“It’s worse!” he shouted, and then descended into a brief coughing fit. “These aren’t Middle Eastern animals. They’re people many of our troops can trace their roots to. They’re citizens of a peaceful, prosperous country! NATO can afford to bleed us forever. Before, Westerners were concerned only with money and privilege and bickering among themselves. Now they feel threatened.”
Sokolov didn’t immediately respond. His affection and respect for Krupin only went so far. Had the man weakened to the point that he was now controlled by fear? It took a great deal to win a war but very little to lose one—a severed supply line, an unanticipated move by the enemy, a momentary lack of commitment from leadership. Throughout history, if anything had differentiated victors from the defeated, it was execution without hesitation. Now was not the time to pursue moderation or compromise.
Perhaps it was time to convince Krupin to have surgery. He was losing his ability to see clearly. It was understandable with the physical and emotional stress he was under, but still unacceptable. Allowing the president’s temporary weakness to destroy Russia would be a dereliction of Sokolov’s sworn duty to protect both.
“You need rest, Maxim. Standing in this corridor is a waste of the strength your country desperately needs from you. I’m meeting with your generals this evening and I’ll fly back as soon as possible to report what they said. By then we should have a clearer picture of our strategic position and detailed recommendations for our next steps.”
Krupin examined him for a moment and then lowered his gaze to the medals adorning his uniform. Then he just turned and shuffled off.
CHAPTER 41
PANAMA CITY
PANAMA
PRIME Minister Boris Utkin found himself beset on all sides, unable to see the lobby of the Waldorf Astoria for the crush of security men guiding him through it. Not Russians, though. Krupin had sent only a bare-bones detail, the head of which was conspicuously absent at this moment. No, his life was now in the far less than capable hands of the Panama police.
While his line of sight was obscured, he could still hear the shouts of the press. Questions in English, Russian, and Spanish mingled with the chants of the protesters who had forced him to cut short his press conference with the Panamanian president.
Utkin tried to pick up his pace, pushing against the guard in front as cameras sparked around them. Even if he wanted to speak, he’d have nothing to say. Krupin hadn’t informed him of his insane plan for an invasion of Latvia and had returned none of his calls since it had occurred. Of course, Utkin had quietly made contact with his supporters in the military and the Federal Assembly—some of whom had been injured in the highly suspicious attempt on the president’s life. But they’d been able to tell him little.
From the Western news agencies he knew that Russian forces had faced little resistance and that despite Article V being declared, NATO was proceeding cautiously. In all likelihood, they would continue to do so. Any overt attempt to retake Latvia would at best be a bloodbath and at worst prompt a nuclear response. No, NATO would take the long view—reinforcing their presence in vulnerable member nations, further isolating Russia economically, and perhaps even attempting to expand into Ukraine and Georgia while Russian troops were bogged down in the Baltics.
He finally reached the open elevator and retreated to the back as two of his borrowed security detail slipped in with him. The doors closed, bringing a welcome change from chaos to stillness. Perhaps it was preferable that he was here, he thought as the elevator began to rise. Certainly better than being impaled by a shattered flagpole at Krupin’s recent speech.
? ? ?
“Stay out here,” Utkin said to the men with him.
They posted in the hallway as he entered his suite and slammed the door behind him. The room was certainly less than he was used to, but adequate considering where he was—the marble floor was spotless, the furniture was modern and, most important, there was a well-stocked bar at the far end.
“Leonid. Make me a drink.”
No answer.
His assistant hadn’t picked up his call on the way back from the presidential palace, nor had he answered various texts. Had Krupin called him back to Moscow? Was that to be the latest humiliation? Would he now have to make his own travel arrangements? Perhaps carry his own luggage and write his own speeches? The latter would be interesting. He certainly had a great deal to say about Russia and its leader.
“Leonid!” he shouted, feeling his anger rise along with his growing sense of impotence.
“He’s not here.”
Utkin spun at the sound of the woman’s voice and found himself face-to-face with Irene Kennedy.
She approached and held out a hand, smiling in a way that was intended to be disarming but was very much not. How had she gained access to his room? Was she here to kill him? No, that was idiotic. If she wanted him dead, she wouldn’t come personally. She’d send her attack dog Mitch Rapp.
“Where . . . Where is he?” Utkin stammered. An irrelevant question designed to give him time to assess his situation.
“Leonid? On his way to Washington. I hope you won’t be upset when I tell you that he’s been on our payroll for years.” She indicated to a seating area in the middle of the room and he followed her to it. The upper hand was obviously lost. Best to let her lead for the time being.
“Part of the game,” he said calmly. “My compliments.”
Another mollifying smile as she sat. “President Alexander wanted to have a personal conversation with you about what’s happening in Russia. Unfortunately, it’s difficult for him to travel without attracting attention.”
“So he sent you? It seems that a State Department representative would be more appropriate.”
“No. I don’t think it would be.”
He nodded knowingly. “You think I’m a traitor. That I’m an ambitious man who can be convinced to betray my president in hopes of American backing when it comes time for succession.”
“Something like that.”
“Then you’ve gravely misjudged me, Dr. Kennedy.”
She remained the epitome of outward civility but seemed to look right through him. “I know you’re a busy man, sir, so I’ll get straight to the point. Maxim Krupin has brain cancer that is likely terminal. He’s not in a bunker hiding from assassins, he’s in a secret medical facility outside of Zhigansk getting medical treatments.”
Utkin tried to keep his expression passive while he struggled to absorb what he’d just heard. The only reasonable conclusion was that it was true. Everything that had happened—the crackdown on protesters and opposition, the fool’s errand he’d been sent on, the endless hunting trips. Sokolov and the war. It all made perfect sense now. Chaos had turned to order again. Krupin, the consummate strategist, was doing exactly what a man in his position needed to do in order to cling to power.
“You’re lying,” he said, unwilling to put himself in a position to be blackmailed by this woman. “Maxim has shown America and NATO for what they are and now you’re willing to go to any length to undermine him. Desperation doesn’t flatter you, Dr. Kennedy.”
She seemed to understand his position. “I’m not recording this conversation, Mr. Prime Minister. It wouldn’t be in the best interest of either one of us.”
He wasn’t sure whether to believe her but his curiosity was overwhelming his sense of caution. “If you want to talk, talk. I’m sure Maxim will be quite interested when I tell him of our conversation.”
She nodded politely. “He’s betrayed your country, Mr. Prime Minister. His actions are calculated entirely to keep himself in power with no regard to Russia’s prosperity or even survival. Your country simply doesn’t have the resources for a prolonged confrontation with the West. But he doesn’t care. Russia isn’t his concern.”
Utkin remained silent. He’d always been a careful politician—building alliances from the shadows, generating and collecting debts, waiting for an opportunity. Was this it? Was this his moment? The moment to leverage all that groundwork and act boldly?