by Larry Bond
“Yes, sir. I will do so immediately. Good-bye, Admiral.”
As Dhankhar put his smart card away, he realized his hands were cool and clammy. His heart was beating at a rapid pace. The possibility of discovery when they were so close to completing their task was unnerving and unacceptable. Their goal was vital, but the situation was hazy and unclear. The Russians were asking dangerous questions, but the casual manner of the interrogation suggested they didn’t really know what was going on. Could it just be a coincidence after all? He really didn’t know much about Kirichenko and his people. An overreaction now could be just as deadly as doing nothing at all.
Dhankhar looked at his watch and then picked up his cell phone. It was time he made another call.
7
INVESTIGATORS
29 March 2017
1215 Local Time
INS Chakra
Naval Shipyard
Visakhapatnam, India
* * *
Petrov sat with Anton Kulik, one of the technicians working on the sonar system upgrade. Today he’d been installing new signal-processing boards for the main hull array. Since the sonar cabinets were located in the first compartment, Kulik was one of the few team members who actually interacted with Orlav, as he sometimes worked in the torpedo room, located on the deck above.
“When he’s there at all,” Kulik explained as they ate their lunch. They were in Chakra’s mess deck. Because of the refit, the galley itself was closed, but the Russians had made sure the air conditioning aboard the boat still worked. Even in March, the air outside was a sticky eighty-five degrees Fahrenheit. The mess was sized to feed forty men, so there was plenty of room for the small group of Russian technicians to eat their “tiffins,” boxed lunches bought from vendors or restaurants on the way to work. The British had started the practice in the colonial era and invented the word, but it had become a habit for many Indian workers, and the Russians had quickly adopted the practice. Curried vegetables, rice, and flatbread made a satisfying lunch, especially since most of the Russians either were bachelors or had left their wives back in Russia.
“I’ve brought Orlav a takeout dinner every night for two weeks now.” Working in the same compartment, they were on speaking terms, but Kulik said that Orlav wasn’t really close with any of his countrymen.
“He’s been working that hard? And nobody’s helping him?”
“We’re all busy,” Kulik replied, “but at the last planning meeting Shvetov asked Captain Mitra about Orlav’s progress and his deadline. By rights, Orlav should be reporting to Shvetov, or at least Commander Gandhi. Shvetov is the team leader, after all, but Mitra told Shvetov that Orlav wasn’t his concern, and that his work was a ‘separate project.’ That’s got to be their new missile, the Sagarika.”
“Sagarika is a ballistic missile,” Petrov answered. “You can’t fire it from a torpedo tube.”
“Then they’re using their new Nirbhay cruise missile, or perhaps one of the missile types we’ve supplied to them, like the Klub, and gluing a nuclear warhead on the front. The Klub is fired like a torpedo.” Kulik brightened. “That makes sense. We have to give them technical help on so many other things, so they hired Orlav to do that. What have you found out?”
The question caught Petrov off guard. “Me? What have I found out?”
“Come on! You’ve been pumping me about Orlav the entire meal.” Kulik shrugged. “I don’t mind, but fair’s fair. You have to tell me what you’ve discovered.” He noticed Petrov’s hesitation. “It’s all right. I know you’re curious about what he’s working on. So am I. Everyone on the team is, although we may be the only two who have actually figured it out,” he added with a conspiratorial air.
Petrov hadn’t realized his inquiries had been that transparent. That worried him a little bit, but meanwhile Kulik was waiting for an answer.
“I am curious,” Petrov admitted. “I guess I’m a little concerned about what it means if you’re right.” That was at least half true.
“I’ll tell you what it means,” Kulik answered confidently. “Karachi? BOOM. Hyderabad? BOOM. Quetta? BOOM.”
“If the Indians were to use nuclear weapons, the Pakistanis would as well,” Petrov argued.
“Don’t I know it!” Kulik agreed. “And Vizag would be a great target—a major naval base, and catch Arihant while she’s still being repaired. Since the bomb went off in Kashmir, everyone’s been on edge, with good reason. Something’s going to happen, and it won’t be good. The instant we’re done here, I’m on the first plane going anywhere west. Not east. I don’t want to be caught in the fallout pattern.”
After finishing their meal, they both returned to their work, and even though he was busy, Petrov kept running the conversation over in his head. He’d learned nothing new. What occupied his mind was that his interest in Orlav had been so obvious. He’d tried to be subtle, but obviously failed miserably.
The problem was that before his lunch with Kulik, he’d spent the morning trying to find out what he could about Orlav, first from Captain Mitra, in charge of the project, then at the personnel office, and of course he’d looked around the torpedo shop where the technician spent almost all his time.
The shop was a large, windowless building, and if the keypad lock wasn’t enough of a deterrent, the armed soldier out front kept him from even lingering in the area. Of course, short of peeking in a nonexistent window, Petrov didn’t have a clue what he could have done or learned. He decided he was a better engineer than a spy.
* * *
Girish Samant agreed. “You are indeed a very lousy spy,” he declared as they ate dinner together that night.
They were not eating at Akshaya’s, but a smaller place, away from the shipyard. The Mirakapi had good food, but Petrov had to ask for extra rice to kill the fire from the tandoori chicken he’d ordered.
“And what would you have done?” Petrov retorted. He felt a flash of irritation, but he realized part of it was his competitive nature, one of the things he and Samant had in common.
“The same,” the Indian answered quickly, with a smile. “Until now, I think we were both proud of our lack of guile. Unfortunately, there is no time to learn as we go. If Russian intelligence wanted you to play detective, they should have given you the handbook.”
“Written in invisible ink, no doubt,” grumbled Petrov.
“We will find other ways to gather the information we need.”
29 March 2017
2000 Local Time
INS Circars, Eastern Naval Command Headquarters
Visakhapatnam, India
* * *
Dhankhar listened with frustration. It had been more difficult than usual to get ahold of Kirichenko, and after finally catching him; it was hard to read the man’s reactions over the phone. He never replied quickly, rarely expressed surprise, or anger, or any strong emotion. Dhankhar couldn’t tell by the sound of Kirichenko’s voice how he was taking the news of someone asking questions about Orlav.
“Would Petrov have any other reason to ask questions about Orlav beyond the SVR agent’s request?”
Even though he was on the phone, Dhankhar automatically shook his head. “No. Certainly it has nothing to do with his assignment assisting in Chakra’s refit,” the admiral replied. “Captain Mitra was quite sure, and reported that Petrov asked about Orlav in several different places this morning.”
“Why would the SVR care about Orlav?” Kirichenko asked. “Has he done anything to attract attention to himself?”
“I don’t know,” Dhankhar admitted. “But Petrov is following through on the agent’s request, or he is at least trying. Mitra got his personnel file when he was assigned to assist with Chakra. He’s a retired submarine captain, and now an engineer and naval constructor. No obvious ties to intelligence or law enforcement agencies.”
“I know of him,” Kirichenko said. “He was captain of Severodvinsk, but lost her on his first patrol in a collision with an American submarine. Nineteen men were ki
lled. The investigation found him to be at fault and he was allowed to retire.”
“Is he trying to redeem himself, then?”
“Possibly. We certainly can’t let him find out anything more.” Kirichenko asked, “Has Orlav talked to anyone?”
“No, he works alone in the torpedo shop, and goes back to his apartment every few days to shower and change clothes.”
“Move him out of his apartment. Find quarters for him on the base; keep him away from the other Russians.” Dhankhar felt a flash of irritation at the peremptory order, but then remembered that Kirichenko had also been an admiral, before he left his navy. “Are you sure he never leaves the shipyard?”
“As far as I know. The only places he goes are the torpedo shop, Chakra, and occasionally his apartment, just outside the north gate.”
“That we know of,” Kirichenko replied. “He’s weak-willed, prone to drink and other distractions. That’s why he was kicked out of the Russian Navy. If he’s somehow managed to sneak off and gotten into trouble, it not only affects our schedule, it jeopardizes the security of the entire plan.”
“I don’t have enough people to watch him all day,” the admiral protested. “I’ll be able to constrain his movements if he stays in the shop, but I can’t assign more guards to watch him inside the building. I’ve been able to boost security at the gates after the Kashmiri explosion. That wasn’t hard, but beefing up security inside the base requires that I either bring more people into the project, or a long explanation. Both bring unwanted attention to Mr. Orlav and the torpedo shop—attention we can ill afford.”
“Then do what you can. Visit him at unusual times for the next couple of days. After that, Churkin will be there and he can watch Orlav. Everything depends on that zadnitsa.” Dhankhar’s Russian was good enough to include slang. Kirichenko was not being complimentary.
“Agreed.” Dhankhar didn’t like what Kirichenko was saying, but it was true.
“What about Mitra? I’m assuming you haven’t told him, have you?” The Russian’s tone was accusatory.
“Certainly not,” Dhankhar replied with a righteous tone. “Nothing beyond what I told him at the start. Orlav is working on a secret weapons project authorized by the Defense Ministry. I needed Mitra’s cooperation to secure the torpedo shop, the guards, supplies, as well as having Orlav reporting only to me, while keeping the lead artificer at arm’s length.”
“Good.” Kirichenko asked, “Is Petrov important to finishing Chakra’s refit on time?”
Dhankhar tried to remember what Mitra had said the Russian was doing aboard the sub. “Nothing special, supervisory work, mostly. He’s very good at organizing things, and he’s solved a lot of problems brought on by the truncated refit schedule. But the critical path is the delivery of several items of electronic equipment from Russia. He can’t help with that. Why do you ask?”
“It’s not important,” Kirichenko replied quickly. “Hopefully, his playing detective is not interfering with his work.”
30 March 2017
0900 EST
Embassy of the Russian Federation
Washington, D.C.
* * *
Hardy took Joanna with him this time. She had been unhappy at being excluded from the first meeting, and the presence of the national security advisor would remind the Russians of the importance of this issue to the U.S. The senator still wasn’t completely sure that the Russian government was taking this seriously.
Ambassador Vaslev was waiting for them after they went through security, and they immediately went down one level below ground to what Hardy assumed was a secure conference room. The Russian flag in one corner and the picture of the Russian president on the wall triggered some old Cold War reflexes, but the Russians were trying to be hospitable. Tea had been laid out, as well as pads and pens for notes. The Americans left their phones and other recording devices at security, of course.
The only other person in the room was Colonel Valery Zykov, the SVR station chief. When Vaslev had entered with his two guests in tow, Zykov spoke into a microphone and a flat-screen display on one wall had come to life.
The screen showed three men sitting at a table. Two were in naval uniforms, the other was dressed in civilian clothes. He recognized one of them, Captain Mishin, the naval attaché that he’d briefed a week ago.
Mishin spoke. His English was heavily accented, but understandable. He explained, “After our meeting with you, I flew back to personally brief my superiors. They have made me action officer for this matter, along with Major Tumansky of the FSB.” He was gesturing toward the man in civilian clothes.
“Immediately after I passed your information to the navy, they sent an expedition to verify your story. In spite of some bad weather, an icebreaker was able to reach the location. We did find a barge exactly where you said it would be, as well as the seabed acoustic devices you said detected your submarine.”
He gestured to the other naval officer next to him. “Captain First Rank Zhikin is in charge of the 328th Expeditionary Rescue Squad, and along with others from his unit, dove down to the barge to investigate. He returned from the area just yesterday.”
Although the same rank as Mishin, Zhikin looked older, or possibly just more weathered. He spoke Russian, while Mishin translated. “They found one barge, with three MGK-608 series fixed acoustic sensors around it. Inside the barge, they found many cases identical to the ones in the photographs you provided. They recovered one of the cases, and after taking precautions, opened it. They found a—” Mishin paused for a moment as if gathering his strength. “—nuclear device, just as you described.”
Hardy was watching the diver’s face and could see he was remembering the shock and surprise at the discovery of the case’s contents. Mishin nodded to someone offscreen, and the three men were replaced by a series of underwater photos. The divers had set up lights to illuminate the interior of the barge. He could see rows of cases, then realized there was a second layer, and a chill ran racetracks up and down his back at the thought of that many weapons hidden away for who knows what purpose.
Mishin and the other two Russians reappeared on the screen, and seemed to be waiting for some sort of response from the Americans. Patterson said, “Congratulations on finding and recovering the warheads. Can the Russian government provide assurances to the United States that the weapons are now secure?”
The two naval officers had a quick exchange, and Mishin answered, “I will not presume to speak for my government, but the cases are still being recovered. Captain Zhikin’s divers are finishing their preparations as we speak.”
She looked puzzled. “Preparations?”
Through Mishin, Zhikin explained, “The barge had settled into the silt and we had to do a little excavating before we could attempt to raise it. It has been modified with a ballast system similar to that of a submarine. Hoses have been attached to fittings and high-pressure air will displace the water, and the barge will rise to the surface. They’re waiting for a tug and armed escort from Severomorsk. They should arrive tomorrow.”
“That sounds like a lot of work. Wouldn’t it be easier to have the divers just bring up the cases?”
When Mishin translated her question, Zhikin shook his head sharply and spoke. “Far too many dives, even if they bring up two at a time.”
Patterson’s expression matched the worry in her tone. “Exactly how many warheads did you find aboard the barge?”
Vaslev cut in. “That is not important. What matters is how many have been taken. I will say on behalf of the Russian Federation that the warheads from the barge are under our control, and under the terms of the INF treaty, will be destroyed as soon as feasible.”
“It is important,” she insisted. “According to that same treaty, the destruction must be done in the presence of observers. Since the treaty also requires reporting the number of warheads to be destroyed, withholding the number found would be in violation of the treaty, and destroying them without observers present would
be a cause for grave concern. The number also tells us something about whoever put them there.”
Mishin and Vaslev exchanged looks, and Vaslev nodded. The Russians were not willing to be viewed as breaking the treaty, not under these circumstances, and she was right. Besides, the Americans would find out eventually. Mishin replied, “There appeared to be sixty-two aboard the barge. If the cases that were taken were the same as the ones we found, then the barge could have held seventy.” Mishin looked very unhappy.
Hardy’s mind whirled at the thought of so many weapons at risk. No wonder they didn’t want to say how many were involved.
“So hopefully, there’s no more than six taken, and one’s been accounted for, although that’s small comfort to the people in Kashmir,” Patterson observed.
The ambassador said carefully, “The Russian Federation is making every effort to locate and recover the missing warheads. Major Tumansky is our liaison with the FSB, and the president has ordered every law enforcement agency in Russia to assist in the investigation. In the last week, what has the United States discovered?”
Hardy answered. “That Evgeni Orlav, identified as a former Russian naval officer, has never entered or passed through U.S. territory or contacted any of our embassies.”
Vaslev shrugged. “That’s all?”
“All we had was that name,” Hardy replied. “And like so many other clues, it led straight into Russia. But we have also been working from a different angle. We keep a careful watch on terrorist communications, especially anything that might relate to nuclear matters.”
“Of course,” Vaslev agreed.
“Normally, with so many terrorist groups worldwide, our ability to watch everyone is very thin. But the explosion in Kashmir gave us a time and a location. We managed to find a communication regarding a Pakistani scientist, a Dr. Tareen. We know he taught nuclear physics at Islamabad at the same time that A. Q. Khan was there. The communication was from one Lashkar-e-Taiba group to another in Kashmir the day before the explosion.”