by Larry Bond
Peter nodded grimly.
The Russian base commander had set aside an empty, unused hangar for their use. As a place to conduct confidential interviews it left much to be desired. With the doors open, the noise from the Kandalaksha flight line was deafening. With the doors closed, the unheated hangar’s thick concrete walls trapped both the nighttime cold and the lingering reek of spilled fuel, oil, and grease. Crude drawings and coarse jokes left spray-painted on the walls by long-discharged Russian conscripts added to the general air of disrepair.
Nor were the other aspects of Serov’s “cooperation” much better.
At the Russian general’s insistence, one of his top aides, a lean, hatchet-faced colonel named Petrov, sat in on every interview — perched across the table in full view of every hapless enlisted man they questioned. Tough-looking sentries wearing body armor and toting AK-74 assault rifles were also posted at the hangar entrance.
Serov had explained these steps as a necessary precaution, given the presence of nuclear weapons at Kandalaksha. “We take security very seriously here, Miss Gray,” he had said, and then, with a sidelong glance at Peter Thorn’s U.S. Army uniform, “although it is clear that others in the Ministry of Defense do not share my concerns.”
Bull, Helen thought. She’d bet cold, hard cash that the Russian general’s precautions were intended to intimidate potential witnesses — not to protect nukes that were stored in bombproof bunkers miles away.
If she was right, the worst of it was that Serov’s plan was working.
So far all of the ground crewmen they’d interviewed had insisted that nothing out of the ordinary occurred while the O.S.I.A inspection team’s An-32 was being readied for takeoff. She didn’t believe them. Nobody liked being questioned by the police, but there were too many hesitations, too many nervous glances at Serov’s aide, too many dry mouths, and too many sweaty brows for her to buy their stories.
No. Something had gone badly wrong out there on the Kandalaksha flight line. But they still didn’t know whether to pin the blame on sloppy procedures or deliberate sabotage.
Frustrated, Helen turned her attention back to the aircraft mechanic Alexei Koniev was questioning. She couldn’t follow the rapid-fire flow of Russian, but she could read body language plainly. The mechanic, a private, had flat, Asiatic features that marked him out as a native of Russia’s Far East. A nervous tic near the corner of one eye told her he was frightened.
Koniev snapped out a question, listened briefly to the private’s hesitant, uncertain reply, and then waved him away in disgust.
“No dice?” Helen asked.
“Nothing,” Koniev snorted. He nodded toward the mechanic, already hurrying out of the hangar. “According to that one, the sky was blue. The birds were singing. The flowers were in bloom. And he and his comrades did everything humanly possible to make sure that plane was ready to fly.”
Peter Thorn leaned over. “Who’s next?”
Koniev glanced down at the unit roster open on the table in front of him. “A Lieutenant Vladimir Chernavin.” He frowned.
“Perhaps the lieutenant will demonstrate his fitness to be a member of the officer class by telling us something resembling the truth.”
Helen shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe.”
Despite her skepticism, she had to admit that Chernavin made a better first impression than his subordinates. The lieutenant was short, an inch or so below her own five foot ten, but he was solidly built — carrying enough muscle to show that he did his own share of the grunt work out on the flight line. Closecropped brown hair topped a round, open, boyish face that proclaimed his youth. He also had a ready, infectious smile.
Chernavin took the chair Koniev indicated. His eyes took in Peter’s military uniform and widened. “You are American?” he asked in passable English.
After a quick glance at Koniev, Peter nodded. “Colonel Thorn, U.S. Army.” He indicated Helen. “And this is Special Agent Gray of the U.S. Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
The Russian lieutenant grinned excitedly. “I am very glad to meet you, Colonel! And you, Miss Gray.”
Helen didn’t even try to conceal her surprise. “Really, Lieutenant? Then you’re the first person I’ve run across here at Kandalaksha who’s happy to talk to us. Most of your subordinates seem to think we’re either spies or secret policemen.”
Chernavin’s open, friendly face clouded over. “Ah.” He shrugged. “Then they are ignorant peasants. Their heads are still stuffed full of the old Cold War propaganda. They have not studied America and its marvels as I have.”
The young Russian brightened again. “I hope to visit your country one day, you see! So I am not afraid.”
“You do know we’re here to investigate your unit’s work on the An-32 that crashed eleven days ago?” Koniev cut in impatiently.
“You understand that, Lieutenant Chernavin?”
“Of course.”
Helen fought to keep her face impassive. The Russian Air Force lieutenant seemed blissfully unconcerned by their inquiry.
Why? She leaned forward. “It doesn’t bother you that an aircraft you worked on went down in the woods shortly after taking off from here ― killing everyone on board?”
Chernavin lowered his gaze. “Oh, no. No. I did not mean that.” He looked up at Helen. “Of course, I am very, very sorry that all those people died. It is a great tragedy, naturally. A great tragedy.”
“A tragedy? Not an accident? Not a disaster?” Koniev said skeptically. “Explain that, Lieutenant.”
The young Russian officer spread his hands apart. “I only meant that, whatever caused the aircraft to go down, it had nothing to do with the work performed here at Kandalaksha.”
Helen smiled at Chernavin. If Koniev wanted to grab the tough guy spot in the good cop-bad cop routine, she would oblige. “You seem very sure of that, Lieutenant.”
He nodded emphatically. “Yes.”
“Why?” Koniev rapped out. “Why are you so sure, Chernavin?”
“Because Captain Grushtin handled the preflight check himself,” the Russian maintenance officer said confidently.
Grushtin? Helen glanced down at the maintenance records in front of her. She’d spent enough time in Russia to puzzle out the Cyrillic alphabet, and Koniev had scribbled a hasty translation of the Air Force technical terms and jargon. She looked up at the young Russian officer. “Just who is this Captain Grushtin, Lieutenant?”
For the first time, Chernavin seemed unsure of himself. “Captain Nikolai Grushtin is one of the chief maintenance officers on the base.”
His gaze swiveled from Helen to Koniev and back again. “He is a brilliant mechanic. Brilliant. So you see, that is why I am confident that this crash had nothing to do with our work here.”
Koniev slid his own copy of the An-32 maintenance log across the table toward the younger man. “If this Captain Grushtin performed the preflight check himself, Chernavin, perhaps you can tell me why he is not listed in this log or anywhere else for that matter!”
Clearly surprised, the lieutenant stared down at the papers for a moment. Then he snapped his fingers and looked up. “Captain Grushtin is not listed because he was not officially assigned to supervise the ground crews on that day. The log would only show those of us on that morning’s flight line roster.”
Helen felt her heart rate quicken — aware that it was the same sensation she used to have on the Hostage Rescue Team firing range when the first real target popped up. She shook her head.
“So this Grushtin character just showed up unannounced and you let him handle the An-32 maintenance work?”
Chernavin nodded. “Of course. He is my superior officer.”
“And that didn’t seem strange to you?” she pressed further.
“No …” the Russian lieutenant said slowly. He tried to explain.
“The captain is a perfectionist and this was an important flight — one with so many foreigners aboard. I thought he just wanted to make certain the air
craft was readied according to his standards.”
I bet he did, Helen thought coldly. She sat back while Koniev took the ball.
“And you found nothing unusual in this ― even after the plane crashed?”
The MVD major glowered across the table at Chernavin.
“Why was that, Lieutenant?”
The Russian Air Force officer reddened. He lowered his gaze, unable to meet Koniev’s glare. “Well, you see, I …”
He wanted to duck any responsibility for the crash, Helen realized suddenly. And Grushtin’s intervention gave him a convenient out. If Kandalaksha’s most “brilliant” mechanic had missed something in the preflight check, then how could anyone blame a young junior officer like him? Her mouth twisted in distaste as she stared at Chernavin.
She’d never been able to stomach people who tried to dodge accountability for their own actions.
“If Captain Grushtin wasn’t managing the flight line that day, what was his official duty assignment?” Peter Thorn asked abruptly.
Chernavin looked startled. He glanced quickly at Serov’s aide and lowered his voice. “He was in charge of a special project.”’ The Russian lieutenant nodded pointedly toward Thorn’s American uniform and said knowingly, “The special engine project.”
What the hell was this “special engine project,” Helen wondered, and why did Chernavin seem to expect Peter to know all about it? Was there any connection at all between Gasparov’s heroin smuggling, the cryptic notation in John Avery’s inspection log, and this “project”? Or were they looking at a series of unrelated events?
“That’s quite enough, Lieutenant!” Colonel Boris Petrov loudly interrupted, breaking her train of thought.
Chernavin fell silent, looking more worried than ever.
Serov’s top aide scowled at Koniev. “Your authorization for this inquiry does not include prying into unrelated state secrets, Major! Especially not in front of foreigners! So you will confine your questions to matters involving the An-32 and the ground crews. Is that clear?”
Alexei Koniev stiffened in anger, and Helen braced herself for the explosion. Several months spent working closely with the MVD major had shown her that he had a deeply hidden temper.
It rarely showed itself, but interference in the performance of what he perceived as his duty was the one thing guaranteed to set him off.
Koniev’s cell phone chirped unexpectedly — heading off his intended reply. Impatiently, he flipped it open. “Yes. Koniev speaking.”
The MVD officer listened intently for a time, his face growing angrier by the minute. Finally, he gripped the phone tighter and responded, “I see. You’re quite sure? Very well. I’ll call you back.”
Koniev snapped his phone shut and turned toward Helen and Peter. His lips were compressed in a thin, tight line. “The lab tests on the recovered engine came back. There were fresh tool scrapes on the fuel filter.”
“Meaning what?” Helen asked softly.
“Meaning that Captain Grushtin or one of his men changed the engine fuel filter here at Kandalaksha — and deliberately installed a contaminated replacement,” Koniev said bluntly.
“The evidence is conclusive. The plane carrying Colonel Gasparov, his shipment, and your O.S.I.A inspection team was sabotaged.”
He whirled on Serov’s aide. “This investigation is now a formal murder inquiry, Colonel Petrov. Do you agree?”
The other man nodded reluctantly. “It appears so, Major. As difficult as I find that to believe.”
“I don’t give a damn what you believe, Colonel! And I don’t give a damn about your so-called state secrets,” Koniev said savagely. “I expect your full cooperation — real cooperation — this time?”
Petrov stiffened. “Very well.”
“Good.” Koniev eyed him carefully. “Then you, or Colonel General Serov, will tell us exactly where we can find this Captain Nikolai Grushtin. Or you and your commanding officer will explain your refusal to assist us in even less comfortable and less convenient quarters. In Moscow. Is that understood?”
Sitting rigidly upright in his chair, the other man nodded slowly. He seemed completely cowed.
But later Helen found herself wondering uneasily why the hatchet-faced Russian colonel’s lips had twitched briefly into what looked remarkably like a self-satisfied smirk.
JUNE 1
Proprietary Materials Assembly Building, Caraco Complex, Chantilly, Virginia (D MINUS 20)
Caraco’s Washington-area regional headquarters lay in the middle of the green, wooded countryside surrounding Dulles International Airport.
Broad streets, grassy lawns, and patches of oak and pine forest left standing around homes and office buildings gave the area something of a rural feel despite the fact that it was only a few scant miles from the western edge of Washington’s urban sprawl.
Seen from the outside, the Caraco compound was almost wholly unremarkable. It blended well with the neighboring modern-looking office parks and light industrial complexes fanning out from the airport. Its large, boxy buildings were pleasantly anonymous, practical, and architecturally uninteresting — similar in style to dozens of others bearing different corporate logos and names like “Vortech” and “EDC, Inc.”
Even the compound’s chainlink fence, perimeter floodlights, and twenty-four-hour guards were not out of the ordinary. Many of the area’s hightech electronics firms had tens of millions of dollars in manufacturing equipment and industrial secrets to protect.
But the fence, lighting, and guards were only the visible signs of a much more complete, almost sentient security system. A network of computer-controlled video cameras and motion sensors had been woven around the border of the compound to detect any unauthorized human or machine intrusion. All incoming phone, fax, and data lines were constantly monitored for signs of electronic eavesdropping, and all the external windows were double-paned and vacuum-sealed to thwart laser bugging.
Two of Caraco’s three buildings contained offices meeting rooms, computer centers, and file storage areas — all the run-of-the-mill trappings of any building owned by a large multinational corporation.
But the third building was different — very different.
Guards armed with Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns were stationed just inside the main door. Special identification badges were required to gain entrance — something none of Caraco’s American-born employees carried.
Inside, the warehousesized building was divided into several areas by movable partitions. All the activity was in one area, just off the main entrance. Racks of electronic equipment lined one wall, while the others were covered with wiring diagrams and enlarged photos of a twin-turboprop aircraft.
The floor was crowded with benches, each covered with tools and electronic equipment. Half a dozen technicians sat at the benches — peering at oscilloscope screens, or methodically assembling electronic components.
They conversed easily in low tones, their German mixing with country-western music playing from a boom box on a table next to a coffee machine.
The room had a hard, industrial feel, with nothing personal, no prints or photos, no newspaper clippings anywhere in sight.
The only item not related to the workplace was the radio, now belting out a Clint Black tune.
One of the technicians finished wiring a piece of gear, nodded to himself, and called across the room, “Klaus? Unit Number Three is ready.”
A man in his fifties, at least twenty years older than the rest of the technicians, balding with gray, close-cut hair on the sides, walked over from another workbench. “You remembered the interlocks this time, I hope?” he asked, half joking and half serious.
“Yes, Klaus. I checked them twice before calling you,” the young German technician answered respectfully.
They knew and used only first names in the project, and his was Franz, at least as long as this job lasted. He was in his early twenties with a smooth-shaven head, and he knew the older man still couldn’t get used to th
e small gold loop piercing his left eyebrow.
His training was good, however — the best available from one of Germany’s top technical schools. He knew electronics.
Caraco had recruited him straight out of school, promising only foreign work and high pay. Very high. Franz had hesitated only momentarily before agreeing to what he suspected was some sort of illegal activity.
After all, he had come to the United States on a tourist visa — not on one that permitted him paid employment.
The working conditions inside the Caraco compound were hard, almost Spartan. Security was tight. And his new employers had made it clear that questions, of any kind, were unwelcome — perhaps even dangerous.
None of that mattered much to the young technician. Germany’s “miracle” economy had stagnated over the past decade.
Most of his peers and friends were still unemployed — reduced to living on the public dole or squatting in abandoned buildings.
Well, not him. For this two months’ work, he would make enough to live decently while finding a more permanent position.
If Caraco wanted to bend a few petty American laws as part of the bargain, so be it.
To demonstrate his success, Franz, humming along with the radio, touched a test probe to several connections inside the device.
The older man watched carefully and then nodded, pleased.
“Very good. All right, let’s do a navigation check.”
Franz disconnected the unit from the bench’s power supply and picked it up by two built-in handles. Holding it with respect, he followed Klaus over to a long workbench in the far corner of the room.
Together, they fitted the new device, which had a curved underside, to the top of a similarly curved metal plate. Connectors in the device mated with sockets in the plate.
Referring to a checklist tacked up next to the workbench, Franz pressed a square green button on the front panel. Several small green LEDS lit up, and a display on the front came to life.
It was blank for only a moment, then showed the number 1. Another pause and it increased — flickering from 2, to 3, and then on up to 7 in rapid succession. After a few seconds more, an 8 appeared.
