ve been on Chkalov’s land for almost a half an hour.”
The area was wooded and undulating, encompassing thousands of acres starting about a hundred miles outside of St. Petersburg. According to the CIA’s dossier, Tarben Chkalov had built a modest house on the land just a few years after the fall of the Soviet Union. Since then it had been added to many times over, growing into something hovering in the fifty-thousand-square-foot range.
Reliable floor plans were hard to come by because of the haphazard construction method and because the Agency had never been all that concerned about the man. His net worth was in the eight-billion-dollar range, barely getting him into the top fifteen wealthiest men in Russia. His holdings were unusually international for an oligarch and diversified more along his lines of interest than a quest to maximize profits. He appeared to maintain the organized crime connections that had given him his start under the Soviets, but only peripherally.
“How old is this guy, Grisha? We don’t have anything solid.”
“I don’t think anyone knows exactly. Over ninety, I would imagine.”
“You’ve met him?”
“On two occasions.”
“Is he still all there?”
“Mentally you mean? Very much so.”
“What else?”
“Well, while he’s not the wealthiest oligarch, he’s unquestionably the most powerful.”
“Why?”
“First, his businesses have largely moved outside of Russia.”
“So he’s not competing against the others.”
The Russian nodded. “He’s also a very reasonable and courageous man. Most important, though, he’s extremely likable. It’s a combination that makes him uniformly revered by the others.”
In the distance, a gate came into view. It looked more like a border crossing than an entrance to an estate, though. Two guard shacks flanked a hand-actuated barrier. Dense, strategically placed trees stretched out on either side, taking on the role of a fence.
Rapp hadn’t seen any reason to get fancy. Calling ahead hadn’t been viable because of Krupin’s control over communications, and slipping in under the cover of darkness would have been unnecessarily risky. Better to just do away with the melodrama and drop by.
“So security is five guards total?” Rapp confirmed as they approached.
“Unless something’s changed. All former top operators from various countries and all very loyal. Also he has a lot of dogs.”
“What do you mean by a lot?”
“Twenty? Maybe more. I’m not sure they’re actually trained as attack animals, though. He may just enjoy their company.”
One man appeared from each guardhouse to watch the ?koda’s approach. Both had assault rifles across their chests and both had their hands on them. They didn’t seem to be gripping them very tightly, though.
Azarov made a move for his gun but Rapp grabbed his hand and put it back on the wheel. “If we’ve been on his land for a half hour, they know we’re coming and they know who we are. Relax.”
Not surprisingly, Azarov was struggling to take that advice. He was one of the best killers in the world, but his ops had always been laid out for him in nauseating detail. The man despised improvisation and unknowns.
They eased to a stop at the gate and a man who looked to be from India leaned down toward the open driver’s window. “Good afternoon, Colonel Azarov. Mr. Chkalov is expecting you. This road will take you straight to the front entrance.”
The other man lifted the gate and Azarov pulled through, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror. “I don’t mean to state the obvious, but that was too easy.”
“Seems like.”
“They didn’t even look for weapons.”
“Nope.”
He pointed to the house beginning to blot out the horizon. It was an odd combination of French chateau, the Kremlin, and the Taj Mahal. Azarov was most interested in the erratic roofline. “They could fire down from there. An easy shot with a rocket launcher.”
“They could. But it’d make a hell of a mess of Chkalov’s lawn.”
There was still no sign of contrails when they stepped out beneath a broad portico.
A British man in his early sixties met them on the steps. “Please come in. Can I take your jackets?”
Both refused, not wanting to make their shoulder holsters any more obvious than they already were.
“Coffee? Tea?” the man said, leading them up a grand staircase that led from the entryway.
“We’re fine,” Rapp said.
Azarov was scanning the space below them while still trying to keep one eye on the man in front. There was no question that Chkalov could be leading them into an ambush, but Rapp doubted it. If the old man wanted to make a move, he wasn’t going to do it in a house filled with enough original artwork to make Claudia faint.
Their guide stopped at a nondescript doorway and motioned them inside. Azarov went through first, leaving Rapp to guard his flank.
“Colonel!” the man waiting for them said in accented English. “I’m so sorry to hear about what happened to Cara. I trust you don’t think I’d have anything to do with something so sordid.”
Chkalov was mostly bald, with a few wisps of gray hair floating around gnarled ears. The unnatural curve in his back threw his head forward and down, but it didn’t seem to slow him down. The most remarkable thing about him was his eyes—an intense blue, still full of curiosity and youthful enthusiasm.
“No,” Azarov said. “I know who’s to blame.”
With that out of the way, Chkalov turned his attention to his other guest. “Mitch Rapp. You’ll excuse me, but I have to admit to being a bit of a fan. Colonel Azarov is a very competent soldier, but in a cold, boring way. You, though. You’re different.”
He stopped a couple of feet from Rapp, examining him as though he was one of the paintings in his entry hall. “Do you have your weapon?”