“Darling, why do I think our evening is about to end?” said Radford’s dinner companion.
Radford kissed her hand. “Be an optimist, love.”
He excused himself and steered the chief into a small, unoccupied cocktail lounge off the dining room.
“Let’s have it.”
“Sir, Captain Scott calling from Moscow. They patched him through to your car if you wish to take the call there.”
“You bet I do.”
Suddenly Radford’s fantasy, the one he’d nurtured and refined in great detail all evening — the one in which his dinner companion steps out of her panties while he reclines on the satin-sheeted bed in her Foggy Bottom apartment — went black.
Radford sat in the backseat of an armored Mercury Marquis parked in the garage under the restaurant.
He picked up the phone and heard, “Your call is cleared through, General.”
Radford said, “What the hell’s going on, Scott? You had orders to make contact immediately. Now Stretzlof says you’re off freelancing.”
“Not so, General,” Scott said.
“Then why are you in Olenya Bay. I want an explanation and I want it now.”
“Yes, sir, I was about to explain everything.”
For the next ten minutes Scott gave Radford a complete report. It included his discovery of the message to Drummond about Zakayev, Scott’s conviction that Drummond had been murdered, and the disappearance of the K-363.
“Jesus Christ, how long has that sub been gone?” Radford said while making notes.
“We think two days.”
“And you say that no one saw her get under way?”
“All we have is a report from an antisub unit of a three-hundred-hertz sonar trace typical of an Akula, the K-363, heading into the Barents Sea. Of course, it could have been one of ours….”
“We have no boats operating up there. How certain are you that Zakayev is aboard that sub?”
“Everything points to it, starting with Drummond’s rendezvous at Murmansk with the Russian sailor.
And of course your orders that he was to make contact with Zakayev to, I presume, head him off.”
“You presume too goddamn much, Scott. You were not authorized to see those communications. That was a flagrant violation of orders for which I could have you—”
“I won’t argue that point, General. Meanwhile we’ve got a submarine controlled by terrorists on the loose in the Barents Sea.”
“What’s she armed with?”
“Well, that’s a bit of a mystery. Apparantly her SS-N-21 cruise missiles were off-loaded when she returned from her last patrol. As far as the base commander here can determine, they’re still aboard the arsenal ship where submarine ordnance is stored. Russian Navy record-keeping is lousy and no one is sure of anything, so there’s no guarantee that she put to sea without them. However, she does have a partial load of antisubmarine and antiship torpedoes — how many, no one knows. They say none have nuclear war heads.”
“How can they be sure?”
“All of their nuke torpedo warheads were dismantled last year and are accounted for.”
“That’s a break.”
“But if Zakayev wants to attack St. Petersburg, he sure as hell can’t fire a torpedo into the harbor from the Barents Sea, can he?”
“So what’s he planning?” Radford said.
“I don’t know, General, and that’s what worries me and the Russian Navy and the FSB.”
“We know that the Russkie navy is in terrible shape, that they’re desperately short of ships, crews, you name it. Think they can find that sub?”
“General, they have no choice, they have to.”
“All right, I’ll tell the President what’s happened, try to convince him to cancel the summit, though I don’t think he will. And if the Russians can’t find that damned sub, we’ll have to do it for them.”
“They may give you an argument on that, one. This is unfolding in their backyard, not ours. And don’t forget, the K-363’s had a good head start on us. Even if the Russians allow us to get involved, it’ll take time to get our ASW assets organized to mount a search. All Zakayev has to do is stay one step ahead of the Russians until he’s good and ready to launch missiles — if he has any — and…poof, it could be over.”
“I’ll alert the chairman of the Joint Chiefs and CinCLant. They’ll want to try and coordinate our operations with the Russians. As for you, Scott, stay put: You’re liaison on this — but goddamnit, lay off the free lancing.”
Radford ordered a car for his dinner companion, made a note to send her a dozen roses, then made another call. Ten minutes later he got out of his car in front of Paul Friedman’s home on Dumbarton Street in Georgetown. Two Secret Service men with crackling handheld transceivers met him at the door and checked his ID. There were undoubtedly others he couldn’t see posted around the house.
Admitted to Friedman’s study, where cigar smoke hung in thick layers, he found the president of the United States sitting in a chair with a drink in his hand.
“Karl, good to see you,” the president called, waving with his drink. He sat opposite Friedman at a small table with the remains of a sandwich and potato chips in a plate by his elbow. Drink-mixing paraphernalia and a bottle of bourbon stood on a sideboard. Papers lay strewn on the floor around the president’s feet, and he stepped on some as he rose to greet Radford.
Radford knew the president sometimes visited Friedman to play poker and get away from the constraints of the White House. But instead of winning a few bucks from his national security advisor, this evening he had been preparing for his summit meeting with the Russian president.
Friedman said, “Drink, Karl?”
Radford shook his head no.
Both the president and Friedman held Radford in their gaze, measuring Radford’s unease while telegraphing theirs.
“What’s happened, Karl?” said Friedman.
“Trouble.” Radford briefed from his notes and both the president and Friedman listened intently, not asking questions. When he finished he laid out his recommendations and a plea that the president cancel his summit meeting.
The president rose and, brushing crumbs from his lap, said, “Trouble indeed, and it seems to have a way of finding Captain Scott. Do you trust his assessment of the situation?”
“Yes, sir. He’s on the scene in Olenya Bay and knows firsthand what’s unfolding. I admit it seems unbelievable, but I think we have to accept that Zakayev is determined to bring down the Russian government.”
“By killing me and my Russian counterpart and a couple of million Russian citizens with nuclear-tipped missiles.”
“I want to reiterate, sir, what Scott said: that the Russians are sure there are no cruise missiles, nuclear or conventional, aboard that sub. Still, I think it wise to assume for the moment that there are.”
“Has Zakayev and his cohort, this…”
“Georgi Litvanov,” said Radford.
“…made any demands either on us or the Russians?”
“No, sir, not yet,” Radford said. “But we don’t have time to wait for an ultimatum or to make a deal with them. The situation is unprecedented and we can’t afford a mistake.”
The president put his unfinished drink aside. “Okay, Karl, we’d better have a chat with Defense and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, bring them in on this now.” He turned to Friedman. “Paul, while we’re at it, set up a meeting with the Russian ambassador tonight. Let’s find out what they know, see how we can coordinate our efforts to head this thing off. After I’ve talked with the ambassador, I’ll talk to the Kremlin.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll also contact Admiral Grishkov, C in C, Northern Fleet.”