The Nuclear Option

by Allan Leverone

  She glanced again at her watch. Ten o’clock exactly and still no Valeria Marinovich. Goddammit.

  She had made the drive all the way from Moscow to Pushkino, so she wasn’t about to leave yet. Maybe the woman was just running late. Tracie would give her until ten-thirty and if Mrs. Marinovich still hadn’t arrived, then she would just have to get back in her car and—

  There she was.

  Valeria Marinovich.

  She had pulled into the tiny parking lot and was crossing the pavement toward the café’s entrance.

  It was time to go to work.

  ***

  By the time Tracie entered the café, Valeria Marinovich had taken a seat at a small, two-person wooden table set against the rear wall. Marinovich was studying the door carefully and raised her hand to signal Tracie the moment she spotted her.

  Tracie weaved her way through the dining room and acknowledged the woman with a curt nod, her lips a thin, bloodless slash as she got into character as a no-nonsense KGB operative. She sat across the table without a word.

  “Thank you for meeting me,” Mrs. Marinovich said.

  “Why am I here?” Tracie answered without preamble.

  The woman ignored the question and instead said, “I took the liberty of ordering black tea for both of us. I hope that is satisfactory.”

  “That is perfectly fine. Again, why am I here?”

  Mrs. Marinovich cleared her throat. She looked from Tracie to the surface of the table before returning her gaze to Tracie’s eyes. She was clearly ill at ease; her discomfort couldn’t have been more obvious.

  Tracie waited patiently, meeting the woman’s stare but remaining quiet. Silence was one of the most effective interrogation methods when used properly, and she knew Valeria Marinovich would eventually feel the need to fill that silence with…something.

  The waitress brought their order on a silver serving platter that looked remarkably like the one Valeria herself had used yesterday inside her home. She set it in the middle of the table between the two women and then asked, “Will there be anything else?”

  Still Tracie remained silent, forcing Valeria to answer, “We are fine for now, thank you.”

  The young woman walked away and the waiting game resumed.

  But only for a moment.

  The two women prepared their tea, and then in a quiet voice, Valeria said, “Is my husband in trouble, Miss Dmitrieva?”

  Tracie sipped her tea, letting the woman stew a moment longer. Then she said, “Why would you assume your husband might be in trouble?”

  “We are not accustomed to receiving visits from the KGB.”

  “But this is not the first time Sergei has talked to the KGB in the last few weeks, is it, Mrs. Marinovich?” Taking this tack was a calculated risk, because Tracie had no way of knowing how much, if anything, Marinovich had shared with his wife about previous questioning by the KGB.

  But if rumors of the man’s connection to Sovetskiy Soyuz Navsegda had made their way to the CIA through multiple sources, then it was impossible to imagine any scenario where the KGB would not have become aware of those same rumors. And if that were the case, Tracie knew they would have acted in a highly aggressive manner toward Marinovich.

  Those actions would almost certainly have included a visit to the man’s home, meaning the Russian industrialist could not have kept the questioning from his wife.

  “No,” she said after a brief hesitation. “It is not. But your visit increased my concern for my husband’s welfare immensely.”

  “And why is that, Mrs. Marinovich?”

  “Because after the last visit, Sergei got the distinct impression we would not be hearing from you people again.”

  “Is that so?” Tracie said.

  “Da, it is so.”

  She took another sip of her tea. Getting Marinovich’s wife to begin speaking was a step in the right direction, but Tracie was no closer yet to learning why she’d traveled thirty-five miles out of Moscow for a clandestine meeting with a Russian housewife. It was time to start focusing the conversation.

  “Do you know why the KGB is so interested in your husband, Mrs. Marinovich?”

  “Sergei has long been critical of the decline in quality of the Soviet Union’s leadership over the twenty-plus years. That sort of criticism is certain to draw negative attention when it comes from an average citizen. It is certain to draw much greater attention when it comes from a man as accomplished as Sergei.”

  Tracie nodded slowly. “But criticism of the Soviet government does not typically earn one the kind of up-close and personal attention Sergei has received recently. Do you know specifically why he has drawn so much attention over the last several weeks?”

  The woman fidgeted some more. She sipped her tea, scuffed the floor with one of her shoes. Sighed deeply.

  Then she said, “I told you already. Sergei has been sharply critical of the direction of the Soviet government.”

  “But that is not all, is it, Valeria?” Tracie tried to speak softly and keep her voice unthreatening.

  Tears began to fill the woman’s eyes and she quickly raised her teacup to her mouth to hide the fact that her lower lip had begun quivering.

  “How much of my conversation with Sergei did you overhear yesterday?” Tracie said.

  No answer, but the woman’s distress became more obvious.

  “You were listening at the door for most of the time I was speaking to him, weren’t you?”

  Valeria froze, her teacup pressed to her lips. She sat for a moment and then lowered the cup to the table and said, “How…how did you know?”

  “It is the only thing that makes sense. You knew the KGB had spoken to your husband before yesterday, and you have long known he is vocally opposed to the current Soviet government’s policies. Yet yesterday’s visit got you so upset you slipped me a note instructing you to meet me several kilometers away from your home at a time on a Monday morning when you knew Sergei would be at work.”

  “I am terrified for him,” she said. “That is why I listened at his office door, and that is why I wanted to speak with you today. I do not want to go behind Sergei’s back, but at the same time I do not want to see him disappear. I cannot lose him.”

  “Why do you feel you might lose him?”

  “I know how the KGB operates,” she said bitterly. “I lost family members decades ago under Stalin’s rule and I do not wish to lose my husband the same way. He would be furious if he knew I was meeting you here, but I do not care. I know you are closing in on him and I will not allow him to be taken away if there is something I can do to stop it.”

  “You have the information I am looking for, don’t you?” Tracie said. “You know the name of the Sovetskiy Soyuz Navsegda contact to whom your husband has been funneling money.”

  “If I give you this information I need to know Sergei will not be harassed anymore. I need to know he will be left alone.”

  Tracie’s heart broke for the woman, but nothing had changed. There was still a missing Russian nuke that was potentially threatening the United States, and if taking advantage of this poor woman’s concern for her husband’s welfare was what it was going to take to get a line on the location of that nuke, that is exactly what she would do.

  “I am not in a position to make such a guarantee,” she said, knowing that to say anything else would only raise Valeria’s suspicions. The woman had lost relatives to the KGB, so she knew exactly how they operated. She knew they would never give her the peace of mind she craved.

  “However,” Tracie continued, “I can promise you this: if you provide me with the name of your husband’s Navsegda contact, and the information turns out to be legitimate, I will make the strongest possible recommendation to my superiors that Sergei be left alone. You have my word. That is best offer I can give you.”

  “I understand,” Valeria said. “And I appreciate your honesty.”

  Mrs. Marinovich breathed deeply, the sound of her sigh nervous and unsure. Then s
he seemed to steel herself as she came to a decision.

  She reached into her purse and withdrew a slip of paper that had been folded in half.

  Passed it across the table to Tracie.

  Said, “This is the name of the person to whom Sergei has contributed more of our money than I care to think about. The name will ‘turn out to be legitimate,’ as you put it. Please, please do your best to leave Sergei out of whatever happens from this point on.”

  Tracie unfolded the paper and read the name. There was a street address accompanying it. “Dimitri Kozlov of Moscow,” she read. She spoke softly, mostly for Valeria’s benefit. The woman’s nervousness was readily apparent, but to Tracie it was clear nobody in the busy café was paying the slightest attention to the two of them.

  “Da,” the woman said. “If there is nothing else, I will be on my way.” She pushed to her feet and was about to turn toward the door when Tracie spoke.

  “Not just yet,” she said. “I want to know everything you can tell me about this Dimitri Kozlov.”

  Valeria sighed deeply and took her seat, her reluctance obvious. “I know Sergei served in the Soviet Army many years ago with Kozlov. I know both Kozlov and my husband retired from military service at approximately the same time. For a very long time afterward they went without speaking, as far as I am aware.”

  “But that changed within the last few years,” Tracie prompted after a short silence.

  “That is correct. As leaders of the Supreme Soviet began changing facets of our society that have served the Russian people well for decades, my husband began to become more and more frustrated. He felt these changes were not for the better, and was not shy about voicing that opinion.”

  “And when he began voicing that opinion, Dimitri Kozlov reappeared in his life.”

  “That is also correct, at least as far as I am aware.” The woman was being careful to qualify her statements, but Tracie felt certain the information was valid. She doubted yesterday was the first time Valeria Marinovich had stood outside the closed door of her husband’s office, listening to one of his conversations.

  “And when Sergei contributes money to Navsegda, how—”

  “Oh, no,” Valeria interrupted. “Just to be clear, Sergei has never contributed money to any group with subversive intentions. He is a loyal and patriotic Russian who would never work to undermine his government, a government he knows has nothing but the best of intentions for its citizens. When he gives money to Kozlov, it is either a personal loan to a friend or to complete a purchase of some sort.”

  Tracie pursed her lips together, working hard to suppress the smile that was trying to appear. She wanted to ask what kind of purchase a rich Russian businessman might make from a radical Sovetskiy Soyuz Navsegda member, but knew that would accomplish nothing. The woman was just trying her best to protect her husband from someone she saw as a representative of the Soviet government.

  “My mistake,” Tracie said. “I apologize. When Sergei loans Comrade Kozlov money or makes a purchase, how does he do so? Through the mail? Bank transfer?”

  Valeria shook her head. “Neither. They meet in person. Usually Sergei goes by car and brings cash. They never meet at Sergei’s place of business, and they certainly never meet at our home.”

  “You don’t know specifically where Sergei meets Comrade Kozlov?”

  “I do not.”

  “How long is Sergei gone when he meets with Kozlov?”

  Valeria looked down at the table, her forehead creased. “I would say he is not typically away for longer than an hour during these meetings.”

  “Does Sergei have any meetings with Comrade Kozlov upcoming?”

  “I do not know for sure. Not that I am aware of.”

  “Have you ever met Kozlov?”

  “Of course not. Sergei never involves me in his business dealings, and he would certainly never involve me with a man like Dimitri Kozlov.”

  Tracie glanced at the slip of paper and then met Valeria’s gaze. “If you do not know where Sergei meets Kozlov and have never seen the man, how do you know his address?”

  Valeria fidgeted uncomfortably. She sipped her tea and sighed. Fidgeted some more.

  Then she said, “I told you earlier I will do whatever I must to protect my husband. If that includes picking through his desk when he is not at home, or listening in on his private conversations, so be it. I will not apologize for trying to keep Sergei safe.”

  The answer touched Tracie. She thought about her father’s death, and while the situation with Jake Tanner’s murder was not even remotely similar to the Marinovich situation, still she wished she had been able to do more to protect him.

  As Valeria Marinovich was doing to protect her husband.

  “I understand,” Tracie said quietly. “Probably better than you realize.”

  “May I leave now?” Valeria said.

  Tracie nodded.

  As soon as she did, Valeria was up and out of her seat. She was halfway to the door when Tracie called, “Mrs. Marinovich.”

  The woman turned reluctantly.

  “Take care of yourself,” Tracie said.

  She turned without answering and walked quickly out of the café.

  And Tracie was alone.

  14

  June 13, 1988

  12:35 p.m.

  Moscow, Russia, USSR

  Tracie returned to her safe house before heading to the Moscow address Valeria Marinovich had given her for Dimitri Kozlov. She packed some things she thought she might need into a canvas bag, which she then placed in the back seat of her stolen VAZ.

  She was in Moscow less than two hours after her meeting with Valeria Marinovich.

  Not knowing what Kozlov looked like could represent a major stumbling block, so she wanted to waste no time beginning her hunt for the Sovetskiy Soyuz Navsegda member. If he lived in a high rise apartment, as did so many Muscovites, knowing his approximate age—he was a military contemporary of Sergei Marinovich, so he would have to be in his mid fifties or older—would narrow the possibilities, but maybe only from one of hundreds of men down to one of dozens.

  And with a nuclear device possibly already on its way to the United States—or, God forbid, even already in place—Tracie felt an urgency for action above and beyond even what her missions typically entailed. And that was saying something.

  As she approached the address, her heart sank. She’d been hoping against hope—and against the odds—that Dimitri Kozlov lived in a single-family home, as did General Gregorovich and Sergei Marinovich. Such an occurrence would make her job much easier. But this part of Moscow was densely packed with high-rise apartments, and she knew before even coming within a half-mile of the address written on the slip of paper that she wasn’t going to be so fortunate.

  She gave a resigned shrug and continued past Kozlov’s building. It was a bland concrete-block high-rise typical of modern Soviet architecture, at least fourteen stories high and probably more. She didn’t have to slow down to get a good look, because the traffic was already moving at a crawl. It was brutal, tiny Soviet econobox cars belching blue smoke and creeping forward at barely a walking pace amid honking horns and frustrated drivers shouting obscenities and making rude gestures toward each other.

  Feels like driving in the Bronx, Tracie thought with a smile.

  She circled the block and approached again, this time crossing the flow of slow-moving traffic and pulling to a stop in the parking lot at the base of the structure. It was much smaller than the lot would be for an American apartment building of equivalent size. Most Russians either couldn’t afford cars or—if they lived in the city like Kozlov—didn’t bother with them.

  She bumped across the rutted, pothole-strewn pavement and pulled to a stop in an empty space. Sat for a few minutes, thinking.

  Then she pushed her car door open and approached the building.

  A glass double door opened into a small foyer, with a second set of doors standing maybe ten feet beyond the first. Tra
cie stepped into the foyer, not bothering to check whether the second set of doors might be unlocked. Her goal wasn’t to access the building.

  A series of small, tarnished metal mailboxes were set into the wall to the right of the entrance, with a buzzer corresponding to each apartment beneath its box. Names scrawled in ink on small slips of paper set behind tiny glass rectangles on the front of each box indicated who lived in each apartment.

  Tracie scanned the mailboxes until finding the one she was looking for. Kozlov was not an uncommon Russian surname, and Tracie hoped she wouldn’t encounter more than one mailbox with that name.

  She didn’t. According to the mailbox, Dimitri Kozlov lived in Apartment 1204. Tracie had no way of knowing whether the man lived alone, or even if he was home at this time on a Monday afternoon.

  But there was nothing to lose by trying, so she reached out and pressed the button beneath the mailbox for Apartment 1204. It had originally been white plastic, but with the passage of time had turned a dirty gray.

  She released the button and waited. Maybe ten seconds later a gruff voice blared through a tinny speaker built into the wall next to the mailboxes. The voice was staticky and hard to understand, but clearly male.

  “What is it?” the voice said.

  “Is this Dimitri Kozlov?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “Package delivery.”

  “I didn’t order any packages.”

  “Well, if you’re Dimitri Kozlov, somebody sent you one.”

  After a short pause, the staticky voice said, “All right, bring it up.” That was followed by a harsh buzz as Kozlov unlocked the second set of doors.

  Tracie waited for the buzzer to stop and said into the speaker, “I don’t deliver inside apartment buildings. You’ll have to come down and pick it up.”

  Now the voice was annoyed in addition to staticky. “I am not even expecting a package. I do not wish to go all the way down to the front door.”