here.”
“Yeah,” Thorn said. “That’s what worries me.”
Nearly two full days had passed since they’d learned that someone had faked Grushtin’s suicide. First, the higher-ups in Russia’s Ministry of Defense had taken their own sweet time — nearly twenty-four hours — to authorize another probe of the officers and men of the 125th Air Division. Hours more had been lost covering the sheer distance between Moscow and Kandalaksha.
Thorn wished again that Russian law allowed foreigners to carry weapons. Whoever had killed Grushtin had been given plenty of warning that they were coming back to this base. And plenty of time to arrange a warm and deadly welcome if that was judged necessary.
He shook his head silently, knowing his concerns might seem ridiculous, maybe even paranoid, to some. But there were too many dead bodies floating around for him to ignore the danger they might be in.
Somebody connected with Kandalaksha was playing a game for very high stakes.
Thorn came to full alert as a big black Zil limousine with tinted windows turned onto the access road and roared toward them. Red command flags fluttered from its hood.
He stepped back — putting the bulk of the Lada between himself and the approaching car. Out of the corner of one eye, he noticed Helen taking the same precaution. If this was an ambush, the rusting staff car wouldn’t offer much protection but he lived by the credo that some cover was always better than none when bullets were flying. As a veteran of the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team, Helen had the same instincts and the same training.
The Zil pulled up and parked within a few feet. Thorn relaxed only slightly when the tall, trim figure of Colonel General Feodor Serov climbed out of the limousine’s back seat.
He hadn’t liked the Russian base commander much when they’d first met, and he liked him less now.
Although Serov had the usual fighter jock arrogance coming out of his ears, that wasn’t what really bugged him about the Russian. It was something else.
Thorn had used the Ministry of Defense-imposed delay to study the O.S.I.A dossier on Serov.
Nothing he’d read gave him a high opinion of Kandalaksha’s commander.
The Russian had a long track record of backing those he perceived as winners — no matter who they were or what they professed. When Yeltsin was on the way up, Serov supported him. When it seemed the communists might reclaim power in Russia’s first contested presidential election, the general had hurried to proclaim his renewed faith in Marxism. But then he’d turned his coat back to the side of the government just as quickly once the election results came in. Pure and simple, Feodor Mikhailovich Serov struck Thorn as a first-class opportunist— a careerist who always looked out for himself. And that made the Russian the antithesis of everything he thought a soldier should be.
“Major Koniev. Special Agent Gray. And Colonel Thorn.” Serov tried a smile. It flitted nervously across his face and disappeared. “I am grateful that you agreed to meet me here.”
“I was not aware we had a choice, General,” Koniev said flatly. He’d read the same files and evidently come to the same conclusions about Serov’s character.
“Perhaps you could explain why we’ve been brought to this godforsaken place. As you know, we have a number of people to question in connection with Captain Grushtin, his murder, and this secret engine project of yours.”
Thorn watched Serov flush an angry red at the MVD officer’s dismissive tone. He hid a grin. Given a whip hand over the Air Force general by Moscow’s orders, Koniev had evidently decided to push him hard. Atta boy, Alexei, he thought coldly. Keep the arrogant SOB off balance and on the run.
With a visible effort, the base commander regained control over his features. He forced another thin, humorless smile. “I understand your mission, Major. And, as I promised Defense Minister Ulanov, I will cooperate fully with this investigation.” Then he shrugged. “I merely thought starting here would save you precious time and effort.”
“How so?”
Serov motioned toward the weather-stained concrete building beyond the chainlink fence. A nearby gate stood ajar. “It would be quicker to show you, Major.”
“Very well,” Koniev said wryly. He waved the base commander toward the gate. “After you, General.”
Frowning, Serov led them through the gate and then an unlocked metal door into the cavernous building. Enough sunlight filtered in through dirt-encrusted windows to reveal dozens of massive metal cylinders lying in rows across the floor. Some were covered by canvas tarps. Others were left exposed to the drafts wafting in through the ill-fitting doors and windows. Turbine wheels, thrust nozzles, and mazes of piping and wiring around the outside identified the cylinders as jet engines.
The Russian general stopped by one of the enormous engines.
He patted it. “This is a Saturn AL-2! turbojet. Two of them power each of my Su-24 fighter-bombers. And each engine produces nearly twenty-five thousand pounds of thrust.
“But these …” Serov patted the vast cylinder again, less affectionately this time. “These Saturns produce nothing — not an ounce of thrust. They are worn out and inoperable. Useless. All of them.”
“And they’re just sitting here — gathering dust?” Thorn asked, eyeing the rows of silent engines in front of him dubiously. No U.S. Air Force commander he’d ever met would have allowed so many defective power plants to pile up. “Can’t they be repaired?”
The Russian general nodded. “Certainly, they could be repaired, Colonel Thorn.” Then he shrugged. “If my government supplied the trained manpower or the money to run an adequate maintenance operation. Unfortunately Moscow provides me with neither. So here they wait and here they rust — just so much useless scrap metal.”
He turned his gaze on them. “Do you understand the situation here at Kandalaksha? Do you know the difficulties we face every day? The fuel shortages? The budget cuts? The pay shortfalls?”
Serov scowled. “My pilots are lucky if they get four hours’ flying time a month — barely enough to learn how to take off and land safely.
Fewer than half my planes are flight-ready—”
Koniev stepped closer, interrupting him. “Spare me the litany of your woes, General. There are many other commanders with similar problems.”
The MVD officer sharpened his tone. “But your real problems go far beyond slow pay and budget restrictions, General! At the moment, one of your officers is dead — apparently murdered by others involved in a heroin smuggling ring operating out of your duty station. The very same officer we believe sabotaged a plane carrying the American arms inspection team and their Russian counterparts. If you wish to avoid a courtmartial for incompetence or worse, I suggest you start discussing this secret project of yours — now!”
Serov hid a scowl. The arrogant, insubordinate young pup! He fought the temptation to cut this interrogation short by pulling rank on the MVD officer. But Reichardt’s telephoned instructions had been explicit.
“Give Koniev and the Americans some of the truth, Feodor Mikhailovich,” the German had ordered. “Not all of it. Just enough to convince them they’re on the right trail. I will handle the rest.”
The Russian general grimaced. Even the partial truths he was about to tell revealed too much of his own wrongdoing for his taste. But Reichardt had made it clear that he had no choice — none at all. He was caught in a vise between the German on the one hand and these meddling investigators on the other.
“You have thirty seconds,” Koniev warned.
“Very well,” Serov said bitterly, surrendering to foul necessity.
He would obey Reichardt’s instructions. He nodded toward the rows of unrepaired engines. “You are looking at the raw materials for a venture, Major … a private business venture. One that involved several of my ranking officers and myself including Captain Grushtin.”
Koniev cocked his head. “A business venture? Using state property? Perhaps you had better explain yourself more fully, General.”
“Yes. I suppose I must.” Serov sighed. “Very well. You should know that I have never been a rich man — not on the pittance the State pays me. And even that meager amount will shrink further once I retire.”
He spread his hands in a mute appeal. “My wife and I have two daughters in school, Major. Their fees had drained every ruble of my savings, and we were growing increasingly desperate with every passing month. I knew our finances would only get worse once I could no longer rely on government housing and rations. I even considered resigning my commission early to try and earn a proper living in some other way. Perhaps even as a menial laborer for one of the new private companies.”
