Churkin seemed pleased with the surprise he’d given Orlav, and said, “Good morning.” His pleasant tone did not make Orlav feel any better.
Where Orlav was thin, almost scrawny, Churkin was built like a wrestler or a weight lifter. They were about the same height, but the ex-commando outweighed him by fifteen kilos, and none of it was fat. His black hair was cut very short, and dark eyes gave life to a face that had seen more than a few fights. When Churkin smiled, which he was doing now, Orlav could see a few gold teeth, and also a few gaps.
Kirichenko had found Churkin on the wrong side of the law, and had spent a fair amount of bribe money to get Churkin out of jail before he could be sentenced to an impressive number of years in a Georgian prison. Churkin was an ex-Spetsnaz “reconnaissance diver,” skilled in many types of combat as well as underwater work, and a veteran of both the Chechen and Georgian wars. Among other skills, he spoke fluent Arabic.
Finding someone like Churkin had been vital to Kirichenko’s plans. Under his direction, the commando had personally dived on the barge to bring up the warheads, with the admiral waiting on the boat above. Churkin guarded the warheads on their long trip across a lawless landscape while Kirichenko dickered, bribed, and organized each leg of their trip. Throughout it all, Churkin had been as reliable as a stone monument, because Kirichenko knew the one thing that could hold his loyalty: money.
Seeing him just a few feet away, so suddenly, Orlav suppressed a chill. Churkin was not only Kirichenko’s right-hand man, he was also his executioner, if need be. The ex-admiral had made it plain to Orlav that if he didn’t perform well, or if he was stupid enough to try and leave, Churkin would happily hunt him down and slit his throat. Eventually.
“Tell me about Aleksey Petrov,” Churkin ordered.
Orlav was still fumbling on the floor for the key, and as he picked it up and stood, he turned to face Churkin. “I don’t know the man.” The question puzzled him, and he searched his memory.
After a moment, he added, “I saw him for the first time last week, when Captain Mitra called us all together and told us we were going to have help with the work. He was the only Russian. The rest were Indians from different departments in the shipyard.”
He held up his hands. “That’s all I know. Maybe you should speak to some of the others.”
“I already have,” Churkin replied quickly. “Yesterday. Now I’m talking to you. Has Petrov spoken to you?”
“No.”
“Have you seen him nearby while you did your work?”
“No. Never. I think I’ve passed him on the sub a couple of times, but that can’t mean anything.”
Churkin announced, “He’s been asking questions about you.”
“What?” A flash of fear ran through him. If they had been discovered…
“Aren’t you supposed to be on your way to the torpedo shop?”
“Oh. Yes.” Orlav realized he was still holding the key, and turned back to lock the door. He carefully put the key in his right pocket.
Churkin stood, and when Orlav looked at him, a little bewildered, finally said impatiently, “So let’s go.”
Orlav turned and quickly went down the steps and the brick path, then turned right to head for the torpedo shop. The route was simple, and would only take fifteen minutes to walk. Churkin followed easily, and matched Orlav’s pace.
“So Aleksey Petrov’s been asking questions about what you’re working on, why you don’t report to Gandhi or Shvetov, and so on. I’ll ask you again. Are you sure you haven’t said something to Petrov to arouse his curiosity?”
Orlav answered firmly, “Definitely not.”
“To anyone else?”
“No!” Orlav insisted. “Of course not!” When he could see that Churkin was unconvinced, he added, “I work alone, I eat alone. The only person I say more than ‘Hello’ to is Anton Kulik, and that’s when I ask him to bring me my meals. Maybe the isolation is what attracted Petrov’s attention.”
“Perhaps,” Churkin admitted, “but I have to find out if anyone else is involved with him, and how much they know. I’m taking over security down here — especially your security until you finish the project.” While Churkin was aware that an SVR agent was the probable source of Petrov’s questions, Churkin had been expressly forbidden to tell Orlav. The whiny technician was already a bundle of nerves and it wouldn’t take much to get him to panic. But Kirichenko also needed to know if Orlav had done something stupid to attract attention to himself. Churkin was satisfied with Orlav’s answers and would report his impressions to the boss.
Orlav continued walking in dejected silence. The thought of the ex-Spetsnaz thug hanging around, watching his every movement, did not make Orlav feel any more secure. As if he needed another incentive to finish quickly.
A block or two from the torpedo shop, Churkin suddenly turned and walked down another street. He didn’t even say good-bye, although Orlav was happy to see him go.
In addition to all the depressing thoughts whirling in his head, Orlav was disappointed by Churkin’s visit. The Russian engineer had been looking forward to the morning walk from his new quarters, a chance to organize his thoughts for the day’s labor. Instead, Mr. Buzzkill had not only ruined the tranquillity of the moment, but managed to increase his paranoia. A great start to the day.
Forget Petrov. He just wanted to keep clear of Churkin.
Kirichenko had insisted on meeting in a completely random location. Dhankhar hated what seemed like pointless cloak-and-dagger games, but then he remembered that Kirichenko had been underground for over a decade, and that he was peddling nuclear weapons he’d stolen from his own government. The man had every right to be paranoid.
The admiral hadn’t found out where they would meet until just half an hour before the appointed time, when Kirichenko had phoned him and simply said, without preamble, “The public library on High School Road.”
High School Road was a major thoroughfare that led west away from the water into the city. He’d driven by the place more times than he could count. “I know it,” he’d replied, and the Russian had hung up without another word.
They always made this business glamorous and exciting in the movies, but Dhankhar just checked out with his flag secretary for the day and drove out the front gate. The streets were still busy with the evening rush hour, but the library was only a few miles away. Fifteen minutes early, he pulled into a bank parking lot a short distance from the library.
He started to walk in a direction away from his destination, intending to circle the block, to check for anyone following him, then stopped, laughed, and headed straight for the library.
Dhankhar had no way of telling if he was indeed being followed, and even if he was, there was nothing he could do about it. Abort the meeting, he supposed, but that would be pointless. A tail, especially by the authorities, would mean that they’d already been discovered, and that Vajra was doomed. He chose to believe that for the moment their plan was still secret.
He’d never seen the Russian, and wasn’t sure that he could recognize his voice. Kirichenko always kept the calls as short as possible, and Dhankhar could not be sure, but suspected that he used some device to alter his voice.
On the other hand, Dhankhar’s photo was easily available on the Internet. He had an aide who made sure that it was included with all the base press releases. He’d just have to wait until Kirichenko approached him.