Fatal Thunder

8 ARRIVALS

Evgeni Orlav was delighted with his luck. Instead of sleeping on a cot in the torpedo shop, or traveling back to his run-down apartment, he’d spent the night in luxury, on the orders of Vice Admiral Dhankhar.

Not that he’d been very polite about it, Orlav remembered. Dhankhar had shown up late last night at the shop. Orlav had been in the middle of test-fitting one of the mounts inside a torpedo body when the admiral had come in, standing silently until the technician had put down his tools.

“When you’re ready to stop work for the night, tell the sentry outside. He’ll have a driver take you to your new quarters, here on the base.”

Orlav had been surprised, and started to ask a question, but the Indian cut him off, adding, “All your personal effects have been moved out of your apartment and brought here. Now there is no need for you to leave the base.”

Dhankhar had been almost scowling as he spoke, and when he finished, Orlav simply said, “All right, I understand,” and Dhankhar had left.

Orlav didn’t like Dhankhar, and knew it was mutual. He was the kind of officer that had always caused problems for Orlav back in his navy days — stiff-necked martinets who believed their rank actually meant something. All they thought about were rules and duty, and believed everyone else should be the same way. They’d made life so miserable for him he’d actually missed his wife and her family. At least his in-laws wouldn’t give him grief for taking a drink now and then.

The mount had fit properly, and feeling satisfied with himself, Orlav had decided to break for the night. It was almost midnight, and he was curious, and a little concerned about where he was going to sleep. He didn’t trust Dhankhar in the slightest. Well, if his new lodgings were that bad, he still had the cot here at the shop.

Stepping outside, Orlav told the sentry he was finished, and within a few minutes a jeep appeared and parked nearby. The driver said it was just a couple of kilometers away. Even this late, the night air was warm and thick with humidity. Holding out a hand as they drove, Orlav could feel moisture collecting on his fingers.

Truth be told, he wouldn’t miss his “apartment” in town. Right, more like a prison cell. It was just one room, with barely enough floor space for a bed and a table. The toilet and shower were communal, just down the hall, and the entire building reeked of curry and sweat. Even with what the management called air conditioning, everything was sticky with moisture.

He’d picked it because many of the other Russians also lived there and commuted together. They lived there because it was cheap, and it let them send more money home to Russia. He needed the “cheap” part, and as for sending money home…

The character of the base changed quickly from an industrial appearance to residential as the shipyard’s shops were replaced by neat one- and two-story barracks and office buildings. At that hour, there was little traffic, but the soldier was dutifully obeying the fifteen-kilometers-per-hour speed limit, which gave Orlav time to take in the sights.

He was surprised when they stopped in front of a white-painted brick bungalow. It sat near one end of a row of similar houses, all with neat gardens and red tile roofs. He’d been in the service long enough, and been on enough military bases, to recognize that the quarters were meant for senior officers. A brick walkway ended in steps that led up to a screened-in porch. A small nameplate said it was number forty-seven, but the space for the occupant’s name was empty.

The driver said, “The admiral says you will live here until your work is finished.”

Nodding his understanding, Orlav got out of the jeep, a little surprised but accepting. The screen door opened with what sounded like a deafening screech in the late-night quiet, and he stepped through to the shadowed front door. A polished brass knocker gleamed in the faint light from the street.

The door was unlocked, and after finding the light switch, Orlav found himself in a sitting room, not only completely furnished, but also tastefully decorated. He stopped in the doorway, hand still on the knob, transfixed. This was not only better than his apartment, it was better than his home in Moscow, and much better than the place he’d grown up in Rybinsk, with ten people and three generations in a three-room apartment.

He could see a small kitchen in an alcove to his left. An open door to the right beckoned, and he went through to find a bedroom, as nicely appointed as the rest of the house. The bed was already made up, as in a fine hotel.

This is how I want to live, Orlav thought, with an intensity that almost surprised him. Someday soon, I’ll be able to have a house like this, with enough money so I don’t have to scrape to get a meal.

A set of keys lay on the bed, next to a folded note. It was in Dhankhar’s handwriting. The admiral’s spoken Russian was fair, but his Cyrillic lettering was like that of a child, each letter carefully drawn. “This house will let you get proper rest while staying close to your work. Do not leave the base until you are finished.”

Orlav crumpled the note, and after a quick search, tossed it in a nearby wastebasket. He liked this place. He would keep it neat.

The search also revealed two battered suitcases and a couple of boxes sitting in a corner of the bedroom, his belongings from the apartment. He wondered who had moved him out. How had they gotten the key to his apartment? Although he didn’t know any details, it was clear that the admiral’s conspiracy extended into every arm of the Indian government, including law enforcement. Maybe one of Dhankhar’s confederates had shown up and flashed a badge.

It took him only a few minutes to unpack, and he hurried a little. The bed reminded him of his fatigue, and promised a much better night’s rest than he’d had in a long time.

He fell asleep wondering if they’d gotten his security deposit back.

He’d awakened after the best sleep he’d had in months, certainly since starting this job. The rumbling of his stomach reminded him that he was hungry. There was no food in the house, of course, but he always ate breakfast at the shop, while he set up for the day’s work. He’d even obtained a small refrigerator and a plug-in teapot. As he dressed, he wondered if he should bring those things back to the bungalow, and have a proper breakfast here in the morning. But that might take longer.

It was great to have such a nice place to live, and to think about such mundane things.

Remembering to take his key, he had stepped outside and turned to lock the door when a harsh Russian voice came out of nowhere. “So you’re finally up. No wonder you’re not finished yet.”

Startled, Orlav dropped the key and quickly knelt, fumbling to pick it up. At the same time, he looked around for the source of the voice. To his right, sitting in a wicker chair on the screened-in porch, was Jascha Churkin.

Churkin seemed pleased with the surprise he’d given Orlav, and said, “Good morning.” His pleasant tone did not make Orlav feel any better.

Where Orlav was thin, almost scrawny, Churkin was built like a wrestler or a weight lifter. They were about the same height, but the ex-commando outweighed him by fifteen kilos, and none of it was fat. His black hair was cut very short, and dark eyes gave life to a face that had seen more than a few fights. When Churkin smiled, which he was doing now, Orlav could see a few gold teeth, and also a few gaps.

Kirichenko had found Churkin on the wrong side of the law, and had spent a fair amount of bribe money to get Churkin out of jail before he could be sentenced to an impressive number of years in a Georgian prison. Churkin was an ex-Spetsnaz “reconnaissance diver,” skilled in many types of combat as well as underwater work, and a veteran of both the Chechen and Georgian wars. Among other skills, he spoke fluent Arabic.

Finding someone like Churkin had been vital to Kirichenko’s plans. Under his direction, the commando had personally dived on the barge to bring up the warheads, with the admiral waiting on the boat above. Churkin guarded the warheads on their long trip across a lawless landscape while Kirichenko dickered, bribed, and organized each leg of their trip. Throughout it all, Churkin had been as reliable as a stone monument, because Kirichenko knew the one thing that could hold his loyalty: money.

Seeing him just a few feet away, so suddenly, Orlav suppressed a chill. Churkin was not only Kirichenko’s right-hand man, he was also his executioner, if need be. The ex-admiral had made it plain to Orlav that if he didn’t perform well, or if he was stupid enough to try and leave, Churkin would happily hunt him down and slit his throat. Eventually.

“Tell me about Aleksey Petrov,” Churkin ordered.

Orlav was still fumbling on the floor for the key, and as he picked it up and stood, he turned to face Churkin. “I don’t know the man.” The question puzzled him, and he searched his memory.

After a moment, he added, “I saw him for the first time last week, when Captain Mitra called us all together and told us we were going to have help with the work. He was the only Russian. The rest were Indians from different departments in the shipyard.”

He held up his hands. “That’s all I know. Maybe you should speak to some of the others.”

“I already have,” Churkin replied quickly. “Yesterday. Now I’m talking to you. Has Petrov spoken to you?”

“No.”

“Have you seen him nearby while you did your work?”

“No. Never. I think I’ve passed him on the sub a couple of times, but that can’t mean anything.”

Churkin announced, “He’s been asking questions about you.”

“What?” A flash of fear ran through him. If they had been discovered…

“Aren’t you supposed to be on your way to the torpedo shop?”

“Oh. Yes.” Orlav realized he was still holding the key, and turned back to lock the door. He carefully put the key in his right pocket.

Churkin stood, and when Orlav looked at him, a little bewildered, finally said impatiently, “So let’s go.”

Orlav turned and quickly went down the steps and the brick path, then turned right to head for the torpedo shop. The route was simple, and would only take fifteen minutes to walk. Churkin followed easily, and matched Orlav’s pace.

“So Aleksey Petrov’s been asking questions about what you’re working on, why you don’t report to Gandhi or Shvetov, and so on. I’ll ask you again. Are you sure you haven’t said something to Petrov to arouse his curiosity?”

Orlav answered firmly, “Definitely not.”

“To anyone else?”

“No!” Orlav insisted. “Of course not!” When he could see that Churkin was unconvinced, he added, “I work alone, I eat alone. The only person I say more than ‘Hello’ to is Anton Kulik, and that’s when I ask him to bring me my meals. Maybe the isolation is what attracted Petrov’s attention.”

“Perhaps,” Churkin admitted, “but I have to find out if anyone else is involved with him, and how much they know. I’m taking over security down here — especially your security until you finish the project.” While Churkin was aware that an SVR agent was the probable source of Petrov’s questions, Churkin had been expressly forbidden to tell Orlav. The whiny technician was already a bundle of nerves and it wouldn’t take much to get him to panic. But Kirichenko also needed to know if Orlav had done something stupid to attract attention to himself. Churkin was satisfied with Orlav’s answers and would report his impressions to the boss.

Orlav continued walking in dejected silence. The thought of the ex-Spetsnaz thug hanging around, watching his every movement, did not make Orlav feel any more secure. As if he needed another incentive to finish quickly.

A block or two from the torpedo shop, Churkin suddenly turned and walked down another street. He didn’t even say good-bye, although Orlav was happy to see him go.

In addition to all the depressing thoughts whirling in his head, Orlav was disappointed by Churkin’s visit. The Russian engineer had been looking forward to the morning walk from his new quarters, a chance to organize his thoughts for the day’s labor. Instead, Mr. Buzzkill had not only ruined the tranquillity of the moment, but managed to increase his paranoia. A great start to the day.

Forget Petrov. He just wanted to keep clear of Churkin.

Kirichenko had insisted on meeting in a completely random location. Dhankhar hated what seemed like pointless cloak-and-dagger games, but then he remembered that Kirichenko had been underground for over a decade, and that he was peddling nuclear weapons he’d stolen from his own government. The man had every right to be paranoid.

The admiral hadn’t found out where they would meet until just half an hour before the appointed time, when Kirichenko had phoned him and simply said, without preamble, “The public library on High School Road.”

High School Road was a major thoroughfare that led west away from the water into the city. He’d driven by the place more times than he could count. “I know it,” he’d replied, and the Russian had hung up without another word.

They always made this business glamorous and exciting in the movies, but Dhankhar just checked out with his flag secretary for the day and drove out the front gate. The streets were still busy with the evening rush hour, but the library was only a few miles away. Fifteen minutes early, he pulled into a bank parking lot a short distance from the library.

He started to walk in a direction away from his destination, intending to circle the block, to check for anyone following him, then stopped, laughed, and headed straight for the library.

Dhankhar had no way of telling if he was indeed being followed, and even if he was, there was nothing he could do about it. Abort the meeting, he supposed, but that would be pointless. A tail, especially by the authorities, would mean that they’d already been discovered, and that Vajra was doomed. He chose to believe that for the moment their plan was still secret.

He’d never seen the Russian, and wasn’t sure that he could recognize his voice. Kirichenko always kept the calls as short as possible, and Dhankhar could not be sure, but suspected that he used some device to alter his voice.

On the other hand, Dhankhar’s photo was easily available on the Internet. He had an aide who made sure that it was included with all the base press releases. He’d just have to wait until Kirichenko approached him.

He walked up the steps seven minutes before the 7:00 P.M. meeting time and tried to act like he needed a book. The library’s reading area was busy, a mix of schoolchildren and adults at almost every table. He didn’t see anyone immediately that looked like an ex-Russian admiral, and climbed the steps to the second floor.

This was the reference section, and much less populated. He slowly walked past the rows of bookcases, looking for he wasn’t sure who, but certain he hadn’t seen him.

A voice in Russian behind him almost made him jump. “Good evening, Admiral. Please follow me.” He turned to see a heavily built man with close-cropped black hair already walking away, and Dhankhar quickly followed him to one side of the second floor. A row of audio listening booths lined one wall, and his guide led the admiral to one end. Inside, a gray-haired man with sharp features nodded and stood.

Dhankhar opened the door and stepped inside, while his guide, and presumably Kirichenko’s associate, lounged outside but nearby. Skimming quietly through a book, as if he could actually read Hindi, he would make sure Dhankhar and Kirichenko were not distrurbed.

Kirichenko didn’t bother with pleasantries. “My colleague Mr. Churkin,” he said, indicating the man outside their door, “has been investigating Mr. Aleksey Petrov for us. Have you learned anything new since our last conversation?”

“I’ve seen him working on Chakra and in the shipyard. It’s hard to hear what he’s talking about without getting too close to him, but he seems to be intent on his tasks. He hasn’t gotten near Orlav or the torpedo shop.”

“That is good, but Churkin can now take over the security for Orlav and your project. That will let you focus on making sure the refit is completed on schedule.”

“Ended is more like it. There was so much work that had to be abandoned. If this project wasn’t so important…”

“The only thing that matters, as far as I can see, is that Chakra is seaworthy and can fire torpedoes. My job will be to keep Orlav on task and on time. Churkin has papers identifying him as a representative of a Russian arms company, the Morteplotekhnika Research and Design Institute. They manufacture the engines for the UGST-M torpedo, so that should answer any questions about his comings and goings. Can you arrange for an official base pass and whatever other authorizations he needs?”

“Of course,” Dhankhar nodded. “They’ll be at the security office near the front gate by noon tomorrow.”

“Good.” Kirichenko stood, and seemed almost eager to leave. “That should be it, then. If you see Churkin, don’t speak to him, or acknowledge his presence, unless it is absolutely necessary. You’ve never met.”

“I understand,” Dhankhar answered. He started to stand as well, but Kirichenko motioned to him to remain sitting. “I’d appreciate it if you’d remain here for a few minutes after we leave.”

“All right,” Dhankhar answered, willing enough. The two Russians disappeared quickly.

It was a sensible request, he thought. They should enter and leave separately, so any surveillance would not see them together. But of course, if they were already under surveillance, it could be too late. The real reason he asked me to remain, he realized, is that if I’m arrested, I can’t tell anyone where they went after leaving here.

Churkin had decided to act quickly, at Kirichenko’s urging. Not that he disagreed. Petrov was trouble waiting to happen, and the sooner he was gone, the better. Kirichenko had provided him with the address of the Russian Hostel where Petrov lived and the locations of his office and his workstation in the shipyard. Normally, Churkin would observe someone for a few days before taking any action, but in this situation, time was critical.

Petrov lived alone in the apartment. Churkin could easily break in and wait for him. There might even be something valuable there, which he would be happy to take. The police would classify it as a robbery gone bad — the unfortunate victim surprised the intruder.

But Churkin didn’t like it. Although he’d wear gloves, even in this heat, there was no way he could avoid leaving trace evidence behind. Also, he didn’t know enough about the people living nearby. He might be seen breaking in, and once inside, he had no way to know what was going on outside the apartment.

Churkin also didn’t like sitting and waiting. It was passive, and required patience. He’d never liked waiting. And he couldn’t be sure when Petrov would return. What if he went out drinking after work?

The real problem was taking his eyes off the target. Churkin had access to the base, and could certainly find Petrov at work, not that he’d do anything there. But once he’d found the man, it was against Churkin’s instincts to lose sight of him, even if it was intentional, even if it was to set up an ambush.

Simpler was always better, in Churkin’s experience.

He’d been given photos of Petrov from his personnel file, and had no trouble finding him as he came off Chakra in midmorning. He was taller than Churkin, but not by much, and the ex-commando saw nothing that would make him a difficult target. According to Kirichenko, he was an ex-submariner, and now a consultant. This should be easy.

By himself, it was difficult tracking someone’s movements without being noticed, but the engineer kept it simple. He spent the workday either on the submarine or in his office. Petrov worked late, and it was well after dark before he headed for the main gate. All the better, Churkin thought. He wasn’t terribly worried about being seen, but the darkness had a comfortable feeling for him. He was in his element.

Unexpectedly, Petrov boarded a local bus. Churkin got on as well, using the other door. The vehicle was nearly full at that hour, and it was simple to keep out of Petrov’s sight while keeping track of when he left the bus.

Petrov got off in a small shopping district. Better and better, thought Churkin. An assault and robbery here would appear completely random.

Lights from the street and the storefronts gave a fair amount of illumination, but there were plenty of shadows. There were other people on the sidewalks, and traffic, but the streets weren’t crowded. Best of all, he didn’t see a single policeman or any other sign of law enforcement.

Churkin felt his excitement building. He wanted to remain calm. He wouldn’t need adrenaline for this job, but his target had only minutes to live, and Churkin loved these moments. As he walked, he slipped on a pair of light-colored gloves, made of the thinnest material he could find. His hands would start sweating soon, but he would be done before that was a problem. He was actively hunting now, waiting for the foot traffic to thin out, marking escape routes…

There. Ahead of Petrov, a recessed storefront created a wide alcove, deep enough for the inset corner to be almost completely shadowed. Churkin was ten or twelve meters behind Petrov. He could build up a little speed to catch up, and then use that momentum to shove his target into a corner. They’d be hidden from anyone up ahead, and it would be over in seconds.

His steps quickened, and he pulled a cloth around his neck up to cover his nose and mouth. Petrov was still walking, facing away, completely unsuspecting. Pinned in a dark corner, he’d never see the man who killed him.

Churkin had closed more than half the distance, and was still picking up speed. With only the briefest thoughts, he reached back for the knife he’d concealed under his loose-fitting shirt. The sheath hung just beneath his neck and shoulders, handle facing up and easy to grab. He’d spent time yesterday modifying the sheath and practicing drawing the knife quickly.

He had to conceal it along his back because of its length. He’d gone into several shops yesterday looking for a double-edged blade at least sixteen centimeters long, his minimum. He’d finally found a nice one, almost as long as his hand and sharply pointed. He’d had others like it before, and experience told him what to look for. It was more properly a dagger, and so narrow it could almost be called a stiletto. It was perfect.

Churkin’s left hand was out in front, raised to catch Petrov behind the shoulder blades and propel him into the darkest part of the corner. His right hand, with the knife, was down near his waist. Experience had taught him how to come in low, just above the waist, and stab up. The long blade would pierce the heart.

A young couple stepped out of the store, just ahead of Churkin. He automatically angled a little left, and saw he would clear the two, but they both looked directly at him, and saw the knife in his hand.

He ignored the couple. They were no threat to him. But the man shouted, and used one arm to shove his wife or girlfriend back behind him. She was screaming, and Petrov started to turn toward the noise. Churkin angled more to the left, still trying to aim for his back, but Petrov was turning too quickly, so after half a step, Churkin changed his plans, raising the knife slightly. He’d catch Petrov in front, in the belly, still under the rib cage, and just as lethal.

Petrov not only saw the couple making so much noise, he spotted someone charging toward him at a full run. He didn’t see the knife at first, but automatically tried to move out of the way, backing up and moving sideways, away from the storefront. More confused and surprised than afraid, he raised his hands to fend off his — attacker?

Still two meters away, Churkin cursed his luck. Petrov was bringing his arms up. It was not a trained defensive move, but it meant there was almost no chance of a quick kill, not against someone who was aware of his assailant. He could see Petrov’s eyes widening; he’d finally seen Churkin’s knife. Petrov called out, “Knife!” but it was in Russian.

Then he surprised Churkin. Instead of bracing to meet the attack, he turned and fled down the street. Churkin, already at speed, tried to grab him by the shoulder, or just Petrov’s shirt collar, but missed by inches.

Spurred by fear, Petrov flew down the street, still shouting, first in Russian, then also in English, for help, not that his situation needed any explanation. Churkin kept pace with him for almost half a block, but both men were in good physical condition, and Petrov had a slight edge in height, and that longer stride helped him open the distance, first from inches to a foot, and then more.

Other passersby had seen the pair now, running full tilt down the sidewalk, and Churkin realized that even if he caught up with Petrov, his murder would be neither quick nor quiet. Keeping up speed, he turned right down a cross street with less traffic, and then left into an alley that he could see ran the length of the block. By the time he’d reached the other end and emerged, the neck scarf and gloves were off and the knife was back in its sheath. The loose-fitting shirt, bright-colored, was gone to reveal a similar, darker one underneath. He slowed his pace, and looked behind him for any sign of pursuit.

Then he tried to figure out what to do next. Kirichenko will not be happy.

Petrov ran for another half block before he realized that he was no longer being chased. Winded, he leaned against a storefront. His surprise at the sudden and completely unexpected attack magnified his fear. He reached up to brush his hair back and discovered his hand was shaking. If not for being braced against the building, his entire body might be doing the same thing.

A few pedestrians who had seen the chase approached him cautiously. He certainly didn’t think he looked very threatening, and a middle-aged man asked in English, “Are you all right?”

“I think so,” Petrov answered, but then stood up straighter and flexed his arms and legs. Nothing hurt. “I am fine.”

“Who was that?” a woman asked, but he just shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Another man said, “I saw him run down a side street,” and pointed.

The woman said authoritatively, “You should call the police.”

“I will,” Petrov replied, and reached for his cell phone.

No longer needed, the pedestrians dispersed, returning to their errands, but occasionally glancing back at the foreigner.

At the interview in Osinov’s office three days earlier, Ruchkin had given him a card. Petrov fished it out of his wallet and dialed the number. It rang three times before a recorded voice repeated the number and asked the caller to leave a message. Wonderful.

Should he call the local police? It seemed pointless to Petrov. If it was just a random robbery attempt, there was little the police could do. A mask had hidden most of his attacker’s face, but what little Petrov saw hinted that he might have been a foreigner — European or perhaps even Russian.

And why would a foreigner pick another foreigner to rob on a busy street in the early evening? He didn’t like the answer, and called another number.

They’d met on a busy street corner, and gone into a nearby bar, chosen because it was close and half-filled with customers. They both hoped a public place would be the safest choice. It catered to sports fans, and large-screen TVs at opposite ends of the room were showing cricket and football matches, with the attendant cheers and groans from the patrons. Samant ordered Kingfisher beers for both of them and they found an empty table.

Samant didn’t really say anything until Petrov had finished telling his story a second time. With repetition, his second account had less emotion, and a little more detail. Even so, there was little to work with.

“Now I understand how you feel,” Petrov remarked.

“If you mean that you are now as paranoid as I am, good.” Samant shivered. “I am very glad they missed their chance with you, but now we must both be on guard. I should have expected they would become violent. After all, what’s one life when you’re selling weapons that can kill tens of thousands?”

“I don’t think they know about you, yet. I was the one asking about Orlav, and then I was attacked,” Petrov explained.

“I’ll take precautions anyway,” Samant replied. “And so will you,” he insisted.

Petrov nodded. “I tried to call the SVR — that intelligence agent that questioned me the other day. I haven’t been able to reach him. I haven’t told the local police.”

“Good!” Samant replied. “Even if they believed your suspicions and were willing to investigate, Vice Admiral Dhankhar has enough political influence to deflect their questions completely. And it would confirm his suspicions.”

“I will e-mail Jerry, or perhaps you should.”

“I will,” Samant replied firmly. “We can’t know how closely they’re watching you.”

“I just hope the Americans can do something. I wasn’t expecting immediate results, but it would be good to know they are acting.”

“If they can, I believe they will,” Samant reassured him. “This is as much a threat to the USA as anyone.” He sighed. “And now, more than before, we have to make sure that someone besides us knows.”