War Plan Red (16 page)

“I can do better than that: I can leave a voice memo in my secure memo file and give you the code to access it.”

“Secure memo file? What the hell’s that?”

“It’s part of the embassy voice mail system. We all have them. You call your telephone number, enter a COMSEC code, and after the prompt dial a six-digit, three-letter access code. This gets you into the memo file, then you leave a message.”

“And it’s totally secure?”

“Totally. It’s a place to park important messages. Later you can download them to the comm center onto a CD-ROM or print them out for file. I used my memo system all the time when we were in Olenya Bay. It saves time; you don’t have to sit down and type out a report or memo on a computer. If you don’t need the memo, you dump it or keep it and edit it. You can access the memo file from any phone in the world. We used our special cell phones because they’re compatible with the comm center’s scramblers.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“It didn’t seem important.”

Scott exhaled heavily. “Did Frank have a memo system?”

“He must have. We all have them.”

“Did he use it in Olenya Bay?”

“I don’t know, I suppose he did…. Oh my God, I see what you’re getting at: Frank may have left information on his memo file about the meeting with Radchenko.”

Scott saw that her skin had gone all goose bumpy. “Put something on. We’ve got work to do.”

Scott dialed the COMSEC code Alex said would activate the memo system.

“You have requested access to a secure communications system of the United States Embassy,” said the recorded female voice. “To access the system, please enter your six-digit access code, then wait for the prompt to enter your three-letter confirmation code.”

“Okay, we know Frank had a memo file,” Scott said. “Now what?”

“We could ask Jack Slaughter for the access code,” Alex said.

“Forget it: Stretzlof would find out and know what we’re up to. We’ll have to find the code ourselves.

Maybe among Frank’s things.”

“If it is, it’d be on a plastic card,” Alex said. “One smaller than a credit card.”

Scott cut open one of the sealed boxes containing Drummond’s papers and started pawing through them while Alex cut open another box.

“I just thought of something,” she said. “Those cards are self-destructing. They fade after six weeks and you can’t read them.”

“Frank was here for, what, six months?” Scott said.

“Close to it. Damn.”

Scott knew Frank was never careless when it came to security and wouldn’t write the code on a piece of paper and carry it on him. He’d have committed the number to memory. But memory can be tricky, and important things are sometimes forgotten. So he’d have a backup in case he needed it. Then again, maybe he wouldn’t need a backup.

“Can people customize their memo codes?” Scott said.

“Sure: I did, but they warn you not to use anything obvious, like birthdays and anniversaries. Why?”

“Let’s try something,” Scott said.

“If you’re thinking of using different number and letter combinations, good luck. We tried that on Frank’s computer and it didn’t work, remember?”

Scott picked up the receiver and held it away from his ear so Alex could listen in while he accessed the memo system.

The recorded female voice said, “…please enter your six-digit access code, then wait for the prompt to enter your three-letter confirmation code.”

“What are you going to enter?” Alex said.

“The hull numbers of the two submarines Frank commanded: 767 and 778.”

“The what?”

“I’ll explain it later.” Scott keyed the numbers; a tone sounded, then the voice. “Please enter your three-letter confirmation code.”

“I don’t believe it.”

He shushed her and punched in SSN.

Another tone, then: “Access permitted. You have accessed Level One Memo Security. Observe all procedures required for the recording, hearing, and printing of memo documents. When finished, enter J-Star to print documents. Enter T-Star to hear a recorded memo in date order. Enter X-Star to initiate deletion and destruction procedures. Warning: Deletion and destruction procedures cannot be reversed after initiation!”

Scott entered T-Star. A tick later Drummond’s voice with a burst overlay from the armored cell phone came through the receiver like a jolt of electricity.

“Record to memo at twenty hundred hours on four October oh-six…confirming meeting with one Andre Radchenko able seaman assigned to Russian Northern Fleet submarine K-363 …at Novy Polyarnyy Hotel in Murmansk….”

The words rushed over Scott, their force almost palpable.

“…Radchenko has information that I believe is genuine…. Chechen terrorists under command of General Alikhan Zakayev…repeat, Alikhan Zakayev…”

Alex’s hand flew to her mouth.

“…are planning an operation against the submarine base at Olenya Bay….”

Alex parked the borrowed Skoda in front of a graffitied apartment block on Viatskij Prospekt and doused the headlights. Kids kicked a soccer ball back and forth between the hulks of abandoned cars sitting in a trash-strewn lot illuminated by a solitary sodium vapor street lamp casting a green pallor over their game.

“You can still change your mind and return to the embassy,” Scott said. “It’s not too late.”

“No: I said I would do it and I’m going to,” Alex said. “Anyway, the hell with Stretzlof. David too.”

Scott leaned over and kissed her. “Then let’s go. He’s waiting for us.”

They climbed concrete stairs past baby carriages and trash cans. The place smelled of urine and old cooking. Babies squalled; couples argued; an American situation comedy dubbed in Russian blared from a TV. They found Abakov’s apartment, a 1960s Khrushchev-era khrusheba, on the fifth floor and rang the bell.

The door opened and Yuri Abakov, looking exhausted, a day’s growth on his face, and wearing rumpled clothes and worn carpet slippers, waved them in. His wife, a pretty young woman with a head of curly orange hair, stood in the doorway of the tiny kitchen. “My wife, Elaina,” Abakov said with a perfunctory wave in her direction.

“Dobro pojalovat! Bud’te kak doma! Welcome. Come in. Make yourselves at home,” she said.

The apartment was small, considering that Abakov, a senior FSB investigator, made a good living. But in Russia, Scott recalled, men like Abakov often went without pay for months while the bills piled up.

For the Abakovs, a bigger, more modern apartment was out of the question.

In the living room a solitary window looked out over the trash-strewn lot from where the thud of the soccer ball and the shouts of kids roughhousing reached the apartment. A folded newspaper had been left on the worn cloth sofa where Abakov indicated Scott and Alex should sit. Abakov dropped into a lumpy armchair.

Elaina brought in a bottle of Gjelka vodka with its intricate blue and white label, and plates piled with smoked sturgeon, caviar, homemade pickled cucumbers, and black bread cut into triangles.

Abakov, looking anxious, watched her depart. In English he said, “Excuse Elaina, she is young and likes to entertain, but we don’t often have guests. She wanted to make chicken tabaka, but I told her there wouldn’t be time for that.”

“She’s very pretty,” Alex said.

“I was a widower, we met, and now I have a family.”

“Thanks for seeing us on short notice,” Scott said.

“You were in luck: I just returned from St. Petersburg.”

“Any information on Zakayev’s whereabouts?”

“None. But I was right about one thing. Those spent nine-millimeter cases we found in Murmansk came from one of the guns used in the St. Petersburg shooting. As for Zakayev, he’s disappeared. You said you had something important. Let’s see what you have.”

Abakov kneaded his forehead while he read Drummond’s memo, which Scott had printed out in the embassy comm center. Scott knew that showing the document to Abakov was a gross violation of security for which for he and Alex could be prosecuted. But there was no time to ask for clearances that might never come from the embassy or the SRO. Abakov seemed to appreciate this when he said,

“You’re both taking a big risk. I shouldn’t be looking at this.”

“The risk is worth taking if we can head off a terrorist attack.”

Abakov let out a heavy breath. “What’s your assessment?”

“It’s clear that Zakayev is either planning to steal fissile materials or something even more dangerous.”

Abakov gave Scott a sharp look. “What could be more dangerous in Zakayev’s hands than stolen fissile material?”

“A nuclear submarine.”

Abakov snorted. “Impossible. There’s no way he can steal a submarine.”

“He could if he had help.”

“From whom?” Abakov said, perhaps seeing the possibility.

“Someone at Olenya Bay. Georgi Litvanov, for instance, the skipper of the K-363, the sub Radchenko served in.”

“He’d need a crew loyal to him.”

“Maybe he’s got one,” Scott said.

Abakov ran a hand over his bald head while digesting this. At length he said, “They have security at Russian sub bases to prevent terrorists from getting on the base.”

“Not according to Alex,” said Scott.

“Security at Olenya Bay is nil,” Alex said. “No one guards the submarines tied up there. The sub crews are responsible for their own security. And there’s no accountability. The base commander doesn’t even know how many subs he has or what condition they’re in. If one of them sank at a pier, he might not know it for days.”

Abakov’s face was grave. “Stealing fissile materials is one thing, but stealing a nuclear submarine…”

Abakov saw Alex give a little wave and smile at someone behind him. He turned around and saw a little boy peeking around the corner from another room. “Sasha,” Abakov said, “I thought you were doing your homework.”

Sasha was joined by his younger sister, wearing pajamas printed with giraffes. She peeked around Sasha at Scott and Alex.

“They’re so cute,” said Alex.

“This is Sasha’s sister, Nina,” Abakov said. “Now, both of you, say good night.” There was an exchange between Abakov and his wife and Elaina apologized for the interruption and shooed the children back to their room.

“Look,” Scott said, “we can’t just sit here, we have to move on this now. You have to alert Olenya Bay and Northern Fleet headquarters.”

Abakov ran a hand over his mouth. “I can’t do that.”

“What the hell do you mean, you can’t do that?”

“I can’t alert them without having ironclad proof that this memo from Admiral Drummond is genuine, that the information in it is accurate. Otherwise no one would believe it.”

“Are you saying you think Drummond may have made it up?” Alex said.

“Of course not. But Drummond is dead, officially a suicide, and so is Radchenko, who, according to this memo, had information about an operation by Zakayev against Olenya Bay.”

“But you know as well as I do,” Scott said, “that Drummond was murdered to prevent him from warning us about this very plan—Zakayev’s plan.”

“We have no proof of that. All we have is circumstantial evidence and suspicions.”

“We have Drummond’s memo, which proves it wasn’t a homosexual rendezvous, that he didn’t commit suicide and kill Radchenko. The hotel porter didn’t smash in the door to Drummond’s room: Zakayev did and then killed them. You have the matching shell cases that prove he was involved in the St.

Petersburg shoot-out and the one in Murmansk that killed Serov. Their feud may even be related to the operation at Olenya Bay. What more do you need?”

“A lot more,” Abakov said, his voice rising. “For instance, how and where did Radchenko get his information? Maybe he made up a story to get money out of Drummond.”

“Frank wouldn’t fall for that,” Alex said.

“How can you be sure? Drummond was looking for Zakayev, and he would be eager for any information that would lead him to him. As for this Litvanov, we have nothing to tie him to Zakayev except the fact Radchenko was a member of his sub crew.”

Alex said, “Colonel, your points are valid. So…would it be possible to get information about Litvanov?

Maybe there’s something in his record that might tie him to Zakayev.”

“Yes, perhaps. But it will take time.” His eyes darted over the memo while he gnawed a knuckle.

“Then you’d better think about this,” said Scott. “In a few days the President of the United States and the President of Russia will hold a summit meeting in St. Petersburg.”

Abakov looked intently at Scott while he listened. Sweat shone on his bald dome.

“I’m no expert on Russian subs,” Scott continued, “but I know that some can launch SS-N-21 cruise missiles equipped with nuclear warheads. They have a range of over sixteen hundred nautical miles. St.

Petersburg can be targeted by a submarine armed with these missiles from anywhere within an arc stretching from the Norwegian Sea to the Barents Sea.”

There was a long silence. The sounds of kids playing, punting a soccer ball, scrambling over the empty trash-strewn lot, penetrated Abakov’s apartment.

Abakov got slowly to his feet. “I think we’d better pay a visit to Olenya Bay.”

Captain First Rank Gennadi Titov, commandant of the Russian Northern Fleet Submarine Base, Olenya Bay, rushed into his office to find Scott, Alex, and Yuri Abakov waiting for him. Titov’s face looked puffy and mapped with capillaries. He appeared flustered by his tardiness and struggled to button his tunic. His chief of staff made introductions.

Titov rocked slightly on his feet as his eyes focused on Alex. “Ah, Dr. Thorne, such a pleasure to have you on board again. I always enjoy your visits—”

“This isn’t a social call, Commandant,” interrupted Abakov. “We’re facing a possible security threat.”

“So my chief of staff has informed me, Colonel,” said Titov, an edge in his voice, his gaze on Abakov’s forest green FSB uniform with gold flashes and decorations. “But he said you were rather cryptic on the phone. So I ask you now: What does this security threat have to do with Olenya Bay?”

Abakov appeared a different man in uniform. His movements were crisp and economical, and his voice conveyed authority. “As you know, Commandant,” said Abakov, “a sailor from this base, Able Seaman Andre Radchenko, assigned to the submarine K-363, was found murdered in Murmansk.”