“I’d think your government would want you to have a heavy presence there,” Coleman said.
“The president is concerned that if any of our people were caught, they could be held up as spies in Russia’s propaganda machine.”
“And he doesn’t want Krupin to see him down there stirring up trouble,” Rapp added.
“I imagine that this was part of his calculation.”
“So to summarize, you’re telling me you don’t know shit.”
“I think that’s an overstatement. We are tracking troop movement, propaganda campaigns, known—”
“We’ve got all that at Langley, Danya.”
“I don’t know what you want from me, Mitch.”
“If you can’t tell me anything, then give me a few men so Scott and I can go look for ourselves. They don’t even have to be shooters. Just familiar with the territory.”
“I don’t think that would be in my best interest, Mitch.”
“Yeah, but it might be in the best interest of your fucking country.”
Bondar slapped his hands down on his blotter and leaned forward. “The things you’ve done have made you a hard man, Mitch.”
“And that desk has made you a soft one. But I knew you before you had a chauffeur and got invited to all the right parties. Now what are you going to do, Danya?”
“Screw you, Mitch.”
“Does that mean you’re going to get off your fat ass and give me something?”
“No. It means I’m going to have you thrown out of my office and physically dragged across the Polish border.”
“Before you do, I forgot to mention that Andrei Sokolov was seen yesterday outside of Donetsk. How do you think that’s going to work out for you?”
Bondar’s face went blank long enough that Rapp started to wonder if he’d had a minor stroke. Finally, he spoke. “Is this the truth or one of Irene’s games?”
“We have some nice color eight-by-tens.” Rapp glanced over at Coleman. “He looked great, didn’t he?”
“I think he’s been working out,” the former SEAL agreed.
“Swear you’re not playing me, Mitch.”
“Not my department. You have my word.”
Bondar let out a long breath and glanced past Rapp, checking the door again. “I have an informal network in the Russian dominated areas. Locals who’ve lived there for generations. A few are relatives of mine. They’re not operatives but they know the terrain and have been informally tracking Russian movements and construction projects. I could put you in touch with them. But after that it would be up to you.”
CHAPTER 27
CIA HEADQUARTERS
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
USA
IRENE Kennedy leaned over her assistant’s shoulder, examining his computer screen.
“There’s just no way you’re going to make your lunch with Senator Barnes,” he said, pointing to the calendar. “There’s not even enough time to chopper you in.”
“Is Mike back in town?”
“He’s on a plane now. Touches down at Dulles in an hour.”
Kennedy smiled. Mike Nash was a good-looking former Marine and bona fide national hero. Madeline Barnes—and most everyone on Capitol Hill—fell all over themselves for a photo op with the man.
“Tell him to go straight to the restaurant from Dulles and let Madeline know he’s going to sit in for me.”
Her assistant winced. “Mike’s going to read me the riot act after the ten-hour flight he’s been on.”
“Tell him I’ll pay for lunch,” she said, straightening when Grisha Azarov entered the office suite.
He had the same effortless gait as Rapp, but everything else was different. The dead eyes and expressionless face, the close shave, the tailored slacks and jacket.
She’d given him a key to her private elevator and forbidden her security people from asking him if he was armed. Not that she trusted the man—there were only a handful of people who she could say that about. But it was unlikely that he was an immediate danger to her or her people. Unless he was provoked.
The question was what would the man register as a provocation? The cool demeanor he’d been born with had been turned to ice by the events of his life. Being taken from his parents and put into the Soviet athletics mill. His unceremonious ejection from that program and time in Russia’s Special Forces. His life as an executioner trapped in the orbit of Maxim Krupin.
Now all that carefully cultivated structure had disappeared. Now, he was completely adrift—trying not only to build a life for himself but to understand what that even meant. Cara Hansen wasn’t just the woman he loved. She was the life raft he clung to.
So somewhere behind the mask, the second most dangerous killer in the world was collapsing. The potential ramifications of that were beyond even her ability to predict. What she did know, though, was that she needed to find a way to get him through it. If he lost control, there would be little choice but to eliminate him—an action that would be extremely unfortunate and incredibly difficult. Mitch was the only man in the world who could reliably perform the task and he would push back hard. Azarov had demonstrated loyalty to him and that wasn’t something he took lightly.
“Thank you for coming, Grisha. We’re in the conference room again.”
He nodded respectfully and walked beside her to the hallway. She considered asking about Cara’s condition, but there was no real point. He’d know that the Agency was being provided regular reports.
“You remember Anton,” she said as they entered the conference room. The two men shook hands before joining her at the table.
“Anton’s people have refined their analysis and I wanted you to be here for the briefing. Having so much personal history with Maxim Krupin, our hope is that you can provide some insight.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
She nodded toward McCormick and he began.
“After we decided that Krupin was probably sick, the question became how sick. It could be anything from a relatively minor illness that would tarnish his image as a Russian superman to something terminal. A secondary question was what kind of treatment would be necessary—he could need a one-time procedure like heart surgery or a longer term treatment regimen like you’d see for cancer. Each scenario has its own complexities.”
“And?” Kennedy said.
“Bad things, Irene. We still can’t find his personal doctor and believe me it isn’t for lack of trying. All his office will say is that he’s on sabbatical and we haven’t been able to get to his wife. What we’re even more worried about is that one of Russia’s top brain surgeons was called away on an unknown emergency. No one seems to be sure where.”
“He hasn’t reappeared?”
“Actually, he has. He was killed in a car accident on the way home.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “It’s compelling but still circumstantial. I was expecting more.”
“Be careful what you wish for, Irene. Because I’ve got more. A lot more.” He opened the file in front of him. “One of our analysts had the bright idea of looking at Russian chat rooms—specifically support groups for people with different serious illnesses.”
“I think it’s unlikely that Maxim Krupin would be looking for emotional support on the Internet,” Azarov interjected.
“Agreed. That’s not what we were looking for. We were interested in finding a way to corroborate the disappearance of physicians. Sick people are very attached to their doctors and would probably complain about any disappearances on a forum. As you can imagine, there are a lot of these kinds of groups—some general and some very specific as to illness. People discuss treatments, alternative therapies, their experiences . . . Whatever.”
“Based on the disappearance of that brain surgeon, can I assume that you prioritized forums dealing with those kinds of ailments?” Kennedy asked.
“You can. And we found a flurry of recent activity on a chat room relating to brain tumors. But not about missing docs. About the fact that a number of people with very serious diagnoses had been offered places in an experimental treatment study. As you can imagine, most agreed.”