Mixell smiled briefly and wondered if Plecas noticed. But the man’s attention was focused on the ancient TV. Mixell glanced over his shoulder, noting that the programming had shifted to the nightly news: an update on the Russian Navy. Currently being shown were video clips of the disastrous war with the United States a few months ago. Russia’s Northern and Pacific Fleets had been devastated, with the video on the TV showing the aftermath: Russian ships floating aimlessly on the surface — blackened hulks or ships engulfed in flames — while the less fortunate ships were already resting on the ocean bottom.
The news program tried to put a positive spin on the outcome, showing black smoke spiraling upward from the four American aircraft carriers during the main engagement. But two of the carriers had remained in action, putting the finishing touches on the pride of the Russian Fleet: the aircraft carrier Admiral Kuznetsov and the nuclear-powered battle cruiser Pyotr Velikiy. Both had remained afloat after the battle and had been towed to the nearest shipyard, but it would be two years at least before either warship was returned to service.
Only Russia’s submarine fleet had survived relatively intact, with two-thirds of its submarines still operational. Mixell noticed the darkness in Plecas’s eyes and wondered if what America had done to the Russian Navy played a part in his decision to help his cause.
A waitress wearing a traditional Russian dress stopped by to take their order. Mixell selected his favorites — borscht and pelmeni dumplings — looking forward to a home-cooked meal he hadn’t had in many years, along with kvass, a fermented beverage made from rye bread. While they waited for their order, they talked in hushed tones, so no one could overhear their conversation.
“I’m sorry about your daughter,” Mixell said, “and that she hasn’t responded to her treatments.” It was a lie, of course. Her deteriorating condition was what he had been hoping for, backing Plecas into a corner. “I have the funds you need. Do you have the required information?”
Plecas pulled a letter from his pocket, which he handed to Mixell. “This has everything you need: the name of the drug, the company that makes it, and the contact information for my daughter’s primary doctor at Blokhin Medical Center.”
Mixell reviewed the information, then replied, “I will arrange for one-half of the treatment before you deploy, and the second half once you complete your assignment. Agreed?”
Plecas nodded, and Mixell retrieved a folded sheet of paper from his pocket, which he handed to the Russian. “Here are the targets. It must be a simultaneous attack, which will increase the odds of overwhelming defense systems the Americans have in place.”
The submarine captain studied the targets for a while, determining where he needed to position his submarine.
“How long before you can launch?” Mixell asked.
“I can be within range of all targets fifteen days after Kazan deploys.”
Mixell pulled his cell phone from a pocket and reviewed the itinerary he’d been sent.
“That’s a good day. What kind of a launch window are we talking about? Plus or minus how many hours?”
“My submarine can travel thousands of kilometers and arrive at the launch point within one minute of the specified time. It’s a simple math problem — time versus distance — and I will adjust my submarine’s speed to compensate for issues along the way. However, if I run into delays near the end of the transit, does an eight-hour window work?”
“That’d be fine.”
Beneath the list of the targets, Plecas wrote down a date and time and showed it to Mixell, who memorized it.
“I will launch between this time”—Plecas pointed to the paper—“and eight hours later, Greenwich Mean Time. Understand?”
Mixell nodded. The U.S. military — and apparently Russian submarines — operated on GMT, to which all other time zones were referenced, so that every unit around the world knew when to execute its orders, regardless of the local time.
Plecas folded the paper and slipped it in his pocket as the waitress returned, first with their drinks and then food. As the two men ate in silence, Mixell sensed that Plecas wasn’t enamored with the task he had agreed to, but was confident the Russian would follow through.
Meanwhile, Mixell’s thoughts turned to the second and more critical element of the plot, which Plecas was unaware of. Mixell repressed a smile as he dug into his pelmeni.
11
MOSCOW, RUSSIA
It was almost midnight at Moscow’s Leningradskaya Station as Lonnie Mixell sat at a table in the back of the train’s restaurant car, eyeing the other passengers enjoying a late-night snack prior to the train’s departure. Instead of a Sapsan high-speed daytime train, Mixell had opted for an overnight journey aboard the historic Krasnaya Strela, commonly referred to as the Red Arrow, Russia’s premier train traveling the Moscow — St. Petersburg route during the Soviet era. As the red train pulled away from the brightly lit loading platform, beginning its eight-hour nonstop journey, music was broadcast through the carriage cars — Oleg Gazmanov’s “Moscow”—a decades-old tradition on the Red Arrow.
Having landed in Moscow that morning, Mixell planned to depart the country via St. Petersburg. His departure from JFK airport had likely been detected, and the American intelligence agencies were no doubt attempting to follow his trail. He planned to keep moving, staying a step ahead of his enemies, shifting to a new identity periodically and avoiding transportation hubs he had already passed through. The Red Arrow met his need, taking him to St. Petersburg where he would leave the country to arrange the second plot Zawahiri had funded. But for now, he needed to finalize the last element of the first plot.
Mixell made eye contact with one of the men he’d be meeting tonight, sitting at a table not far away, then caught the attention of the second man, at a table at the far end of the restaurant car, who nodded slightly. He texted both men on his cell phone, instructing them to join him in his sleeper cabin in a few minutes. After finishing his cheesecake, Mixell strolled through the restaurant car, passing both men before stepping into the adjacent VIP carriage, where he slipped into his suite. A moment later, the first man knocked, then entered, followed shortly by the second man.
Sitting at a small table, Mixell invited the two men into seats across from him. The man to the left was Anatoly Bogdanov, while beside him sat Mikhail Korenev. The two men were meeting each other for the first time. Before beginning, Mixell briefly assessed the willingness of his two co-conspirators to execute the plan.
Years earlier, as he stewed in his prison cell at Fort Leavenworth, Mixell had imagined ways to make the United States pay for its betrayal. Something that would make 9/11 pale in comparison. His thoughts frequently focused on nuclear weapons. Between America and Russia, there had been tens of thousands in their arsenals at the height of the Cold War, and tactical nuclear weapons were small and transportable. If he could get his hands on just one…
After evaluating the possibilities, Mixell had focused his efforts on obtaining Russian nuclear weapons. However, even if he obtained a tactical nuke, it wasn’t the kind of weapon one could remotely detonate with a cell phone. They were protected by the same safeguards as strategic nuclear weapons, requiring arming authorization from appropriate fire control software, and the warheads had complex logic interlocks that prevented inadvertent detonation.