“If what you’re saying is true, Dr. Kennedy, I don’t know what you want me to do about it. I can assure you that my return to Russia without the president’s consent would not be a triumphant one.”
She seemed to consider her next words carefully. “What would you say, Mr. Prime Minister, if I told you that there’s a small chance I can neutralize Krupin?”
His eyebrows rose involuntarily. “Are you speaking of assassinating the leader of Russia?”
“I’m talking about precipitating the already inevitable death of a man who seems intent on bringing your country and the world down with him.”
The sensation Utkin had of hovering over the point of no return became overwhelming. Was he being set up? Could this woman see something he was blind to?
“You believe that you can put me in power and have a grateful puppet in the Kremlin. I think you’d be disappointed, Dr. Kennedy. I despise America. Its arrogance, its hypocrisy and lack of stability. If you want Krupin out, there’s nothing I can do about it from my exile in Panama. But should I succeed him, I’d feel no debt at all to you or your country.”
She fixed her gaze on the wall behind him, seeming to use the blank slate to help form her thoughts. “Over the years, I’ve come to believe that we need enemies. They’re how we define ourselves and fighting them gives us purpose. In the absence of a viable external threat, we begin turning on ourselves. I don’t want Russia as an ally. I just want to keep the cold war between us from becoming hot.”
He stared silently back at her.
“You’re surprised?”
“It’s a clearer view of the natural order of things than I would expect from an American.”
“People in my position don’t have the luxury of illusions, Mr. Prime Minister.”
“Nor mine. Perhaps one day when we’re old and senile, we can have a drink and contrive stories about the nobility of our species.”
This time her smile seemed a bit less dangerous. “I’ll look forward to it, Mr. Prime Minister.”
CHAPTER 42
SOUTH OF PāVILOSTA
LATVIA
THE trees closed in again as the southeastern wind turned salty. Rapp and Coleman had hobbled their horses a mile back and were moving silently through the intermittent glow of a half moon.
“Should be just ahead,” Coleman whispered as Rapp passed by him and scanned the landscape through a night sight mounted to his borrowed HK G36.
Latvia had a lot of coastline and this section was one of the most remote—undoubtedly the reason it had been chosen for his escape from the country. On the downside, the Russians would be heavily focused on these out-of-the-way beaches as obvious paths for supplies, equipment, and men.
Rapp started forward again, staying low. Another three minutes brought them close enough to the sea to hear the lapping of waves. When they were about twenty yards from the edge of the sand, Rapp stopped and held a hand out. Coleman froze for a moment and then took cover behind a tree.
There had definitely been a flash of movement ahead, but it took almost a minute to pick it up again. A lone man standing behind something mounted on a tripod. Even with light amplification, though, it was impossible to confirm what that thing was.
He motioned Coleman forward.
“You see him?” Rapp said, pointing.
“I don’t see shit.”
The man had gone still again, blending perfectly into the terrain.
“Likely machine gun placement. Pointed out to sea. One operator.”
“We could go around,” Coleman suggested.
“Where there’s one, there’s bound to be more. My guess is that they’ve got assholes like this set up at intervals.”
“Yeah, but the fact that he’s alone is a good sign. It means they’re still in the process of securing the beaches with limited manpower.”
“If we can quietly take this guy out and the intervals to the next placements are wide, we’ll have a straight shot to the water.”
The former SEAL nodded. “Those are big ifs, but I’m willing to gamble. We’re right where we need to be and I want to keep this swim as short as possible. We don’t know what the currents are like and that water’s gonna be barely sixty degrees.”
Rapp laid his assault rifle on the ground and motioned for Coleman to stay put, moving forward with just his tactical knife. The brittle foliage beneath his feet slowed his pace considerably, forcing him to consider every footfall. It took more than ten minutes to close to within twenty feet of the Russian and he stopped there, pressed against a tree to obscure his outline.
The man had his back to the forest, looking out over the empty beach in front of him. The weapon was indeed a tripod-mounted machine gun—some kind of PK with a long belt inserted. A number of other ammunition boxes were stacked along with food and other gear. They were digging in for a long fight.
This close to the water, the wind was gusting intermittently and Rapp synchronized his approach with the rustling of the trees. It allowed him to get to within ten feet but then he was compelled to stop again. Whether it was natural or planned, the machine gun placement was surrounded by a carpet of dried leaves. Silent and easy wasn’t going to be doable.
Rapp examined the man’s broad back and the white glow of his hands resting on the gun. If you couldn’t be quiet, a good substitute was quick.
He sprinted as hard as he could across the leaves but as fast as he was, sound traveled faster. The man began to spin, swinging an arm out as Rapp slammed into him at a full run. They both went down, rolling across the ground until the trunk of a tree stopped them. The Russian was a bull of a man—easily Joe Maslick’s size and suddenly flooded with adrenaline.
Normally not a problem, but Rapp’s priority was less killing him than keeping him quiet. There was no way in hell he was the only Russian out there but it was impossible to know how near his comrades were. Certainly within shouting distance, but maybe even closer than that.
Rapp managed to snake an arm around the Russian’s neck, cutting off enough of his breath to stop a cry for help. As he was focusing on that, though, powerful fingers dug in around his knife hand. The man rolled and slammed him into the tree again, but Rapp ignored the impact, keeping the pressure on his throat.
Unfortunately, his assessment of the man being as powerful as Maslick was spot-on. The Russian leapt to his feet as though Rapp’s one hundred and eighty pounds didn’t exist. The pressure of his grip increased to the point that the bones in Rapp’s wrist felt like they were on the verge of shattering. The chances of him keeping hold of the knife for much longer were falling fast.
He was dangling from the man’s neck, unable to let go and finish the job out of fear that he’d have time to shout a warning before he died. The third impact with the tree was expected, but also significantly harder than the first two. They bounced off and the Russian prepared to drive back into the trunk again, but Rapp tangled a foot in his legs and caused him to stumble.
They landed in a pile of brush and Rapp ended up on the bottom. The Russian’s movements were noticeably less violent than before, though. The lack of air was starting to weaken him. Not enough that he didn’t start driving his elbow repeatedly into Rapp’s ribs, though. The CIA man wrapped his legs around him from behind, interfering with the momentum of his arm and trying to keep the sound of snapping branches to a minimum.
Rapp had resigned himself to taking a serious beating while slowly choking the life out of the man when the Russian suddenly stiffened. A moment later, the grip on Rapp’s wrist relaxed and fell away. Tilting his head to the side, he saw the hilt of a knife protruding from the Russian’s chest. Beyond was the blond head of Scott Coleman.
“What took you so long?” Rapp murmured, sliding out from beneath the weight of the body.
“It looked like you had him.”
Rapp was extracting a broken branch from his side when a Russian voice became audible only a few feet away. They spun in its direction but the tinny quality immediately identified it as a radio. Both waited in silence for a response, but none came. Instead, the same voice crackled to life, this time more insistent.