War Plan Red Read online

  “Then I intend to see her today.”

  “Before you do,” Radford said, “there are a few things you need to know. Please sit down.”

  Scott heard Radford’s icy tone soften. He offered Scott a cigarette, which he declined, then lit one for himself and blew out twin plumes. “I should have immediately offered my condolences. Please accept them now. I know that learning of Drummond’s death in this fashion is not pleasant.”

  Scott said nothing.

  Radford removed his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.

  “Drummond was on special assignment for the SRO. I personally approved his selection for it. He has an impeccable record, four-oh all the way. An exceptional officer in every respect. Brilliant, really. As you know, he was also an expert on nuclear physics and fissile materials. But a man’s record—the cold facts, if you will—doesn’t tell you everything. You have to weigh the intangibles, try to read his character, rely on intuition, etc. Given your past difficulties, I know you understand this.

  “I accept that you believe Drummond was not a practicing homosexual. I, on the other hand, have to weigh the evidence the FSB presented. And in this case their report has undercut you. Until I receive evidence to the contrary, I have no choice but to believe what I’ve read about Drummond. And in that respect, when you speak to Mrs. Drummond, you will not reveal any information that’s in the report. Is that understood?”

  “Understood.”

  Radford paused to click a computer mouse, which activated a flat-screen monitor. Data appeared, then a picture of Drummond. Radford typed in a word, clicked the mouse, and waited. The screen data changed and he swung his attention back to Scott.

  “We’ve a delicate situation on our hands. As you know, the President is scheduled to attend a summit meeting with Russia’s president in St. Petersburg ten days hence. Many issues will be discussed, chief among them economic assistance and international terrorism. The President will likely support Russia’s continuing battle to eradicate Chechen terrorism, which is responsible for that recent concert hall massacre in Moscow. We need Russia’s support in the UN Security Council for our ongoing reforms in the Middle East, especially in Iran. Another issue on the President’s agenda is securing Russian fissile materials from dismantled submarines. It’s piling up at their naval bases on the Kola Peninsula.

  “Fissile material from decommissioned submarine reactors,” Scott said.

  “Yes. Drummond was in Russia working with a Norwegian group called Earth Safe. They’re trying to inventory and prepare the fissile materials for transfer to secure storage facilities that are being built with U.S. funds. He was working with Earth Safe when he disappeared and was later found dead.”

  Scott knew that Drummond and Earth Safe faced a daunting task. Russia’s helter-skelter approach to the dismantling of their old nuclear submarines, and the defueling of their reactors had not only contaminated huge tracts of land in and around northern Russian cities, the fissile materials also presented a tempting target for terrorists bent on constructing a nuclear device. The Russians had as much to fear from terrorists as the U.S. did. A nuclear device in the hands of Chechen terrorists was too frightening to contemplate. But with the Russian economy only now beginning to recover from years of Communist control, funds for the disposal of nuclear materials had dried up.

  Scott said, “And you’re thinking that while Drummond was up in Murmansk, he stumbled into a personal situation and took advantage of it?”

  “Yes, that’s how I see it.”

  “Well, I don’t. Drummond wouldn’t pay for sex. Not from a high-class call girl, much less a young man. Besides, his wife had just visited him in St. Petersburg.”

  “Whatever,” Radford said, unmoved by Scott’s argument, “Drummond’s death can’t in any way interfere with the summit or cause embarrassment.”

  “I presume the President has been informed.”

  “I briefed Paul Friedman. I thought it better that the national security advisor know about it first so he can maneuver the President around any land mines waiting in Russia.”

  “Do the Russians know?”

  “If you mean the Kremlin, I can’t say. I assume the FSB keeps them informed about everything, but about this, who can be sure? In any event, it could prove embarrassing to both sides.”

  Scott didn’t see anything embarrassing about Drummond’s death. If anything, he wanted to prove the FSB wrong and clear the man’s name. And the best place to start would be in Moscow.

  Radford clicked the mouse. “Drummond had possession of sensitive materials, documents, CD-ROMs.

  He billeted at the embassy so you’ll have to find the materials, seal and return them via diplomatic pouch as soon as possible. Also, take care to sanitize his personal belongings. We wouldn’t want Mrs.

  Drummond to have a nasty surprise.”

  Scott ignored this last admonition. “Who’s my liaison at the embassy?”

  Radford looked at the monitor. “Chap named Alex Thorne. Second science attaché. Don’t know anything about him, only that he was apparently working with Drummond and has connections with Earth Safe. He may know something about Drummond’s movements around Murmansk. But be discreet. Your orders state that you’re a CACO—Casualty Assistance Control Officer—and the embassy staff may be able to help you cut through any bureaucracy attending the release of Drummond’s body.”

  “Where do I billet?”

  “At a hotel in Moscow. We want you out of sight as much as possible. The Russkies still watch the embassy and it’s best they don’t see you going in and out every day. You’re authorized to wear civilian clothes, which may help you keep a low profile. All of this is spelled out in your orders. You’ll also find manifests for the return of the body via U.S. commercial air carrier. And payment vouchers for mortuary services. You will report your progress to me and for that purpose you’ll be issued an armored cell phone by the embassy’s chief of security. It’ll have preselected channels, but use it sparingly. The Russians have gotten better at breaking our signals.”

  “When do I leave?”

  Another glance at the monitor. Another scroll. “Tomorrow night. From Dulles to London, then Sheremetyevo II. Someone from the embassy will meet you. Oh, and one more thing: You’ll be working with this Abakov fellow, the FSB officer who wrote the report. Be careful with him. A lot of their people are former KGB and they’re not to be trusted. Tell him nothing.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Radford’s face took on a steely look. “Admiral Ellsworth told me you’re one of his best skippers.

  That’s despite what I’ve seen in your file.”

  Scott felt pressure at the base of his skull. “Well, General, as you said, the files don’t always tell the whole story.”

  “Indeed. Just don’t prove me wrong.”

  Scott spotted the strip mall on Route 7 outside Falls Church, Virginia. A quarter mile beyond it, Scott turned onto a narrow street and drove past 1960’s-era split levels and ranchers until he came to a house surrounded by a fence in need of repair. He pulled into the driveway and parked behind a silver Buick.

  The Drummond property looked unkempt and weedy, but the house had been recently painted. He spotted a barbecue kettle and lawn chairs stacked against the garage, forgotten since summer. Who would take care of these things now? he wondered. Now that Frank was dead.

  A radiator knocked but inside, the house felt chilly and damp, perhaps something to do with Frank’s absence that was palpable. The house felt familiar. The vanilla-colored woodwork and neutral carpeting. A glass-fronted cabinet filled with knickknacks from the Far East: porcelain, carved ivory Buddhas, lacquered rice bowls inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Drummond’s collection of Navy memorabilia on shelves in his study: a cracked coffee mug, a nickel-plated ashtray, cigarette lighters emblazoned with the logos of the subs he’d served in. Evidence of a life lived.

  “I made us something to eat,” said Vivian Dru
mmond. Her face looked drawn, eyes liquid.

  They sat in the kitchen, which gave onto a deep yard bounded at one end by a copse of leafless maples.

  Vivian pushed up the sleeves of her mauve sweater and poured coffee. She set out freshly made chicken salad on beds of lettuce, and chilled white wine. Always the perfect hostess. Everything just right even in tragedy. Then she broke down.

  Scott held her, rocking her like a child.

  “I don’t understand it,” she said. “I just saw him in St. Petersburg. We had a wonderful visit. Romance, dinner, the theater. He was looking forward to wrapping up his work and coming home. It’s beyond belief. I can’t comprehend how such a thing could happen. All those years in the boats, the dangerous missions that scared the hell out of him and me—not a scratch, and now this. A robbery in Murmansk.”

  Scott knew that the story concocted by the SRO, of a robbery gone bad, would not ease Vivian’s pain.

  And there was nothing he could say that wouldn’t make him feel less guilty for betraying her.

  “Vivian, did Frank tell you what he was doing in Murmansk?”

  Vivian dabbed her eyes, tried to limit the damage to her makeup. “I look a mess. No. He never talked about his work. Never. And a good Navy wife doesn’t ask.”

  They tried to eat their meal that suddenly had lost its appeal. Instead Vivian drank a glass of wine. She got up, sat down, got up again. “I don’t think I can stay here, Jake. Not now. Too many memories. I’ll sell and head south. Or maybe California.”

  “Things may look different later. We can talk about it when I return.”

  Vivian went to him. “Jake, I don’t know how to express my gratitude. It’s got to be terribly difficult for you, too, bringing him back.”

  “I owe him. I owe him everything. He knew what they planned to do with me. He made them admit the truth. They knew we were lucky to get out alive, lucky to save the ship. Everyone involved in the mission knew the risks we ran—Ellsworth, the rest of them…” He caught himself. “Sorry, Viv. I didn’t mean to bring it up. Not now. It’s just that—”

  “I understand. Frank would understand. Didn’t he always?”

  “Sure.”

  Jake sensed Vivian’s resource of stoicism had been drained dry. Her shoulders sagged and her fine features were about to crumble. He kissed her on the cheek and stood back. “It shouldn’t take me more than a week. I’ll take care of everything.”

  “Will they catch the person who murdered Frank?”

  “I understand the Russian security service is working closely with the embassy. I’ll look into it.” It was one lie he could live with.

  When it seemed Vivian didn’t want to talk about it anymore, Scott knew it was time to go. But she caught his arm and said, “There is one thing.”

  Scott had started to shrug into his coat and stopped.

  “When I saw Frank in St. Petersburg, he seemed distracted,” Vivian said. “Oh, we were having fun, but beneath the surface I could tell that something was working on him. I knew how he was, how he had that damnable ability to be two people at the same time. He knew how to hide behind a mask of absurd good cheer even while his guts were churning.”

  “Did he say anything—anything at all—about what might have been bothering him?”

  “No, the only thing he said was something I knew he meant as a joke about how my being in St.

  Petersburg had saved him from himself.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That he had a blind date lined up in Murmansk.”

  3

  The Inner City, St. Petersburg

  T he girl’s long booted legs strode over cobblestones. One false step on stiletto heels would end badly for her. Demonstrating phenomenal poise, she negotiated the narrow street without a mishap. The street paralleled the Fontanka River, which was south of the Neva. It ended in a pleasant little park complete with benches and a fountain that served as a hub from which, like spokes in a wheel, three equally narrow streets branched off to other parts of the city. A few pedestrians lugging groceries in net bags or walking their dogs crisscrossed the square lost in their own reveries.

  Alikhan Zakayev sat on a bench near the fountain, which had been turned off at the onset of cold weather. Bundled up in his cashmere topcoat, he looked like a successful businessman who had sought a haven from the bustle of the city. On the bench next to him was a soft black leather zipper portfolio like those favored by Westerners. Instead of paperwork and a cell phone, the bag held a Heckler & Koch 9mm P7 pistol and a Czechoslovakian fragmentation grenade.

  Zakayev admired the girl’s performance as he watched her clip-clop over the stones, sable coat and all, long black hair parted down the middle spilling over her shoulders like wings.

  He had found her when she was fourteen, living on the streets in Grozny and suffering from starvation and dysentery. She had been raped and sodomized by Russian soldiers and left for dead. Her family had simply disappeared. One night the Spetsnaz showed up at her house and took them away. She had hid in the barn, and after her family had been forced at gunpoint aboard a truck, she watched Russian boys shoot the livestock and loot what little food was left before tossing phosphorus grenades into the house and barn. She escaped with only the clothes she had on and her parents’ wedding album wrapped in oilcloth.

  The girl had bound her life to Zakayev’s, even considered herself his “wife,” which he didn’t discourage. But Zakayev’s devotion to his cause didn’t allow attachments. Enemies could use them to destroy you. A woman made you vulnerable. Love made you weak, and a man devoted to the cause had to be strong. He had early on learned to purge himself of sentiment. To Zakayev the girl was simply a beautiful object that gave him pleasure. But there were moments when he saw what might have been if the world he knew had not been destroyed.

  The girl came up to Zakayev. He watched her casually finger-comb her hair, fascinated how she had transformed that ritual into a viscerally erotic act. “You saw him?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “He’s on his way. And he’s alone.”

  “He never travels alone.” His hand brushed the leather portfolio, then patted the bench. “Sit. It will distract him while we talk.”

  The girl sat, crossed her legs, and began swinging a pointy-toed boot in the direction of a heavyset man walking slowly toward them from the direction of the river. He had a slight limp from an encounter with a Russian antipersonnel mine in Grozny. The shattered leg had not been set properly but he never complained. There were more important things to worry about. The meeting with Zakayev, for one.

  Ivan Serov. The unassuming manner, workaday clothes, and halting walk belied the fact that Serov led one of the most ruthless Russian mafiya gangs in all of Russia. His network had not only penetrated the Russian economy, it trafficked in everything from drugs and weapons to human organs. Zakayev knew that Serov also fronted for many high-level Russian bureaucrats involved in bank and credit card fraud, loan-sharking, and smuggling. For Serov, maintaining control of his billion-dollar empire was worth fighting and dying for.

  “I almost didn’t recognize you without your beard, Alikhan Andreyevich,” said Serov. “And that dapper mustache.” His eyes roamed Zakayev’s face, his clothes, the bulging portfolio. “You are suddenly prosperous, no?” He gave the girl a slight head bob; his gaze lingered on her for a moment.

  “How is the leg, Ivan Ivanovich?” Zakayev looked into a pair of dark eyes under bushy eyebrows. The battered face was pale and doughy, raw from the cold. Serov wore a bulky down-filled coat, and Zakayev wondered if under it he had on body armor.

  The leg? Serov shrugged. It was nothing. He gazed around the square, perhaps judging distances, assessing escape routes. He sat down beside the girl. She made a move but Serov put a hand on her thigh and said, “Please, stay.”

  At length Serov said, “It’s a long trip from Moscow to St. Petersburg. I haven’t been in the city of the czars for a while. I almost don’t recognize it, it’s chang
ed so much. All the construction. The Winter Palace is beautiful. I hope the American president will appreciate it. They say he’s not interested in culture, just money.”

  “They say his wife is devoted to the arts,” Zakayev snorted.

  “She’s a former actress. Married to a black politician who once marched with that—what was his name? King. And became president. Only in America. That’s why he’s coming to Russia. He wants to talk about business. No harm in that. If business between the U.S. and Russia is good, we all benefit.

  Even you, Ali.”

  “He also wants to assure the Kremlin that in return for privileged oil deals and continuing support for America’s war on the Middle East, the U.S. will not object to the massacre of Chechen civilians and the destruction of our country.”

  Serov frowned. “We all have our business interests, Ali. Some of us have even been willing to compromise to get the deals we want. Perhaps you should consider it. The Americans are not indifferent to your concerns but are caught in the middle. They think they can bring the Kremlin around to accepting that independence for Chechnya is inevitable. But it will take time.”

  “We don’t have time. Our people are being murdered. The Russians torture children and old women, destroy cities and homes…But you know all that.”

  “You’re too impatient.”

  “Am I? The war has gone on for over ten years. It won’t end until the Russians are defeated, until their people and cities are destroyed too.”

  “You tried that and it didn’t work. The bombing of the Tchaikovsky Concert Hall was a disaster. Killing a thousand Russian civilians—women and children too—only hardened their resolve.”