All he needed was another forty-eight hours of lucidity. Then he could return to Moscow with an excuse that would allow him to disappear into one of his homes and endure the inevitable attack in privacy.
The predicted rain hadn’t materialized but they had ascended into the low clouds hovering over this desolate part of Russia. Mist swirled around the vehicle, thick enough to force the driver to turn on his headlights. The reflection off the wet trees lining the road was sudden and surprisingly powerful. Krupin adjusted his gaze to the shadowed floorboard of the truck’s cab, fearful that the glare might trigger another attack.
Soon, hints of their destination began to emerge from the wilderness. Clearings scraped from the forest, concrete bunkers, and finally rows of rusting military vehicles and outdated artillery. Through the fog, military planes appeared and disappeared like a ghost fleet.
And in many ways, it was. This dump was one of a number of forgotten repositories to Soviet military—the war machine that had once struck terror in the hearts of the West. Some of the equipment would eventually be stripped of anything that still had value, but most would slowly disintegrate into the earth and be forgotten.
It was a sobering reminder of how Russia had fallen from grace, but also a perfect location for the task at hand. Thick cloud cover was the norm and the Americans were both aware of the site’s existence and indifferent to it—as were his many enemies inside Russia. While nothing was certain in these kinds of situations, he felt confident that he and his small security detail could slip in and out without fear of discovery.
A series of concrete and steel warehouses appeared ahead, scattered throughout the site almost as randomly as the refuse piled around them. The land had been cleared decades ago when this had been a working Soviet installation, but now it was in the slow process of being reclaimed by the forest.
The truck in front of them turned right toward the center of the complex while his own driver continued straight toward a warehouse on its northeastern edge. Finally, he circled on a worn track and backed toward a set of massive doors.
Krupin jumped out wearing the clothes of a common workman, opening the bay doors and taking a moment to direct the trailer into them. When the brake lights went on, he walked beneath a corrugated metal awning and found an unassuming door with the promised keypad next to it. A seven-digit code allowed him to enter and a moment later he was standing alone in a cavernous building that still seemed completely unremarkable.
He was initially surprised that no one was there to meet him, but upon reflection he shouldn’t have been. He’d limited the number of people involved to the bare minimum—perhaps even below that minimum. Convenience was irrelevant in this situation. All that mattered was secrecy.
This warehouse had been used as both barracks and offices at some point in the distant past, and there were still vestiges of those functions. Now, most of the walls had been at least partially knocked down in order to facilitate the movement of cargo and equipment. In some places, stacks of decaying wooden crates looked as though they hadn’t been touched in decades while in other places construction equipment showed evidence of recent use.
Krupin took the obvious path through the refuse, moving with uncharacteristic slowness. As he neared the back, the debris-strewn ground gave way to recently painted concrete. A glow, the source of which was hidden by a recently erected wall, grew in intensity until it overpowered the filthy overhead bulbs he had been navigating by.
On the other side of the wall was a clear plastic tent that measured probably fifteen meters square and four in height. It was full of medical equipment and machinery quietly raided from hospitals throughout Russia. The people tending that equipment had been similarly scavenged from different parts of the country, different specialties, and different experience levels. Everything had been designed to avoid creating a discernible pattern.
When Krupin saw the examination table and the gown folded neatly on top of it, he slowed further, finally stopping a few meters away. His entire life had been about control. His rise through the KGB, his entry into local politics after the fall of the Soviet Union. His move out of rural administration and into Moscow’s power elite. Then, finally, his ascent to the presidency and his transformation of it into a de facto dictatorship. Russia was now, for all intents and purposes, his. He ruled alone over its land and wealth, its commerce and finance, as well as its military and nuclear arsenal.
But most important, he controlled its information. The government controlled media fed the Russian people a steady diet of propaganda, enflaming their nationalism and building him into the father, savior, and symbol that they so needed. Within the Kremlin, he meted out truth and lies to his people with a dropper, making certain that no one could ever grasp the big picture, no one knew who to trust, and no one could anticipate or see further than him.
Now he had stepped outside that universe. He didn’t know what functions the instruments or people in that tent performed. He was utterly ignorant as to what the vials lined up on the tray next to the table contained. He didn’t know what he would be asked to submit to or what secrets could be learned from his consent.
His body was betraying him but he was utterly powerless to remedy the situation or indeed to even understand it. The potentially deadly truth was that he was entirely at the mercy of the people inside that circle of sterile plastic.
Due to the bright interior of the tent, no one was able to see out. He watched them, savoring his last few moments of having the upper hand. All were filled with the nervous energy that he’d come to expect of people anticipating his arrival. They busied themselves checking and double-checking their equipment, while Dr. Eduard Fedkin sat working on a computer that had no connection to the outside world.
The cold finally prompted Krupin to move again. He wasn’t noticed until he pushed aside the plastic flap that served as a door. Fedkin leapt from his chair and rushed toward him.
“Mr. President! I was brought here with no prior warning. Some of the people with me were pulled from their beds. Even their families—”
“Calm down, Doctor. There are security concerns that have to be acknowledged. We’re suffering traitorous protests throughout the country, illegal economic sanctions, and NATO closing in on our borders. If there’s even a hint that I might be in need of medical treatment, it could mean chaos.”
“I understand, sir, but there’s no way to communicate with our colleagues and relatives who—”
“Then we best confirm my good health quickly so that I can return all of you home. My understanding is that you’ve been provided with everything you requested and that all the tests and lab work can be carried out here. No samples are to be removed and no outside sources are to be consulted.”
“For this round of testing, that’s correct. But if we find—”
Krupin raised a hand, silencing the man. “You’ll use no drugs or anesthesia that could incapacitate me or have any effect on my mental function. And time is of the essence. I’ve made arrangements to be absent from Moscow for two days and not a moment more. Am I understood?”
CHAPTER 6
NEAR DOMINICAL
COSTA RICA
NIKITA Pushkin slowed as he approached the southeast edge of Azarov’s house. The wall was little more than a gaping hole that likely wouldn’t support the remaining structure for long. Fire was taking hold of the building but the blazing debris strewn out in the jungle was proving inadequate to spread through the wet foliage.