The Nuclear Option

by Allan Leverone

  “We are, in fact, investigating the circumstances of the accident. But only one of you had weapons strapped to their body, and it wasn’t the truck driver.”

  She shrugged. “You’re talking nonsense. You really should get that cup of coffee.”

  “Who were you tracking last night, Anastasia Romanov, or Anna Karenina, or whatever your real name is?”

  Tracie spread her hands and shrugged. “You have quite the active imagination, detective.”

  They stared at each other for a long moment, Tracie holding his gaze despite the pounding in her head that made her want to close her eyes and ease her head onto a soft pillow.

  “I assume you examined the ‘tracking device,’ as you called it,” Tracie said. “What happened when you did?”

  “Of course we examined it,” Kuznetsov scoffed. “But it was damaged beyond repair in the accident. It is useless.”

  Tracie kept her face noncommittal but breathed an inner sigh of relief. One small blessing in a night that had turned disastrous.

  “I suppose it really doesn’t matter who or what you were tracking, anyway,” Kuznestov finally ventured. “As I said, we found more than sufficient evidence in your car to conclude you are involved in some kind of anti-Soviet espionage operation. And as far as what you did to Comrade Chernov, ‘simple Russian girls,’ as you called yourself, do not possess that kind of fighting ability.”

  He offered her his best flat cop stare. Tracie returned it without comment.

  “We are having this conversation right now,” he continued, “only to satisfy my own curiosity. But when I leave this room, would you like to know what I will be doing?”

  “Finally getting me that coffee you promised?”

  “You are too flippant by half. Do you not realize how much trouble you are in?” His expression remained neutral but his face began to redden, exactly as it had last night.

  Tracie remained silent and he said, “No, when I leave this room it will not be to get you coffee. I will march straight to my office where I will then phone Lubyanka. I will fill the KGB in on what has transpired last night and this morning, and I am sure they will be interested enough to send a representative here to Rostov. Then that representative will take you away and you will become their problem.”

  They continued to stare each other down, neither blinking, and a fraught silence filled the room.

  “And when that happens,” he said, “I truly feel sorry for you, Anastasia Romanov.”

  It was obvious to Tracie he felt confident his KGB threat would fill her with terror. It would cause her to open up to him and begin spilling her guts, hoping for mercy, or at least for a better outcome dealing with officials in Rostov than she would ever get being questioned by the KGB.

  It was a smart play on his part, and an accurate assessment, as far as it went. The thought of being carted off to Lubyanka and deposited in some wretched cell in the building’s basement that would probably make the Rostov Police’s holding area look like the Four Seasons in DC, where she would be tortured endlessly and never taste freedom again, actually did cause a spike of terror unlike anything she’d ever experienced.

  Still, she worked to avoid showing a reaction.

  He raised his eyebrows in mild surprise. “Nothing to say? No wise remarks?”

  “Fine. I do have something to say.”

  “I thought you might. Now we are getting somewhere.” He reached into his breast pocket and removed a small cassette recorder. He placed it in the middle of the table and pressed the power button and then hit “record.” He didn’t bother asking her permission.

  “You may begin,” he said.

  “I just wanted to say don’t feel sorry for me. I don’t need or want your pity.”

  Kuznetsov slammed a fist on the table, making the recorder jump into the air and then skitter a couple of inches along its surface. He cursed and then turned off the machine, punching at the power button with a stubby finger, missing with his first try and then connecting with his second.

  “Wow,” Tracie said. “I do feel better. I’m glad I was able to get all that off my chest. Thank you, detective.”

  “We are finished here.” Kuznetsov stuffed the recorder into his pocket and stood, shoving the chair back with his calves and glowering at her.

  He stalked to the door, opened it and turned to face her. “You are a damned fool. I gave you every opportunity to explain your actions, but you steadfastly refuse to do yourself any favors. The next time you see me it will be in the company of someone you very much do not want to meet.”

  “I haven’t been particularly excited about seeing anyone in Rostov so far,” Tracie shot back. “From what I’ve seen, Comrade Chernov might be the most upstanding man in town. He should consider running for mayor.”

  “Still with the flippant comments,” Kuznetsov said. “I would say ‘good luck,’ but it seems to me you very richly deserve the fate you are soon to suffer.”

  At that he turned and walked through the door, and began pulling it closed behind him.

  30

  June 14, 1988

  7:05 a.m.

  Rostov City Jail

  Rostov, Russia, USSR

  “Wait!” Tracie said loudly just before the door slammed shut. She hoped she hadn’t waited too long to stop Kuznetsov but felt certain the man’s intense curiosity about her would override his anger at her refusal to be cowed by him.

  She was right.

  After a moment the door swung back open and a furious Detective Kuznetsov stuck his head into the room. “I am tired of you wasting my time,” he said. “I am tired, period. Thanks to you I got very little sleep last night.”

  “I could say the same. Plus I fended off an assault. So if we’re having a dick-measuring contest, I win.”

  “We are done talking. I am going to make that telephone call.”

  “Does the name Ivan Gregorovich mean anything to you?”

  He blinked.

  Stepped back into the room.

  Closed the door.

  Rubbed the side of his face. Said, “General Ivan Gregorovich?”

  “That would be the one. Obviously you’ve heard of him.”

  “Of course I have heard of him,” Kuznetsov said. “He is one of the highest-ranking members in the entire command structure of the Soviet Armed Forces.”

  “That’s right. If you’re so determined to make a phone call, make it to him.”

  “You want me to call General Gregorovich.”

  “You heard me.”

  “For you.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “And why on earth would I do that?”

  “Because I need to talk to him. Try to keep up, detective, it’s not that complicated.”

  His face had finally gotten back to a normal shade, but now it flushed crimson again. “You have a lot of nerve. You expect me to believe one of the half-dozen or so most respected generals in the Soviet Army would want to speak to…you?”

  He gestured toward her with contempt, and Tracie couldn’t really blame him. She was filthy, her clothing crusted with what seemed like a gallon of dried blood. Half her lustrous, flame-red hair had been shaved off and replaced with a jagged row of sutures that meandered across her skull from just above her ear to almost the top of her head, sutures that were even now continuing to ooze blood.

  “He will when he finds out what I have to say.”

  Kuznetsov sat. “And what would that be?”

  “I can’t share that with you. Let’s just say he lost something very dangerous and I can help him get it back. But this is an extremely time-critical situation, and every minute I waste chatting with you, as much as I’ve grown to cherish our time together, is a minute less likely he is to ever get that item back. And if he doesn’t get it back, a lot of people could die. A lot of people WILL die.”

  Kuznetsov’s eyes had narrowed as she spoke, and he sat regarding her shrewdly. As much as Tracie detested the man, he seemed relatively shar
p for a small-town Russian cop. Maybe he would take what she was saying seriously.

  On the other hand, he would look extremely foolish if he did as Tracie requested and convinced the general to talk to her, only to find out she was nothing more than a delusional crackpot. It was entirely possible—maybe even probable—an error in judgment of that magnitude would end his career.

  She would find out in a moment. Undoubtedly he was weighing her words in the context of what his officers had found inside her car last night at the accident scene, trying to determine her veracity. As disastrous as it could have been for her gear to end up in the Soviets’ hands, it might turn out to be the one development that would force him to take her seriously.

  A telephone hung on the wall next to the door, and Tracie pointed toward it.

  “Make the call from here,” she said, “instead of from your office. I know you won’t allow me to speak with the general, so if you do it from inside this room I can tell you how to convince him what I say is true.”

  “No,” Kuznetsov said. “You will tell me what to say now and I will speak to the general in my office.”

  “No deal,” Tracie said. “Do it from here or forget it.”

  “You do not get to make demands!” Kuznetsov thundered. “I will not be manipulated by the likes of you.”

  “Have it your way,” Tracie said. “But when the KGB tortures me, I promise you I can hold out longer than you think I’ll be able to. Eventually they will break me and extract the information I have, but by then it will be much too late and many thousands of people will have died. And when that happens I will be sure to let them know all the deaths could have been avoided if Detective Sergeant Kuznetsov of the Rostov Militsiya had only done as I asked.”

  He cursed. Slammed the table again with his fist. “Chertova suka,” he mumbled.

  “I’ve been called worse,” Tracie said genially. “Probably within the last twenty-four hours. Hell, probably by you.”

  Kuznetsov sighed heavily and stood, the second time in the last few minutes he’d pushed his chair across the dirty floor with his calves.

  “I will play your little game,” he said. “I have the contact information for General Gregorovich in my office. It should only take a moment and then I will be back.”

  “Do I have time to run out for a cup of coffee? I can be back inside of five minutes.”

  “Very funny,” Kuznetsov said. “This door will be locked from the outside while I am gone, so you will not be going anywhere. But let me just warn you of something, young lady. If you—”

  “I’m sorry,” Tracie said. “Were you saying something? I stopped paying attention after you said no coffee.”

  “Joke all you want now. But if you make me regret calling General Gregorovich, the KGB will be the least of your worries. I will make you suffer in ways you cannot imagine.”

  “You might be surprised,” Tracie shot back.

  “You do not want to find out.”

  Once again, Kuznetsov stalked to the door. This time Tracie kept silent as it closed behind him and the lock snicked shut.

  31

  June 14, 1988

  7:40 a.m.

  Rostov City Jail

  Rostov, Russia, USSR

  Detective Kuznetsov’s mood didn’t seem to have improved in the few minutes he’d been gone. He unlocked the door and shoved it open, stepping through it and then slamming it closed again behind him. He walked to the telephone hanging on the wall without so much as a glance in Tracie’s direction, picked up the receiver and began dialing a number after peering at a small slip of paper he was holding in his hand.

  When he finished dialing, he shoved the paper forcefully into his pants pocket. He moved to the table and produced his portable tape recorder one more time. He set it down with a bang and turned it on while holding the telephone handset against his ear with his shoulder.

  Then he looked at Tracie and said, “I want to have a record of everything you say here this morning.”

  “Good thinking,” Tracie said. “That’s an excellent bit of detective work right there. No wonder you’re so successful at apprehending and detaining accident victims.”

  “Shut up,” he answered, before straightening quickly and turning away from her. “No, ma’am,” he said into the phone. “I am sorry, ma’am, I was not talking to you, I was speaking to an unwanted guest.”

  He paused a moment, the person on the other end of the line clearly doing the talking, and then he said, “No, ma’am, please do not hang up. Give me a moment to explain. My name is Detective Sergeant Sasha Kuznetsov of the Rostov Militsiya. I am calling with a matter of grave importance for General Gregorovich.”

  He looked over at Tracie, his eyes hooded and angry. Tracie winked.

  Then he continued. “May I speak with the general, please?”

  He waited again for the person on the other end of the line and then said, “Da, I understand you must screen the general’s calls, but as I said, this is of grave importance. Please, if I may have just ninety seconds of the general’s time, I know he will want to take this call.”

  Another silence, this one shorter than the first two. “Yes, ma’am, I will wait. Thank you, ma’am.”

  He shook his head and gazed darkly at Tracie. “I am warning you, if this is some kind of game, I will—”

  “Yes, I know,” Tracie said. “You will make me regret ever driving through Rostov. Believe me, I already do.”

  Kuznetsov’s attention went back to the phone and he straightened, his posture almost that of a soldier standing at attention. Tracie doubted he even knew he was doing it, but it was obvious to her that Gregorovich had just picked up the line.

  “General Gregorovich,” he said. “Thank you for your time, sir. I am calling because I picked up a young woman last night following an automobile accident. This woman was in possession of some very suspicious materials.

  “Suspicious,” he continued after a short pause, “in the sense that much of the items were suitable only for the purposes of espionage. They have no other use. None of the items were things an ordinary Russian citizen should be able to procure, and the woman was carrying no identification whatsoever. During questioning, she refused to cooperate and, in fact, would not even provide us with her name.”

  This time the silence stretched out, as Gregorovich seemed to be taking his time responding.

  Finally Kuznetsov said, “Yes, sir, I understand this is a matter for the KGB. But the young woman was quite insistent on speaking with you. She claims to be in possession of an item you lost, an item that could cause many thousands of deaths, something that—”

  “I’m not in possession of the item,” Tracie called loudly as she rose from behind the table. “I said I could help the general get it back.”

  “I am sorry, general,” Kuznetsov said, gesturing angrily at Tracie to sit back down. “I could not hear you because the young woman was shouting in my ear. Would you mind repeating what you just said?”

  Tracie remained standing. She said, still speaking loudly enough that she hoped her words would carry through to the other end of the landline, “Ask the general how Private Aniskevich’s head wound is healing, and please pass along my apologies for hitting the general so hard when he surprised me inside his office.”

  Kuznetsov stared at Tracie, disbelief in his eyes. Whether it was from what she’d said or the fact she was yelling into the telephone from across the conference room she wasn’t sure, but this was her one—and likely only—chance to try to shake loose from Kuznetsov and, by extension, the KGB, and she was determined to make the most of it.

  The detective’s jaw slowly dropped as he listened to the other end of the conversation. It would have been amusing to watch if there weren’t so much at stake.

  After a moment, Kuznetsov held out the handset. “The general would like to speak with you,” he said quietly.

  “I told you,” Tracie said as she passed him and took the phone out of his hands. “I would
n’t steer you wrong.”

  Kuznetsov didn’t answer. All the fight seemed to have gone out of him. He wandered across the small room and leaned against the far wall with his hands in his pockets, watching Tracie and shaking his head. Then, without warning, he pushed away from the wall and hurried out of the interrogation room. The lock snicked shut once again.

  32

  June 14, 1988

  7:50 a.m.

  Rostov City Jail

  Rostov, Russia, USSR

  Sasha Kuznetsov pulled the conference room door closed. He was in such a hurry he almost forgot to lock it, and in fact took at least a half-dozen hurried steps before it occurred to him he was leaving his prisoner unguarded.

  After rectifying his mistake, he turned and trotted along the hallway until reaching the stairs. Then he climbed to the third floor and sprinted to his office.

  He had known something was off about the young woman with the shaved head and the bloodstained clothes since before even walking into her hospital room. Everyday Russian women, even those of a criminal bent, did not possess electronic tracking gear like what his men had found inside the wreckage of her vehicle.

  And the weaponry the medics had removed from her body was above and beyond what he would expect to find on a run-of-the-mill criminal as well. Sasha had been a law enforcement professional for more than twenty-five years, he had arrested women for murder, arson, assault and other violent crimes, and never once had he encountered one as armed to the hilt as this petite redhead had been.

  His first thought upon reviewing the guns and the knife and the contents of the canvas bag was, I’ve stumbled onto an American or British spy. He had tried to ignore that thought because it was patently absurd. Rostov was within thirty minutes drive of Moscow, and it was impossible to believe the Americans or the British could be so bold as to insert a tiny young woman alone into western Russia, asking her to operate practically within shouting distance of the Kremlin.