Peter Sasgen - War Plan Red

“That’s bullshit.”

Radford gave Scott a flinty look over the tops of his glasses. A college professor exasperated by a stubborn but brilliant student. “Read it for yourself.”

It was all there. The Novy Polyarnyy Hotel. Liquor, cigarettes, money. An American officer identified as Rear Admiral Frank Drummond, U.S. Navy. The dead sailor Andre Radchenko, age nineteen, able seaman assigned to the Russian Northern Fleet submarine K-363. The suicide weapon a Russian 5.45mm PSM automatic. Drummond’s body waited at Moscow’s Central Morgue, pending instructions for disposition from the United States Embassy.

The report, compiled by the investigating FSB officer, one Yuri Abakov, had been countersigned by the embassy’s second secretary. Scott was familiar with the FSB, the successor to the old KGB, and its reputation for being inept if not corrupt. But the report was clear-cut and Scott couldn’t see how ineptitude, much less corruption, could have mistaken this apparent suicide for murder. What business Frank Drummond had in Murmansk wasn’t disclosed in the report.

“Does Mrs. Drummond know that Frank is dead?” a shaken Scott asked.

“She was informed yesterday, minus certain, ah, details. She was told that he was killed during an attempted robbery.”

“You spoke with her?”

“Not personally. My deputy. Mrs. Drummond had just returned from London. She’d spent a week with her husband in St. Petersburg, then flew to London to visit friends before returning to the States. She wanted to turn right around and fly back to Moscow, but we persuaded her that that was not the best thing for her to do. I told her that instead I was going to send you to Moscow to escort Drummond’s body back to the States for burial. Since you speak fluent Russian and know your way around over there, she agreed with my decision. She wanted to talk to you but didn’t know where to reach you.” “Then I intend to see her today.”

“Before you do,” Radford said, “there are a few things you need to know. Please sit down.”

Scott heard Radford’s icy tone soften. He offered Scott a cigarette, which he declined, then lit one for himself and blew out twin plumes. “I should have immediately offered my condolences. Please accept them now. I know that learning of Drummond's death in this fashion is not pleasant.”

Scott said nothing.

Radford removed his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.

“Drummond was on special assignment for the SRO. I personally approved his selection for it. He has an impeccable record, four-oh all the way. An exceptional officer in every respect. Brilliant, really. As you know, he was also an expert on nuclear physics and fissile materials. But a man’s record—the cold facts, if you will—doesn’t tell you everything. You have to weigh the intangibles, try to read his character, rely on intuition, etc. Given your past difficulties, I know you understand this.

“I accept that you believe Drummond was not a practicing homosexual. I, on the other hand, have to weigh the evidence the FSB presented. And in this case their report has undercut you. Until I receive evidence to the contrary, I have no choice but to believe what I’ve read about Drummond. And in that respect, when you speak to Mrs. Drummond, you will not reveal any information that’s in the report. Is that understood?”

“Understood.”

Radford paused to click a computer mouse, which activated a flat-screen monitor. Data appeared, then a picture of Drummond. Radford typed in a word, clicked the mouse, and waited. The screen data changed and he swung his attention back to Scott.

“We’ve a delicate situation on our hands. As you know, the President is scheduled to attend a summit meeting with Russia’s president in St. Petersburg ten days hence. Many issues will be discussed, chief among them economic assistance and international terrorism. The President will likely support Russia’s continuing battle to eradicate Chechen terrorism, which is responsible for that recent concert hall massacre in Moscow. We need Russia’s support in the UN Security Council for our ongoing reforms in the Middle East, especially in Iran. Another issue on the President’s agenda is securing Russian fissile materials from dismantled submarines. It’s piling up at their naval bases on the Kola Peninsula.

“Fissile material from decommissioned submarine reactors,” Scott said.

“Yes. Drummond was in Russia working with a Norwegian group called Earth Safe. They’re trying to inventory and prepare the fissile materials for transfer to secure storage facilities that are being built with U.S. funds. He was working with Earth Safe when he disappeared and was later found dead.”

Scott knew that Drummond and Earth Safe faced a daunting task. Russia’s helter-skelter approach to the dismantling of their old nuclear submarines, and the defueling of their reactors had not only contaminated huge tracts of land in and around northern Russian cities, the fissile materials also presented a tempting target for terrorists bent on constructing a nuclear device. The Russians had as much to fear from terrorists as the U.S. did. A nuclear device in the hands of Chechen terrorists was too frightening to contemplate. But with the Russian economy only now beginning to recover from years of Communist control, funds for the disposal of nuclear materials had dried up.

Scott said, “And you’re thinking that while Drummond was up in Murmansk, he stumbled into a personal situation and took advantage of it?”

“Yes, that’s how I see it.”

“Well, I don’t. Drummond wouldn’t pay for sex. Not from a high-class call girl, much less a young man. Besides, his wife had just visited him in St. Petersburg.”

“Whatever,” Radford said, unmoved by Scott’s argument, “Drummond’s death can’t in any way interfere with the summit or cause embarrassment.”

“I presume the President has been informed.”

“I briefed Paul Friedman. I thought it better that the national security advisor know about it first so he can maneuver the President around any land mines waiting in Russia.”

“Do the Russians know?”

“If you mean the Kremlin, I can’t say. I assume the FSB keeps them informed about everything, but about this, who can be sure? In any event, it could prove embarrassing to both sides.”

Scott didn’t see anything embarrassing about Drummond’s death. If anything, he wanted to prove the FSB wrong and clear the man’s name. And the best place to start would be in Moscow.

Radford clicked the mouse. “Drummond had possession of sensitive materials, documents, CD-ROMs. He billeted at the embassy so you’ll have to find the materials, seal and return them via diplomatic pouch as soon as possible. Also, take care to sanitize his personal belongings. We wouldn’t want Mrs. Drummond to have a nasty surprise.”

Scott ignored this last admonition. “Who’s my liaison at the embassy?”

Radford looked at the monitor. “Chap named Alex Thorne. Second science attaché. Don’t know anything about him, only that he was apparently working with Drummond and has connections with Earth Safe. He may know something about Drummond’s movements around Murmansk. But be discreet. Your orders state that you’re a CACO—Casualty Assistance Control Officer—and the embassy staff may be able to help you cut through any bureaucracy attending the release of Drummond’s body.”

“Where do I billet?”

“At a hotel in Moscow. We want you out of sight as much as possible. The Russkies still watch the embassy and it’s best they don’t see you going in and out every day. You’re authorized to wear civilian clothes, which may help you keep a low profile. All of this is spelled out in your orders. You’ll also find manifests for the return of the body via U.S. commercial air carrier. And payment vouchers for mortuary services. You will report your progress to me and for that purpose you’ll be issued an armored cell phone by the embassy’s chief of security. It’ll have preselected channels, but use it sparingly. The Russians have gotten better at breaking our signals.”