Peter Sasgen - War Plan Red

“How well did you know him?”

“We spent two years together, enough time to get to know someone. He’s completely fearless. He never shows his anger and rarely raises his voice, which gives him a menacing quality. His calm outward demeanor often disarms people who meet him. They think he’s a gentleman, always so soft-spoken.

But that’s just a mask. In fact he will do anything to win independence for Chechnya. He’s a fanatic.”

“Is that why the Russian Army killed Zakayev’s family? Because he’s a fanatic? Did they think that would break his will to fight?”

Abakov considered. “You Americans judge us by your own hypocritical standards. When we Russians take harsh action to protect our country and citizens, we’re accused of crushing independence and democratic reforms. When America does it, you justify it by saying you are preserving liberty and democracy. But now it’s different. We are fighting a group of terrorists bent on destroying Russia. You have to meet force with force. It’s the only thing Zakayev respects.”

“When Zakayev disappeared from the KGB, why did you think he’d gone over to the West?”

Abakov removed his ushanka and rubbed his bald dome with a palm. “There had been rumors that the United States had recruited Zakayev to foment unrest in the Caucasus. That the U.S. wanted to distract Russia from protesting American involvement in the Middle East, in Syria and Iran. We have a huge Muslim population and have good reason to support them in other countries where they are fighting Western imperialism. There are rumors that the U.S. provided Chechen terrorists with money and weapons.”

“Why would the U.S. do that?” Alex said.

“To make sure Zakayev succeeded. Yes, that’s true. Then you could play us off against the Chechens by promising that you’d look the other way while we fought Zakayev so long as Russia looked the other way while the U.S. overthrew the regimes in Iraq and Iran. What you call a quid pro quo.”

“Do you think Zakayev still has ties to the U.S.?” Scott said, drawing a look from Alex.

Abakov shrugged. “I have no proof, but yes, I think so.”

The chopper bounced in rough air.

“Is it possible that Drummond was murdered because he knew something about Zakayev’s ties to the U.S.?”

“The official report I filed states that the cause of death was suicide. You read it.”

“Sure I did. But what about the unofficial report. The one you didn’t file.”

“I don’t understand. What unofficial report?”

Scott tapped his head. “The one inside that police man’s brain of yours. The real one. The one that might be telling you Drummond was killed by Zakayev.”

“You ask too many questions,” Abakov said dismissively. He unlatched his seat belt and went forward to chat up the pilots.

Alex dropped her voice even though Abakov couldn’t hear and said, “Are you going to tell him about the message you found in Frank’s papers?”

“I could be shot for doing that. I could also be shot for reading it and not telling Radford that I read it.” “Do you have to tell him?”

“It all depends on what we find at the hotel in Murmansk.”

“What do you think we’ll find?”

“Probably nothing. But I think our friend here knows more than he’s letting on.”

Alex looked at Abakov, who was stooped in the open doorway behind the flight deck, looking over the pilot’s shoulder, out the windshield. “That’s a scary thought.”

“Is it scarier than tracking fissile materials so terrorists can’t build a bomb?”

“In some ways it is. You can see radioactive materials, but you can’t see plots unfolding behind the scenes.”

“Is that why you agreed to come with me? To see if Frank had uncovered a plot?”

“If Frank was murdered, I’d want to know why and who did it.”

“I hope David Hoffman will see it that way. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable last night when I asked if he was your lover.”

She gave Scott a playful poke in the ribs. “Yes, you did. Anyway, it’s still none of your business.” “Right.”

“Look!” Alex pointed. “Off to the west you can just see the skyline of St. Petersburg.”

Scott saw a small spike on the relatively flat horizon. It could have been anything: a mountain, a pine forest, a low cloud. “If you say so.”

“I’ve never been to St. Petersburg. I’ve heard it’s one of the most beautiful cities in the world.”

“And indestructible too. It withstood a nine hundred-day siege by the Nazis.”

“Tells you something about the Russian character.”

“Yeah, hard as nails.”

Minutes later Alex dozed, her head on Scott’s shoulder. The chopper lifted and dropped on a sudden gust of wind from the west, but the pilot, tacking to port, kept its nose pointed north toward the Kola Peninsula.

The girl’s warm breath teased Zakayev’s bare shoulder. He watched her sleep and thought about what she had been through, marveled at the terrors she had survived to be with him now. He thought about what was to come and for a moment felt sad that she would never have a life beyond the one they were living at that moment. As if she knew his thoughts, her eyes opened to meet his gaze.

“I love you, Ali,” she whispered against his shoulder. Her hand was on his flat belly.

A trace of scented bath talc clung to the fingertip he sketched across her hip, which felt like satin. He remembered how she had trembled with fear when he coaxed her from the shelter of the bombed-out building in Grozny where he had found her living like an animal, so emaciated that when he took her hand to help her over the rubble to freedom, fingers dug into his palm like claws. Her sunken eyes had just stared at him, perhaps expecting the worst. He knew he could help her recover physically but didn’t know if he could heal her mind. But she was young and resilient and responded to his care and deep affection. How many times had he wanted to tell her he loved her but didn’t dare to say the words.

They lay side by side, not talking but stroking until their breath exploded, until she moaned and rose above him, her long, black hair tumbling around his face like a tent. His tongue moistened the tips of her small, pointed breasts. His hips rose and he entered her as she pulled his head back, ran a hand through his hair, and covered his lips with a kiss. Legs stiffened, body arched, he let go at the exquisite moment when her lovely face was blemished by the convulsion of orgasm.

Her breath had returned to normal. She sat up in bed. Bars of late-afternoon sunlight falling through window blinds marched across her slim thighs and the damp, rumpled sheets. Zakayev, naked, moved about the room fiddling with his things, searching for wrinkles in the Russian naval officer’s uniform he had hung up on the bathroom door. The girl’s eyes roamed over his lean, pale body scarred by Russian bullets and shrapnel. The fresh white bandage over the wound on his arm almost matched the color of his skin.

“We’ll leave after it’s dark,” Zakayev said. They had let a room in a small, moldering hotel overlooking Murmansk’s busy harbor. It was a place where people didn’t ask questions and avoided eye contact with strangers.

“You will look handsome in your naval uniform,” she said. “I’ll want to kiss you.”

“A petty officer first class can’t kiss an admiral,” Zakayev said with mock seriousness.

They had discussed it so many times and she was eager to play her role. The uniform she would wear— navy pants, striped jumper, a traditional Russian Navy flat hat with ribbon device—lay folded neatly on a chair.

“Ali, sit here.”

He let her kiss the pit of his neck, his chest and nipples, both hands. Her eyes suddenly welled up. “Ali, there isn’t much time, not even a week, you said.” Her voice quavered, a delicate flutter that he pretended he hadn’t heard.