Radford clicked the mouse. “Drummond had possession of sensitive materials, documents, CD-ROMs.
He billeted at the embassy so you’ll have to find the materials, seal and return them via diplomatic pouch as soon as possible. Also, take care to sanitize his personal belongings. We wouldn’t want Mrs.
Drummond to have a nasty surprise.”
Scott ignored this last admonition. “Who’s my liaison at the embassy?”
Radford looked at the monitor. “Chap named Alex Thorne. Second science attaché. Don’t know anything about him, only that he was apparently working with Drummond and has connections with Earth Safe. He may know something about Drummond’s movements around Murmansk. But be discreet. Your orders state that you’re a CACO — Casualty Assistance Control Officer — and the embassy staff may be able to help you cut through any bureaucracy attending the release of Drummond’s body.”
“Where do I billet?”
“At a hotel in Moscow. We want you out of sight as much as possible. The Russkies still watch the embassy and it’s best they don’t see you going in and out every day. You’re authorized to wear civilian clothes, which may help you keep a low profile. All of this is spelled out in your orders. You’ll also find manifests for the return of the body via U.S. commercial air carrier. And payment vouchers for mortuary services. You will report your progress to me and for that purpose you’ll be issued an armored cell phone by the embassy’s chief of security. It’ll have preselected channels, but use it sparingly. The Russians have gotten better at breaking our signals.”
“When do I leave?”
Another glance at the monitor. Another scroll. “Tomorrow night. From Dulles to London, then Sheremetyevo II. Someone from the embassy will meet you. Oh, and one more thing: You’ll be working with this Abakov fellow, the FSB officer who wrote the report. Be careful with him. A lot of their people are former KGB and they’re not to be trusted. Tell him nothing.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Radford’s face took on a steely look. “Admiral Ellsworth told me you’re one of his best skippers.
That’s despite what I’ve seen in your file.”
Scott felt pressure at the base of his skull. “Well, General, as you said, the files don’t always tell the whole story.”
“Indeed. Just don’t prove me wrong.”
Scott spotted the strip mall on Route 7 outside Falls Church, Virginia. A quarter mile beyond it, Scott turned onto a narrow street and drove past 1960’s-era split levels and ranchers until he came to a house surrounded by a fence in need of repair. He pulled into the driveway and parked behind a silver Buick.
The Drummond property looked unkempt and weedy, but the house had been recently painted. He spotted a barbecue kettle and lawn chairs stacked against the garage, forgotten since summer. Who would take care of these things now? he wondered. Now that Frank was dead.
A radiator knocked but inside, the house felt chilly and damp, perhaps something to do with Frank’s absence that was palpable. The house felt familiar. The vanilla-colored woodwork and neutral carpeting. A glass-fronted cabinet filled with knickknacks from the Far East: porcelain, carved ivory Buddhas, lacquered rice bowls inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Drummond’s collection of Navy memorabilia on shelves in his study: a cracked coffee mug, a nickel-plated ashtray, cigarette lighters emblazoned with the logos of the subs he’d served in. Evidence of a life lived.
“I made us something to eat,” said Vivian Drummond. Her face looked drawn, eyes liquid.
They sat in the kitchen, which gave onto a deep yard bounded at one end by a copse of leafless maples.
Vivian pushed up the sleeves of her mauve sweater and poured coffee. She set out freshly made chicken salad on beds of lettuce, and chilled white wine. Always the perfect hostess. Everything just right even in tragedy. Then she broke down.
Scott held her, rocking her like a child.
“I don’t understand it,” she said. “I just saw him in St. Petersburg. We had a wonderful visit. Romance, dinner, the theater. He was looking forward to wrapping up his work and coming home. It’s beyond belief. I can’t comprehend how such a thing could happen. All those years in the boats, the dangerous missions that scared the hell out of him and me — not a scratch, and now this. A robbery in Murmansk.”
Scott knew that the story concocted by the SRO, of a robbery gone bad, would not ease Vivian’s pain.
And there was nothing he could say that wouldn’t make him feel less guilty for betraying her.
“Vivian, did Frank tell you what he was doing in Murmansk?”
Vivian dabbed her eyes, tried to limit the damage to her makeup. “I look a mess. No. He never talked about his work. Never. And a good Navy wife doesn’t ask.”
They tried to eat their meal that suddenly had lost its appeal. Instead Vivian drank a glass of wine. She got up, sat down, got up again. “I don’t think I can stay here, Jake. Not now. Too many memories. I’ll sell and head south. Or maybe California.”
“Things may look different later. We can talk about it when I return.”
Vivian went to him. “Jake, I don’t know how to express my gratitude. It’s got to be terribly difficult for you, too, bringing him back.”
“I owe him. I owe him everything. He knew what they planned to do with me. He made them admit the truth. They knew we were lucky to get out alive, lucky to save the ship. Everyone involved in the mission knew the risks we ran — Ellsworth, the rest of them…” He caught himself. “Sorry, Viv. I didn’t mean to bring it up. Not now. It’s just that—”
“I understand. Frank would understand. Didn’t he always?”
“Sure.”
Jake sensed Vivian’s resource of stoicism had been drained dry. Her shoulders sagged and her fine features were about to crumble. He kissed her on the cheek and stood back. “It shouldn’t take me more than a week. I’ll take care of everything.”
“Will they catch the person who murdered Frank?”
“I understand the Russian security service is working closely with the embassy. I’ll look into it.” It was one lie he could live with.
When it seemed Vivian didn’t want to talk about it anymore, Scott knew it was time to go. But she caught his arm and said, “There is one thing.”
Scott had started to shrug into his coat and stopped.
“When I saw Frank in St. Petersburg, he seemed distracted,” Vivian said. “Oh, we were having fun, but beneath the surface I could tell that something was working on him. I knew how he was, how he had that damnable ability to be two people at the same time. He knew how to hide behind a mask of absurd good cheer even while his guts were churning.”
“Did he say anything — anything at all — about what might have been bothering him?”
“No, the only thing he said was something I knew he meant as a joke about how my being in St. Petersburg had saved him from himself.”
“What did he say?”
“That he had a blind date lined up in Murmansk.”
3
The girl’s long booted legs strode over cobblestones. One false step on stiletto heels would end badly for her. Demonstrating phenomenal poise, she negotiated the narrow street without a mishap. The street paralleled the Fontanka River, which was south of the Neva. It ended in a pleasant little park complete with benches and a fountain that served as a hub from which, like spokes in a wheel, three equally narrow streets branched off to other parts of the city. A few pedestrians lugging groceries in net bags or walking their dogs crisscrossed the square lost in their own reveries.