Approaching shouts were audible coming from the stairs and Rapp ran back to Chkalov’s body. He rolled the old man onto his face and then pulled the pin from the grenade before slipping it carefully beneath his body. After a life that long, Chkalov deserved one last fuck-you.
The voices behind were getting louder and he took off again, turning left into the hallway Azarov had taken.
“This place is a fucking maze, Grisha. Find us a way out. I’ll slow these guys down.”
The Russian took off with a brief nod, disappearing through a set of double doors on the right.
Rapp stayed low, exposing just enough of his head to keep one eye on the men appearing through the sprinkler mist. The smoke was starting to dissipate, but what remained, combined with the water falling from the ceiling, was enough to keep him hidden if he stayed dead still.
The question was how motivated these pricks would be after they discovered their target was dead. Why stick around and risk getting taken out fighting with Chkalov’s hired guns? It’s not like anyone was ever going to investigate the oligarch’s death.
He identified three tangos moving cautiously in the confined space. Two knelt with assault rifles while one moved, leapfrogging each other. Well-trained for sure. But how smart?
His question was answered a moment later when the lead man reached Chkalov’s body and reached for it.
“Nyet!”
The shout came from someone too far down the hallway to be seen, but it was a split second too late. With wet goggles, the man hovering over Chkalov didn’t see the grenade until it was too late and his two companions were even more in the dark. He tried to run, but the blast hit him before he could make it ten feet.
Rapp was forced to pull back to avoid the shrapnel, but then immediately peered around the wall again. The fact that all three men were down was expected. Less so was the fact that what was left of the chest of drawers had started burning with an intensity that was taking hold on the wet carpet and walls. He had no idea what Chkalov had stored in that thing, but in retrospect, using it for cover probably hadn’t been a great idea.
Rapp watched as a silhouette on the other side of the growing fire approached. Whoever he was, he stayed back far enough to prevent him from becoming a target, but also far enough to make it impossible to get off an accurate shot through the flames and steam.
The way he moved, though, was familiar even through the distortion. Apparently, the RPG in Costa Rica had missed.
Rapp stepped out and the two men faced each other for a moment before he turned to follow Azarov.
“Another time, Nikita.”
CHAPTER 20
CIA HEADQUARTERS
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
USA
“MORNING, Irene. Sorry I’m late. Things in my world are literally blowing up.”
Kennedy came from around her desk and indicated a conversation area in the corner of her office. Anton McCormick, the head of the Agency’s Russia operations, stalked toward a sofa, looking even more harried than normal.
He was one of Kennedy’s most gifted people, having spent his first fifteen years of life in the Soviet Union before his mother’s defection. About a decade ago, the Agency had hired him away from a St. Petersburg–based consulting firm that helped Western interests navigate the complexities of operating in Russia.
Of course, much of what he’d done in his prior job had been illegal—bribing government officials, providing women and drugs to the right people, and handling in a very direct manner the problems posed by Russia’s organized crime network. Kennedy had been happy to overlook any past transgressions, as well as a few more recent ones, in exchange for his unusual ability to win on Maxim Krupin’s distorted playing field.
“Coffee?” she asked as she took a seat across from him.
He shook his head. “Too much already.”
“I take it things aren’t going well?”
“You could say that. Tarben Chkalov’s house is gone. And I mean gone, Irene. Burned to the ground. We think he’s dead.” McCormick’s normally undetectable Russian accent started to emerge with the stress he was under.
“Mitch was there,” Kennedy said.
“What? In Russia?”
“At the house.”
“Are you telling me he did this? You moved against—”
“No,” Kennedy said, holding up a hand in a call for calm. “He went to talk to Chkalov about what’s happening in Russia. The fact that he was there during the attack is just another example of the bad luck that seems to be following him lately.”
“I assume he got out okay?”
She nodded. “But I’m afraid you’re right about Chkalov. He didn’t.”
“Fuck! I loved that old guy. It had to have been Krupin. None of the oligarchs have any reason to move against Tarben.”
“There was an attack helicopter and what appeared to be a Spetsnaz team.”
“Son of a bitch . . . Did Mitch get to talk to him before he died?”
“He did, but Chkalov didn’t seem to have any ideas about Krupin’s recent behavior. He did have one interesting piece of information, though.”
“What?”
“That Andrei Sokolov’s been installed as the head of the armed forces.”
McCormick wiped nervously at his mouth, but didn’t otherwise respond.
“I assume you’re familiar with him, Anton? I only know him from the war crimes in Georgia.”
“Yeah,” he said, leaning back into the cushions in a way that suggested he’d lost the strength to sit up without them. “Sokolov is a nut. A brilliant psycho blinded by visions of Russian tanks rolling over every country in the world. He sees the West as fundamentally weak and Russia’s failure to thrive as being caused entirely by its restraint. He believes we’ll split at the seams at the first sign of Russian aggression. And even if we don’t, he doesn’t think we have the balls to do what it would take to win anymore.”
“Is he loyal to Krupin?”
McCormick let out a long breath. “That’s a complicated question. The short answer is yes, but Sokolov sees Russia as more of an idea than a political entity or landmass. There’s no question that he admires Krupin and thinks he’s doing a great job of representing that idea. He might even have some genuine affection for that prick. But in the end, it’s his vision that he’s loyal to.”
“So, I should be worried?”
“We prayed that he’d just get old in exile and choke on a chicken bone or something. Reactivated—and I’m not exaggerating here—he’s the most dangerous man in the world.”
She considered what she’d heard for a moment before changing the subject. “Putting aside General Sokolov for the moment, what more have you learned about Krupin?”
“Not much. Honestly, I’m embarrassed sitting here this empty-handed.”
“I was in the same situation in my last meeting with the president. It wasn’t a comfortable place to be. He wants answers. And so do I.”
“We’re pulling out all the stops, Irene. I have every informant on this and we’re examining every news report right down to local papers in fishing villages. So far, nothing. That doesn’t mean there isn’t anything, though. We may just be getting another lesson on how much control Krupin has over information in Russia.”
“Ukraine?”
“That’s a problem,” McCormick admitted. “He’s moving more and more troops in there and ramping up the propaganda campaign aimed at the local Russian population. Have you seen it? Russian children being attacked, anti-Russian graffiti, reports of gang rapes by Ukrainian men. Just a heavier-handed version of the bullshit he sells all over the world.”
“Do you think he’ll try to take over the rest of Ukraine if it’s admitted to NATO?”