Polar Quest

24

‘You Kilkenny?’ an air force captain in a black bomber jacket asked as Kilkenny stepped off Skier-92.

‘Yeah.’

‘Sir, I’m Captain Parker. The general asked me to pick you up as soon as you landed. Did you turn off the lights in McMurdo before you left?’

‘They rolled the runway up right after we took off.’

Kilkenny and the crash investigation team were among the last people to leave Antarctica at the end of the summer season — continuing their work at LV Station until the falling temperatures that accompanied the approaching change of seasons forced them to abandon the crash site. They recovered enough of the wreckage to identify the plane as a C-130, but that was all they knew. The ID plate, which would have answered many of their questions, remained hidden in the ice. Saunders’s team brought back what they could and photographed everything else in hopes that lab analysis would yet yield some crucial bit of information.

‘Sir, there’s been a change in your flight plan back to the States.’

‘Why?’ Kilkenny asked.

‘I wasn’t given that information, sir. All I know is that I’m to collect you and your gear and put you on a plane to Moscow.’

Upon his arrival at Sheremetyevo 2 International Airport the following morning, Kilkenny was met at the gate by a representative of the FSB, the Russian Federal Security Service. With a wave of his badge, the man walked Kilkenny through customs and out into a waiting car. Forty minutes later, Kilkenny arrived at Lubyanka and was ushered to the office of FSB Director Igor Sergeevich Fydorov.

‘Welcome back to Moscow, Nolan Seanovich,’ Fydorov said warmly.

‘Thank you. This office looks a little bigger than the one you had last summer.’

Fydorov nodded; the new office was befitting of his position. ‘In the aftermath of our dealings with that pig Orlov, I was recognized by higher powers and promoted. I guess I have you to thank, or blame, depending on how much paperwork is heaped on my new desk.’

‘A small price to pay for bagging that parasite.’

‘Agreed. And for that, you still have my thanks. Have you been told why you’re here?’

‘No.’

‘We have uncovered some information regarding the missile launcher you found in Antarctica. Jackson Barnett and I thought it best that someone from your country be present at this meeting.’

‘I may be a bit underdressed for the part,’ Kilkenny said. In a heavy Irish wool sweater, jeans, and hiking boots, he looked more like an Aran Island fisherman than an employee of the U.S. State Department.

‘For what I have in mind, you are perfect,’ Fydorov assured him.

‘Who are we meeting with?’

‘A general. It should be quite interesting. Because of this individual’s high rank, I will be conducting the interrogation.’

From a course in Russian history he’d taken in college, Kilkenny knew that before the revolution, Lubyanka had been the home of an insurance company. The building then became the headquarters of the secret police and, in its bowels, a prison for enemies of the state. Kilkenny wasn’t sure if anyone still languished in the subterranean levels of the building, but he was relieved when the elevator he was on stopped at the second floor.

Fydorov led him into a well-appointed conference room. There were four men in the room, three in civilian clothes. The fourth wore the dress uniform of a Russian general.

‘Your embassy has loaned us a translator so you can follow this proceeding,’ Fydorov said, indicating a man in his mid-twenties standing alone. ‘You will sit here, beside me.’

‘Who are the guys with the general?’

‘Security.’

Fydorov called the room to order. The general sat alone on one side of the conference table; Fydorov, Kilkenny, and the translator on the other. The two security men stepped outside.

‘Please state your name,’ Fydorov said.

‘Lieutenant General Anatoly Dubinsky.’ The general’s shoulder boards held two stars.

‘What is your current posting, General?’

‘Currently, I am on administrative leave pending the outcome of this investigation,’ Dubinsky said smugly.

‘Your previous posting, then.’

‘Command of the Northwestern Zone.’

Fydorov glanced at his notes. ‘Based in St Petersburg. A prestigious posting, wouldn’t you say, General?’

‘Yes, it is,’ Dubinsky replied. The man’s voice betrayed no emotion.

‘As I understand it, zone command is an essential stepping stone to a posting in the Ministry of Defense, is it not?’

‘I believe so.’

‘What were some of the units under your command?’

‘The Sixth Combined Arms Army, the Thirtieth Army Corps, Fifty-sixth District Training, and several smaller units. Do you wish me to go on?’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ Fydorov conceded. ‘Did any of your forces utilize surface-to-air missile defense systems?’

‘Of course. The Northwestern Zone borders on Finland, Estonia, and the Baltic. We are well within range of NATO.’

‘In maintaining readiness to defend the motherland, troops under your command train regularly, no?’

Dubinsky shrugged. ‘We train as much as our funding permits.’

‘Would such training include firing of surface-to-air missiles?’

‘Yes, but given the cost of missiles, we don’t fire them all that often.’

Fydorov opened a folder and pulled out a typed sheet of paper, which he slid across the table to Dubinsky. ‘Can you tell me what this is?’

Dubinsky scanned the sheet. ‘It is a report to the Ministry regarding the destruction of a Ural launcher during training late last summer.’

‘Do you recall the specifics of this loss?’

‘One of the missiles exploded while still attached to the vehicle, detonating the other three. The crew was lost along with the vehicle.’

‘A tragedy. What became of the wreckage?’

‘I don’t know. I assume it was scrapped.’

Fydorov scrawled a few notes, then pulled out several color prints and laid them on the table in front of Dubinsky. At a glance, Kilkenny recognized them.

‘General, do you know what this is?’

Dubinsky studied the images of a vehicle with caterpillar tracks locked in ice. He paled, but quickly recovered. ‘I am not certain. It is difficult to tell what I am looking at.’

‘Don’t trouble yourself. My colleague has already gone through a great difficulty identifying this piece of equipment. Nolan, would you enlighten the general as to what it is and where you found it?’

‘It’s one of your Ural launchers. We recovered it in Antarctica shortly after it was used to shoot down a U.S. military transport.’

‘General, are you aware that the presence of this weapon in Antarctica is a violation of international treaty?’ Fydorov asked. ‘Also, that its use in a purely offensive manner to destroy another country’s aircraft may well be considered an act of war?’

‘I know nothing of this.’

‘Really?’ Fydorov asked. ‘I was hoping you could answer a question my colleague uncovered. You see, General, the serial numbers inside this vehicle match those of the one you reported destroyed last summer.’

‘What are you accusing me of?’ Dubinsky demanded.

‘The exact charges to be brought against you will depend greatly on how well you answer my questions. Whether you live long enough to face charges is another matter entirely.’

‘Comrade Director, are you threatening me?’

‘No. But at some point during this interview, I may need to leave for a moment. My colleague would, of course, remain to keep you company.’

Fydorov paused to let the translator catch up. Kilkenny quickly realized that his host was setting the general up for a round of good cop-bad cop. He nodded for Fydorov to continue.

‘In the event this occurs, I feel I should warn you about two things. First, this man represents a powerful nation that is understandably upset and looking for someone to blame. Second, if you haven’t already guessed from the way he is dressed, this man is not a diplomat.’

The translator’s eyes widened as he repeated Fydorov’s last statement in English. ‘Excuse me,’ he interjected nervously, ‘but I can’t be a party to human rights violations.’

‘No one asked you to be,’ Kilkenny shot back. ‘Any conversation I might have with the general about this launcher and the eight Americans it was used to kill won’t require a translator.’

Fydorov translated the exchange for the general in both tone and content. ‘And just so you see the situation clearly,’ Fydorov continued, ‘I have been authorized by our president to employ whatever means necessary to get to the truth of this matter. This includes allowing this man to question you privately.’

‘You are bluffing!’ Dubinsky scoffed.

‘Am I?’ Fydorov pushed his chair away from the table and stood up. ‘You are not taking this matter as seriously as I am, Comrade General.’

‘That’s your cue to leave,’ Kilkenny told the translator.

Without a word, the translator scurried out the door behind Fydorov, leaving Kilkenny alone with the general. They studied each other warily. Kilkenny guessed Dubinsky was in his mid-fifties. He was short and thickly built, outweighing Kilkenny by a good thirty pounds. Dubinsky stood, placed his palms on the table, and looked down at Kilkenny.

‘You do not frighten me,’ Dubinsky declared in slow, careful English. ‘Yop t’voi yo mat.’

Kilkenny’s hands were on Dubinsky’s chest as the last syllable of the Russian profanity left the general’s mouth. A second later, Dubinsky was airborne. Kilkenny yanked him off his feet and lifted him over the table. He held the general overhead just long enough to see that the man was sufficiently in fear of his life before slamming him down.

Dubinsky lay stunned and hyperventilating, his eyes wide with panic. Kilkenny pressed two fingers into the general’s fleshy throat, just below his Adam’s apple. Dubinsky began to choke.

‘I don’t know much Russian,’ Kilkenny said sternly, ‘but I know what you just said, and nobody talks that way about my mother. Understand?’

Dubinsky’s head moved in short, quivering nods.

‘Now, do you want to answer my questions?’

More quivering nods. Kilkenny eased the pressure on Dubinsky’s throat.

‘You’ve been selling your equipment, haven’t you?’

‘Yes,’ Dubinsky spat out. ‘Black market.’

‘Who bought the launcher?’

Kilkenny could see that the general was weighing his options. He pressed his fingers in a little harder.

‘If it helps you decide, General, consider this. Right now, I’m your biggest problem. If you give me a name, you live, and I become your buyer’s biggest problem.’

‘Black market,’ Dubinsky gasped. ‘Arms dealer… Stepan Agabashian.’