The problem was that before his lunch with Kulik, he’d spent the morning trying to find out what he could about Orlav, first from Captain Mitra, in charge of the project, then at the personnel office, and of course he’d looked around the torpedo shop where the technician spent almost all his time.
The shop was a large, windowless building, and if the keypad lock wasn’t enough of a deterrent, the armed soldier out front kept him from even lingering in the area. Of course, short of peeking in a nonexistent window, Petrov didn’t have a clue what he could have done or learned. He decided he was a better engineer than a spy.
Girish Samant agreed. “You are indeed a very lousy spy,” he declared as they ate dinner together that night.
They were not eating at Akshaya’s, but a smaller place, away from the shipyard. The Mirakapi had good food, but Petrov had to ask for extra rice to kill the fire from the tandoori chicken he’d ordered.
“And what would you have done?” Petrov retorted. He felt a flash of irritation, but he realized part of it was his competitive nature, one of the things he and Samant had in common.
“The same,” the Indian answered quickly, with a smile. “Until now, I think we were both proud of our lack of guile. Unfortunately, there is no time to learn as we go. If Russian intelligence wanted you to play detective, they should have given you the handbook.”
“Written in invisible ink, no doubt,” grumbled Petrov.
“We will find other ways to gather the information we need.”
Dhankhar listened with frustration. It had been more difficult than usual to get ahold of Kirichenko, and after finally catching him; it was hard to read the man’s reactions over the phone. He never replied quickly, rarely expressed surprise, or anger, or any strong emotion. Dhankhar couldn’t tell by the sound of Kirichenko’s voice how he was taking the news of someone asking questions about Orlav.
“Would Petrov have any other reason to ask questions about Orlav beyond the SVR agent’s request?”
Even though he was on the phone, Dhankhar automatically shook his head. “No. Certainly it has nothing to do with his assignment assisting in Chakra’s refit,” the admiral replied. “Captain Mitra was quite sure, and reported that Petrov asked about Orlav in several different places this morning.”
“Why would the SVR care about Orlav?” Kirichenko asked. “Has he done anything to attract attention to himself?”
“I don’t know,” Dhankhar admitted. “But Petrov is following through on the agent’s request, or he is at least trying. Mitra got his personnel file when he was assigned to assist with Chakra. He’s a retired submarine captain, and now an engineer and naval constructor. No obvious ties to intelligence or law enforcement agencies.”
“I know of him,” Kirichenko said. “He was captain of Severodvinsk, but lost her on his first patrol in a collision with an American submarine. Nineteen men were killed. The investigation found him to be at fault and he was allowed to retire.”
“Is he trying to redeem himself, then?”
“Possibly. We certainly can’t let him find out anything more.” Kirichenko asked, “Has Orlav talked to anyone?”
“No, he works alone in the torpedo shop, and goes back to his apartment every few days to shower and change clothes.”
“Move him out of his apartment. Find quarters for him on the base; keep him away from the other Russians.” Dhankhar felt a flash of irritation at the peremptory order, but then remembered that Kirichenko had also been an admiral, before he left his navy. “Are you sure he never leaves the shipyard?”
“As far as I know. The only places he goes are the torpedo shop, Chakra, and occasionally his apartment, just outside the north gate.”
“That we know of,” Kirichenko replied. “He’s weak-willed, prone to drink and other distractions. That’s why he was kicked out of the Russian Navy. If he’s somehow managed to sneak off and gotten into trouble, it not only affects our schedule, it jeopardizes the security of the entire plan.”
“I don’t have enough people to watch him all day,” the admiral protested. “I’ll be able to constrain his movements if he stays in the shop, but I can’t assign more guards to watch him inside the building. I’ve been able to boost security at the gates after the Kashmiri explosion. That wasn’t hard, but beefing up security inside the base requires that I either bring more people into the project, or a long explanation. Both bring unwanted attention to Mr. Orlav and the torpedo shop — attention we can ill afford.”
“Then do what you can. Visit him at unusual times for the next couple of days. After that, Churkin will be there and he can watch Orlav. Everything depends on that zadnitsa.” Dhankhar’s Russian was good enough to include slang. Kirichenko was not being complimentary.
“Agreed.” Dhankhar didn’t like what Kirichenko was saying, but it was true.
“What about Mitra? I’m assuming you haven’t told him, have you?” The Russian’s tone was accusatory.
“Certainly not,” Dhankhar replied with a righteous tone. “Nothing beyond what I told him at the start. Orlav is working on a secret weapons project authorized by the Defense Ministry. I needed Mitra’s cooperation to secure the torpedo shop, the guards, supplies, as well as having Orlav reporting only to me, while keeping the lead artificer at arm’s length.”
“Good.” Kirichenko asked, “Is Petrov important to finishing Chakra’s refit on time?”
Dhankhar tried to remember what Mitra had said the Russian was doing aboard the sub. “Nothing special, supervisory work, mostly. He’s very good at organizing things, and he’s solved a lot of problems brought on by the truncated refit schedule. But the critical path is the delivery of several items of electronic equipment from Russia. He can’t help with that. Why do you ask?”
“It’s not important,” Kirichenko replied quickly. “Hopefully, his playing detective is not interfering with his work.”
Hardy took Joanna with him this time. She had been unhappy at being excluded from the first meeting, and the presence of the national security advisor would remind the Russians of the importance of this issue to the U.S. The senator still wasn’t completely sure that the Russian government was taking this seriously.
Ambassador Vaslev was waiting for them after they went through security, and they immediately went down one level below ground to what Hardy assumed was a secure conference room. The Russian flag in one corner and the picture of the Russian president on the wall triggered some old Cold War reflexes, but the Russians were trying to be hospitable. Tea had been laid out, as well as pads and pens for notes. The Americans left their phones and other recording devices at security, of course.
The only other person in the room was Colonel Valery Zykov, the SVR station chief. When Vaslev had entered with his two guests in tow, Zykov spoke into a microphone and a flat-screen display on one wall had come to life.
The screen showed three men sitting at a table. Two were in naval uniforms, the other was dressed in civilian clothes. He recognized one of them, Captain Mishin, the naval attaché that he’d briefed a week ago.
Mishin spoke. His English was heavily accented, but understandable. He explained, “After our meeting with you, I flew back to personally brief my superiors. They have made me action officer for this matter, along with Major Tumansky of the FSB.” He was gesturing toward the man in civilian clothes.