The ambassador didn’t respond immediately, and she added, “Whatever is in the file will have limited distribution to those directly involved in this investigation. It is in the United States’ interest to keep this matter quiet, for the time being.” There was an edge to her voice, and she kept Vaslev centered in her gaze.
In Russian, Mishin spoke first, then Tumansky, addressing Vaslev. Hardy couldn’t understand Russian, but their tone indicated she’d managed to convince them. Vaslev finally nodded, and then said, “All right, Dr. Patterson, on my authority, you will have the file this afternoon.”
8
ARRIVALS
Evgeni Orlav was delighted with his luck. Instead of sleeping on a cot in the torpedo shop, or traveling back to his run-down apartment, he’d spent the night in luxury, on the orders of Vice Admiral Dhankhar.
Not that he’d been very polite about it, Orlav remembered. Dhankhar had shown up late last night at the shop. Orlav had been in the middle of test-fitting one of the mounts inside a torpedo body when the admiral had come in, standing silently until the technician had put down his tools.
“When you’re ready to stop work for the night, tell the sentry outside. He’ll have a driver take you to your new quarters, here on the base.”
Orlav had been surprised, and started to ask a question, but the Indian cut him off, adding, “All your personal effects have been moved out of your apartment and brought here. Now there is no need for you to leave the base.”
Dhankhar had been almost scowling as he spoke, and when he finished, Orlav simply said, “All right, I understand,” and Dhankhar had left.
Orlav didn’t like Dhankhar, and knew it was mutual. He was the kind of officer that had always caused problems for Orlav back in his navy days — stiff-necked martinets who believed their rank actually meant something. All they thought about were rules and duty, and believed everyone else should be the same way. They’d made life so miserable for him he’d actually missed his wife and her family. At least his in-laws wouldn’t give him grief for taking a drink now and then.
The mount had fit properly, and feeling satisfied with himself, Orlav had decided to break for the night. It was almost midnight, and he was curious, and a little concerned about where he was going to sleep. He didn’t trust Dhankhar in the slightest. Well, if his new lodgings were that bad, he still had the cot here at the shop.
Stepping outside, Orlav told the sentry he was finished, and within a few minutes a jeep appeared and parked nearby. The driver said it was just a couple of kilometers away. Even this late, the night air was warm and thick with humidity. Holding out a hand as they drove, Orlav could feel moisture collecting on his fingers.
Truth be told, he wouldn’t miss his “apartment” in town. Right, more like a prison cell. It was just one room, with barely enough floor space for a bed and a table. The toilet and shower were communal, just down the hall, and the entire building reeked of curry and sweat. Even with what the management called air conditioning, everything was sticky with moisture.
He’d picked it because many of the other Russians also lived there and commuted together. They lived there because it was cheap, and it let them send more money home to Russia. He needed the “cheap” part, and as for sending money home…
The character of the base changed quickly from an industrial appearance to residential as the shipyard’s shops were replaced by neat one- and two-story barracks and office buildings. At that hour, there was little traffic, but the soldier was dutifully obeying the fifteen-kilometers-per-hour speed limit, which gave Orlav time to take in the sights.
He was surprised when they stopped in front of a white-painted brick bungalow. It sat near one end of a row of similar houses, all with neat gardens and red tile roofs. He’d been in the service long enough, and been on enough military bases, to recognize that the quarters were meant for senior officers. A brick walkway ended in steps that led up to a screened-in porch. A small nameplate said it was number forty-seven, but the space for the occupant’s name was empty.
The driver said, “The admiral says you will live here until your work is finished.”
Nodding his understanding, Orlav got out of the jeep, a little surprised but accepting. The screen door opened with what sounded like a deafening screech in the late-night quiet, and he stepped through to the shadowed front door. A polished brass knocker gleamed in the faint light from the street.
The door was unlocked, and after finding the light switch, Orlav found himself in a sitting room, not only completely furnished, but also tastefully decorated. He stopped in the doorway, hand still on the knob, transfixed. This was not only better than his apartment, it was better than his home in Moscow, and much better than the place he’d grown up in Rybinsk, with ten people and three generations in a three-room apartment.
He could see a small kitchen in an alcove to his left. An open door to the right beckoned, and he went through to find a bedroom, as nicely appointed as the rest of the house. The bed was already made up, as in a fine hotel.
This is how I want to live, Orlav thought, with an intensity that almost surprised him. Someday soon, I’ll be able to have a house like this, with enough money so I don’t have to scrape to get a meal.
A set of keys lay on the bed, next to a folded note. It was in Dhankhar’s handwriting. The admiral’s spoken Russian was fair, but his Cyrillic lettering was like that of a child, each letter carefully drawn. “This house will let you get proper rest while staying close to your work. Do not leave the base until you are finished.”
Orlav crumpled the note, and after a quick search, tossed it in a nearby wastebasket. He liked this place. He would keep it neat.
The search also revealed two battered suitcases and a couple of boxes sitting in a corner of the bedroom, his belongings from the apartment. He wondered who had moved him out. How had they gotten the key to his apartment? Although he didn’t know any details, it was clear that the admiral’s conspiracy extended into every arm of the Indian government, including law enforcement. Maybe one of Dhankhar’s confederates had shown up and flashed a badge.
It took him only a few minutes to unpack, and he hurried a little. The bed reminded him of his fatigue, and promised a much better night’s rest than he’d had in a long time.
He fell asleep wondering if they’d gotten his security deposit back.
He’d awakened after the best sleep he’d had in months, certainly since starting this job. The rumbling of his stomach reminded him that he was hungry. There was no food in the house, of course, but he always ate breakfast at the shop, while he set up for the day’s work. He’d even obtained a small refrigerator and a plug-in teapot. As he dressed, he wondered if he should bring those things back to the bungalow, and have a proper breakfast here in the morning. But that might take longer.
It was great to have such a nice place to live, and to think about such mundane things.
Remembering to take his key, he had stepped outside and turned to lock the door when a harsh Russian voice came out of nowhere. “So you’re finally up. No wonder you’re not finished yet.”
Startled, Orlav dropped the key and quickly knelt, fumbling to pick it up. At the same time, he looked around for the source of the voice. To his right, sitting in a wicker chair on the screened-in porch, was Jascha Churkin.