by Brad Thor
Alexandra now understood what Harvath was up to. “We’re going to plot the coordinates the old-fashioned way.”
“Exactly. I just wish we had a way to get around. There’s too much potential downside in renting a car right now.”
“We don’t have to,” replied Alexandra. “I already have a car. I parked it in one of the long-term lots near the airport. It’s easier to move around St. Petersburg without it.”
“We can’t do it. It’s too dangerous. If they’re on to you, they’ll be looking for your car too.”
“Technically, it’s not my car. It’s a nice Grand Cherokee that belonged to someone who tried to kill me a couple of days ago. It’s a long story.”
“Well, we’ve got several hours until the store opens,” said Harvath, who grabbed a nearby chair and sat down. He put his feet up on the bed and then reached over and opened the mini-bar where he grabbed an ice-cold beer for himself and a minivodka for Alexandra, which he threw to her and said, “Feel free to blow on yours before you start.”
Whether or not it was her belief that she would be able to dump Harvath as soon as she got what she needed she didn’t know, but for some reason she felt it was okay to talk to him. After all, with no idea of who she could trust in the SVR, Harvath’s willingness to listen to what she had been through was more of a relief than she would have expected.
Alexandra told Scot about her father’s dossier and how he had kept it a secret from her until his death. She explained the meeting at the hunting lodge outside of Moscow where she had seen Stavropol dragging three bodies outside along with the help of another man whose face she couldn’t see very well, but thought might have been Draegar. She told how she had helped save General Karganov’s life only to have Milesch Popov came along with his gaudy Pit Bull pistol and its armor-piercing rounds and end it. As she withdrew the gun from inside her coat and showed it to him, she detailed how she had salvaged the SIM card from Popov’s cell phone and that her would-be killer had been dumb enough to store Stavropol’s number under the general’s real name. By scanning the call log, it was easy to ascertain to whom Popov had been talking when she had captured him. He had been negotiating the price for her murder, as well as Karganov’s, and the man on the other end of the line was none other than Sergei Oleg Stavropol.
Though she was sure that Stavropol originally had no idea of her involvement when he had sent Popov hunting for General Karganov, there was no question that he knew about it now.
Alexandra quietly reflected on the fact that not only was being seen with Nesterov enough to cement her guilt, but if Draegar recognized Harvath, which Alexandra was fairly confident he had, then Stavropol would automatically assume she was working with the Americans. It was only a matter of time before he had every law enforcement officer and military person in the country looking for her. In the blink of an eye, she had lost the anonymity she had worked so hard to preserve and had become Russia’s equivalent of public enemy number one.
Things could never go back to the way they were. There was no middle ground, not now that they knew she was on to them. They wouldn’t rest until she was dead and she had to be just as tireless in her efforts to stop them. Like it or not, it was beginning to look not only like she might have to work with Agent Scot Harvath, but that she actually might need him. Either she succeeded in her undertaking or she died.
“Tell me about the scientist, Nesterov,” said Harvath, filling the void as Alexandra had stopped talking and her mind seemed to have traveled elsewhere.
“Nesterov?” she repeated, bringing her focus back to the present. “I thought he might be helpful.”
“So you tracked him down and he agreed to meet with you, just like that?” asked Harvath. “You must have said something to him to make him risk so much.”
Alexandra was quiet and for several moments and once again seemed very far away. “Nesterov was one of two scientists working on this project whom my father had thought might be cooperative with his investigation; scientists who viewed their duty as being to their country and countrymen first and not necessarily their government.”
“Well, whoever this Albert is,” said Harvath, as he laid his H&K across his chest and closed his eyes, “let’s hope he feels the same way when we track him down tomorrow.”
Chapter 42
SOMEWHERE OUTSIDE PETROZAVODSK, RUSSIA
STATE OF THE UNION ADDRESS—3 DAYS
L eaving St. Petersburg’s Dom Knigi bookstore with two fly-fishing books and a thick Russian atlas, Harvath stopped at a local sporting goods shop and then met up with Alexandra at the Moskavskya metro station, where they caught the shuttle for Pulkovo Airport.
Popov’s forest-green Jeep Grand Cherokee wasn’t as bad as Harvath had thought it was going to be. In fact, the vehicle was relatively unremarkable in a country where conspicuous consumption ran rampant.
It took them a little over four-and-a-half hours driving north-northeast to reach their destination. The tiny, Byzantine domed chapel sat alone in the heavily wooded countryside on the outskirts of the city of Petrozavodsk. Petrozavodsk, located on the western shore of Lake Onega—the second largest lake in Europe, was the administrative center of Karelia, an autonomous republic in the Russian Federation. The city was not only the site of Petrozavodsk State University but also a branch of the Russian Academy of Sciences. In his dossier, Alexandra’s father had identified Petrozavodsk as the location where the Russian scientists were working on the secret air defense system.
As Alexandra pulled the Cherokee to the side of the road, Harvath gave his map and coordinates a final check.
“This is it?” she asked, staring out the windshield at the little church. “This is where we’re supposed to find Nesterov’s Albert?”
“It looks like it,” replied Harvath, as he placed one of his fly-fishing books onto the dash and carelessly threw the other into the backseat. Coupled with the rods, reels, waders and other gear he had purchased and left in the cargo area, to anyone who might come upon them, he and Alexandra would look like two New Russians pursuing the hottest sporting craze to sweep the country since golf. Even in winter, fly-fishing was still a very popular pastime, especially in the Karelia region where the winters were much milder than the rest of Russia. If anyone should happen to ask what business they had at the church, they would simply state they were taking a break on their way to fish one of the many popular rivers that fed the nearby lake.
As it was, they didn’t have to worry about feeding anyone their cover story because the church was completely empty. In fact, were it not for the supply of fresh candles, Harvath would have sworn it had been abandoned altogether.
Alexandra left a coin and lit one of the candles. She closed her eyes for several moments and when she opened them, she saw that Harvath was looking at her. “For my parents,” she said.
Harvath nodded his head and began walking around the small church, which was formed in a perfect circle. It smelled of earth and cold stone, solid, as if it had been there since the beginning of time and would continue to stand until the very end of it. The whitewashed walls were decorated with painted panels depicting the lives of saints and various religious events. “Who uses this place?” asked Harvath as he continued studying the copious artwork. “There aren’t any houses for miles around.”
“Country people most likely, though sometimes people from a nearby town or city will adopt a small church and help with its upkeep and maintenance, as well as buying or donating other things that it might need,” answered Alexandra from the other side of the room.
“This would go a lot faster if we knew what this Albert guy’s connection with this church is,” said Harvath as he abandoned his review of the paintings. “Why do you think Nesterov picked this place?”
“Who knows? It’s close enough to Petrozavodsk and the Academy of Sciences to have been convenient for him, yet remote enough to keep whatever he was doing well hidden. Maybe Albert is the priest,” replied Alexandra as she continued ar
ound the edge of the room, examining the paintings and artifacts.
Alexandra was making her second pass of the artwork, this time paying less attention to the images and more attention to their titles. When she arrived at a rather unimpressive iconostasis and read the neatly written placard proclaiming that she was looking at, “St. Albert in Agonyby Andrey Rublyov,” something didn’t seem right. She stood back to examine the faded triptych that greatly resembled Da Vinci’sMadonna of the Rocks and after several moments said, “I think I’ve got something.”
“What is it?” asked Harvath as he came over to join her.
“According to the title plate, this work of art is by Andrey Rublyov and is calledSt. Albert in Agony .”
Bingo, thought Harvath, but there was also something else about the title that rang a bell with him. It was as if he’d heard the saint’s name before, sometime long ago in his past. “What about it?”
“Well, first of all, I don’t believe the Russian Orthodox Church has a St. Albert.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m pretty sure.”
Harvath was pretty sure, too. Pretty sure he knew that name and that Alexandra was right. It didn’t belong in this church. Then it came to him. “The patron saint of scientists.”
“The what?” said Alexandra.
“St. Albert. He’s the patron saint of scientists. I knew I knew that name. I went to a Catholic grade school, and St. Albert’s picture hung in our science lab. The teacher would look up and literally refer to him on a daily basis.”
“Then this must be Nesterov’s Albert,” said Alexandra. “What else would a Catholic saint be doing in a Russian Orthodox Church?”
“Keeping an eye on the competition?” offered Harvath as she ripped the screen away from the wall.
Alexandra didn’t answer. Ignoring the adjacent plaque recognizing the Nworbski family for its generous donation, Ivaona unceremoniously tore the hinged painting from the wall and dropped it onto the floor.
“Not much of an art lover, are you? I guess you didn’t see the hinges?” said Harvath as he bent down and easily flipped over one of the sidepieces, revealing a manila envelope taped to the back of it.
“So maybe I’m a little overzealous,” replied Alexandra, ripping open the envelope and shaking its contents onto the floor.
Harvath didn’t bother arguing. Instead, he helped her sift through the documents, which comprised pages of schematics, printed pages, and a sheaf of handwritten notes.
“I speak Russian a lot better than I read it, which isn’t saying much,” he offered as he handed the notes to Alexandra and returned to the schematics. “Let me know if there’s anything interesting in there.”
Alexandra skimmed the pages and read Nesterov’s account of how he progressively became aware of the true purpose of the project he was working on. After his last meticulous, laser-printed entry were a series of handwritten notes. “Scot?” she said, drawing his attention. “You need to take a look at this.”
Harvath set down the schematics he was looking at and turned his attention to Alexandra. “What is it?” he asked.
“The notes on the bottom of this page. They’ve got yesterday’s date. Nesterov must have stopped here on the way to St. Petersburg to—” she paused.
“To what?”
“To update his memoirs in case something happened to him.”
“Let me see those,” said Harvath as he stuck out his hand.
Alexandra handed over the page, and Harvath looked down at the hastily inscribed entry. The notes obviously referred to his meeting with Ivanova, but there was also a reference to the final deployment of the technology that he and his follow scientists had been working on.
It appeared to be a command and control system capable of feeding commands up to a series of Russian military satellites. When Harvath read that the system was designed to be mobile, the blood in his veins ran cold. If it was mobile, it could be anywhere.
At the bottom of the page, Nesterov had written two words and placed a question mark next to each—Arkhangel? Gagarin?
“Do you know the significance of these words?” asked Harvath.
“Arkhangel. It means the same in English,archangel . Maybe it’s the name of the program.”
“But why would Nesterov have placed a question mark next to it? Wouldn’t he have known the program’s name?”
“Not necessarily. Maybe the scientists weren’t told. Maybe they called it Project 243 or something like that.”
“True,” said Harvath. “What aboutGagarin ?”
“The first thing that comes to mind is Yuri Gagarin.”
“The Soviet cosmonaut?”
“Yes. He was the very first human being to fly in space and became a national hero for all of Russia.”
“And the air defense system incorporates satellites, so maybe there’s a connection.”
“Or—” Alexandra said, trailing off.
“Or what?”
“Or it’s a place. Maybe it has something to do with where the mobile command center is. There’s a city named after Gagarin southwest of Moscow in Smolensk,” she said, her enthusiasm quickly fading, “but there’s also the Gagarin Cosmonaut Training Center in Star City just outside of Moscow and I think there’s even a Gagarin Seamount somewhere in the Pacific Ocean.”
“Wonderful,” responded Harvath. “Another needle in the proverbial haystack.”
“That’s not all. Arkhangel is also a place. In fact, it’s the next region just east of here. Its capital city, also called Arkhangel, is a major port on the White Sea.”
“The White Sea?” he repeated, sitting up straighter. “That would make sense.”
“What would?”
“Look,” he said, spreading out the drawings in front of her, “I can’t even believe that equipment of this magnitude is even considered mobile in the first place. Whatever they’re using to transport it has to be very big. The satellite dishes alone that it requires are the size of a house.”
“So, what? You think it is on some sort of cargo ship?”
“Maybe. Do you still have the information from Popov’s SIM card?”
“Yes,” answered Alexandra, fishing the folded piece of paper from her pocket. “But what’s that going to tell you?”
“I don’t know, yet. Which of these numbers is Stavropol’s?”
As she pointed to it, Harvath made a few notes on the back of one of the schematics and then picked up his backpack.
“Where are you going?” she asked as he headed toward the stairs that led up into the church’s dome.
“To make a phone call. I think I might know where our mobile system is.”
Chapter 43
I ’ve been reviewing FEMA’s worst-case scenarios,” said the president to Harvath over an encrypted satellite link, “and not only is there no safe way we can evacuate the cities we think the Russians may be targeting, but if they hit more than four of our major metropolitan areas, our emergency response capabilities are going to be stretched to the max. Even if they only detonate a fraction of the devices they have, this is going to be the worst disaster the world has ever seen. Not only will the loss of life and injuries be terrible, but can you imagine UN planes and helicopters being shown on TV bringing in food and medicine because America’s infrastructure has been so badly decimated we can’t take care of our own citizens?
“We absolutely can’t let that happen. Do you understand me? Wecannot let that happen.”
After agreeing, Harvath listened as the president continued to speak and then handed him off to various experts and analysts from the CIA and Department of Defense who briefed him that Rick Morrell and his team were wrapping up their operation and were being sent to rendezvous with him for his next assignment.
It was three hours later when Harvath was finally able to close the dome’s wooden hatch and replace the collapsible field antenna and satellite radio into his backpack.
Climbing down the stairs, Harvath rejoined
Alexandra in the church.
“That was a very long phone call,” she said.
“You know how it is when you haven’t talked to people in a while,” replied Harvath.
“You said you might know where the mobile command system is. Did you find it?”
“I did better than that. I also found Stavropol.”
“How?”
“The location of the mobile system was more of a hunch than anything else. During the Cold War, the Soviet Union’s spyships were on the cutting edge of signals intelligence, but in the modern era, the way intelligence was being gathered rendered most of them obsolete and they were reassigned to other duties. That got me wondering if maybe one of these spyships was being used to transport the mobile command system. I learned a fair amount about them in the Navy. There was theBal’zam class, thePrimor’ye class, and then I remembered another class—theGagarin class.
“Only one ship was ever made in theGagarin class—The Cosmonat Yuri Gagarin. It was adapted from the unfinished hull of a tanker to control Soviet spacecraft and satellites from the open ocean. And best of all, it sports four huge dish antennae each the—”
“Size of a house?” interrupted Alexandra.
“And then some.”
“But how can you be sure theGagarin is what we’re after?”
“Because our National Reconnaissance Office has satellite imagery of it along with three nuclear icebreakers leaving port in Arkhangel two days ago.”
“That still doesn’t mean—”
Now it was Harvath’s turn to interrupt. “Did you know that Stavropol was using a satellite phone?”
“No. I assumed he was using a cell.”
“Cell phones will operate sometimes up to a couple of miles out to sea, but it depends on how built out the network is back on dry land. A satellite phone is much more reliable in this case and Stavropol knew that. What he didn’t know was that you were going to be able to get a hold of his number.”
