“Would they have coached Zakayev?”
“It’s possible,” Scott said. “At this point in time anything is possible.”
“Do the Russians know this?”
“If they did, it would blow Radford — hell, maybe even the President — right out of Washington.
Especially in light of Zakayev’s attack on Moscow last month.”
“In other words, Zakayev’s our creation.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“But we know that Radford sent Frank to Russia to find Zakayev. Maybe to head him off before he launched another terrorist attack.”
“Maybe. Anyway, it’s too late now for me to find out what Frank knew that got him killed. I’m out of here day after tomorrow.”
“Maybe I can help you,” Alex said, and kissed Scott’s neck.
He turned into her. “How?”
“Maybe I can uncover information that will complete the puzzle.”
“How can you do that?”
“I’m not sure exactly, but I have friends here who have access to other friends. It’s a long shot, I know, but still…”
“Too risky. And even if you found something, what would you do with it — send me a letter, call me at home?”
“I can do better than that: I can leave a voice memo in my secure memo file and give you the code to access it.”
“Secure memo file? What the hell’s that?”
“It’s part of the embassy voice mail system. We all have them. You call your telephone number, enter a COMSEC code, and after the prompt dial a six-digit, three-letter access code. This gets you into the memo file, then you leave a message.”
“And it’s totally secure?”
“Totally. It’s a place to park important messages. Later you can download them to the comm center onto a CD-ROM or print them out for file. I used my memo system all the time when we were in Olenya Bay. It saves time; you don’t have to sit down and type out a report or memo on a computer. If you don’t need the memo, you dump it or keep it and edit it. You can access the memo file from any phone in the world. We used our special cell phones because they’re compatible with the comm center’s scramblers.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“It didn’t seem important.”
Scott exhaled heavily. “Did Frank have a memo system?”
“He must have. We all have them.”
“Did he use it in Olenya Bay?”
“I don’t know, I suppose he did…. Oh my God, I see what you’re getting at: Frank may have left information on his memo file about the meeting with Radchenko.”
Scott saw that her skin had gone all goose bumpy. “Put something on. We’ve got work to do.”
Scott dialed the COMSEC code Alex said would activate the memo system.
“You have requested access to a secure communications system of the United States Embassy,” said the recorded female voice. “To access the system, please enter your six-digit access code, then wait for the prompt to enter your three-letter confirmation code.”
“Okay, we know Frank had a memo file,” Scott said. “Now what?”
“We could ask Jack Slaughter for the access code,” Alex said.
“Forget it: Stretzlof would find out and know what we’re up to. We’ll have to find the code ourselves.
Maybe among Frank’s things.”
“If it is, it’d be on a plastic card,” Alex said. “One smaller than a credit card.”
Scott cut open one of the sealed boxes containing Drummond’s papers and started pawing through them while Alex cut open another box.
“I just thought of something,” she said. “Those cards are self-destructing. They fade after six weeks and you can’t read them.”
“Frank was here for, what, six months?” Scott said.
“Close to it. Damn.”
Scott knew Frank was never careless when it came to security and wouldn’t write the code on a piece of paper and carry it on him. He’d have committed the number to memory. But memory can be tricky, and important things are sometimes forgotten. So he’d have a backup in case he needed it. Then again, maybe he wouldn’t need a backup.
“Can people customize their memo codes?” Scott said.
“Sure: I did, but they warn you not to use anything obvious, like birthdays and anniversaries. Why?”
“Let’s try something,” Scott said.
“If you’re thinking of using different number and letter combinations, good luck. We tried that on Frank’s computer and it didn’t work, remember?”
Scott picked up the receiver and held it away from his ear so Alex could listen in while he accessed the memo system.
The recorded female voice said, “…please enter your six-digit access code, then wait for the prompt to enter your three-letter confirmation code.”
“What are you going to enter?” Alex said.
“The hull numbers of the two submarines Frank commanded: 767 and 778.”
“The what?”
“I’ll explain it later.” Scott keyed the numbers; a tone sounded, then the voice. “Please enter your three-letter confirmation code.”
“I don’t believe it.”
He shushed her and punched in SSN.
Another tone, then: “Access permitted. You have accessed Level One Memo Security. Observe all procedures required for the recording, hearing, and printing of memo documents. When finished, enter J-Star to print documents. Enter T-Star to hear a recorded memo in date order. Enter X-Star to initiate deletion and destruction procedures. Warning: Deletion and destruction procedures cannot be reversed after initiation!”
Scott entered T-Star. A tick later Drummond’s voice with a burst overlay from the armored cell phone came through the receiver like a jolt of electricity.
“Record to memo at twenty hundred hours on four October oh-six…confirming meeting with one Andre Radchenko able seaman assigned to Russian Northern Fleet submarine K-363 …at Novy Polyarnyy Hotel in Murmansk….”
The words rushed over Scott, their force almost palpable.
“…Radchenko has information that I believe is genuine…. Chechen terrorists under command of General Alikhan Zakayev…repeat, Alikhan Zakayev…”
Alex’s hand flew to her mouth.
“…are planning an operation against the submarine base at Olenya Bay….”
Alex parked the borrowed Skoda in front of a graffitied apartment block on Viatskij Prospekt and doused the headlights. Kids kicked a soccer ball back and forth between the hulks of abandoned cars sitting in a trash-strewn lot illuminated by a solitary sodium vapor street lamp casting a green pallor over their game.
“You can still change your mind and return to the embassy,” Scott said. “It’s not too late.”
“No: I said I would do it and I’m going to,” Alex said. “Anyway, the hell with Stretzlof. David too.”
Scott leaned over and kissed her. “Then let’s go. He’s waiting for us.”
They climbed concrete stairs past baby carriages and trash cans. The place smelled of urine and old cooking. Babies squalled; couples argued; an American situation comedy dubbed in Russian blared from a TV. They found Abakov’s apartment, a 1960s Khrushchev-era khrusheba, on the fifth floor and rang the bell.
The door opened and Yuri Abakov, looking exhausted, a day’s growth on his face, and wearing rumpled clothes and worn carpet slippers, waved them in. His wife, a pretty young woman with a head of curly orange hair, stood in the doorway of the tiny kitchen. “My wife, Elaina,” Abakov said with a perfunctory wave in her direction.
“Dobro pojalovat! Bud’te kak doma! Welcome. Come in. Make yourselves at home,” she said.
The apartment was small, considering that Abakov, a senior FSB investigator, made a good living. But in Russia, Scott recalled, men like Abakov often went without pay for months while the bills piled up.