War Plan Red (6 page)

Scott saw her eyes flick to the rearview mirror. A pale gray car with flashing red and blue lights on its roof came up fast and tucked in behind the SUV. He heard the familiar hee-hawing and knew what it was.

“Shit,” said Alex.

“Gaishnik—traffic cop?”

“GAI—traffic inspector. He sees the diplomatic plates and knows he can’t get a bribe out of us, just wants to give us a hard time.” She braked and pulled onto the shoulder to stop.

“Like I said,” Scott said, “nothing has changed.”

The officer, in creaking leather and mirrored sunglasses, got out of his patrol car and approached. He motioned that Alex should lower her window.

“Vaditel ’skie prava.” The cop looked past Alex, at Scott.

Alex fixed the cop with a disapproving gaze. “Nyet. Ya Amerikanski diplomat.” She pointed to herself and Scott.

“Your driver’s license,” the cop demanded again, this time in English.

She handed it over and he kept it as he made a slow circuit of the SUV, thumped a fender, and returned to the open window. Alex held out a hand for the document.

“This vehicle has a burned-out brake light.”

“Thank you for pointing it out, Officer. I’ll be sure to tell the motor pool mechanic at the American Embassy,” she said, emphasizing American and Embassy. “Now, if you don’t mind, we’re on our way to a meeting with an official of your government.”

“It’s dangerous to drive with a burned-out brake light. It can cause an accident and you can be arrested.” The cop eyed Alex from behind his mirrors, perhaps weighing whether or not he could wrangle a bribe after all.

“I’m sure you’re right, Officer,” Alex said. She reached out and plucked her license from the cop’s hand. Before he could react, she upped the power window and drove off. “Prick.”

Scott smiled but said nothing. The only thing he and Alex had in common so far was an interest in Drummond’s death. But he was beginning to like her a lot. He also liked the way she took charge and admired her determination not to be intimidated, which was a tall order when dealing with dangerous materials scattered across the Kola Peninsula or bribe-hungry Russian cops.

Alex got on the car phone with the embassy duty officer and detailed their encounter with the gaishnik.

She also gave an ETA at the Marriott Grand. “Just in case,” she said to the duty officer.

She was an attractive woman and Scott wondered if she’d gotten involved with Drummond—and if she had, how his death, in a hotel room with a naked Russian sailor had affected her. It wasn’t idle erotic speculation on his part: He’d need her help and had to gain her trust if he was going to discover how Drummond had died. There was little to go on and little time to find answers.

“Sorry,” Alex said, hanging up the phone. “I thought it best they know.”

They caught up to and repassed the lorry convoy. She took the next exit to the inner ring road and crossed the Krymsky Bridge over the Moskva. Traffic had thinned, and, wrist draped over the wheel, Alex relaxed and permitted herself a look in Scott’s direction.

“I know you must have a lot of questions about Frank,” Alex said.

“I do. I have orders to escort him home, but that’s not the only reason I’m here. I know you worked with him on the nuclear security side. That he was liaison to the Norwegians and Earth Safe. What else?”

“He was a great guy. We were more than colleagues: We were friends. He always had a good sea story to tell. He never got impatient, never got angry. He was a good listener too. We worked well together.

When he died, I was devastated.”

“Do you believe the death report the FSB filed with the embassy.”

Her mouth tightened. “I don’t know. It didn’t seem possible…I mean, that Frank was…gay. I know he was married, that his wife paid him a visit in St. Petersburg, but still, I don’t know what to believe.”

“What was he doing in Murmansk that night?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You were there with him, weren’t you?”

“Actually, I wasn’t. We’d been in Murmansk for two weeks, digging through records, photographing sites, interviewing Russian naval personnel. We had been aboard several submarines waiting to be dismantled in Olenya Bay, tagging equipment and such. But we’d also been aboard a nuclear sub that was being readied for a patrol.”

“A sub still in commission?”

“Yes, a fairly new one, as they go.”

“Do you remember which one?”

“An Akula, the K-363.”

“What were you doing aboard her?”

“Interviewing the crew. We try to develop a baseline on crew proficiency and training. As you know, active submariners in the Russian Navy are trained at their nuclear power school. From them we sometimes select individuals for special training in the handling of nuclear materials ashore.”

“Go on.”

“I’d returned to Moscow to file a report a day before Frank was due to wrap up in Murmansk on Tuesday. But my train was delayed by bad weather and I didn’t get to Moscow and to the embassy until Thursday morning. I found a message from Frank on my embassy voice mail system, but it was so garbled I couldn’t understand it. He had used a cell phone and it sounded like he was heading back to Moscow on Friday, but that something had come up. Anyway, when he didn’t show on Saturday, I called the Norwegians and the base commander at Olenya Bay. They both said he’d left for Moscow Thursday night. That’s when I notified the authorities in Murmansk that he was missing. They found him on Sunday. With the dead Russian sailor. And the gun.”

Alex touched the corner of an eye. “I don’t know what to believe,” she added again after a long, thoughtful silence.

Scott told her about his friendship and naval service with Drummond, and about Vivian.

“Then you don’t believe the FSB report,” Alex said.

“No.”

“Then, what do you think happened to Frank?” The way she asked the question seemed to imply that she knew what his answer would be.

“I think he was murdered.”

“But the report said—”

“I know what it said: suicide. But it’s bullshit.”

“Who would murder him?” Alex said.

“I don’t know. But I need you to help me find out.”

They crossed Tverskaya Prospekt, an exclusive shopping street lined with expensive boutiques and hotels. Even so, Scott spotted a new McDonald’s restaurant going up next to a Prada store.

She gave Scott a look. “How can I possibly help you?”

“You were with him a good part of the time he was in Murmansk. Maybe there’s something you can remember that’ll help. Like his cell phone call.”

“Forget that. I told you, it’s useless. Totally garbled.”

“Did you know the sailor who died?”

“No. All I knew was that he was assigned to the K-363.”

“Then, how did Drummond know him? What personal business would a Russian enlisted sailor have had with an American naval officer?”

“Beats me, Jake.”

“Those are things we have to know.”

“But how can you hope to find the killer if you’re here only to take Frank’s body back to the States.

You don’t have time to investigate anything.”

“I’ll make time.”

“Jake, the ambassador wants Frank’s affairs wrapped up before the summit. And you know the Russians: how their bureaucracy moves at a glacial pace. The FSB’s not going to help you because they’ve already investigated and submitted their report.”

“I’ve got a meeting tomorrow morning with the investigator who handled the case,” Scott said. “Yuri Abakov. Do you know him?”

“I saw his name on the report and I gave a statement to one of his people, but I’ve never met him.”

“Tomorrow we’ll try to find out what else Abakov knows.”

“ ‘We’?”

“You’re coming with me. I want him to know we’re working together.”

“Uh-uh. I’m not getting involved, Jake. I’m the second science attaché, and my jurisdiction is limited to finding loose nuclear material, not investigating a murder.”

“Then, you do think they were murdered. Right?”

Alex said nothing.

“You said Frank was a friend not just a colleague,” Scott said.

Alex pursed her lips.

“Well, he was my friend, too, and we owe him.”

She started to say something, but he pointed. The Marriott Grand had appeared on the right. She pulled in under the arched portico. Scott got out with his things but, before closing the door, leaned back into the SUV and said, “Tomorrow, Lubyanskaya Ploshchad. Know it?”

“Of course,” Alex said.

“Good. Pick me up here zero eight hundred sharp.”

“Jake, I told you—”

“Do it for Frank.”

4

FSB Headquarters, Moscow

O utside, a pair of guards in a glassed-in booth checked IDs. Inside, helmeted officers in battle dress armed with Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns strolled the remodeled former KGB headquarters lobby. The city and its entire security apparatus were on alert after the Chechen massacre at the concert hall. Everyone was suspect.

Scott and Alex waited at the elevator banks. Alex wore a tailored black suit and white silk roll-neck top.

A medley of gold bracelets glittered on her wrists. Light from the recessed ceiling fixtures illuminated her even features and flawless makeup. Her eyes sparkled, and she obviously enjoyed the attention her transformation had elicited from Scott.

A ping, and a pair of elevator doors hissed open. Their escort, a young FSB officer, motioned them inside. The doors closed, the car rose, and Scott was struck by the irony that in another era he and Alex would have been riding this elevator to an interrogation cell in the basement from which few people had ever emerged alive. All he heard was the hushed sound of the car’s ascent, not the screams of prisoners undergoing torture. As if guessing what was on his mind, Alex gave him an almost imperceptible nod.

They got off on the tenth floor, in one of the oldest parts of the three high-rises that made up the FSB

headquarters. The hallways were floored in worn linoleum and illuminated by buzzing fluorescent lamps. Office doors had old-fashioned pebbled glass inserts, behind one of which was the blurred silhouette of a man gesturing expansively while haranguing someone unseen.

“Please.” The escort led them through an open door labeled Investigations Directorate, into a tiny, over heated office.

Yuri Abakov had on a ushanka hat, its ear flaps tied securely together on top. His pasty-looking face was expressionless behind a drooping black mustache. He looked up at his visitors from behind a worn wooden desk and, as if shooing a pesky fly, flicked a hand at the escort who departed without a word.

“Inspector Abakov?” Scott said in Russian.

He gave Scott a once-over, noting his leather bomber jacket. “Colonel Abakov,” he replied. Before Scott had a chance to correct himself, Abakov shifted his gaze. “Who is this?” he asked, as if Alex were incapable of speaking for herself.

“Doctor Alexandra Thorne, Ph.D.,” she said. “I’m the second science attaché, United States Embassy, Moscow.”

“I wasn’t told she’d be present for this meeting,” Abakov said to Scott. “Who authorized it?”

“I did,” Scott said. “You have a problem with that?” Without waiting to be asked, he pushed a chair toward Alex and took one for himself.

Abakov removed the ushanka from a head that was bald except for a fringe of short, dark hair, the tight skin reflecting light like a mirror. His expression had changed from boredom to one of outright annoyance.

“You’re not in the States, Commander.”

“Captain,” said Scott.

“You have no authority here, so don’t think that just because you’re an American who speaks Russian, you can come into my office and start throwing your weight around like Bloody Harry.”

“It’s Dirty Harry.” Scott put his orders on the desk, in front of Abakov. “There’s my authority. As you know, Colonel, I’m here to escort Admiral Drummond’s remains back to the United States. I was told that I would have full cooperation from the FSB. And from you. Dr. Thorne was Admiral Drummond’s liaison with the U.S. Embassy and the Norwegians. She’s agreed to assist me. And since I don’t have time to waste cutting through bullshit, I’d like to get started as soon as possible.”

Alex’s knuckles went white on the chair arms.

Color rose in Abakov’s face and spread across his bald pate. He rose from his chair behind the desk.

Though he was several inches shorter than Scott, he had thick shoulders and huge, meaty hands that appeared capable of causing severe damage to whatever they grabbed hold of. A heavy vein started pulsing in his neck.

“You Americans,” Abakov said, switching to very good English. “You think you own the world. You use your power to crush opposition to your capitalist policies and to force your values on the rest of the world. In Russia, if we resist, you threaten us and say that we are irrelevant. Everything you do is for the purpose of enriching American business. Everything you do around the world has strings attached.

You are hypocrites!” Abakov’s voice rose until it boomed like rolling thunder. “You would like nothing better than to conquer Mother Russia so your business conglomerates can suck us dry! Your military too!”

The door flew open and a man stuck his head in and looked around. “Yuri, I can hear you all the way down the other end of the hall. Is everything all right?”

Abakov caught his breath. “Yes, go away.”

The man looked around, shrugged, and left. Abakov, slightly winded, sat down.

“Are you finished lecturing us?” Scott said.

Abakov ignored this and read Scott’s orders while touching the pulsing vein in his neck.

“What can you add to your report on Drummond’s death?” Scott said, as if Abakov’s outburst had not occurred.

Abakov bristled. “Nothing. Everything is in the report. Admiral Drummond and another man were both found dead in bed together. Ballistics confirmed that the bullets in their brains had been fired from the gun we found in Admiral Drummond’s possession.”

Scott waved that away. “I’m not questioning the basic facts of the case, Colonel. But allow me to explain something to you.” Scott told Abakov what he knew about Drummond and detailed their professional and personal relationship. He finished, saying, “I assure you, he was not a homosexual.”