Peter Sasgen - War Plan Red

“Did you know the sailor who died?”

“No. All I knew was that he was assigned to the K-363.”

“Then, how did Drummond know him? What personal business would a Russian enlisted sailor have had with an American naval officer?”

“Beats me, Jake.”

“Those are things we have to know.”

“But how can you hope to find the killer if you're here only to take Frank’s body back to the States.

You don’t have time to investigate anything.”

“I’ll make time.”

“Jake, the ambassador wants Frank’s affairs wrapped up before the summit. And you know the Russians: how their bureaucracy moves at a glacial pace. The FSB’s not going to help you because they’ve already investigated and submitted their report.”

“I’ve got a meeting tomorrow morning with the investigator who handled the case,” Scott said. “Yuri Abakov. Do you know him?”

“I saw his name on the report and I gave a statement to one of his people, but I’ve never met him.” “Tomorrow we’ll try to find out what else Abakov knows.”

“ ‘We’?”

“You’re coming with me. I want him to know we’re working together.”

“Uh-uh. I’m not getting involved, Jake. I’m the second science attaché, and my jurisdiction is limited to finding loose nuclear material, not investigating a murder.”

“Then, you do think they were murdered. Right?”

Alex said nothing.

“You said Frank was a friend not just a colleague,” Scott said.

Alex pursed her lips.

“Well, he was my friend, too, and we owe him.”

She started to say something, but he pointed. The Marriott Grand had appeared on the right. She pulled in under the arched portico. Scott got out with his things but, before closing the door, leaned back into the SUV and said, “Tomorrow, Lubyanskaya Ploshchad. Know it?”

“Of course,” Alex said.

“Good. Pick me up here zero eight hundred sharp.”

“Jake, I told you—”

“Do it for Frank.”

Оutside, a pair of guards in a glassed-in booth checked IDs. Inside, helmeted officers in battle dress armed with Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns strolled the remodeled former KGB headquarters lobby. The city and its entire security apparatus were on alert after the Chechen massacre at the concert hall. Everyone was suspect.

Scott and Alex waited at the elevator banks. Alex wore a tailored black suit and white silk roll-neck top. A medley of gold bracelets glittered on her wrists. Light from the recessed ceiling fixtures illuminated her even features and flawless makeup. Her eyes sparkled, and she obviously enjoyed the attention her transformation had elicited from Scott.

A ping, and a pair of elevator doors hissed open. Their escort, a young FSB officer, motioned them inside. The doors closed, the car rose, and Scott was struck by the irony that in another era he and Alex would have been riding this elevator to an interrogation cell in the basement from which few people had ever emerged alive. All he heard was the hushed sound of the car’s ascent, not the screams of prisoners undergoing torture. As if guessing what was on his mind, Alex gave him an almost imperceptible nod.

They got off on the tenth floor, in one of the oldest parts of the three high-rises that made up the FSB headquarters. The hallways were floored in worn linoleum and illuminated by buzzing fluorescent lamps. Office doors had old-fashioned pebbled glass inserts, behind one of which was the blurred silhouette of a man gesturing expansively while haranguing someone unseen.

“Please." The escort led them through an open door labeled Investigations Directorate, into a tiny, over heated office.

Yuri Abakov had on a ushanka hat, its ear flaps tied securely together on top. His pasty-looking face was expressionless behind a drooping black mustache. He looked up at his visitors from behind a worn wooden desk and, as if shooing a pesky fly, flicked a hand at the escort who departed without a word.

“Inspector Abakov?” Scott said in Russian.

He gave Scott a once-over, noting his leather bomber jacket. “Colonel Abakov,” he replied. Before Scott had a chance to correct himself, Abakov shifted his gaze. “Who is this?” he asked, as if Alex were incapable of speaking for herself.

“Doctor Alexandra Thorne, Ph.D.,” she said. “I’m the second science attaché, United States Embassy, Moscow.”

“I wasn’t told she’d be present for this meeting,” Abakov said to Scott. “Who authorized it?”

“I did,” Scott said. “You have a problem with that?” Without waiting to be asked, he pushed a chair toward Alex and took one for himself.

Abakov removed the ushanka from a head that was bald except for a fringe of short, dark hair, the tight skin reflecting light like a mirror. His expression had changed from boredom to one of outright annoyance.

“You’re not in the States, Commander.”

“Captain,” said Scott.

“You have no authority here, so don’t think that just because you’re an American who speaks Russian,

you can come into my office and start throwing your weight around like Bloody Harry.”

“It’s Dirty Harry.” Scott put his orders on the desk, in front of Abakov. “There’s my authority. As you know, Colonel, I’m here to escort Admiral Drummond’s remains back to the United States. I was told that I would have full cooperation from the FSB. And from you. Dr. Thorne was Admiral Drummond’s liaison with the U.S. Embassy and the Norwegians. She’s agreed to assist me. And since I don’t have time to waste cutting through bullshit, I’d like to get started as soon as possible.”

Alex’s knuckles went white on the chair arms.

Color rose in Abakov’s face and spread across his bald pate. He rose from his chair behind the desk. Though he was several inches shorter than Scott, he had thick shoulders and huge, meaty hands that appeared capable of causing severe damage to whatever they grabbed hold of. A heavy vein started pulsing in his neck.

“You Americans,” Abakov said, switching to very good English. “You think you own the world. You use your power to crush opposition to your capitalist policies and to force your values on the rest of the world. In Russia, if we resist, you threaten us and say that we are irrelevant. Everything you do is for the purpose of enriching American business. Everything you do around the world has strings attached. You are hypocrites!” Abakov’s voice rose until it boomed like rolling thunder. “You would like nothing better than to conquer Mother Russia so your business conglomerates can suck us dry! Your military too!”

The door flew open and a man stuck his head in and looked around. “Yuri, I can hear you all the way down the other end of the hall. Is everything all right?”

Abakov caught his breath. “Yes, go away.”

The man looked around, shrugged, and left. Abakov, slightly winded, sat down.

“Are you finished lecturing us?” Scott said.

Abakov ignored this and read Scott’s orders while touching the pulsing vein in his neck.

“What can you add to your report on Drummond’s death?’’ Scott said, as if Abakov’s outburst had not occurred.

Abakov bristled. “Nothing. Everything is in the report. Admiral Drummond and another man were both found dead in bed together. Ballistics confirmed that the bullets in their brains had been fired from the gun we found in Admiral Drummond’s possession.’’

Scott waved that away. “I’m not questioning the basic facts of the case, Colonel. But allow me to explain something to you.” Scott told Abakov what he knew about Drummond and detailed their professional and personal relationship. He finished, saying, “I assure you, he was not a homosexual.”