A knock on the door, then Ilanovich's distinct voice. 'Tombstone, my friend. I have news.' I opened the door and invited him in, already suspecting what he would have to say.
It had been, according to Ilanovich, a matter of personal honor to him as a Russian and as a senior naval officer. He'd heard, of course, about my quest for my father. That much he admitted readily, lending a semblance of sincerity to the rest of his story. How could he, as my counterpart and a man who respected me deeply, not only professionally but on a personal level, allow this question to go unanswered?
I waited, holding down the anger and trying to appear patient and interested through a thirty-minute narrative of the difficulties of tracing down post-Cold War witnesses, of penetrating the shrouded secrecy that cloaked even the most innocent records in Russia, of calling in favors owed to him dating back from his earliest days in the military. Finally, Ilanovich concluded, he'd learned the truth. The horrifying, glorious, shameful truth. My revulsion reached a new level at his next statement.
'Your father still lives, my friend,' he said, his voice choked with emotion. 'I cannot even begin to apologize ? the things that happened, you understand, this is not the conduct of professional military men everywhere. The politicians, the GRU ? you have my profoundest sympathies, and I will do everything in my power to correct this heinous act.' 'Where is he?' I asked.
'Here ? in Kursk, in a hospital. We can see him this afternoon. You… you will want to go, yes?'
'Of course I will.' I started to try to add some words of thanks, but a profound confusion was setting in. Was Vladimir right? Was Ilanovich lying to me, trying to manipulate me for some purpose? How could I tell which one was telling me the truth?
Ilanovich evidently took my silence for profound emotions. He reached out, covered one of my hands with his own. 'We will go then, at two o'clock. I will come for you.' He started to say more, but something in my face stopped him. He stood, clapped one hand down hard on my shoulder, and squeezed. 'I am honored to be able to do this thing, to set this right.' He left me sitting there staring out at the early morning light.
It was still two hours before we were due to leave, but I was already dressed, waiting impatiently, just like a kid on his first day of school.
Finally, when pacing the room was starting to get on even my own nerves, I forced myself to sit down in a comfortable chair located at one end of the room and consider my options.
First, I could simply not go. God knows there were plenty of reasons that I could come up with for that one. The Navy was not going to be any too happy about my traipsing around the Russian countryside unescorted.
Any admiral in the Navy has enough classified material floating around inside his head to set back national security about fifteen years. Me more than most, given the amount of time that I'd spent on the front combat lines. If I wanted an excuse, I had a built-in one.
Then there was the small question of the rest of my detachment.
Theoretically, we were in the middle of a goodwill airmanship contest. If I left, that would leave Gator Cummings in charge as the senior officer in the detachment.
Gator was a good man, no doubt about that. Smart, canny in a way that his hotheaded pilots Bird Dog and Skeeter would probably never recognize.
But even though he could handle Bird Dog's ego in the cockpit, dealing with Russians and diplomatic relationships on the ground required different skills, ones I wasn't sure he was senior enough to have mastered yet.
Could he handle the Russians? Under normal circumstances, yes.
But these weren't normal circumstances. Lab Rat's daily wrap-up message had mentioned increasing tensions in the water to the north of us, and I was feeling increasingly uneasy about even being on the ground in Russia. If things fell apart, it would be a hell of a lot more awkward for the Russians to make an American admiral disappear than some more junior officers. Not to mention the two Tomcats we brought with us.
No doubt about it, there were plenty of reasons for me not to go. Any one of them would have been sufficient.
The only hard point was that I could see no way that I would be able to live with myself afterward. My uncle understood that, and it had been the only reason that he had authorized this mission at all. Uncle Thomas was made of stronger stuff than his nephew ? I knew in that moment that he could have lived with the knowledge that his brother was still alive.
I couldn't. Whether it was because I was his son, or that I had some weakness Uncle Thomas did not, I could not say. Nevertheless, there was simply no way I could not go.
But that didn't mean I couldn't have a contingency plan. The resources available to me in this country were scant, to be sure. But I had a couple of tricks up my sleeve that I was relatively sure the Russians didn't know about.
I pulled my black leather briefcase up onto my lap, and paused a moment before opening it. If there was video camera surveillance in this room, then I was well and truly screwed.
I picked up my briefcase and walked over to the bed. It was still rumpled and unmade since I had not left the room long enough for the maids to take care of it. I lifted up the heavy comforter that was the top layer and pulled it over my head while still sitting on the edge of the bed.
I slid the briefcase on the bed and under the cover. If the Russians were watching, they would undoubtedly be suspicious.
Suspicious ? and ignorant. They might think I was carrying classified material, drugs, or almost anything else. They might even suspect the truth.
I unlatched the briefcase and pulled out the pistol. Still under the covers, I tucked the pistol into the special pocket concealed just under my armpit. I had spent hours at the tailor making sure it would fit without showing. It would not survive even the most routine pat down, and certainly not a metal detector, but at least it wouldn't advertise its existence to a casual observer.
It might not do me any good but I felt better having it on me. And with any luck, I wouldn't need it. After all, luck had gotten me this far.
If I hadn't been onboard USS Jefferson when Yuri had been there, I never would've heard about my father in the first place.
I paused for a moment and considered that proposition. Had it been luck and nothing more? The same capricious factor that had put my father over the bridge just as anti-air search radar came on? The same thing that had kept him alive through the ejection and perhaps the countless years in Russian custody? That luck?
Or had it been something more sinister? Could the Russians ? and the Ukraine for that matter ? have known I was going onboard Jefferson that very day? At that time, I had no longer been in command of either the ship or the battle group. Predicting my presence onboard Jefferson would have required an intelligence gathering capability far greater than I wanted to believe they had.
But it was hard to go wrong overestimating the capabilities of your opponent. At best, it would keep you prepared for disasters that others had failed to anticipate. At worst, you simply had an additional edge on them.
Did it always come back to this, then? Thinking and rethinking, anticipating and planning, almost to the point of outguessing yourself?
I patted down the gun again, finding a way out of the circular reasoning by feeling its hard outline under my fingers.
My escort arrived precisely on time. I opened the door, expecting to see the military police, the translator assigned as my aide, and a few other pilot fish with them for good measure. Who I didn't expect to see was my counterpart Admiral Ilanovich.
'It would be my honor to accompany you,' the admiral began. 'And perhaps to expedite this trip should unexpected difficulties arise.' He stepped across the threshold, held up his hand in American fashion, then apparently changed his mind and gave me a quick, hard Russian hug.
I started to endure the unwanted familiarity with diplomatic grace.
Then I remembered the gun. I drew back sharply, the classic American startled by customs that were not his. I feigned a look of discomfort, followed by an apology of a smile. With any luck, they would buy it.
The admiral looked slightly offended for a moment, then his face moved over into a diplomatic mask similar to my own. 'I forget,' he said. 'Our customs, they are so different. And we Russians are an emotional race.
That you'll see your father today, after so many years ? please, forgive my intrusion.' He touched one finger
