“Yes! Yes. I joined six months ago. I was in the top of my officer training cla—”
“What about your men? Where’d you dig them up?”
“Reservists,” he said, confirming Rapp’s suspicions. “Some haven’t served in years. They were recalled to protect Russian interests in the region.”
“What are you doing up here in the mountains? Why didn’t you just take them straight to one of your bases?”
“I don’t know. I was told to use this route and to make them march.”
He probably really didn’t know. Combat readiness was just a concept in a book to the kid. This was just a brief stop on his way to a cushy job in the extraction industry, bureaucracy, or politics. In Krupin’s Russia, contacts and demonstrations of patriotism were everything.
“What are you transporting?”
“Almost nothing. Just their equipment.”
“Kind of a big truck for a few duffels.”
Eristov’s expression suddenly became guarded. His initial panic had subsided and he’d figured out that he was being interrogated.
“Who are you?” he said, finding his backbone. “Not Ukrainian. American?”
Killing or significantly delaying these men was going to cause more trouble than it was worth. Unfortunately, so was leaving visible marks on them. So Rapp pulled his boot from the man’s neck and drove it down between his legs.
Eristov immediately curled up into the fetal position, covering his wounded testicles with his hands and letting out a choking moan. Rapp grabbed him by his impeccable hair and dragged him through the dirt, finally slamming him into a sitting position against a tree.
“Listen to me, you pampered little cocksucker. I’m not going to touch your men because they just look like a bunch of assholes who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. But you’re a professional soldier. I’ll take you to a cave and spend the next month doing shit to you that no one’s thought about for five hundred years.”
The Russian was still focused on his suffering, but not so much so that he didn’t register the threat.
“The truck . . .” He struggled to get words out. “Picking up soldiers . . .”
“You’re dropping these men off and picking up others?”
He nodded.
“Where are you taking them?”
“Back to Russia. To join the exercises.”
“Exercises? You mean on the borders of the Baltics?”
He nodded weakly. “Estonia.”
“Have you done this before?”
“Three times.”
“Always the same?”
He shook his head. “The first time, I brought in an empty truck. No men.”
“What did you take out?”
The pain had subsided enough to be replaced by courage. Instead of responding, he just glared.
Rapp shouldered his weapon and pulled out a combat knife. “Don’t be stupid, kid. You don’t want to get carved up over Ukraine. You want to do your time in the army and then get rich.”
Eristov looked at the dull black blade for a moment and then seemed to see the wisdom of Rapp’s words. “Antiaircraft weapons. I took out antiaircraft weapons.”
“To the border of Estonia?”
“Lithuania.”
“And the second time?”
“I brought men in and took other men out to the Estonian border.”
“Same kind of men?”
He seemed confused by the question.
“Fat old guys in, fat old guys out?”
He shook his head. “Men like these in, but younger, better-trained men out.”
“Shit . . .” Rapp said under his breath. Then he sheathed the knife and began dragging Eristov to his feet.
? ? ?
When they came out of the trees, all the Russians were disarmed and on their knees under Coleman’s watchful eye. Rapp shoved the young officer to the ground and went over to Nazar, who was in the back of the truck, emptying duffels of their contents.
“What did you find?” Rapp said, speaking quietly enough that none of the others could hear his English.
“Nothing unusual.”
“Okay, grab an empty bag and fill it with anything valuable. Then shake down the men. Cash, jewelry, phones. Anything worth stealing.”
Rapp walked over to Eristov and crouched, speaking quietly into his ear. “Do you understand what I’m doing for you here? No one has to know about our conversation or that any of this ever happened. All you have to do is remind your men that if Andrei Sokolov ever hears that they were mugged on their way to base, he’ll slit their throats and hang them from the rafters.”
CHAPTER 29
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
USA
WHEN Irene Kennedy’s SUV pulled up to Air Force One, the president was already striding across the tarmac. He stopped when he saw her chasing after him, waiting at the base of the stairs to let her go first. Always the southern gentleman.
“Sorry to drag you around the country, Irene. My schedule’s down to the second this week.”
Alexander led her into his surprisingly spacious office, waving off staff seeking a moment of his attention. Taking a seat at his desk, he indicated a leather chair on the other side.
“No tea or pleasantries today,” he said as she settled in. “I’m speaking to a rally in Ohio in two hours and I haven’t even had time to look at my speech.”
Kennedy understood his responsibilities, but they seemed almost comically trivial. More and more, the presidency was about cameras, television, and social media. Alexander’s job was to project the America his constituents wanted to see without giving his opponents an opening. The political parties were no longer organizations concerned with administering the country’s affairs. They were election-winning machines.
Fortunately Alexander still saw himself as a problem solver. While he’d become more amenable to political spin and assigning blame to his opponents, it was still a secondary concern. She doubted the CIA would be so lucky with his successor.
“I understand, sir. How much time can you give me?”
“Twelve minutes.”
He punctuated his words by actually setting a timer on his phone—something he’d never done in the entire time they’d known each other.
“I think we’ve uncovered the reason for Maxim Krupin’s erratic behavior.”
“About time. The Europeans are melting down about the troop buildup in Ukraine. What is it?”
“We believe that he’s extremely ill. Possibly terminal.”
Alexander’s expression froze and she couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for him. He’d been a good president—smart, open-minded, and decisive. He was also less risk-averse than most politicians, sometimes to the point of being hotheaded. Unfortunately, he was also far enough into his second term that his ability to focus was fading. He’d accomplished what he was going to and was looking to run out the clock.
“With what?” he said finally.
“Cancer. We strongly suspect brain, though we can’t be certain.”
“Evidence?” he said, seeming to lose his ability to string words together.
“It’s complicated and not something we should spend our twelve minutes on.”
“But you feel confident that it’s true.”
“I do.”
The plane started to taxi and he looked out the window, considering his Russian counterpart’s position. Alexander would understand better than anyone the challenges Krupin faced in trying to maintain power. As important as optics were in the United States, they were even more so in Russia. Krupin’s survival depended entirely on his unshakable aura of strength and indomitable will.
“And we have confirmation that Sokolov is his right hand man?”
“Yes.”
Alexander finally turned back to face her. “This changes everything.”
“That’s our analysis, too, sir.”
“I’ve gone hoarse telling the Europeans that Krupin’s buildup in Ukraine is just theater. As long as NATO doesn’t hold a membership vote, he’s not going to do shit. Now, though . . .” He fell silent.
“He needs a nationalist wave—something to get his constituents behind. And he needs a diversion,” Kennedy said. “His treatment is going to be difficult and time consuming. Beyond chemotherapy and radiation, he could be looking at brain surgery. We think it may be too much to cover up with action in Ukraine.”