“You were good at it,” she prompted.
“Yes. Good enough to attract the attention of Krupin, who had just risen to power and needed someone to help him keep it. I was taken from the special forces and put through a much more rigorous training program—not only combat but languages, culture, psychology. I was given more money than I knew existed in the world. Prestige, respect . . . Women.”
“Olga,” she said, referring to the woman he’d lived with before her. “Where is she?”
“I buried her on the hill above the house.”
“Did you kill her?”
His breath caught in his chest. If anything had ever hurt him as much as those four words, he couldn’t remember it.
“No. Krupin did. As a punishment for one of my failures.”
A single tear rolled down her face and onto the pillow.
“It’s why I never paid any attention to you, Cara. Because if he ever found out how I felt, he could use you against me. It wasn’t until I left him and Russia that I invited you to dinner. I swear to you that Krupin had no reason to send those men for me. I have nothing to do with his world anymore.”
Her eyes closed and he watched her for a long time. Thinking she’d fallen asleep, he started to back away.
“I have more questions,” she said, stopping him in his tracks.
“All right.”
“Your friend, Mitch. He was there, wasn’t he?”
“He saved us.”
“Who is he?”
“Like me. But for the American president.”
“Another murderer.”
“He would argue against that characterization, but yes.”
She fell silent again, but this time it was clear that she wasn’t asleep. Eventually, the stillness in the room became unbearable and Azarov felt compelled to fill it.
“I assume you want to leave me and I understand. Obviously you’ll never need to worry about money or—”
“They tell me I need a new liver, Grisha. But they don’t know when they’ll have one. It could be . . .” Her voice cracked and he held the cup out for her again.
“It could be a long time. No more hikes through the mountains. No surfing. No exploring. Just this room. This bed. And the tubes running in and out of me.”
“Mitch is a powerful man with powerful friends. He can—”
“No,” she said firmly. “There’s a waiting list and my name’s going on it where it belongs. I won’t cheat someone out of their chance to live because my boyfriend knows people everybody’s afraid of.”
“I asked if I could give you part of mine but our blood types aren’t compatible.”
He was surprised when a nearly imperceptible smile appeared at the edges of her mouth. “I heard. Doesn’t matter. They say you should never accept a liver from a Russian.”
He reached out hesitantly and took her hand. To his great relief she squeezed it.
“I figure I won’t live long enough for the liver to be a problem anyway. Don’t they call Maxim Krupin the most powerful man in the world? You weren’t very smart about who you picked for an enemy.”
Azarov laid her hand back on the bed. “Neither was he.”
CHAPTER 22
THE KREMLIN
MOSCOW
RUSSIA
NIKITA Pushkin entered through the double doors and walked across the expansive office with a soldier’s precision. Krupin didn’t rise or even look up from the report he was reading. Instead, he left the young man standing at attention on the other side of the desk while he pretended to finish digesting the document. The side effects from his initial treatment had faded, leaving him gaunt and weak but capable of returning to Moscow. Subtle makeup done by a woman who was now a permanent resident of the Kremlin helped his appearance, as did the beginnings of a beard. His frailty and the shaking of his hands, though, weren’t so easily camouflaged.
Krupin finally leaned back and examined the young man through glasses tinted to hide bloodshot eyes. “I’m running out of men for you to lead, Nikita. First the casualties in Costa Rica and now this. How many people does it take to kill one old man?”
“Resistance was more significant than we anticipated. The intelligence I had stated five well-trained mercenaries who would retreat in the face of a government action. Instead, we found seven men with significant motivation.”
“Tarben has had the same five guards for years and our intelligence is that nothing had changed as recently as last week,” Krupin said, concentrating to ensure that his voice carried the same weight as it had so effortlessly in the past. “Who were the other two?”
“I only saw one of them personally.”
“And?”
“I’m ninety percent sure that it was Mitch Rapp.” Krupin’s stomach clenched, causing a wave of nausea that he struggled to hide.
“If Rapp was there,” he managed to say through clenched teeth. “Then I think we can be certain who his companion was.”
“Grisha Azarov.”
“And you let him escape a second time!” Krupin’s accusation was intended to come out as a shout but fell short. Pushkin’s brow furrowed slightly, providing critical information that was the subtext for this meeting. The boy was blinded by his new status and the privilege that went with it. He saw Krupin as father, benefactor, and vengeful spirit. Despite that, he’d managed to get a glimpse of something behind the fa?ade. If he was able to penetrate it even slightly, more cunning men would be able to stare right through.
“I had no authorization to kill America’s top operative and Azarov couldn’t be taken without going through him first.”
Krupin’s anger continued to build, but he now knew that he wasn’t capable of displaying it with the force that had terrified so many over the years. The chemicals and radiation were still affecting him, and when his body finally rebounded, Fedkin would poison him again. For the time being, his normal fire would have to be replaced by ice.
“You’re not a simple soldier anymore, Nikita. You’re expected to think. Why was Azarov so useful to me? Because of his speed? His accuracy? No. Because he could think! The missions in the world you now inhabit aren’t straightforward and they aren’t static. Why are you unable to understand what he grasped so easily?”
Pushkin stood completely still, fixing on the flag behind Krupin’s desk to avoid meeting the man’s eye. Grisha’s legend had been an extremely effective tool in the younger man’s training. Azarov had been elevated to godlike status—a shining example of perfection in all things. As intended, living up to that impossible standard had become an obsession for Pushkin.
“Sir, it was—”
“I don’t want to hear your excuses, Nikita. I want you to find Azarov and to kill him like you should have done in Costa Rica. If Mitch Rapp tries to interfere, deal with him, too.”
Pushkin straightened with a jerky nod.
“Now get out of my sight.”
He turned on his heels and strode toward the door, but stopped when Krupin spoke again. His rage wasn’t the only thing that motivated this boy.
“Rapp and Azarov were young once, too. If I didn’t think you had the potential to rival them, I wouldn’t have brought you to Moscow.”
When Pushkin started forward again, his stride had taken on a purposefulness that it had lacked a moment before.
The door closed and Krupin sagged in his chair. The exchange—his first of any consequence since returning to Moscow—had left him more exhausted than he expected. He had needed to familiarize himself with his capabilities and a meeting with a moderately intelligent child who worshipped him had been a relatively safe experiment.
First, the positive. His appearance seemed fine. At normal levels, his voice was steady and reliable. His vision and his mind were both clear, though that could change without warning.
On the other hand, raising his voice made him sound weak. He was also surprised at how quickly his strength faded. The meeting had lasted barely five minutes and he felt utterly spent.