War Plan Red (7 page)

Abakov, a blank expression on his face, appeared unconvinced.

“Now let me tell you something,” Abakov said evenly in English. “I’ve been an investigator for almost thirty years. I understand human nature. I learned to think not only with my brain”—he tapped his head with a thick finger—“but also with my eyes. Sometimes the truth is right in front of you and all you have to do is look at it. Sometimes it even jumps up and bites you in the ass. There in Murmansk, in that hotel room, was Admiral Drummond, dead, shot in the head. Lying next to him was the young sailor, Andre Radchenko, also dead. Admiral Drummond had in his hand the pistol used to kill the young man and himself. What the report doesn’t say is that the two were found lying very close together, embracing, you might even say. Each had a hand on the other’s genitals, more or less, rigor mortis being what it is.”

Alex put a hand to her mouth.

“Experience told me that these two had had a gomoseksualist—homosexual—encounter. But something went wrong. Perhaps they had had a lovers’ quarrel. It happens all the time. Or perhaps Admiral Drummond realized that one day he would return to his wife and couldn’t bear the thought of losing his young male lover.”

“Nonsense,” Alex said. “None of that fits the Frank Drummond I knew. What you’ve described is totally out of character.”

Abakov’s gaze fixed on Alex. At length he said, “Dear lady, you were intimate with Admiral Drummond?”

“What do you mean by ‘intimate’?”

“Did you have sexual intercourse with him?”

Alex started. “Of course not. Our relationship was strictly business.”

“Then how do you know he wasn’t gay or bisexual?”

“A woman can tell.”

Abakov shrugged dismissively. “Of course.”

“I want to view Drummond’s body before it’s prepared for shipment to the States,” Scott said. “Alex?”

She nodded faintly.

“Can you make the arrangements, Colonel?”

Abakov looked exasperated.

“What’s the problem?” Scott said.

“The problem, Captain, is that my department lacks manpower. The few men I have are overworked.

Visiting a corpse uses up time better spent solving crimes. I myself have not been home for supper in a week and my children have forgotten what I look like. My wife is not, as you Americans would say, a happy camper.”

“Sorry,” said Scott.

“Sorry, yes.” Abakov pointed to a stack of case folders on his desk and on the floor. “The FSB has a backlog of these and not enough men to handle them.” He picked up a file and slapped it with the back of a hand. “Here, for instance. We’ve had to send a team to St. Petersburg to find an FSB officer who has been missing for several days. We have no idea what happened to him. On top of that, there was also a mafiya shoot-out in St. Petersburg in which a man ended up dead, another perhaps badly wounded, but we don’t know for sure. It appears the dead man was a member of Ivan Serov’s organization, which has links to Alikhan Zakayev, who we believe was behind the bombing of the Tchaikovsky Concert Hall. The pressure from the Kremlin, to say nothing of your Secret Service, to find Zakayev before the summit opens is unrelenting.”

“He’s your number one suspect?” Scott said.

“Yes. He’s a monster who enjoys killing Russians. Can you imagine killing a thousand innocent civilians? The sooner we find and capture him, the sooner we can end this nightmare of terrorism.”

“Any leads on his whereabouts?” Scott said.

“All we know is that where one finds Serov, one often finds Zakayev.”

“Interesting. What do you make of the fact that Zakayev may have been in St. Petersburg?” Scott said.

“At the moment, nothing. In any event, I am eager to wrap up this Drummond business,” Abakov said, shifting subjects. “After all, we don’t want something like this unfortunate incident in Murmansk to affect U.S. Russian relations.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Scott said.

Abakov jammed the ushanka on his head and reached for the phone. “I’ll let the morgue know we are coming.”

A 9mm slug had furrowed Zakayev’s left forearm just below the elbow. The girl had fussed over him until the painkillers made him drowsy and he fell asleep. He awoke hungry and in pain. While he ate, the girl demonstrated by poking a finger through a bullet hole in the sleeves of his cashmere topcoat and suit jacket, both stiff with dried blood, the track the bullet had taken.

“Get rid of them,” Zakayev said. “Your fur coat too.”

The girl tied everything in a bundle and took them into the work area of the car repair shop for disposal.

He had no recollection of having been shot. Only later had he discovered that his clothes were wet with blood. After he’d been stitched up by one of his men, the pain had set in. He was familiar with bullet wounds: He’d been shot twice by Russian Spetsnaz in Grozny and had the ugly red scar tissue to prove it. There was no way to know for sure, but he wanted to believe that it had been Serov who shot him.

It had been a setup from the start. No one could be trusted now, not even the Brotherhood. The girl was sure she’d shot Serov, but even if she had, he might still be alive and plotting another trap. Still, Serov would have a mess to deal with in the aftermath of the shoot-out that could only be cleaned up by bribing members of the St. Petersburg militia and editors and journalists at newspapers and TV stations.

He would also have to deal with an FSB already on high alert for terrorist and criminal activity, scouring the city for the missing bull. The thought of Serov feeling heat from the authorities made Zakayev feel better.

The girl returned and watched while Zakayev changed into a nondescript outfit that made him look like a uchitel—a teacher—perhaps from some small, provincial technical school. He shaved off his pencil mustache, donned a ushanka, and wound a wool scarf around his neck to complete the transformation.

The girl, in boots, leather pants, and bulky sweater, would pose as one of his students.

Zakayev heard the hiss and crackle of a transceiver. The man with the black headband who had savaged the bull entered the shop’s small office that had served as Zakayev’s temporary headquarters.

“Anything?” Zakayev asked.

“Not yet, General,” said the man. “There’s been no sign of Serov or his men. We checked everywhere, even the hospitals. Maybe he’s dead.”

“You’ve done well,” Zakayev said. “But Serov is like a cat with nine lives. I have a feeling we’ll hear from him again.” He looked around the squalid quarters. “Tell the others we’ll be done soon.”

The man and his crackling radio departed. The girl helped Zakayev pack a small black suitcase with wheels and a retractable handle. Inside were outfits he’d wear later. She had packed her own things in a red nylon backpack similar to those favored by college students the world over. When they were finished, Zakayev summoned his men.

His eyes roamed their faces. They had taken a blood oath to avenge the brutal slaughter of their families in Chechnya and to prove their unquestioned loyalty to him. They had fought at his side, shared the hardships and tragedies the war in Chechnya had unleashed, and together had killed scores of Russian soldiers.

Zakayev recalled an incident during which he and his men had seemingly been driven mad by their unquenchable lust for revenge. He had sucked the coppery taste of blood from the stump of a tooth shattered by the butt of an assault rifle slammed against his face. He spat blood in the Russian’s face before driving the butt of his own assault rifle into the soldier’s guts, then watched the man choke to death on his own vomit. Zakayev, bleeding from his mouth, head swimming from the blow to this face, leaped over a crumbled wall that once had been part of a house in a small village outside Grozny and, with the girl at his side, took cover.

Locusts shrilled in the midsummer Chechen heat. The landscape rose and fell in unruly heaps of green around decaying homes and farms. Dilapidated houses lined the town’s deserted main street. He saw punched out windows with torn curtains and, farther on, burned-out buildings and piles of rubble. A fire-blackened Russian truck lay upside down, its undercarriage looking like the exposed belly of a giant scorched bug. Six corpses lay scattered around it.

The Russian Zakayev had just killed brought the total to seven. There were at least five more Russians trapped in the barn. The evidence of their crime was in plain view: On the side of the barn in which the Russians hid were the naked crucified bodies of a young Chechen woman and her infant. The Russian soldiers had raped the mother, then nailed her and the child to the side of the barn, driving long iron spikes through their hands and feet. The pale corpses hung, spread eagle, from the weathered planks.

Zakayev and his men caught the soldiers standing around the barn laughing, smoking, drinking vodka.

Hit by an RPG, their truck had roared into the air and crashed back to earth in a ball of flame. The dead lay where they had fallen, twisted, formless, some headless. The others had put up a brief firefight from inside the barn but knew it was hopeless.

After they surrendered Zakayev, made them take the woman and child down and dig their graves. Then, while the Russians, herded back-to-back in a circle, begged for their lives, Zakayev tied them up like a bundle of cordwood. After they were thoroughly doused with gasoline, he set them on fire.

“Ali?”

The mention of his name jolted him from the memory of that day.

“Fighters! You have proven your dedication to the battle for Chechen independence,” Zakayev said.

“We are fighting a war that we will gladly sacrifice our lives to win. There are still more battles to come, and because our work here is finished, I am releasing you from my command so you can return to Chechnya. There you will organize yourselves, form new cadres, and prepare for the collapse of Russia. When the collapse comes, it will come quickly, perhaps within days. Regional pro Russian administrators will try to maintain stability in Chechnya, but they and their puppet prime minister will fail because Russia as we know it will cease to exist. Align yourselves as quickly as you can with the new forces of independence that will emerge from the old regime. They will be Chechnya’s future.”

Each man made a short, awkward speech and renewed his vow of loyalty to Zakayev. The girl produced a bottle of vodka. She filled glasses, jars, and tin cups, which the group, Muslims drinking Russian vodka, raised to toast Zakayev. “Za vashe zdarov’e!” Afterward each man had a private moment with Zakayev before departing. The man with the black band around his head waited until the others had departed before speaking to Zakayev.

“I volunteer to stay behind, General, to make sure that Serov is dead. If he’s not, I will kill him.”

Zakayev poured the man another vodka and one for himself. “Forget Serov. He can’t stop us now. No one can. Go back to Chechnya with the others.”

“It has been a privilege to serve with you, General. Perhaps someday you will visit Grozny and I will have a new wife and children to present for your blessing.”

“Yes, someday,” Zakayev said. He thought about what he himself had lost and what this man might gain. “Name one of your children for me.”

The men loaded their gear in two cars and departed. One by one, the girl began shutting off the lights in the shop. The man who owned the shop, a Chechen, was due to return from a visit to his wife’s family in Pskov and scheduled to reopen for business in the morning without having laid eyes on Zakayev or his men. Or knowing that a freshly dug grave behind the shop had been hidden under parts from wrecked automobiles.

Outside, Zakayev looked at the girl. The backpack hung from her thin shoulders. She had tied her hair back in a long ponytail sticking out from under a knit cap pulled down over her ears. To Zakayev she was just a beautiful child. “Are you afraid?” he asked.

“Afraid of dying?”

“That too.”

She kissed his cheek. After a last look around the shop, she closed and bolted the door.

5

Moscow Central Morgue

T he flesh looked cold and hard like alabaster. Scott didn’t touch it, just observed while the technician held up one end of the sheet like a tent flap.

He almost didn’t recognize Drummond, which made his task bearable. With several days growth of beard—patchy gray stubble like iron wire—sprouting from a face with a pair of badly sunken cheeks, Drummond looked like he’d been hauled out of a Moscow gutter. Scott imagined Vivian waiting patiently in Falls Church to deliver Drummond’s dress blue uniform, freshly pressed and in a plastic bag, to the funeral home.

Scott examined a small hole in Drummond’s left temple plugged with cotton stained pink. On the opposite temple he saw a large bulge sutured shut with coarse black thread where, the attending pathologist explained, under a mass of brain tissue and skull fragments he had excavated for and found the bullet that had burrowed laterally through Drummond’s head.

Alex, hand to her mouth, hung back. “It’s him, isn’t it?” she said, unable to tear her eyes away.

“Yes, it’s him,” Scott said.

The morgue stank of death and antiseptic. It was a miserable concoction of cracked white and green tile and peeling paint. The only light came from fixtures hanging over the double row of stainless-steel autopsy tables, some of which held sheeted corpses waiting their turn. In a nod to the Americans, two aproned and gloved technicians had agreed to delay their work until the viewing was complete.

“He’s been autopsied,” Scott said, observing the long, sutured scar on the torso. “Why?”

The pathologist started to say something, but Abakov spoke up. “Standard procedure. We check to see if there could be contributing circumstances.”

“A heart attack or a seizure,” the pathologist added.

“It’s pretty obvious what killed him, isn’t it?” Scott said, motioning that the sheet should be lowered.

“It would seem so,” Abakov said, “but there are strict rules we must follow.”

“Where’s the kid that they found with him. Radchenko.”

“Gone,” said the pathologist.

“What do you mean, ‘gone’?”

“Released to his family for burial,” Abakov said. “I can tell you he had a nearly identical wound to the head. Right-side entry but in his case the bullet exited on the left and did quite a bit more damage than you see here in Admiral Drummond.”