by Peter Sasgen
“…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 exp
ert 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.”
“Yes, he was found with”—he swung his gaze to Alex—“Rear Admiral Drummond. My condolences, Dr. Thorne. You were saying, Colonel?”
“We think Radchenko may have been murdered because he knew something about a terrorist plot to steal a submarine from Olenya Bay.”
Titov’s eyes narrowed as he processed this information. He threw back his head and gave a sharp bark of a laugh. “Who’s bad joke is this? Yours, Colonel?” Another bark. “Or some idiot in the FSB with nothing better to do than dream up fantasies?”
“This is no fantasy,” Abakov said calmly. “We have information that leads us to suspect that Alikhan Zakayev may be planning to steal a submarine from this base.”
“Nonsense,” Titov said, wiping an eye. “You don’t know what you’re talking about if you think a terrorist can steal a submarine.” He inclined toward his chief of staff, who was as silent as a stone. “Am I right, Lieutenant?”
The aide, hanging back deferentially, tugged the hem of his wrinkled tunic and nodded.
Titov, suddenly serious, rounded on Alex. “Is this your doing?” he said through clenched teeth.
“Haven’t you and your Norwegian friends meddled enough in naval affairs? Perhaps you want to cause more harm by spreading rumors that we harbor terrorists in Olenya Bay. Is that what your Admiral Drummond did, spread false rumors?”
“Of course not,” Alex said. “You know that Earth Safe, Admiral Drummond, and I tried our best to prevent fissile materials from falling into the hands of terrorists. We never meddled. But we can’t prevent a terrorist attack on this base. It’s your responsibility to provide security, not ours.”
“You’re out of line, Commandant,” Scott said. “Don’t blame Dr. Thorne for your failings. There’s no security on this pigsty of a base that I can see. When we drove on, there was no guard detail at the gate to check IDs. Your active submarines lack topside security watches, and the rest have been abandoned like so much junk. Hell, half your sub fleet’s rotting at the pier. The other half’s not even seaworthy.
Terrorists could walk right on this base and go aboard any submarine they chose.”
Titov’s face turned crimson. “Who do you think you are, Captain Scott, to tell me that the Russian Navy’s submarine fleet is rotting? Our active submarines are the best in the world, better than your Los Angeles–class and your Seawolfs, and are in prime condition. As for terrorists stealing one of them, I tell you it’s impossible.”
“Not if they have help,” Abakov said.
“From whom?” Titov said sharply.
“Kapitan Georgi Litvanov,” Scott said.
“You’re mad. Litvanov is one of the top submarine commanders in the Northern Fleet. He would never deal with terrorists.”
“Did you know that he was a Chechen?” Scott asked.
Titov considered. He put a hand on his desk for support. “A Chechen…yes, of course I knew that. His family name was Litvanayev, but was changed to Litvanov by his father.”
“Why would a Chechen be given command of a Russian nuclear submarine?” Abakov said.
“Why? Because he is loyal to Russia, just as he was loyal to the old Soviet Union. And loyal to the Navy. Kapitan Litvanov was awarded the Red Star and the Red Banner. It’s well known that there was a Soviet policy of assigning certain Chechen officers to important positions in the Navy. As a young officer he was probably brought along by his seniors and eventually given command.”
“Did you know that his wife and children were killed by Russian Spetsnaz in Chechnya? That he comes from the same village as the terrorist Alikhan Zakayev?” Alex said.
“What of it? And how do I know what you say is true?” Titov said, as if the import of what he had heard was finally sinking in.
“Before departing Moscow, I made inquiries of Litvanov,” said Abakov. “I received a report on our way in to Olenya Bay.”
Titov frowned.
“Do you know where Litvanov is?” Scott asked.
“Of course,” Titov said. “He’s aboard his submarine, here in Olenya Bay.”
The chief of staff cleared his throat. “The K-363 is moored in North Fjord,” he added, as if his knowledge of such detail confirmed that everything was normal.
“We want to interview him,” Scott said.
Titov’s hand slashed the air. “I won’t permit it. His loyalty is above question.”
“What is not above question are the security lapses we see on the base,” Abakov said. “Perhaps I should notify the commander in chief, Northern Fleet, that you are impeding an FSB investigation into why such lapses exist when Russia is fighting Chechen terrorism.”
Titov’s mouth tightened into a hard line. His eyes darted from Abakov to Scott to Alex. He said, “I can order the three of you thrown off this base.”
Abakov said, “As you wish, Commandant.”
Titov turned away and refused to meet the gaze of his chief of staff, who had an imploring look on his face. Titov lit a cigarette, took several deep drags, then mashed it out. He picked up the phone on his desk and punched a number. “Get me Kapitan Litvanov on the K-363. Yes, I’ll wait.”
Titov drummed his fingers on the desk, avoided eye contact with his visitors. Impatient, he rearranged pens, papers, files, a dirty glass and cup.
“Yes?” he said into the phone. “Well, send someone over there—now!” He slammed the phone down.
“The ship-to-shore phone connection to the K-363 is dead,” he explained. “Perhaps Litvanov shifted her berth. They’re looking for her. It won’t take long.”
Scott caught Alex’s attention. She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling.
An uneasy silence descended. Titov stared at the phone as if willing it to ring. He rearranged his desk again, made a pretense of looking through paperwork. “Litvanov has been conducting drills on board his boat,” Titov said at length, to break the heavy silence. “He never let’s his crew rest, even when they’re in port. I wouldn’t be surprised he’s conducting a training exercise right now and that’s why we can’t locate him.”
“Commandant, I understand he granted liberty to a sizable section of his crew,” the chief of staff said.
Titov brightened. “There, you see: Litvanov is a reasonable man.”
; The thuds of trucks hauling heavy equipment over the broken-up road fronting headquarters penetrated Titov’s office. Phones in the outer offices jangled. A teleprinter started up and began chattering. Titov chain-smoked. Scott examined a plan view of the base, its maze of fjords clotted with submarines slated for disposal. His rough tally came to over 110 boats. A massive and dangerous job that the Russian Navy had yet to address.
The phone burred; Titov seized it. “What?” He shot to his feet. “Impossible!” He listened to an agitated voice on the other end leaking past his ear. Stunned, he lowered the phone and faced Abakov. All the blood seemed to have drained from his face.
“The K-363,” Titov said. “She’s vanished.”
Part Two
The Chase
9
Washington, D.C.
K arl Radford looked up from his coq au vin and saw the chief of the SRO security detail, apology written all over his face, enter the restaurant’s private dining room.
“Darling, why do I think our evening is about to end?” said Radford’s dinner companion.
Radford kissed her hand. “Be an optimist, love.”
He excused himself and steered the chief into a small, unoccupied cocktail lounge off the dining room.
“Let’s have it.”
“Sir, Captain Scott calling from Moscow. They patched him through to your car if you wish to take the call there.”
“You bet I do.”
Suddenly Radford’s fantasy, the one he’d nurtured and refined in great detail all evening—the one in which his dinner companion steps out of her panties while he reclines on the satin-sheeted bed in her Foggy Bottom apartment—went black.
Radford sat in the backseat of an armored Mercury Marquis parked in the garage under the restaurant.
He picked up the phone and heard, “Your call is cleared through, General.”
Radford said, “What the hell’s going on, Scott? You had orders to make contact immediately. Now Stretzlof says you’re off freelancing.”
“Not so, General,” Scott said.
“Then why are you in Olenya Bay. I want an explanation and I want it now.”
“Yes, sir, I was about to explain everything.”
For the next ten minutes Scott gave Radford a complete report. It included his discovery of the message to Drummond about Zakayev, Scott’s conviction that Drummond had been murdered, and the disappearance of the K-363.