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“And what will they do, Grisha? With Saudi Arabia’s reserves largely inaccessible, our production capacity will become even more critical to the world economy. And our nuclear arsenal precludes any military action against us. With the money that comes flooding in, I’ll be able to retake the breakaway states that were stolen from us. I’ll restore Russia to its rightful place in the world order.”
“Mr. President, I must—”
“Do you know what the people want?”
Krupin said, cutting him off. “Not full bellies. Not warm beds. They want glory. They want power and respect. They want to be part of something great so that they can tell themselves that their pathetic little lives matter.”
The bizarre truth was that Krupin was probably right. The Russian people hated the breakaway states—their perceived indifference to Mother Russia, their halting steps toward the West. But most of all, the Russian people hated their success. The loss of the superiority they’d once felt as they gazed out over their empire.
Even if Krupin’s actions were at some point discovered, it was possible that the Russian people would see them less as a crime against humanity and more as a bold move on the international chessboard. Decisive action against a terrorist-sponsoring Saudi regime bent on keeping Russia weak.
And he was most definitely correct about Russia’s oil and gas production becoming critical. Without the flood of money that propped up the corrupt and hopelessly incompetent Saudi government, the royal family would collapse. ISIS would overrun not just Saudi Arabia but also Kuwait and the UAE, to name just a few. Energy prices would skyrocket and Russia would go from being a decaying nation with an economy smaller than Italy’s to a world power with the ability to break its enemies by simply turning off the spigot.
Azarov suddenly regretted the understanding of economics and politics that he’d gained over the years. It was impossible not to see a future of millions dead in the Middle East. Of a world held hostage by a megalomaniac with a nuclear arsenal and natural resources that he used not for the greater good—or even for profit—but as a tool to maintain his own position.
The gun hanging beneath Azarov’s arm started to make its weight felt. He had the power to end this. To put a neat hole between Krupin’s eyes and to save the world from the horrors he would inflict.
It was an interesting thought but, in the end, a fleeting one. Saving the world wasn’t his responsibility. And even if it was, what would be the point? If not Krupin, then it would be someone else. The human race’s fate was to sow the seeds of its own destruction. Let deluded patriots like Mitch Rapp risk their lives to save a world that neither wanted nor deserved saving. Azarov’s only responsibility was to himself.
“My team?” Azarov asked.
“Men hand-picked by me from the ranks of ISIS.”
“They’re unreliable and poorly trained,” he protested. “At a minimum I should be provided soldiers or former soldiers. Preferably from the Russian special forces.”
“Out of the question.”
“Then this operation may end up the same way the action against Rapp did.”
This was the kind of insubordination that would normally cause Krupin’s anger to flare, but in this case the man was doing an admirable job of keeping his infamous temper in check. It was another indication of how critical this operation was to him. If his plan failed, it was likely that Russia’s slide would become irreversible. The people would eventually turn against him. And when they did, it would be with the same speed and violence as they had against the czars.
“I don’t think so, Grisha.”
“May I ask why?”
“I would be concerned if you didn’t. My plan is not complicated. You will accompany the weapons to Al-Hofuf, a Saudi city I imagine you’re familiar with. There you will distribute them to six two-man teams who will take them to coordinates our people have designated as being optimal. Your men’s ability to blend in is far more critical than any specialized military training they might have.”
He tapped a few keys on his laptop and brought up markers for those locations before continuing. “You’ll accompany one of those teams to an abandoned oil-production facility. From that central location you’ll command the operation.”
“There appear to be seven markers.”
“One backup team, should problems arise.”
Azarov nodded silently. “Can I assume, then, that you plan to wait until all the weapons are in position before detonating?”
“It seems prudent. The location farthest from Al-Hofuf will take an estimated fourteen hours to reach, while the closest will be a journey of only about three and a half hours. The teams will be staggered so they all reach their destinations at the same time. We don’t want the Saudis and Americans to know what’s happening until it’s done.”
“Then why not detonate the bombs remotely when you see that everyone is in position? What is the point of having me on location?”
“Two reasons. First, with the storms we’re predicting, satellite communications are likely going to be unreliable. And second, while we’ve trained the ISIS teams as thoroughly as possible, they can’t be relied on to handle any significant problems. For that, only you can be trusted.”
“So, I will have the ability to remote-detonate the weapons?”
“No. We couldn’t create a foolproof system for that. Each man will have his own detonation code. When they are cleared to do so, they will enter them in within thirty seconds of each other.”
“And be vaporized.”
“Of course.”