Abakov appeared a different man in uniform. His movements were crisp and economical, and his voice conveyed authority. “As you know, Commandant,” said Abakov, “a sailor from this base, Able Seaman Andre Radchenko, assigned to the submarine K-363, was found murdered in Murmansk.”
“Yes, he was found with”—he swung his gaze to Alex—“Rear Admiral Drummond. My condolences, Dr. Thorne. You were saying, Colonel?”
“We think Radchenko may have been murdered because he knew something about a terrorist plot to steal a submarine from Olenya Bay.”
Titov’s eyes narrowed as he processed this information. He threw back his head and gave a sharp bark of a laugh. “Who’s bad joke is this? Yours, Colonel?” Another bark. “Or some idiot in the FSB with nothing better to do than dream up fantasies?”
“This is no fantasy,” Abakov said calmly. “We have information that leads us to suspect that Alikhan Zakayev may be planning to steal a submarine from this base.”
“Nonsense,” Titov said, wiping an eye. “You don’t know what you’re talking about if you think a terrorist can steal a submarine.” He inclined toward his chief of staff, who was as silent as a stone. “Am I right, Lieutenant?”
The aide, hanging back deferentially, tugged the hem of his wrinkled tunic and nodded.
Titov, suddenly serious, rounded on Alex. “Is this your doing?” he said through clenched teeth.
“Haven’t you and your Norwegian friends meddled enough in naval affairs? Perhaps you want to cause more harm by spreading rumors that we harbor terrorists in Olenya Bay. Is that what your Admiral Drummond did, spread false rumors?”
“Of course not,” Alex said. “You know that Earth Safe, Admiral Drummond, and I tried our best to prevent fissile materials from falling into the hands of terrorists. We never meddled. But we can’t prevent a terrorist attack on this base. It’s your responsibility to provide security, not ours.”
“You’re out of line, Commandant,” Scott said. “Don’t blame Dr. Thorne for your failings. There’s no security on this pigsty of a base that I can see. When we drove on, there was no guard detail at the gate to check IDs. Your active submarines lack topside security watches, and the rest have been abandoned like so much junk. Hell, half your sub fleet’s rotting at the pier. The other half’s not even seaworthy.
Terrorists could walk right on this base and go aboard any submarine they chose.”
Titov’s face turned crimson. “Who do you think you are, Captain Scott, to tell me that the Russian Navy’s submarine fleet is rotting? Our active submarines are the best in the world, better than your Los Angeles — class and your Seawolfs, and are in prime condition. As for terrorists stealing one of them, I tell you it’s impossible.”
“Not if they have help,” Abakov said.
“From whom?” Titov said sharply.
“Kapitan Georgi Litvanov,” Scott said.
“You’re mad. Litvanov is one of the top submarine commanders in the Northern Fleet. He would never deal with terrorists.”
“Did you know that he was a Chechen?” Scott asked.
Titov considered. He put a hand on his desk for support. “A Chechen…yes, of course I knew that. His family name was Litvanayev, but was changed to Litvanov by his father.”
“Why would a Chechen be given command of a Russian nuclear submarine?” Abakov said.
“Why? Because he is loyal to Russia, just as he was loyal to the old Soviet Union. And loyal to the Navy. Kapitan Litvanov was awarded the Red Star and the Red Banner. It’s well known that there was a Soviet policy of assigning certain Chechen officers to important positions in the Navy. As a young officer he was probably brought along by his seniors and eventually given command.”
“Did you know that his wife and children were killed by Russian Spetsnaz in Chechnya? That he comes from the same village as the terrorist Alikhan Zakayev?” Alex said.
“What of it? And how do I know what you say is true?” Titov said, as if the import of what he had heard was finally sinking in.
“Before departing Moscow, I made inquiries of Litvanov,” said Abakov. “I received a report on our way in to Olenya Bay.”
Titov frowned.
“Do you know where Litvanov is?” Scott asked.
“Of course,” Titov said. “He’s aboard his submarine, here in Olenya Bay.”
The chief of staff cleared his throat. “The K-363 is moored in North Fjord,” he added, as if his knowledge of such detail confirmed that everything was normal.
“We want to interview him,” Scott said.
Titov’s hand slashed the air. “I won’t permit it. His loyalty is above question.”
“What is not above question are the security lapses we see on the base,” Abakov said. “Perhaps I should notify the commander in chief, Northern Fleet, that you are impeding an FSB investigation into why such lapses exist when Russia is fighting Chechen terrorism.”
Titov’s mouth tightened into a hard line. His eyes darted from Abakov to Scott to Alex. He said, “I can order the three of you thrown off this base.”
Abakov said, “As you wish, Commandant.”
Titov turned away and refused to meet the gaze of his chief of staff, who had an imploring look on his face. Titov lit a cigarette, took several deep drags, then mashed it out. He picked up the phone on his desk and punched a number. “Get me Kapitan Litvanov on the K-363. Yes, I’ll wait.”
Titov drummed his fingers on the desk, avoided eye contact with his visitors. Impatient, he rearranged pens, papers, files, a dirty glass and cup.
“Yes?” he said into the phone. “Well, send someone over there — now!” He slammed the phone down.
“The ship-to-shore phone connection to the K-363 is dead,” he explained. “Perhaps Litvanov shifted her berth. They’re looking for her. It won’t take long.”
Scott caught Alex’s attention. She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling.
An uneasy silence descended. Titov stared at the phone as if willing it to ring. He rearranged his desk again, made a pretense of looking through paperwork. “Litvanov has been conducting drills on board his boat,” Titov said at length, to break the heavy silence. “He never let’s his crew rest, even when they’re in port. I wouldn’t be surprised he’s conducting a training exercise right now and that’s why we can’t locate him.”
“Commandant, I understand he granted liberty to a sizable section of his crew,” the chief of staff said.
Titov brightened. “There, you see: Litvanov is a reasonable man.”
The thuds of trucks hauling heavy equipment over the broken-up road fronting headquarters penetrated Titov’s office. Phones in the outer offices jangled. A teleprinter started up and began chattering. Titov chain-smoked. Scott examined a plan view of the base, its maze of fjords clotted with submarines slated for disposal. His rough tally came to over 110 boats. A massive and dangerous job that the Russian Navy had yet to address.
The phone burred; Titov seized it. “What?” He shot to his feet. “Impossible!” He listened to an agitated voice on the other end leaking past his ear. Stunned, he lowered the phone and faced Abakov. All the blood seemed to have drained from his face.
“The K-363,” Titov said. “She’s vanished.”
Part Two
The Chase
9
Karl Radford looked up from his coq au vin and saw the chief of the SRO security detail, apology written all over his face, enter the restaurant’s private dining room.