“I think he’ll do it even if it just comes to a vote. I know Krupin makes a lot of noise about the military dangers of being encircled by NATO, but he doesn’t really believe it. NATO doesn’t acquire territory and if we did, we’d pick something better than Russia. What he’s afraid of—what keeps him up at night—is the idea of regime change. Losing Ukraine to NATO would make him look weak and that’s something he can’t afford. Particularly at his age. All I have to say is that if NATO wants to bring Ukraine’s membership to a vote, we better be ready to fight. And with Sokolov back in power we better be ready to fight hard. He’d push into Poland and Germany if it was up to him.”
“What you’re telling me is that Russia’s in exactly the same mess as it was a year ago,” Kennedy said. “Or five years ago. Or ten.”
“In a nutshell, yes. Russia’s stable. But for reasons we can’t figure out, suddenly Krupin’s not.”
“He certainly doesn’t look like a man who’s concerned about his situation.”
“You mean all the hunting videos? Yeah, but you’ve got to read the subtext. All that shirtless bear stalking and vodka drinking is designed to make him look like a badass to his supporters. They also serve to create a contrast with the prime minister who’s going around the world wearing five thousand dollar suits and getting blindsided by questions he can’t answer. Strong versus weak. And the Russians hate weak like the stink of death.”
“I said this earlier but I’m going to repeat it, Anton. I need answers. If I have to go back to the White House and tell the president that we still have no idea what’s happening in Russia, I’m taking you to deliver the message personally.”
“I know, Irene. Just give me a few more days. If there’s something to find, I swear we’ll find it.”
CHAPTER 21
WALTER REED NATIONAL MILITARY MEDICAL CENTER
BETHESDA, MARYLAND
USA
“THERE,” Azarov said, pointing at a set of doors. “It’s that one.”
They’d been on the ground for only an hour and the Russian looked about half-dead from the events of the last few days. His face lost what remained of its color when Rapp let the Dodge Charger drift to a stop in front of the hospital building.
Their escape from Chkalov’s property had been hairy but nothing that would have an impact on someone like him. They’d climbed through an east-facing window and used the dense smoke to cover their sprint to the woods. Chkalov’s three surviving guards had followed a similar course and, after a few tense moments of everyone pointing guns at each other, Rapp had managed to organize them into a cohesive force.
Not surprisingly, Chkalov had chosen solid former soldiers—two were from Poland’s GROM and one from Shayetet. They’d formed up and beat an orderly retreat through difficult terrain that severely reduced the effectiveness of an already uninspired chase. Spetsnaz’s target had been Chkalov, not a bunch of extremely dangerous hired guns who just wanted to get the hell out of Russia and find new jobs.
“Are you planning on getting out?” Rapp said. “Or are we just going to sit here?”
Azarov’s face had gone from gaunt to visibly scared. His eyes flicked from the door to the road and back again as though he was a wounded animal looking to escape a predator.
“I wasn’t here, Mitch. She woke up alone.”
Rapp had pretty much passed out the minute they’d gotten on the Agency’s G550, but Azarov had spent the entire flight wide-awake and obsessing about this moment. Cara had regained consciousness almost twenty-four hours ago and was now coherent enough to wonder what the hell was going on.
“All right, Grisha. Pay attention. Here’s the situation. Claudia’s been in to see her a few times but hasn’t told her anything other than that you’re all right. Cara’s aware of her condition—that the surgeries went well, but that her liver’s sho—”
“Does she remember what happened?”
“Unfortunately, every bit,” Rapp sighed. “And my understanding is that she’s getting pretty pissed about all her questions being evaded.”
Azarov bit his lower lip, speaking in a low, nervous tone. “It’s hard to push her too far. But when you do, she . . .”
It was the second time Cara had seen him attacked—the first time was when Rapp had put a gun to his head and marched him into the jungle. With a little fancy footwork, the first round could usually be explained away. Things got tough when it became a habit, though.
Rapp leaned over Azarov and threw open the passenger door “Take it from me. She’s just lying there getting madder.”
The Russian climbed out but then poked his head back through the open window. “What am I authorized to say?”
“Good try,” Rapp said, starting to pull away from the curb. “But you’re not getting me involved in this. Say whatever you want.”
Azarov stepped back onto the sidewalk and watched the car recede before turning his attention to a young family leaving the building. He examined their stunned faces and listened to the quiet sobs of the youngest as her mother tried to comfort her. He’d seen similar expressions in the past—sometimes worn by the relatives of the men he’d killed. Why did he feel such horror now when before he would have felt nothing? Why, when Chkalov’s mansion was attacked, had the battle elicited fear instead of the calm clarity it always had in the past?
Krupin would say it was weakness. Others might say it was humanity. Whatever it was, it was tearing him apart.
Maybe he should return to Russia. Not to kill Krupin, but to help him. To retreat into the money, power, and women that had been heaped on him in his home country. To wrap himself in the numbness that had protected him for so long.
Rapp had been through something similar years ago. Had he felt the same crushing weight? The longing for the simplicity of killing and waiting for the day that it came to an abrupt end at the hands of someone just a little younger and faster?
No. He had Claudia now. Her daughter, Anna. A home. He’d sought to replace what he’d lost. Not to turn away from it.
Azarov forced himself to enter the building and follow the directions he’d been given. There were a number of armed men who didn’t fit into the medical setting, but none made a move to stop him. Likely, security provided by Irene Kennedy.
The door to Cara’s room was closed and he peered through the strip of glass in it. Her eyes were closed and her face uninjured. If he blocked out the oxygen line in her nose and the arm full of needles, she could have been sleeping in the hammock by their pool. It was almost possible to tell himself that they would soon be going home to a house that was still standing and a life that still existed.
Maybe it would be better to come back later. As he began to back away, though, her eyes opened and fixed directly on him. He thought the glare of the sun would make it impossible for her to see through the glass but her expression suggested otherwise.
Azarov slipped silently into the room and let the door swing closed behind him. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you woke up.”
“Who wasn’t here? Grisha Azarov? Who is that exactly?”
Her voice was just a whisper, forcing him to move closer.
“I don’t know what to say to you, Cara. I’ve been thinking about it for days . . .” His voice faltered. “I’m so sorry. There’s no explanation for what happened. If I’d have thought for a moment—”
“No explanation?” she said, the pain in her eyes deepening. She thought he was lying to her. Again.
“No. I didn’t mean it that way. When I say—”
“Stop. Just stop talking.”
She looked at a cup next to her bed and he picked it up, holding it for her as she sipped through the straw.
“My real name is Grisha Filipov. But I haven’t used it for many years—not since I was in the Russian Special Forces.”
She finished drinking but didn’t speak. He took her silence as permission to continue.
“I was recruited by Maxim Krupin to work as . . . An assistant of sorts.”
“An assistant,” she repeated and he cursed himself silently. Honesty was something that had been beaten out of him over the years.
“I killed people he considered a threat.”
She nodded weakly. “Tell me more. I’m curious about the man I’ve been sleeping with.”
“I spent my early years on a farm in rural Russia. No siblings. I was taken from my family at a young age to train at a Soviet Olympic camp for biathlon. The doctors eventually found a small defect in my heart and I was ejected from the program. There was nothing for me to go home to, so I joined the military.”