After Kirichenko sat, Dhankhar said simply, “The torpedo shop was broken into last night.”
“Wh—” Kirichenko managed to suppress his initial outburst, but the alarm and surprise showed on his face.
“Two men. They Maced the sentry and tied him up, then rummaged through the place. They sabotaged all the power tools as well. Orlav’s spending precious hours this morning scrounging replacements from all over the shipyard.”
Kirichenko listened uncomprehendingly, still digesting the news. Dhankhar could almost see the wheels turning as the information sank in. “If they saw what was in there…”
“Which they most certainly did, and quite likely photographed everything! Thank heaven the devices were in the secure storage vault. It was probably Petrov, with an Indian accomplice according to the guard; the man was in an Indian naval uniform — a captain. They probably tried to get into the vault, but evidently didn’t have the code. They did have the code for the door to the shop itself. They are resourceful,” he admitted.
Kirichenko said unbelievingly, “Discovery…”
“Discovery is the disaster we have all feared, and their actions were no doubt precipitated by your subordinate. As a security operative, Churkin was less than effective. In fact, our security became decidedly worse since his arrival. Did you know the other body found in the basin was the SVR agent, Ruchkin? I’ve been able to suppress the release of this information on the grounds that we can’t alert the criminal. But I can’t keep this hidden for very long, perhaps a week. I’ve also called in some favors from sympathetic friends. I have CBI looking for Petrov and his associate on presumed charges, but if they are as clever as they seem, it’s probably too late.” Dhankhar’s scowl deepened.
He gestured toward the newspaper and turned it so Kirichenko could see the front page. “In fact, I was just checking the front page of the Hindu for any articles about us. It would be quite the scoop!” His anger, so carefully controlled, finally surfaced, and he whipped the newspaper at the Russian, aiming for his face.
Kirichenko easily blocked the attack, but not the fury behind it. Dhankhar’s tirade had given him time to process the news and understand their very grave situation. His first fear wasn’t arrest or incarceration. There were few ties between him and the Indian conspiracy, and he was always ready for a quick escape.
But he couldn’t abandon the project. Without Dhankhar’s payment, he was out of business. His small network of informants and helpers depended on steady payments, or it would evaporate — or, worse, turn against him. He’d hoped to keep Churkin’s share of the money and put it to good use, but then he’d had to use half of it to keep that idiot Orlav in line. He’d done so much already, and was ready to do anything to get paid. He’d take care of Petrov and his accomplice himself.
Kirichenko asked, “Where are they now?”
“Out of sight, and well beyond your capabilities,” Dhankhar answered. “Don’t even think of attacking them again,” he warned sternly. “All you’ve done is trip over your own feet.”
“We have to do something!” Kirichenko countered. He spoke softly, but Dhankhar heard fear mixed with his intensity.
“What you are going to do is assist Orlav. This latest catastrophe has slowed him down, and put us all on borrowed time. I don’t care whether it’s wiring circuits or making coffee, get in that shop and do whatever you need to help him finish. I’ve spent most of the morning speaking to Mitra and others at the shipyard. They’ll have Chakra ready to sail at ten hundred hours on the seventh. I will come to the shop at zero seven hundred hours. I’ll expect to see five completed torpedoes, ready for loading. And no more prorating. Unless I see five, you won’t get a single kopek. That’s the only language you seem to understand — money.”
Dhankhar sat back in his chair. Kirichenko was silent for a moment, but when he began to speak, the admiral cut him off sharply. “We are finished. Get out.”
Retrieving the newspaper, he barely noticed when Kirichenko left.
11
ALARM RAISED
Petrov kept gazing out the window as the SUV slowly arced off of National Highway 9. The traffic had been unexpectedly heavy since early morning and their progress had been agonizingly slow; they were already two hours late. Now the traffic was getting even more congested and the frustrated driver decided to take an alternate route to the consulate. Stiff and achy, the Russian shifted his body gently, trying to find a more comfortable position. His bruised left side was not pleased with being strapped in a car for twelve hours and it was protesting. As he leaned against the doorjamb, his eyes caught sight of a huge medieval-looking building. It seemed out of place; its size and ancient European architecture was in stark contrast to the modern buildings that surrounded it.
“That’s Amrutha Castle,” Samant volunteered quietly. “It’s a hotel, and a reasonable one at that. The regular rooms are a little on the small side, but that shouldn’t bother an old submariner like you.” A thin fatigued smile was on his face.
“Well, it certainly looks impressive,” said Petrov. A sudden yawn interrupted his next words. Yielding to it, he stretched himself carefully before asking, “Did you have a good nap?”
Samant shook his head, extending his back as much as he could with his seat belt on. “Not really. I dozed in and out over the last six hours or so. This isn’t the most comfortable of vehicles to sleep in, and I couldn’t stop thinking about the chaos our visit will cause. Dhankhar must surely know who broke into the torpedo shop by now. He’ll be livid, of course, but he will also be afraid. That makes him even more dangerous.”
“We took the best shot with what we had, Girish,” Petrov replied firmly. “And it was as good as we could have hoped for. I think you’re just impatient at having to wait so long to see the results of our shot. Torpedoes are a lot quicker at telling you if they hit or missed their target.”
Samant grinned. “I suppose you are right. But disengaging as we did also means we are out of contact with our target, and that concerns me.”
“Gentlemen, pardon the interruption,” interjected McFadden, “but we are almost there. The consulate is just on the other side of Hussain Sagar Lake, and we should arrive in about ten minutes.”
Without thinking, Petrov turned his head a little too quickly, and a jolt of pain shot up his left side. “That’s good to hear, Mr. McFadden,” he gasped. “I think I’ve had just about enough of this.”
McFadden nodded. “Understood, sir. We’ll have a doctor take a look at your injuries as soon as we can. The Consul General, Mr. Erik Olson, would like to meet with you first and fill you in on the president’s intentions.”
“Has Dr. Patterson said anything more about the photos we sent her?” asked Samant.
“No, Captain. The last message I received from her said they had successfully downloaded all the files. The pictures were clear, the content excellent, and that they’d be working all night putting together the case to present to the Indian government. That was…” McFadden glanced at his smartphone, noting the time of Patterson’s e-mail. “…six o’clock our time this morning.”
“That’s eight hours ago!” grumbled Samant. “I would certainly hope more has been done since then!”
“I’m confident of that, sir, but Dr. Patterson gave explicit orders that there would be no further discussions on this issue until you and Captain Petrov were safely within the consulate. That’s why we are meeting with the consul general as soon as we arrive.”