The Nuclear Option

by Allan Leverone

“Well,” Stallings said, “that operation was underwritten by members of Sovetskiy Soyuz Navsegda, although they hadn’t adopted the name at that time.”

  “So these are the guys dedicated to a return to a hardline Soviet Union. They want nothing to do with glasnost, nothing to do with a thaw in the relationship between the US and the USSR.”

  “Exactly. We’ve gotten intel from multiple sources in recent months that says Navsegda is up to something big, that they’re ready to step up their game.”

  “Step it up above crashing an Air Force C-130 and nearly assassinating the President of the United States?”

  “That’s what we’re hearing.”

  “There aren’t many scenarios that could be considered a step up from that, but detonating a nuclear device would probably fit the bill.”

  “Yes it would. And given the specifics of their mission in life, it’s not hard to guess what plans they might have for a tactical nuke.”

  The horror Tracie had felt upon scanning the letter inside Gregorovich’s office spiked with the realization of what Aaron Stallings was driving at. “They want to start a war.”

  “What better way to eliminate the softening of Soviet positions regarding the free world than by nuking a good portion of Phoenix, or Anaheim, or D.C., or some other American city?”

  “Do you really think this group could smuggle something as large as a tactical nuclear device into the United States?”

  “Of course they could. All it would take would be thorough preplanning and a little luck. And I think they’ve got the preplanning part covered. After all, they were able to make off with the weapon in the first place. That couldn’t have been easy.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Exactly. Tell me more about the letter, Tanner.”

  “There isn’t a lot to tell. The director of the Krasnoyarsk Mining and Chemical Combine is a guy named Sevastian Egorov. He notified Gregorovich in a panic the day after the nuke went missing. Said he had one dead security officer and no leads but he wanted Gregorovich to know about the theft as soon as possible.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Not really. Egorov was falling all over himself to apologize, as you might imagine. He’s the head guy so he’s ultimately responsible for whatever happens at his facility. He was obviously worried he’d be on the next train to Siberia. But even then he swore to Gregorovich that every last one of his people was one hundred percent trustworthy.”

  Stallings was silent for a moment as he digested Tracie’s words. Then he said, “We know that can’t be true, because that facility is located inside a closed city.”

  “Krasnoyarsk-26,” Tracie said.

  “Which means whoever took the nuke had to have help on the inside.”

  “Or they were smuggled in like when I’ve gotten inside closed Soviet cities.”

  “No, that’s not likely, logistically. Navsegda would have needed, at a minimum, a two man team to get a tactical nuke out of the facility, more likely three. And the device itself would be large enough it would have to be loaded onto the back of a cargo vehicle and trucked out. There was at least one inside man. Maybe more. There had to be.”

  “If that’s the case, I need to get into that facility and figure out who the inside man was. Then I need to interrogate him and find out where the hell that nuke went.”

  Another silence, longer this time.

  “No,” Stallings said.

  Tracie couldn’t believe it. “No? A nuke went missing a month ago and you don’t feel we need to follow up? Hell, that thing could already be inside the states even as we speak.”

  “Of course we need to follow up, Tanner. I’m not an idiot. But if it occurred to us the theft had to be an inside job after ten minutes of discussion, don’t you think it would have occurred to the Soviet military? They would long since have interrogated the people at the Krasnoyarsk facility. If anyone was going to crack and give up intel it would have happened by now, and the Soviets would already have recovered their nuke.”

  “Okay,” Tracie conceded. “I’ll give you that. But the fact that the letter was still on the top of Gregorovich’s to-do list tells us the bomb is still missing. What the are we going to do about that?”

  Her question was followed by the longest silence yet. It stretched on and on until Tracie began to think Stallings might have suffered a heart attack and fallen to the floor behind his desk.

  “Sir?” she finally said.

  “Don’t interrupt me,” came the response. “I’m thinking.”

  “Well, don’t take too long, you might be vaporized at any minute.”

  “Very funny, Tanner.”

  “I’m not kidding.”

  After another silence, this one shorter than the previous, Stallings said, “I need to look something up in my files. Give me a few minutes and then I’ll get back in touch.”

  With that he was gone.

  9

  June 12, 1988

  3:40 a.m.

  CIA Safe House

  Moscow, Russia, USSR

  By the time Stallings got back to her, the effect of the coffee she’d had hours earlier was beginning to wear off. The adrenaline rush she’d gotten from her time inside Gregorovich’s mansion and then her subsequent flight through Moscow was long gone, and she was bone tired and craving sleep.

  But he’d said to give him a few minutes, and if Tracie had learned nothing else about the CIA director, she’d learned he was a man of his word. If he’d told her he would contact her soon, he wouldn’t be happy to learn she’d dozed off in the meantime, and he wouldn’t give a damn that it was approaching four a.m. in Moscow.

  So she forced herself to continue pacing, exactly as she’d done while trying to contact Stallings hours ago. And when her secure satellite phone buzzed on the tiny kitchen table inside her tiny Russian safe house, she was on it every bit as quickly as she’d been on General Gregorovich when he entered his study earlier in the evening.

  “What have you got?” she said. Aaron Stallings wasn’t one to stand on pleasantries, and it wasn’t like he was calling just to chat, anyway.

  “I’ve kept copious notes on our intel regarding Sovetskiy Soyuz Navsegda as the information has come in. Given how close the group came to assassinating the president last year, I regard them as a grave danger. I believe they’re capable of doing serious damage to the United States, and they’ve only gotten stronger and better financed since that close call.”

  Tracie found herself nodding, despite being alone in her safe house. “Okay. If they managed to steal a tactical nuke right out from under the noses of their own government, it’s hard to argue that point.”

  “Exactly. And the greatest difficulty any clandestine organization faces when it comes to covering its tracks is what?”

  Tracie thought for a moment. Then she smiled and said, “Burying their financing.”

  “That’s right. Any professional investigator will tell you the same thing. Follow the money.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, over the year-plus since the Navsegda organization was brought to our attention, I’ve put particular emphasis on trying to determine not just how it is structured, but how it is financed. They may be shadowy and amorphous, with a very loose command structure, but the money doesn’t lie. Money never lies.”

  “Makes sense,” Tracie said. “And what have you learned?”

  “Numerous sources with access to Soviet hardliners have indicated the same thing, that the vast majority of Navsegda’s financing comes from one source: a Russian businessman worth several hundred million dollars. His name is Sergei Marinovich.”

  Tracie frowned. “I’ve never heard of him. You would think after nearly a decade operating in and around Russia I would at least recognize the name, if he’s that influential.”

  “Normally, sure, but not in this case. The man keeps as low a profile as any rich guy is capable of keeping. He isn’t exactly the type of person the Soviet leadership wants as the face of its societ
y, not when their system of government is supposed to be based on communist/socialist principles.”

  “I don’t understand,” Tracie said. “Why would someone worth hundreds of millions of dollars—a man who’s clearly doing pretty well the way the Soviet Union is currently structured—want to shake things up by backing a bunch of hardline cranks?”

  “Because, like others of his ilk, being worth hundreds of millions isn’t good enough for Marinovich. Apparently he’s aiming for billions.”

  “I’m sorry sir, but I’m still not following. How in the hell will it benefit Marinovich to nuke a U.S. city? What could he possibly gain by starting a war between the world’s two great superpowers?”

  “There’s something I haven’t mentioned yet. Something about how Marinovich makes his money that might help clear up your confusion.”

  Tracie swallowed heavily. “What’s that?”

  “Sergei Marinovich is heavily invested not just in legitimate arms manufacturing, but also in the underground weapons trade. We believe he’s a major player in supplying arms to numerous rogue African and Middle Eastern states.”

  “So if he provokes a war with the United States, he wins no matter who wins, as long as he’s positioned properly.” Acid rose in her gut and she swallowed it back. Her former mentor and handler, Winston Andrews, had laid out virtually this exact scenario more than a year earlier as an attempt to justify his treasonous activities.

  She grimaced and shook her head. “So what do we do about it?”

  “We need a lead on Navsegda, obviously, something that will tell us where to look for the nuke they’re going to try to smuggle into the states. I want you to pay a visit to Marinovich and find out the name of his Navsegda contact, the person he funnels his money to. We’ll follow that money trail and eventually it will lead us to the device before Navsegda has an opportunity to use it.”

  “Hopefully.”

  “Yes, hopefully. But, Tanner, listen to me, and listen carefully. You need to use the utmost discretion on this op. You can’t go in there like a bull in a china shop.”

  “What you’re telling me is I’m not allowed to cut off his fingers one by one until he gives me a name.”

  “Jesus Christ, Tanner, no torture, is that clear? We’re talking about perhaps the most influential non-military or political person in the entire Soviet Union. You’re going to have to be very careful how you approach this guy.”

  “Of course,” she said sarcastically. “I can’t use physical persuasion, but we need this intel as soon as possible.”

  “I’m sorry, but that’s right. We need it yesterday, Navsegda’s got better than a month’s head start on us.”

  “Well, at least there’s no pressure.”

  Stallings chuckled drily. “You’re the one that was in such a big hurry to get back to work. Aren’t you glad you got what you wanted?”

  She opened her mouth to respond, but before she could get the words out he was gone.

  10

  June 12, 1988

  8:55 a.m.

  Sergei Marinovich’s residence

  Pushkino, Russia, USSR

  Tracie breathed deeply as she eased the stolen car to a stop in Sergei Marinovich’s gravel driveway. It had taken more time than she would have liked to find and acquire a vehicle that would suit her cover, but the late-model, mid-level VAZ should fit the bill.

  She hoped.

  The car was only a few years old, almost no rust or body damage and—miracle of miracles!—still featured its original paint job. No spots where primer had been sprayed over a replaced fender, no swapped-out parts that had been damaged in an accident. The VAZ was new enough to be believable as an official government vehicle, but not so luxurious a man like Marinovich might get suspicious that a relatively low-level KGB functionary would be driving it.

  After terminating the call with Aaron Stallings and packing up her secure sat phone, Tracie had dropped into bed for a few hours of much-needed rest. She fell asleep in minutes and then rose at seven, feeling every bit as groggy as she’d expected to. She choked down a quick cup of strong Russian black tea and then showered and changed into her outfit: a grey and white button-down blouse with a conservative light-green pencil skirt over plain beige nylons. She slipped her feet into flats and pulled her lustrous red hair up into a severe bun.

  Then she slipped out of the safe house to begin hunting down the day’s transportation.

  A mission three years ago had required her to impersonate a female KGB analyst, and the CIA’s world-class forgery department had at that time provided her with Russian intelligence credentials so authentic looking that they were virtually identical to the real thing. Her phony KGB name was Yekaterina Dmitrieva, and given the fact a KGB pro would have a hard time discerning the forgery, Tracie felt fairly certain Marinovich would not see through her disguise.

  Unless, of course, he chose to phone the KGB’s Moscow field office to verify her identity.

  Despite her confidence in her disguise, Tracie still experienced the familiar flutter of nervousness as she exited the VAZ. In a way, the sensation was comforting. It reminded her of all that was at stake operating covertly thousands of miles from home and with no backup.

  She welcomed the flutters. She embraced them.

  Marinovich’s home was located on the outskirts of the Moscow suburb of Pushkino, roughly a thirty-minute drive from the safe house. During that time she’d felt her adrenaline begin to build, a welcome development given the fact she’d managed only three hours of sleep.

  She could feel the exhaustion tugging at the edges of her consciousness and wished she were a little more alert when it came to questioning Marinovich. But with all that was at stake there was no time to waste sleeping. Plus, she wanted to speak with the Russian industrialist at his home and not at his office. This being relatively early on a Sunday morning, there was no day or time that would give her a better chance of catching him inside his residence.

  She closed the car door and strutted up the brick walkway, consciously trying to project an image of confidence—bordering on arrogance—a government functionary might display in the event anyone inside the house was watching her approach. The Marinovich home was large and beautiful, particularly by Soviet standards, but it fell far short of the conspicuous consumption that had been on display last night at General Gregorovich’s Moscow mansion.

  She stopped at the front door and bypassed the doorbell, choosing instead to rap loudly on the glass with her knuckles. It was important she establish immediately that she was here in an official Soviet intelligence capacity and was not someone to be trifled with.

  When half a minute went by and there was no activity, she rapped again, louder and more insistently this time. Shortly afterward the door was yanked open and an annoyed-looking man glared out at her. He appeared to be in his middle fifties and Tracie felt safe in assuming this was Sergei Marinovich himself.

  “What is it?” the man demanded. “Why are you disturbing me and my wife at this hour on a Sunday morning?”

  Tracie held her forged KGB identification up for his inspection and waited, giving him plenty of time to absorb the details. She knew how much a visit from a representative of the CIA would unnerve someone with an axe to grind against the United States government, and assumed a KGB visit would have a similar effect on a civilian in Russia.

  More so if that civilian possessed a lick of common sense.

  After giving him a good twenty seconds to scrutinize the ID, Tracie flipped its leather holder closed and slipped it into an interior jacket pocket, the motion smooth and practiced.

  She stared coolly up at him, holding his gaze unblinkingly. “Comrade Marinovich, my name is Yekaterina Dmitrieva,” she said. “I am here on official government business and I wonder if you could spare a few minutes of your time.” She hoped she made clear by the tone of her voice that only one response would be acceptable.

  “What is this about?” Marinovich said, his glare hardening.


  “I have some questions for you regarding an ongoing investigation. I do not wish to remain standing at your door in the cold, and I do not think you want me returning to Moscow and informing my superiors you were uncooperative. Do you have somewhere we could speak in private?”

  “I do not appreciate the interruption. I am trying to spend a quiet Sunday with my wife,” Marinovich huffed.

  “I understand. But this is a matter of grave importance and extremely time-critical. I am afraid I really must insist.” Tracie’s main concern was that Marinovich would keep her waiting outside while he phoned the KGB’s Moscow bureau for confirmation his visitor was who she said she was.

  She could not allow that to happen, obviously.

  He blew out an angry breath and shook his head. Then he stepped back from the doorway and indicated the interior of his home with one outstretched hand. “Fine. But make it quick.”

  Tracie stepped into the foyer and said, “It will take as long as it takes, Comrade Marinovich. Where would you like to have our conversation?”

  “I would not like to have our conversation at all,” he answered curtly. “But we will speak in my office. Follow me.” He stomped down a tile hallway and past the kitchen, where a woman roughly Marinovich’s age lingered at the doorway. She’d obviously been listening to their exchange, and as they passed she reached for Tracie hand and stopped her.

  “Please excuse my husband’s poor manners and lack of a proper introduction,” she said. “My name is Valeria. I am Sergei’s wife.”

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Marinovich,” Tracie answered. She flashed the woman the smile she had so far avoided offering Marinovich.

  The exchange was clearly getting under the Russian industrialist’s skin. He had stopped walking and waited impatiently at the foot of a staircase, glowering, arms crossed, one foot tapping impatiently on the floor.

  Valeria ignored her husband and continued. “May I offer you a cup of tea, dear? I hope you do not take this the wrong way, but you look…tired.”