Day Of Wrath (11 page)

“What is the problem now, Feodor Mikhailovich?” the German asked icily.

Although the emergency number carried a Moscow prefix, Serov knew modern cellular telephone technology meant Reichardt could be anywhere in the world right now. He might be in London, Paris, or New York. He might also be right outside the headquarters building itself again—waiting with murderous intent inside yet another unmarked staff car. The ex-Stasi agent had already shown his ability to move through Kandalaksha’s security undetected and unchallenged. It was almost as though the German was a ghost, or a demon.

Serov suppressed a shiver. He was a man, a soldier, and a fighter pilot—not a babe in swaddling clothes to be frightened by old wives’ tales of werewolves and witches.

“Well?” Reichardt demanded.

“There are new. complications. in the crash investigation that may require your action, Herr Reichardt,” Serov said slowly, dragging the words through clenched, unwilling teeth.

“Complications ?”

“I’ve received new orders from the Ministry of Defense,” Serov explained. “An investigator from the
MVD
is on his way here now to interview my maintenance crews. I’ve been directed to cooperate fully with his inquiry.”

“I see,” Reichardt said coldly. “So Captain Grushtin’s foolproof sabotage left traces.”

“Possibly,” Serov admitted. “Though if the aircraft had gone down over the White Sea as we hoped, we wouldn’t have to worry now.”

“Don’t mince words with me, Feodor Mikhailovich,” Reichardt snapped.

“You have the
MVD
about to swarm around your ears, correct?”

“Yes. A Major Koniev arrives tomorrow morning.”

“Koniev …” Reichardt paused momentarily, clearly pondering the name.

Then he continued: “Very well. What is it that you wish of me?”

Serov swallowed hard, hating what he was about to do. Betraying the official trust by dealing with the ex-Stasi agent and his employer had been difficult enough. Betraying one’s own comrades was harder still.

But then the faces of his wife and children rose in his mind, reminding him of the price of failure. He set his misgivings aside. “There is a potential weak link.”

“Grushtin,” Reichardt guessed.

“Yes,” Serov confirmed. “Nikolai is a talented mechanic and artificer, but I’m afraid he is not a good liar.”

“Unfortunate,” Reichardt said simply. “So where is the gifted Captain Grushtin now? On the base?”

Serov shook his head unconsciously. “No. I sent him on leave once he finished his work on the project. As a reward, you understand.”’ “Where is he then?” the German demanded.

Reichardt repeated.

“Where exactly?” him.

Reichardt did not even bother to hide the sudden wolfish hunger in his voice.

“Excellent, Feodor Mikhailovich. It appears that Captain Nikolai Grushtin may yet perform another service for us, after all.”

“Moscow.”

“Moscow,” Serov told
MAY
31

Maintenance Hangar, Secondary Runway, Kandalaksha Helen Gray leaned close to Peter Thorn’s ear and whispered, “Jesus Christ! If this is an example of Colonel General Serov’s full cooperation, I’d sure hate to see him stonewalling.”

Peter nodded grimly.

The Russian base commander had set aside an empty, unused hangar for their use. As a place to conduct confidential interviews it left much to be desired. With the doors open, the noise from the Kandalaksha flight line was deafening. With the doors closed, the unheated hangar’s thick concrete walls trapped both the nighttime cold and the lingering reek of spilled fuel, oil, and grease. Crude drawings and coarse jokes left spray-painted on the walls by long-discharged Russian conscripts added to the general air of disrepair.

Nor were the other aspects of Serov’s “cooperation” much better.

At the Russian general’s insistence, one of his top aides, a lean, hatchet-faced colonel named Petrov, sat in on every interview—perched across the table in full view of every hapless enlisted man they questioned. Tough-looking sentries wearing body armor and toting AK-74 assault rifles were also posted at the hangar entrance.

Serov had explained these steps as a necessary precaution, given the presence of nuclear weapons at Kandalaksha. “We take security very seriously here, Miss Gray,” he had said, and then, with a sidelong glance at Peter Thorn’s U.S. Army uniform, “although it is clear that others in the Ministry of Defense do not share my concerns.”

Bull, Helen thought. She’d bet cold, hard cash that the Russian general’s precautions were intended to intimidate potential witnesses—not to protect nukes that were stored in bombproof bunkers miles away.

If she was right, the worst of it was that Serov’s plan was working.

So far all of the ground crewmen they’d interviewed had insisted that nothing out of the ordinary occurred while the O.S.I.A inspection team’s An-32 was being readied for takeoff. She didn’t believe them. Nobody liked being questioned by the police, but there were too many hesitations, too many nervous glances at Serov’s aide, too many dry mouths, and too many sweaty brows for her to buy their stories.

No. Something had gone badly wrong out there on the Kandalaksha flight line. But they still didn’t know whether to pin the blame on sloppy procedures or deliberate sabotage.

Frustrated, Helen turned her attention back to the aircraft mechanic Alexei Koniev was questioning. She couldn’t follow the rapid-fire flow of Russian, but she could read body language plainly. The mechanic, a private, had flat, Asiatic features that marked him out as a native of Russia’s Far East. A nervous tic near the corner of one eye told her he was frightened.

Koniev snapped out a question, listened briefly to the private’s hesitant, uncertain reply, and then waved him away in disgust.

“No dice?” Helen asked.

“Nothing,” Koniev snorted. He nodded toward the mechanic, already hurrying out of the hangar. “According to that one, the sky was blue.

The birds were singing. The flowers were in bloom.

And he and his comrades did everything humanly possible to make sure that plane was ready to fly.”

Peter Thorn leaned over. “Who’s next?”

Koniev glanced down at the unit roster open on the table in front of him. “A Lieutenant Vladimir Chernavin.” He frowned.

“Perhaps the lieutenant will demonstrate his fitness to be a member of the officer class by telling us something resembling the truth.”

Helen shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe.”

Despite her skepticism, she had to admit that Chernavin made a better first impression than his subordinates. The lieutenant was short, an inch or so below her own five foot ten, but he was solidly built—carrying enough muscle to show that he did his own share of the grunt work out on the flight line. Closecropped brown hair topped a round, open, boyish face that proclaimed his youth. He also had a ready, infectious smile.

Chernavin took the chair Koniev indicated. His eyes took in Peter’s military uniform and widened. “You are American?” he asked in passable English.

After a quick glance at Koniev, Peter nodded. “Colonel Thorn , U.S. Army.” He indicated Helen. “And this is Special Agent Gray of the U.S. Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

The Russian lieutenant grinned excitedly. “I am very glad to meet you, Colonel! And you, Miss Gray.”

Helen didn’t even try to conceal her surprise. “Really, Lieutenant?

Then you’re the first person I’ve run across here at Kandalaksha who’s happy to talk to us. Most of your subordinates seem to think we’re either spies or secret policemen.”

Chernavin’s open, friendly face clouded over. “Ah.” He shrugged.

“Then they are ignorant peasants. Their heads are still stuffed full of the old Cold War propaganda. They have not studied America and its marvels as I have.”

The young Russian brightened again. “I hope to visit your country one day, you see! So I am not afraid.”

“You do know we’re here to investigate your unit’s work on the An-32 that crashed eleven days ago?” Koniev cut in impatiently.

“You understand that, Lieutenant Chernavin?”

“Of course.”

Helen fought to keep her face impassive. The Russian Air Force lieutenant seemed blissfully unconcerned by their inquiry.

Why? She leaned forward. “It doesn’t bother you that an aircraft you worked on went down in the woods shortly after taking off from here-killing everyone on board?”

Chernavin lowered his gaze. “Oh, no. No. I did not mean that.” He looked up at Helen. “Of course, I am very, very sorry that all those people died. It is a great tragedy, naturally. A great tragedy.”

“A tragedy? Not an accident? Not a disaster?” Koniev said skeptically. “Explain that, Lieutenant.”

The young Russian officer spread his hands apart. “I only meant that, whatever caused the aircraft to go down, it had nothing to do with the work performed here at Kandalaksha.”

Helen smiled at Chernavin. If Koniev wanted to grab the tough guy spot in the good cop-bad cop routine, she would oblige. “You seem very sure of that, Lieutenant.”

He nodded emphatically. “Yes.”

“Why?” Koniev rapped out. “Why are you so sure, Chernavin?”

“Because Captain Grushtin handled the preflight check himself,” the Russian maintenance officer said confidently.

Grushtin? Helen glanced down at the maintenance records in front of her. She’d spent enough time in Russia to puzzle out the Cyrillic alphabet, and Koniev had scribbled a hasty translation of the Air Force technical terms and jargon. She looked up at the young Russian officer. “Just who is this Captain Grushtin, Lieutenant ?”

For the first time, Chernavin seemed unsure of himself. “Captain Nikolai Grushtin is one of the chief maintenance officers on the base.”

His gaze swiveled from Helen to Koniev and back again. “He is a brilliant mechanic. Brilliant. So you see, that is why I am confident that this crash had nothing to do with our work here.”

Koniev slid his own copy of the An-32 maintenance log across the table toward the younger man. “If this Captain Grushtin performed the preflight check himself, Chernavin, perhaps you can tell me why he is not listed in this log. or anywhere else for that matter!”

Clearly surprised, the lieutenant stared down at the papers for a moment. Then he snapped his fingers and looked up. “Captain Grushtin is not listed because he was not officially assigned to supervise the ground crews on that day. The log would only show those of us on that morning’s flight line roster.”

Helen felt her heart rate quicken—aware that it was the same sensation she used to have on the Hostage Rescue Team firing range when the first real target popped up. She shook her head.

“So this Grushtin character just showed up unannounced and you let him handle the An-32 maintenance work?”

Chernavin nodded. “Of course. He is my superior officer.”

“And that didn’t seem strange to you?” she pressed further.

“No …” the Russian lieutenant said slowly. He tried to explain.

“The captain is a perfectionist and this was an important flight—one with so many foreigners aboard. I thought he just wanted to make certain the aircraft was readied according to his standards.”

I bet he did, Helen thought coldly. She sat back while Koniev took the ball.

“And you found nothing unusual in this-even after the plane crashed?”

The
MVD
major glowered across the table at Chernavin.

“Why was that, Lieutenant?”

The Russian Air Force officer reddened. He lowered his gaze, unable to meet Koniev’s glare. “Well, you see, I …”

He wanted to duck any responsibility for the crash, Helen realized suddenly. And Grushtin’s intervention gave him a convenient out. If Kandalaksha’s most “brilliant” mechanic had missed something in the preflight check, then how could anyone blame a young junior officer like him? Her mouth twisted in distaste as she stared at Chernavin.

She’d never been able to stomach people who tried to dodge accountability for their own actions.

“If Captain Grushtin wasn’t managing the flight line that day, what was his official duty assignment?” Peter Thorn asked abruptly.

Chernavin looked startled. He glanced quickly at Serov’s aide and lowered his voice. “He was in charge of a special project.”’ The Russian lieutenant nodded pointedly toward Thorn’s American uniform and said knowingly, “The special engine project.”

What the hell was this “special engine project,” Helen wondered, and why did Chernavin seem to expect Peter to know all about it? Was there any connection at all between Gasparov’s heroin smuggling, the cryptic notation in John Avery’s inspection log, and this “project”? Or were they looking at a series of unrelated events?

“That’s quite enough, Lieutenant!” Colonel Boris Petrov loudly interrupted, breaking her train of thought.

Chernavin fell silent, looking more worried than ever.

Serov’s top aide scowled at Koniev. “Your authorization for this inquiry does not include prying into unrelated state secrets, Major!

Especially not in front of foreigners! So you will confine your questions to matters involving the An-32 and the ground crews. Is that clear?”

Alexei Koniev stiffened in anger, and Helen braced herself for the explosion. Several months spent working closely with the
MVD
major had shown her that he had a deeply hidden temper.

It rarely showed itself, but interference in the performance of what he perceived as his duty was the one thing guaranteed to set him off.

Koniev’s cell phone chirped unexpectedly—heading off his intended reply. Impatiently, he flipped it open. “Yes. Koniev speaking.”

The
MVD
officer listened intently for a time, his face growing angrier by the minute. Finally, he gripped the phone tighter and responded, “I see. You’re quite sure? Very well. I’ll call you back.”

Koniev snapped his phone shut and turned toward Helen and Peter. His lips were compressed in a thin, tight line. “The lab tests on the recovered engine came back. There were fresh tool scrapes on the fuel filter.”

“Meaning what?” Helen asked softly.

“Meaning that Captain Grushtin or one of his men changed the engine fuel filter here at Kandalaksha—and deliberately installed a contaminated replacement,” Koniev said bluntly.