He heard his visitor on the way up the stairs and moved to open the French doors, then sat back down. Andri had been expecting him. The visitor didn’t knock; he stepped slowly through and slinked to the seat across the room.
“Hello, Sasha.”
Sasha Tolitov was a longtime confidant. He had been a first officer in the Red Fleet but was demoted and almost thrown out over some suspicious sexual activity with a Soviet vice admiral. The admiral’s enemies coerced Sasha to finger him as a deviant and a threat to the state. Shortly, the admiral disappeared and was reported to now occupy a sanitarium in Siberia. Sasha was spared the torture of the gulag, but his career was basically over. He lost his officer status and was made a simple guard at the boat design plant where Andri had worked a lifetime ago.
Around the complex, Sasha was the butt of many jokes. Andri dismissed his past. He knew that Sasha was a former officer, and it was a title he had earned. He drained every bit of information he could from Sasha about being a Soviet naval officer. He knew it could help him advance and attain greater goals if he learned from someone who had been through the system.
When it seemed that he had gleaned all the knowledge Sasha had, Andri then proceeded to manipulate him as a spy in the boatyards. He always had someone reporting to him about what was going on in the other departments. It all worked beautifully and kept him on top of the office politics. All this watching because he never forgot what had happened to him when Nemokov disappeared.
“How are things, Andri, my friend?” Sasha was old now. Gray and somewhat frail, he carefully adjusted his seating on the couch. He knew he was in the waning years of his life. A life for which he didn’t care much. The only bright spot was his friendship with the former engineer. Andri treated him like a human, and for this simple act of dignity, he returned his complete and unquestioning loyalty.
“I guess it could be worse,” said Andri. “How are things at the plant?”
“Shut down.”
“The Saratov?”
“Still exiled. After twenty-five years, she’s now waiting for a pilot to put her down. Under the ice.”
Andri looked grief-stricken. The Saratov was the last submarine he had designed. It was to be his crowning achievement in a brilliant career. It was his best work and was supposed to be the pride of the Soviet fleet. The ship had been streamlined and automated, stretched and reinforced. Mostly run by computers, the sub boasted fewer moving parts. It could go faster, dive deeper, and move quieter than any vessel of its size in the world. He had designed it to be that incredible. It was built but never made it to sea trial. It sat in dry-dock, waiting for the money and manpower to send it hunting. That day never came. It went into hiding under a canvas with the others.
“So now it will rust on the bottom.”
Sasha shook his head. “Even today, the government knows that vessel is a work of art. They certainly weren’t going to sell it.”
“Art. I didn’t build it to be admired. I built it to be feared.”
Sasha smiled. “You built a ship that reduced the number of crew. It eliminated jobs, Andri. Not a thing a true communist would do.”
“Do you know where?”
Sasha smiled and pulled a neatly folded piece of paper from his pocket. “A present, my friend.”
The paper was a simple map of the ocean floor in the Barents Sea. At least ten small red marks were dotted across it. Each dot had the name of a vessel written next to it.
“I can’t understand why they insisted on putting down their best. Their pride.”
“Cost. There are at least five that you designed personally in this area. They were too expensive for the government to operate. Now they are hiding them. They behave like they are still in service, but they fool no one.”
“They will come up,” Andri said tersely. “When the revolution takes place, they will be retrieved.”
“Comrade, there is no more Soviet Union.”
Andri returned, almost lashing out. “There is a Soviet Union. It is still there waiting, patiently. The people have had a taste of the West, and they have again come under hard times. They will return. The revolution is ready to emerge; it only needs a reason. The West is broken from its recession, and the seeds of equality will spring to life.” A fire seemed to light in his eyes.
Sasha didn’t want to argue. He was submissive by nature and figured that Andri was smarter than he, so he let it go. “The Saratov will go down in that area there.” He tried to change the subject by getting Andri interested in the subs again.
“This won’t do, Sasha. I’ll need to know the exact coordinates.”
The sun burst through the small, oval windows of the twin-engine aircraft transporting George to Simferopol. He had changed in Istanbul, shedding his robes for the American disguise of faded Levi’s and a plain white shirt. Though more relaxed about his situation, he still couldn’t doze like the rest of the passengers. The operation, if that’s what it could be called, was going very haphazardly. Simferopol was a problem. He had hoped that someone in the network had received his message and picked up Mohsen at the airport. It shouldn’t be hard. Mohsen was sloppy.
Sleeping was restless at best, so the trance he was in gave his body the opportunity to rid itself of a lot of tension. The plane gently touched down, rousing everyone. Within minutes, the door was open, and the passengers began to exit. George strolled off and was through customs in a pinch. The guards didn’t scrutinize anyone. It was early, and they wanted to return to their coffee.
The airport wasn’t busy, so he went for a little stroll while waiting for his contact. George didn’t know who it would be, but he made sure he stuck out. When he got near the end of the small terminal, he noticed a tiny man standing next to a bus. The man motioned slightly with his head for George to hop on. He did, and the man placed a token in his hand as he stepped up. Then he was gone.
The bus had a few passengers who looked as if they had no interest in small talk. That was fine with him. He took his seat and settled into a trance for the fifty-minute trip to Sevastopol.
“You’ve got to be shitting me!” Josh’s tone was one of disbelief rather than alarm. He sat at the screen furiously tapping away, trying to get a clearer picture. He wore a headset that had Sukudo on the line at the other end.
“What is it?” Sukudo was eager for information.
“That son of a bitch just gave me the finger. He dropped his escort at Kronstadt, sailed four miles into the Gulf of Finland, and now he’s taking her down.”
“What? You mean he knows we’re watching?”
Josh chuckled. “I don’t think he really knows. He’s just making an educated guess… There she goes. She’s under.” He flipped the screen to thermal imaging, and the sub burned white-hot on a black sea as she began her descent. “I supposed we deserve that. They’ve got to know someone is watching.”
“We can follow him, can’t we?”
“Already done. He’s not going to go too far down until he gets in the deeper water. But I should really get to figuring out the new orbit for the Barents. After all, we do know where he’s headed.”
“Will he resurface?”
“Like a bad habit. They come up once to coordinate the final dive with the destroyers.” Josh rolled over and pulled a still photo from a printer. “Admiral, you should really come back and have a look at this thing.”