Peter Sasgen - War Plan Red

“What are the Russians doing about secure storage?”

“It’s a joke. Most of the boats are rusting away at their piers and in danger of sinking. In Murmansk, for instance, an old Hotel-class sub laid up in a fjord is in such bad shape that the navy’s afraid to move it for fear it’ll sink. As for storage, the concrete bunkers are overflowing with solid and liquid waste. Worse yet, they’ve dumped scores of naval reactor assemblies into the Barents Sea. Talk about shitting in your own backyard.”

Alex whipped the SUV around a line of slow-moving lorries hauling precast concrete pilings to a Moscow construction site. Another motorist seemed to take offense and sped past the SUV with a middle finger raised defiantly.

“The Russian economy is just starting to climb out of the tank and they have no money for cleaning up the mess,” she said. “Norway and the U.S. have signed agreements with Russia to help build a processing plant. But it will take years. Meanwhile there’s the war in Chechnya—Uh-oh.”

Scott saw her eyes flick to the rearview mirror. A pale gray car with flashing red and blue lights on its roof came up fast and tucked in behind the SUV. He heard the familiar hee-hawing and knew what it was.

“Shit,” said Alex.

“Gaishnik—traffic cop?”

“GAI—traffic inspector. He sees the diplomatic plates and knows he can’t get a bribe out of us, just wants to give us a hard time.” She braked and pulled onto the shoulder to stop.

“Like I said,” Scott said, “nothing has changed.”

The officer, in creaking leather and mirrored sunglasses, got out of his patrol car and approached. He motioned that Alex should lower her window.

“Vaditel ’skie prava.” The cop looked past Alex, at Scott.

Alex fixed the cop with a disapproving gaze. “Nyet. Ya Amerikanski diplomat.” She pointed to herself and Scott.

“Your driver’s license,” the cop demanded again, this time in English.

She handed it over and he kept it as he made a slow circuit of the SUV, thumped a fender, and returned to the open window. Alex held out a hand for the document.

“This vehicle has a burned-out brake light.”

“Thank you for pointing it out, Officer. I’ll be sure to tell the motor pool mechanic at the American Embassy,” she said, emphasizing American and Embassy. “Now, if you don’t mind, we’re on our way to a meeting with an official of your government.”

“It’s dangerous to drive with a burned-out brake light. It can cause an accident and you can be arrested.” The cop eyed Alex from behind his mirrors, perhaps weighing whether or not he could wrangle a bribe after all.

“I’m sure you’re right. Officer,” Alex said. She reached out and plucked her license from the cop’s hand. Before he could react, she upped the power window and drove off. “Prick.”

Scott smiled but said nothing. The only thing he and Alex had in common so far was an interest in Drummond’s death. But he was beginning to like her a lot. He also liked the way she took charge and admired her determination not to be intimidated, which was a tall order when dealing with dangerous materials scattered across the Kola Peninsula or bribe-hungry Russian cops.

Alex got on the car phone with the embassy duty officer and detailed their encounter with the gaishnik. She also gave an ETA at the Marriott Grand. “Just in case,” she said to the duty officer.

She was an attractive woman and Scott wondered if she’d gotten involved with Drummond—and if she had, how his death, in a hotel room with a naked Russian sailor had affected her. It wasn’t idle erotic speculation on his part: He’d need her help and had to gain her trust if he was going to discover how Drummond had died. There was little to go on and little time to find answers.

“Sorry,” Alex said, hanging up the phone. “I thought it best they know.”

They caught up to and repassed the lorry convoy. She took the next exit to the inner ring road and crossed the Krymsky Bridge over the Moskva. Traffic had thinned, and, wrist draped over the wheel, Alex relaxed and permitted herself a look in Scott’s direction.

“I know you must have a lot of questions about Frank,” Alex said.

“I do. I have orders to escort him home, but that’s not the only reason I’m here. I know you worked with him on the nuclear security side. That he was liaison to the Norwegians and Earth Safe. What else?”

“He was a great guy. We were more than colleagues: We were friends. He always had a good sea story to tell. He never got impatient, never got angry. He was a good listener too. We worked well together. When he died, I was devastated.”

“Do you believe the death report the FSB filed with the embassy.”

Her mouth tightened. “I don’t know. It didn’t seem possible… I mean, that Frank was…gay. I know he was married, that his wife paid him a visit in St. Petersburg, but still, I don’t know what to believe.”

“What was he doing in Murmansk that night?” “I’m not sure.”

“You were there with him, weren’t you?”

“Actually, I wasn’t. We’d been in Murmansk for two weeks, digging through records, photographing sites, interviewing Russian naval personnel. We had been aboard several submarines waiting to be dismantled in Olenya Bay, tagging equipment and such. But we’d also been aboard a nuclear sub that was being readied for a patrol.”

“A sub still in commission?”

“Yes, a fairly new one, as they go.”

“Do you remember which one?”

“An Akula, the K-363.”

“What were you doing aboard her?”

“Interviewing the crew. We try to develop a baseline on crew proficiency and training. As you know, active submariners in the Russian Navy are trained at their nuclear power school. From them we sometimes select individuals for special training in the handling of nuclear materials ashore.”

“Go on.”

“I’d returned to Moscow to file a report a day before Frank was due to wrap up in Murmansk on Tuesday. But my train was delayed by bad weather and I didn’t get to Moscow and to the embassy until Thursday morning. I found a message from Frank on my embassy voice mail system, but it was so garbled I couldn’t understand it. He had used a cell phone and it sounded like he was heading back to Moscow on Friday, but that something had come up. Anyway, when he didn’t show on Saturday, I called the Norwegians and the base commander at Olenya Bay. They both said he’d left for Moscow Thursday night. That’s when I notified the authorities in Murmansk that he was missing. They found him on Sunday. With the dead Russian sailor. And the gun.”

Alex touched the comer of an eye. “I don’t know what to believe,” she added again after a long, thoughtful silence.

Scott told her about his friendship and naval service with Drummond, and about Vivian.

“Then you don’t believe the FSB report,” Alex said.

“No.”

“Then, what do you think happened to Frank?” The way she asked the question seemed to imply that she knew what his answer would be.

“I think he was murdered.”

“But the report said—”

“I know what it said: suicide. But it’s bullshit.”

“Who would murder him?” Alex said.

“I don’t know. But I need you to help me find out.”

They crossed Tverskaya Prospekt, an exclusive shopping street lined with expensive boutiques and hotels. Even so, Scott spotted a new McDonald’s restaurant going up next to a Prada store.

She gave Scott a look. “How can I possibly help you?”

“You were with him a good part of the time he was in Murmansk. Maybe there’s something you can remember that'll help. Like his cell phone call.”

“Forget that. I told you, it’s useless. Totally garbled.”