“This fuel contamination. do you think it could have happened accidentally? Or does it look deliberate?”
“Was it sabotage, you mean?” Nielsen pursed his lips, looking down at the dirty filter he still held in his hand. Then he shook his head.
“I don’t know, Miss Gray. Not with any degree of certainty.”’
“So speculate, then,” Helen said sharply, momentarily losing patience.
With effort, she reined her irritation in and tried a winning smile instead. “Please.”
“Damn it, it’s not that simple,” Nielsen grumbled. “We’ve had bad fuel bring down planes in the U.S. And it’s an endemic problem here in Russia. What’s more, both engines would draw from the same fuel source. So when one engine died of fuel starvation, the second would follow in short order.”
“All of which is consistent with the last radio transmissions from the aircraft,” Helen reflected.
“Right.” Nielsen held the filter up again. “What we’re seeing here could just be sloppy maintenance. Contaminants like these always settle out over time. So we may have a case where somebody really screwed up. Maybe they didn’t replace an old, used filter when they should have. Or maybe they fueled the plane using aviation gas from the bottom of a tank …”
“Or maybe somebody did the same things — on purpose,” Peter finished for him.
“That is possible, Colonel,” Nielsen confirmed reluctantly.
“The mechanics are the same either way. And the equation’s the same, too: The more contaminants flow through the filter, the more clogged it gets. Eventually, there’s not enough fuel getting through to feed the engine.”
Koniev frowned. “Is there any way you will ever know the truth?” ‘ The NTSB investigator sighed. “Maybe. At least I hope so.”
He nodded at the tangled pile of engine components. “We’re shipping all this off to Moscow this evening for more detailed forensic analysis.”
Then Nielsen shrugged. “But there’s a limit to what we’ll learn about this accident through an electron microscope.” He turned his gaze on the three of them. “You might have more luck on your end.”
“Meaning that whatever went wrong at Kandalaksha had a human component?” Helen said calmly.
“That’s exactly what I mean, Miss Gray,” Nielsen agreed.
“Very well.” Major Alexei Koniev straightened up. He turned to Helen.
“So we go to Kandalaksha?”
Helen nodded firmly. “Yes, Alexei. I think that’s exactly what we’ll do.” Her eyes narrowed. “And then we’ll take a good, hard look at the maintenance operation there — and at the people who readied this plane for takeoff.”
“Good.” The Russian MVD officer turned toward Peter Thorn. “Will you accompany us, Colonel?”
Helen held her breath. Peter was already pushing the envelope of his watching brief as a liaison to the crash investigation. Especially since his superiors at O.S.I.A had been reluctant to let him come to Russia at all. And none of the paper pushers in Washington would be happy if they found out that their least favorite ex-Delta Force officer had actively joined the hunt for whatever, or whoever, had brought the An-32 down. That might even give them the ammunition they needed to force him out of the Army entirely. How could she blame him if he opted for the safer course and stayed behind? But she also knew that would probably spell the end of any future they might have as a couple. If she headed for Kandalaksha without him, they wouldn’t see each other again before he had to leave for the States. And if he chose the safer career course, his own wounded pride would always stand between them.
“Well, Colonel?” Koniev asked again.
Peter hesitated, visibly restraining himself from turning toward her, and then nodded decisively. “I’m in, Major.”
“You’re sure, Peter?” Helen heard herself ask.
“I’m sure.” He smiled tightly at her, a fleeting grin that flashed across his tanned, taut face and than vanished. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
Colonel General Feodor Serov reached for the phone on his desk and then stopped. Instead he glanced again at the fax he’d just received from the Ministry of Defense — as though hoping he could find the inspiration for some alternative course of action in its terse directives.
No, he thought somberly, scanning the flimsy sheet of paper for the tenth time, there were no other options left. Much as he hated it, he would have to seek assistance — and quickly.
Without hesitating further, Serov turned back to the phone and punched in the emergency contact number he’d been given.
Then, while waiting for the call to go through, he flipped the 80 switch on the hightech scrambler his “business associates” had assured him would thwart electronic eavesdropping.
“Yes.” The voice on the other end was impersonal, emotionless.
Serov grimaced. “This is Colonel General Serov. I ned to speak to Reichardt. The matter is urgent.”
“Wait.”
The line went silent for several seconds while Reichardt’s subordinate patched the call through to his superior.
“What is the problem now, Feodor Mikhailovich?” the German asked icily.
Although the emergency number carried a Moscow prefix, Serov knew modern cellular telephone technology meant Reichardt could be anywhere in the world right now. He might be in London, Paris, or New York. He might also be right outside the headquarters building itself again — waiting with murderous intent inside yet another unmarked staff car. The ex-Stasi agent had already shown his ability to move through Kandalaksha’s security undetected and unchallenged. It was almost as though the German was a ghost, or a demon.
Serov suppressed a shiver. He was a man, a soldier, and a fighter pilot — not a babe in swaddling clothes to be frightened by old wives’ tales of werewolves and witches.
“Well?” Reichardt demanded.
“There are new... complications... in the crash investigation that may require your action, Herr Reichardt,” Serov said slowly, dragging the words through clenched, unwilling teeth.
“Complications?”
“I’ve received new orders from the Ministry of Defense,” Serov explained. “An investigator from the MVD is on his way here now to interview my maintenance crews. I’ve been directed to cooperate fully with his inquiry.”
“I see,” Reichardt said coldly. “So Captain Grushtin’s foolproof sabotage left traces.”
“Possibly,” Serov admitted. “Though if the aircraft had gone down over the White Sea as we hoped, we wouldn’t have to worry now.”
“Don’t mince words with me, Feodor Mikhailovich,” Reichardt snapped.
“You have the MVD about to swarm around your ears, correct?”
“Yes. A Major Koniev arrives tomorrow morning.”
“Koniev …” Reichardt paused momentarily, clearly pondering the name.
Then he continued: “Very well. What is it that you wish of me?”
Serov swallowed hard, hating what he was about to do. Betraying the official trust by dealing with the ex- Stasi agent and his employer had been difficult enough. Betraying one’s own comrades was harder still.
But then the faces of his wife and children rose in his mind, reminding him of the price of failure. He set his misgivings aside. “There is a potential weak link.”
“Grushtin,” Reichardt guessed.
“Yes,” Serov confirmed. “Nikolai is a talented mechanic and artificer, but I’m afraid he is not a good liar.”
“Unfortunate,” Reichardt said simply. “So where is the gifted Captain Grushtin now? On the base?”
Serov shook his head unconsciously. “No. I sent him on leave once he finished his work on the project. As a reward, you understand.”’ “Where is he then?” the German demanded.
“Moscow.”
“Moscow,” Reichardt repeated. “Where exactly?”
