Peter Sasgen - War Plan Red

“Can people customize their memo codes?” Scott said.

“Sure: I did, but they warn you not to use anything obvious, like birthdays and anniversaries. Why?” “Let’s try something,” Scott said.

“If you’re thinking of using different number and letter combinations, good luck. We tried that on Frank’s computer and it didn’t work, remember?”

Scott picked up the receiver and held it away from his ear so Alex could listen in while he accessed the memo system.

The recorded female voice said, “…please enter your six-digit access code, then wait for the prompt to enter your three-letter confirmation code.”

“What are you going to enter?” Alex said.

“The hull numbers of the two submarines Frank commanded: 767 and 778.”

“The what?”

“I’ll explain it later.” Scott keyed the numbers; a tone sounded, then the voice. “Please enter your three- letter confirmation code.”

“I don’t believe it.”

He shushed her and punched in SSN.

Another tone, then: “Access permitted. You have accessed Level One Memo Security. Observe all procedures required for the recording, hearing, and printing of memo documents. When finished, enter J-Star to print documents. Enter Т-Star to hear a recorded memo in date order. Enter X-Star to initiate deletion and destruction procedures. Warning: Deletion and destruction procedures cannot be reversed after initiation!”

Scott entered Т-Star. A tick later Drummond’s voice with a burst overlay from the armored cell phone came through the receiver like a jolt of electricity.

“Record to memo at twenty hundred hours on four October oh-six…confirming meeting with one Andre Radchenko able seaman assigned to Russian Northern Fleet submarine K-363…at Novy Polyamyy Hotel in Murmansk….”

The words rushed over Scott, their force almost palpable.

“…Radchenko has information that I believe is genuine…. Chechen terrorists under command of General Alikhan Zakayev.. repeat, Alikhan Zakayev…”

Alex’s hand flew to her mouth.

“…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 как 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 modem 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.”