For the Abakovs, a bigger, more modern apartment was out of the question.
In the living room a solitary window looked out over the trash-strewn lot from where the thud of the soccer ball and the shouts of kids roughhousing reached the apartment. A folded newspaper had been left on the worn cloth sofa where Abakov indicated Scott and Alex should sit. Abakov dropped into a lumpy armchair.
Elaina brought in a bottle of Gjelka vodka with its intricate blue and white label, and plates piled with smoked sturgeon, caviar, homemade pickled cucumbers, and black bread cut into triangles.
Abakov, looking anxious, watched her depart. In English he said, “Excuse Elaina, she is young and likes to entertain, but we don’t often have guests. She wanted to make chicken tabaka, but I told her there wouldn’t be time for that.”
“She’s very pretty,” Alex said.
“I was a widower, we met, and now I have a family.”
“Thanks for seeing us on short notice,” Scott said.
“You were in luck: I just returned from St. Petersburg.”
“Any information on Zakayev’s whereabouts?”
“None. But I was right about one thing. Those spent nine-millimeter cases we found in Murmansk came from one of the guns used in the St. Petersburg shooting. As for Zakayev, he’s disappeared. You said you had something important. Let’s see what you have.”
Abakov kneaded his forehead while he read Drummond’s memo, which Scott had printed out in the embassy comm center. Scott knew that showing the document to Abakov was a gross violation of security for which for he and Alex could be prosecuted. But there was no time to ask for clearances that might never come from the embassy or the SRO. Abakov seemed to appreciate this when he said,
“You’re both taking a big risk. I shouldn’t be looking at this.”
“The risk is worth taking if we can head off a terrorist attack.”
Abakov let out a heavy breath. “What’s your assessment?”
“It’s clear that Zakayev is either planning to steal fissile materials or something even more dangerous.”
Abakov gave Scott a sharp look. “What could be more dangerous in Zakayev’s hands than stolen fissile material?”
“A nuclear submarine.”
Abakov snorted. “Impossible. There’s no way he can steal a submarine.”
“He could if he had help.”
“From whom?” Abakov said, perhaps seeing the possibility.
“Someone at Olenya Bay. Georgi Litvanov, for instance, the skipper of the K-363, the sub Radchenko served in.”
“He’d need a crew loyal to him.”
“Maybe he’s got one,” Scott said.
Abakov ran a hand over his bald head while digesting this. At length he said, “They have security at Russian sub bases to prevent terrorists from getting on the base.”
“Not according to Alex,” said Scott.
“Security at Olenya Bay is nil,” Alex said. “No one guards the submarines tied up there. The sub crews are responsible for their own security. And there’s no accountability. The base commander doesn’t even know how many subs he has or what condition they’re in. If one of them sank at a pier, he might not know it for days.”
Abakov’s face was grave. “Stealing fissile materials is one thing, but stealing a nuclear submarine…”
Abakov saw Alex give a little wave and smile at someone behind him. He turned around and saw a little boy peeking around the corner from another room. “Sasha,” Abakov said, “I thought you were doing your homework.”
Sasha was joined by his younger sister, wearing pajamas printed with giraffes. She peeked around Sasha at Scott and Alex.
“They’re so cute,” said Alex.
“This is Sasha’s sister, Nina,” Abakov said. “Now, both of you, say good night.” There was an exchange between Abakov and his wife and Elaina apologized for the interruption and shooed the children back to their room.
“Look,” Scott said, “we can’t just sit here, we have to move on this now. You have to alert Olenya Bay and Northern Fleet headquarters.”
Abakov ran a hand over his mouth. “I can’t do that.”
“What the hell do you mean, you can’t do that?”
“I can’t alert them without having ironclad proof that this memo from Admiral Drummond is genuine, that the information in it is accurate. Otherwise no one would believe it.”
“Are you saying you think Drummond may have made it up?” Alex said.
“Of course not. But Drummond is dead, officially a suicide, and so is Radchenko, who, according to this memo, had information about an operation by Zakayev against Olenya Bay.”
“But you know as well as I do,” Scott said, “that Drummond was murdered to prevent him from warning us about this very plan — Zakayev’s plan.”
“We have no proof of that. All we have is circumstantial evidence and suspicions.”
“We have Drummond’s memo, which proves it wasn’t a homosexual rendezvous, that he didn’t commit suicide and kill Radchenko. The hotel porter didn’t smash in the door to Drummond’s room: Zakayev did and then killed them. You have the matching shell cases that prove he was involved in the St.
Petersburg shoot-out and the one in Murmansk that killed Serov. Their feud may even be related to the operation at Olenya Bay. What more do you need?”
“A lot more,” Abakov said, his voice rising. “For instance, how and where did Radchenko get his information? Maybe he made up a story to get money out of Drummond.”
“Frank wouldn’t fall for that,” Alex said.
“How can you be sure? Drummond was looking for Zakayev, and he would be eager for any information that would lead him to him. As for this Litvanov, we have nothing to tie him to Zakayev except the fact Radchenko was a member of his sub crew.”
Alex said, “Colonel, your points are valid. So…would it be possible to get information about Litvanov?
Maybe there’s something in his record that might tie him to Zakayev.”
“Yes, perhaps. But it will take time.” His eyes darted over the memo while he gnawed a knuckle.
“Then you’d better think about this,” said Scott. “In a few days the President of the United States and the President of Russia will hold a summit meeting in St. Petersburg.”
Abakov looked intently at Scott while he listened. Sweat shone on his bald dome.
“I’m no expert on Russian subs,” Scott continued, “but I know that some can launch SS-N-21 cruise missiles equipped with nuclear warheads. They have a range of over sixteen hundred nautical miles. St.
Petersburg can be targeted by a submarine armed with these missiles from anywhere within an arc stretching from the Norwegian Sea to the Barents Sea.”
There was a long silence. The sounds of kids playing, punting a soccer ball, scrambling over the empty trash-strewn lot, penetrated Abakov’s apartment.
Abakov got slowly to his feet. “I think we’d better pay a visit to Olenya Bay.”
Captain First Rank Gennadi Titov, commandant of the Russian Northern Fleet Submarine Base, Olenya Bay, rushed into his office to find Scott, Alex, and Yuri Abakov waiting for him. Titov’s face looked puffy and mapped with capillaries. He appeared flustered by his tardiness and struggled to button his tunic. His chief of staff made introductions.
Titov rocked slightly on his feet as his eyes focused on Alex. “Ah, Dr. Thorne, such a pleasure to have you on board again. I always enjoy your visits—”
“This isn’t a social call, Commandant,” interrupted Abakov. “We’re facing a possible security threat.”
“So my chief of staff has informed me, Colonel,” said Titov, an edge in his voice, his gaze on Abakov’s forest green FSB uniform with gold flashes and decorations. “But he said you were rather cryptic on the phone. So I ask you now: What does this security threat have to do with Olenya Bay?”