Order to Kill

CHAPTER 7

MOSCOW

RUSSIA

AS was always the case when he arrived, the outer office was empty.

Grisha Azarov crossed it quickly, glancing at an ornate clock on the wall to confirm that he was precisely on time. The door at the back was open and he passed through, closing it quietly behind him.

The office was a stark contrast to the one he’d just visited in Siberia. Every wall was clad in the rich wood paneling favored by powerful men and gilt accents bordered the ceiling. Carefully restored antiques and priceless works of art were in abundance, tracing the whole of Russia’s history.

At nearly twenty meters square, it took a not insignificant amount of time to cross the room and take a position of attention in front of a desk that had once been owned by Czar Nicolas II. According to legend, he had used it only once before the people rose up and killed him for his sins and the sins of his forebears. Azarov had always thought it ironic that Russia’s president would choose a desk with such a history.

Maxim Krupin finished signing the document in front of him and set it aside, leaning back in his chair to finally acknowledge Azarov’s presence. The politician was relatively young at fifty-two, stocky and solid. He had recently grown a jet-black mustache that, despite being meticulously groomed, still had the effect of making him look a little wild. Undoubtedly the change was a calculated effort to further intimidate the West and to ingratiate himself with a constituency desperate to have the world tremble once again in Russia’s shadow.

By contrast, Azarov was clean-shaven, with a thin, muscular physique beneath a suit tailored to obscure it. The man who oversaw his training never allowed his client’s body fat level to rise above that favored by professional athletes. In a world flooded with modern weapons, strength was desirable, but speed and agility were the difference between survival and death.

“You look well despite the recent unpleasantness, Grisha.”

“It’s kind of you to say, sir.”

“Certainly better than when I found you.”

Their rare face-to-face meetings always began with Krupin subtly reminding Azarov that everything he had was a result of their association.

While Dmitry Utkin’s similar comment had been an exaggeration, Krupin’s was fundamentally accurate. Azarov had been pulled from his special forces post without explanation just before his twenty-fourth birthday. Having distinguished himself on a number of difficult clandestine operations as well as on the army’s intelligence tests, he had come to the attention of the country’s new president.

Krupin had ridden a populist wave into office and was then in the process of consolidating his power. In order to facilitate that consolidation, he’d needed a man with a specific skill set and unwavering loyalty.

The Russian army had provided the former while Krupin bought the latter. Almost overnight, Azarov had gone from living in a barracks and making a few rubles a month to a life of mansions, private jets, and runway models. It had been more than the son of a poor farmer from the rural north could ever have dreamed of. Now, though, he recognized it as the Faustian bargain it was.

“Our friends were beginning to forget their place,” Krupin continued. “Now they’re reminded that they’re only flesh and blood.”

He was, of course, referring to Utkin and Russia’s other powerful oligarchs.

“A weakness we share, Mr. President.”

“Do I hear fear in your voice, Grisha? It doesn’t suit you.”

Krupin was a brutal man who had risen through the ranks at great cost-a cost that was beginning to come due. The precipitous drop in oil prices had combined with Western economic sanctions to loosen the iron-fisted control he’d gained over the country. The control that kept both him and Azarov alive.

“They’re dangerous men with extensive resources, sir.”

“They have no patriotism, Grisha. No love for mother Russia. The Americans are trying to strangle us and all they care about are insignificant shifts in their stock prices. They have no vision for this country’s return to its former glory.”

Azarov wondered what exactly that former glory was. The dysfunctional aristocracy represented by the handcrafted desk in front of him? The genocidal mania of Joseph Stalin? The disastrous communist experiment?

In truth, his country was utterly dependent on the extraction of natural resources. Russia invented nothing. Made nothing. Contributed nothing. Its people had never had a chance to learn how.

In many ways, this is why Krupin had enjoyed such success in politics. He understood his people’s thirst for relevance and had a gift for slaking that thirst in ways that were ultimately meaningless but satisfying in the short term.

“Before he died, Utkin demanded details of your plan for the economy and proof that those plans would be effective, sir. I suspect the others will do the same.”

Krupin’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forward across his desk. “I will cut the Americans off at the knees, Grisha. Russia will be respected and feared throughout the world. We will exceed even the power we had at the height of the Soviet era. Will that be sufficient for these little men?”

“What you describe would indeed be glorious,” Azarov said, trying to conjure the expected sense of enthusiasm.

It appeared that he was successful because Krupin nodded and sank back into his chair. “Unfortunately, I find myself in a position that I once again need to ask your help, Grisha. I was committed to keeping you out of the Pakistan operation but circumstances conspire to make that impossible.”

“What’s changed, sir?”

Krupin waved a hand in a dismissive gesture that seemed a bit strained. “We’ve lost touch with the men sent to deal with Mitch Rapp.”

Azarov didn’t allow himself to visibly react. Only two days ago, Krupin had boasted that the operation was going perfectly. That Rapp was falling headlong into the trap created for him.

“Lost touch?”

“Our best intelligence is that Rapp is on his way back to Islamabad and could interfere with our work.”

The operation targeting the CIA man had been planned entirely by Krupin and his logistics expert, Marius Postan. Azarov had been kept out of the loop, a move typical of the Russian president. One of the strategies he used to maintain power was to compartmentalize everything he did, never allowing anyone to see the entirety of his machinations. It was a level of secrecy that kept his opponents off-balance, but often had a similar effect on his allies.

Normally, Azarov would have requested to be included in the planning of an operation like this and Krupin would have eventually agreed. In this case, though, Azarov had decided to keep his distance. He had studied everything Russian intelligence had on Mitch Rapp, and it was hard to ignore the fact that even well-planned, well-executed moves against him tended to fail. Often catastrophically.

“Did Rapp have time to question any of the men involved?”

“We don’t know for certain. The CIA is sending people but they appear to be a cleanup crew. Our best information is that Gusev was killed in short order along with the two ISIS men with him. The American that Gusev insisted on bringing in seems to have escaped.”

So, yes, Azarov thought. Anyone would eventually talk with Mitch Rapp doing the questioning, but Gusev could be counted on to give up what he knew more quickly than most. He was a soft, self-interested criminal faced with a man who had spent his life dealing with fanatics who welcomed-even courted-suffering and death.

Krupin seemed to read his mind. “Gusev knew less than nothing.”

That seemed unlikely. He was running the tactical side of the operation and understood both its short-term goals and methods. It was admittedly not much, but that was very different from nothing.

“What action do you intend to take, sir?”

Krupin didn’t answer immediately, instead staring out across the desk.

“After a great deal of thought, I’ve decided that Rapp has to be dealt with, Grisha. The Pakistan operation has been going well since he’s been gone. Scott Coleman’s men have been reasonably effective, but the other CIA teams are faltering without Rapp’s leadership.”

“Then you’ve been successful?”

He knew little of what was happening in Pakistan and he preferred to keep it that way. Unfortunately, it was becoming clear that his continued ignorance and lack of involvement weren’t going to be possible.

“Successful? Yes. To some extent.”

“Perhaps it would be better to accept that partial victory and suspend your operation until Rapp moves on?”

“I don’t have enough material to achieve my ultimate goal. In this case, I’m afraid there are no partial victories.”

“Do you have a sense of how you would like this to play out?”

“We’re aware of a high-level Pakistani mole codenamed Redstone who is on the CIA’s payroll. We’ve used back channels to feed him intelligence that the al Badr terrorist group is going to make an attempt on a nuclear warhead being moved through Faisalabad tomorrow. Redstone has been a reliable informant for the Americans and I think that they will take him at his word.”

“So, we’re drawing Rapp into a second trap after the first failed?”

“It was a mistake to put Gusev in charge. I should have never allowed Marius to do it. That’s why I’m asking you to get involved personally, Grisha.”

“But it’s a bit like throwing a net over a bear, yes?” he said, despite knowing that Krupin wasn’t interested in his opinions or objections. “Again, I have to wonder if it would be possible to step back for a few weeks.”

Krupin shook his head. “The Pakistani warheads are being moved with minimal security because of the power struggle between its army and civilian government. This level of disorder isn’t going to last. One or the other will soon gain the upper hand and the warheads will once again be out of my reach.”

So it was Pakistan’s nuclear weapons that Krupin was interested in. But why? There could be only one answer: while Russia controlled a nuclear arsenal capable of destroying the planet many times over, it was just for show. A multitrillion-dollar deterrent that couldn’t be launched without creating an equally devastating response from the West.

The only reason Krupin would want access to Pakistani warheads was because they couldn’t be traced to him. And the only reason that he would want nuclear weapons that couldn’t be traced to him was because he planned to actually use them.

Sweat broke across Azarov’s back but his expression remained opaque. He had killed many men in the service of Krupin, but this was something very different.

“You seem reticent, Grisha. Is the simple task of killing one man beyond you? Is this to be the first time you fail?”

“If so, I would be only one entry on a very long list of dead men who tried to move against Rapp.”

“But you’re not one of those men. You’re unique.”

While undoubtedly intended as flattery, what Krupin said was true. Azarov was an Olympic-level athlete with a lifetime of training behind him. Since leaving the military, he had enjoyed a constant stream of the best instructors the private sector had to offer. Human-performance coaches from renowned European universities, championship marksmen, and world-class mixed martial artists, to name only a few. Further, he was taking a regular cocktail of performance-enhancing drugs designed and administered by a German doctor who had been banned from professional sports. It was something that he suspected would kill him one day. Things that burned bright burned short.

“I am almost ten years younger than Rapp and have suffered far fewer injuries over my lifetime,” Azarov said. “I’ve studied his techniques, psychology, and athletic background, while it’s unlikely he’s even aware that I exist.”

Krupin smiled for the first time in their meeting. “It’s nice to hear the confidence back in your voice, Grisha. It seems to become more muted every time I see you.”

“It’s not confidence, Mr. President. I have surprise on my side, as well as my youth, training, and, frankly, my drug regimen. Other factors favor him.”

“What other factors?”

“Another decade of experience. A history of surviving situations more dire than I’ve been involved in.”

“You’re far too valuable for me to risk you lightly, Grisha. And I wouldn’t be using you now if it wasn’t critical.”

“The fact remains that he has been tested like no one currently alive and has demonstrated no discernible weaknesses. His enemies-most recently the very talented Louis Gould-are all dead.”

“Very good,” Krupin said. “Confidence is desirable, but arrogance is the refuge of fools. And again, I’m taking your involvement in this very seriously. I understand the risks to you and I’m designing the operation in such a way as to mitigate those risks.”

Azarov nodded respectfully but couldn’t bring himself to thank the man. He was nothing to Krupin. A tool, to be used and discarded the moment it became convenient to do so.

Once again, he found himself caught in the trap he’d walked into so enthusiastically as a young man. The question was, would this be the time he failed to escape?