The doctor cleared his throat, “Commander, we are lucky that the bodies were not exposed longer to the water. The fat and skin react to the moisture and create a soapy substance that would have erased the traces of this.” The doctor had cut open the sleeve of Pieter’s left arm to the forearm and was pointing with his finger at a cluster of small brown dots over the vein in the crook of the elbow. There was triumph in his voice, “Injections. Injections I did not administer. All of the others, with the exception of our mystery corpse, have the same marks.”
“Drugs?”
The doctor confirmed this. “Da, and expensive ones at that. Heroin, most likely. I would have to send the brain for study in Moscow to confirm the purity level though.”
Sturmovic shook his head. “That will not be necessary, if you are sure.”
“I am sure.” The doctor moved his finger up to a faint bruise that encircled the upper bicep. “See this bruise here? That is where the rubber tourniquet was applied. A bruise like that would suggest a large amount of injections in a small time, the sure sign of a regular user, but one thing does puzzle me.”
“And that is?”
“Well, if this man had been a user for a long time, the veins on his arms would have collapsed by now from the scar tissue created by repeated puncturing. Also, injections in this area are noticeable. Most serious addicts trying to hide their drug use inject themselves between the webbing of their feet.” The doctor pointed to Pieter’s bare feet. “As you can see, there are no injection marks there. It would have been impossible for him or any of the others to hide such a serious addiction from his colleagues.” The doctor shook his head. “No, someone gave this man a large series of injections in a short period of time. Heroin is a most addictive drug and the side effects can be horrific. Once hooked, this man, as well as the others, would have done anything to avoid the withdrawal symptoms. Did these men have any recent leaves?”
Zatolutin, who had been listening quietly to the doctor’s explanation, spoke up for the first time. “All three men were issued a three-day leave before the duty period, when they stole the warheads. I have a report from the guard at the gate that they all looked extremely worn out when they returned.”
Sturmovic felt the slow burn of anger growing inside him. Someone had used drugs to control his men and he had a good idea of who the scum was.
“There is only one man around here who deals in drugs of this type.”
Sergei Smirnoff was very well known to Sturmovic. He hated the use of drugs among his men, but there had been little he could do to stem the tide. Raids on local establishments had failed. Smirnoff was too slippery and too well-informed to allow himself to be caught. Sturmovic had been forced into a compromise that he now regretted. As long as there was no decrease in performance, he let the Sergeants and senior officers deal with transgressors in their individual groups.
“It appears that we will have to pay a visit to Comrade Smirnoff. I would love to hear his opinion of all this.” Sturmovic dropped the bullet on the chest of Pieter’s body, turned and walked away from the dock.
Zatolutin ran after him, struggling to catch up.
Sturmovic wanted to put this scene of personal failure far from him. He moved towards the only sensible clue available to him, Smirnoff. He stopped at his personal transport only long enough to grab his AK-74. The GRU commander was just steps behind him.
“Nikolay, I would be of more use to you, if you could tell me what you are about to do with that rifle.” The GRU officer was a good soldier, every bit as ashamed at his and his men’s inability to detect and stop the theft.
Sturmovic turned and looked at the man, his face dark and foreboding. “Smirnoff had something to do with this. I intend to find out exactly what.”
The GRU officer looked at the rifle in Sturmovic’s right hand. “We can’t just go and attack private citizens, Nicolay.”
Sturmovic chambered a round in the assault rifle. “Smirnoff does not readily respond to the niceties of culture and conversation.” He flicked the safety latch on. “And he has no respect for the law or the police. In this case, I agree with his assessment. The rifle is just a tool to get his attention.”
Zatolutin nodded. “Everything is always personal with you Nicolay. If Smirnoff is involved, I would think for him it will all be strictly business.”
“It is my men who are dead. For me, you are right, it is personal.”
“I would be remiss if I were to let you embark on such a visit without a security escort.” Zatolutin gave Sturmovic a sly smile.
Sturmovic smiled back. “Yes, I suppose you would be. And who would you have accompany me on this visit?”
“Myself and two very dangerous Sergeants.”
Sturmovic reached inside his vehicle again and threw his back up AK-74 to the GRU officer. They walked over to the BTR-60 guarding the road to the dock. Zatolutin waved to two burly Sergeants standing by his personal UAZ. They secured their gear and followed the GRU commander and Sturmovic.
It was a tight fit within the cramped confines of the BTR-60. Sturmovic clapped the Corporal in the driver’s seat on the right shoulder. “Head into Batumi. I’ll give you directions as we go.”
Smirnoff was enjoying himself with two of his more exuberant girls, when the door to his room was kicked in and a small olive object hurled through it. He had just enough time to wonder where his bodyguards were before the Polish-made stun grenade went off.
The explosion knocked Sergei and his companions to the floor. Deaf and partially blinded, he struggled to get to a weapon. A boot landed between his shoulder blades, smashing him to the floor. The cool steel of a rifle barrel was pressed against his head, just behind his right ear.
Nicolay Sturmovic’s voice cut through Sergei’s fog of pain. “I would consider lying very still right now, Comrade Smirnoff. Very still.”
CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
“Now you know as much about the man as I do.” Sir Arthur Harris wound up his dissertation of Verkatt’s activities, past to present, by placing his coffee cup on the cherry wood table. The current Director of MI6 could feel his fatigue growing. The flight across the Atlantic and the time difference were all playing hell with his circadian rhythms. He had been intrigued by the accident of communications, not to mention the content of the FLASH Traffic message. How much intelligence of this sort did the Americans keep from their British allies? Even though the special relationship was in place, Sir Harris knew the Americans were not candid about certain aspects of their operations.
The Director of the CIA, Gerold Babitch, a swarthy Kentuckian, sat back in his high leather chair and digested this latest information. What value it had on the FLASH Traffic out of Russia, he did not know. They paid analysts to figure out that stuff.
For years the CIA had tried to get agents of value placed in South Africa, but they were the new kids on the block and now, under the current enlightened government, it didn’t seem as high a priority anymore. The British, though, had maintained whole families of spies in the country since the time of the Boer War. The burden of intelligence gathering and when needed, counter intelligence, handed down from father or mother to son or daughter, generation after generation.
Babitch was surprised when Sir Harris flew over himself to handle the briefing on the Russian situation. Babitch didn’t particularly like Sir Harris. He found the British Spymaster a daunting figure. He reminded Babitch of an extra demanding law Professor he studied under at Harvard.