A Northern Thunder (13 page)

“Also, I want the gold crew of the
Florida
.” Will was effectively saying he wanted to use his own people.

“I’m sorry, Colonel,” said Krowl, “but that’s a no-go. For all I know, 728 may be in the Atlantic, and the gold crew’s schedule may not work at all.”

Each Trident submarine has two identical crews—one tagged “blue” and one tagged “gold.” The switch-off enabled the trillion-dollar boat to almost always be at sea.

This was the point Will had anticipated for several days. He paused for a moment, then looked right at Krowl. “Thanks, sir, it’s been interesting.” He stood up, pushed his chair under the desk, and headed, without hestitation, toward the door. Unlike them, he had prepared for days on a point like this, demanding to use his own team. He’d reached the sentry’s station before Krowl reacted.

“Goddammit, go get him.”

Scott reached Parker as the door swung open.

“Marine, the gentleman will be returning to the meeting,” Scott said with a subdued smile.

Will very briefly smiled, too, and didn’t linger on the point. He returned to the briefing room and sat down in his chair.

“The Spetsnaz plan will work,” Will continued, “but not the recon team. They can dress and be armed as Spetsnaz, but I only want them to get me across the shoreline. Any travel on land, I’ll do myself.”

Will wanted his recon team as an insurance policy. With a briefer role, they were less likely to be deemed expendable. Also, he had another thought in mind.

“Okay, JCS will get SSGN728,” said Krowl, seething.

“Yes, sir.” Scott spoke more to affirm the decision than to make it happen. Krowl had all of the power here.

“And we’ll get one of the ASDSs at Pearl. What’s next?” said Krowl.

Scott broke in, “Sir, we have a team ready for training at Quantico as we speak. Ten weeks there and then six weeks in mountain and cold weather training at Bridgeport, California. The first two weeks will be medical. Change our dental work to be consistent with typical Moscow suburb work. No surgeries to correct. Fingerprints to be altered. Then, a general fitness program with intel briefs and language training daily. Oh, and also lasik surgery to correct any vision problems. No glasses where you’re going.”

“Yes,” said Will. Scott’s thoroughness was impressive.

“Good hunting, Colonel.”

“Thanks, Admiral.”

Will squeezed Krowl’s hand, and as in Georgia, sensed the same thing.

T
he memory of prior days hung in his mind as Rei, standing on the bridge, looked out over the lake. Small sailboats crisscrossed the green and blue water, and a cool breeze chilled his face.

Though it was a summer day in Moscow, Rei felt chilled. He pulled his collar up over his neck and glanced at his watch. The Timex once stood out during trips to Moscow—he recalled glances, particularly in the subways—but Russia was changing. Many younger Russians had Timexes. Capitalism was creeping in.

“The train to Leningrad will be leaving shortly,” he mumbled to himself, realizing that Leningrad was no more. It was again called St. Petersburg.

Rei again looked at his watch. The train to St. Petersburg would arrive around seven o’clock in the morning. His target, a professor at the Ioffe Physico-Technico Institute in St. Petersburg, was scheduled to give a lecture at the old Leningrad Polytechnic Institute’s Laser Technology Centre at 1 p.m. He would take the metro system from the Moscow station to the university campus and, later, a taxi to Pulkovo-2, the international airport, for his Aeroflot flight to Paris.

It was a simple plan dependent on speed. Speed in leaving the country was always the best defense.

Isn’t it ironic? I return to Russia, which trained me, to kill one of its preeminent scientists.

From the moment he had stepped out of the taxi to stop at this spot overlooking the lake, Rei had felt uncomfortable.
Never retrace old steps. Never walk the same path.
He remembered the old guidelines, yet here he was, violating each of them.

Perhaps I should move on.

He had three new targets, each a leader in his field. The one in Russia would be the most difficult, primarily because of the lack of reliable transportation. Russian trains were chronically late. Russian airplanes sometimes didn’t fly. Russian taxis were hard to find.

My best hope is that the police are just as unreliable.

Perhaps, after this final list, he would ask his superiors for the opportunity to attend the people’s military school. As he twisted the ring on his finger, he laughed, thinking how, in some future ceremony, he would give a new agent the ring.
Or
, he thought,
maybe I’ll retire it.

A taxi, its engine running, waited near the bridge. In perfect Russian, Rei barked at the driver, “To the St. Petersburg station,” where he planned to take a local train and be less visible to the KGB’s thousands of informants.

The train ride was typical for Russia. Always, the cars were either too hot or too cold. In this one, the stark smell of burnt cabbages filled the compartment. Where it came from, he had no idea, but the image of a fat peasant woman and her obese husband carrying a load in oversized plastic bags came to mind. She would smell of cabbage and he of countless burnt cigarettes and vodka.

Rei smiled, uncharacteristically, at all of the old, heavyset women as they hustled in from the varied stops. Little conversation was the rule after a brief, friendly greeting. One of the old women had her husband with her, a gaunt elderly man in a rough brown jacket buttoned to the top.

Rei could read the man’s face.
A World War II veteran on a state pension
, he guessed,
carrying a large plastic bag similar to his wife’s, probably filled with potatoes and cabbages. They’re returning home after a visit to their grandchildren in Moscow.

The KGB had its informants, but rarely were they World War II veterans—too opinionated and stubborn. In a way, he respected that.

As the train pulled into the north St. Petersburg station, Rei grabbed his small, torn bag from the shelf above his seat. During a short visit to Moscow’s traders market, he had bought it and some clothes—all of which had enabled him to blend in. Now, he threw the bag over his shoulder and said his goodbyes. The only risk he took was moving deliberately and quickly.

Occasionally, Rei had to slow himself down, particularly in train stations. He knew the KGB covered all the stations from door to door.

Rei walked from the train directly to a small booth.

“A coffee,” he quietly ordered. He drank the coffee slowly as he walked through a side exit onto the crowded street. Rei cut across two streets and down a small one before walking four blocks or so to a small grocery. The shelves were empty except for a few sparsely-placed canned goods. The bread shelves were full, and though he wasn’t there for bread, he bought two loaves and placed them in the plastic bag he was carrying. At the right moment, he stopped and turned toward the store window.

Rei knew KGB training firsthand, and thus knew that KGB surveillance would have to keep him under a constant eye without entering the store. He looked across the street and saw no one.
So far, so good.

He also bought a small pint of the cheapest vodka. He crossed the street to the public toilet where, in a foul smelling stall, he took a large gulp of the vodka, swilled it around in his mouth, spit it out, and spilled a little on his brown, thread-thinned cloth coat. Anyone close to him would smell a whiff of cheap vodka and assume he was just another country Russian.

The metro took him to the edge of the St. Petersburg Technical University campus. Rei had studied the maps carefully. He was not comfortable with St. Petersburg, although, and perhaps because, he and Mi—another North Korean trainee at Moscow’s KGB intelligence school—had taken a holiday here once. Rei was the son of an ironworker from Pyongyang. His father helped build the new Pyongyang, and as a skilled worker in the big city, always had food. Mi, also from Pyongyang, was less fortunate. She was the daughter of a Russian engineer married to a Pyongyang schoolteacher.

They were very far from home then. They didn’t see much of Moscow, living in a KGB flat near the train station. It was merely a brief break from training.

This summer day, Rei did not dare enter the Laser Technology Centre. He waited across the street at a metro entrance until he saw Imode Boriskof leave the Centre shortly after three in the afternoon.

Dr. Boriskof, and two young associates with him, headed across the street toward the same metro station. Rei would not risk a confrontation, but he had already formulated his plan as the three crossed.
I’ve got at least three hours before the flight to Paris.

He jumped in behind the trio as they entered the metro. Rei guessed that the two students would eventually peel off from the professor as they headed north and he home.

As they all entered the subway car, Rei lowered his bags to the floor and reached into his pants pocket. There, in a white cloth, he had the gold ring—he’d been careful not to wear it on the train or even in Moscow. He felt the chilled metal as he slipped it on his finger.

Rei picked up the bags and moved closer to the three and their conversation.

“We still have the problem with the progression.” Boriskof ’s younger aide appeared to be making a point, although the doctor was distracted.

“I have some ideas on that.” The other aide seemed more experienced.

“Let me have them. . . Monday.”

“Yes, sir.”

As the subway car jolted through a turn, Rei was nearly on top of Boriskof. The old doctor’s frayed collar was crumpled up in his brown, pinstriped coat. His black, paisley tie was tied in an oversized knot. Heeding his suspicions, Rei looked down to see the doctor’s arthritic hands. He imagined the difficulties the professor must have had every morning tying that knot.

“Why don’t you both come home with me for supper tonight?” said Boriskof. Rei’s heart froze.

“Thank you, Doctor. We would be most pleased,” the older of the two associates said.

He weighed his options—wait or go. As he stood there, the train came to a stop at a station, and virtually everyone except he and the scientists left the train.

Damn, damn, damn
, he thought.

“Next stop, the Moscow station,” the metro clerk yelled as he headed through the car. Boriskof looked at Rei and smiled, as if acknowledging the stupidity of a clerk yelling at them from only a few feet away.

Rei smiled back.

The train lurched to a stop, and a flood of people poured into the car. Rei quickly stepped to one side of Boriskof, placing himself between him and the door. The two younger men were on the other side.

Rei knew he would have but one very brief opportunity. If he stayed in St. Petersburg to await other chances, the risk that Boriskof ’s comrades would recognize him would be substantial.

As he neared Boriskof, pushed along by the influx of subway travelers, Rei detected the slight scent of vodka, and decided the good doctor was, indeed, a typical Russian.
It will make the drug work even faster.
At the same time, the doctor smelled Rei. It comforted him to encounter another vodka fan.

“Next stop.” The young assistant and Boriskof braced themselves with the handles above their heads.

Instantly, Rei flipped the ring over and grabbed the same handle. The doctor’s hand jerked as the needle brushed his skin. He looked directly into Rei’s eyes and reached up with his other hand to grab Rei’s coat.

“He appears ill,” Rei yelled to the associates. They both turned and grabbed the slumping professor, keeping him from falling to the floor. Others, on the outside, pressed in.

The car jolted to a halt and the doors to Rei’s side slid open. Rei handed the professor’s now limp arm to one of the associates and stepped back.

“Someone help this poor man!” Rei yelled.

“Doctor Boriskof!” his older assistant screamed as he propped the old man up.

“I think it’s his heart,” Rei exclaimed. As the car doors closed, Rei made the conscious decision not to leave too quickly. The other, younger associate grabbed the emergency cord, jolting the train to a stop while still in the station.

“Good God, please get help!”

“I’ll go,” Rei said as he ran out of the car and up a flight of stairs. It gave him the opportunity to exit the scene. At the top of the stairs, he saw an attendant, a gray-haired, fat-bellied man in a subway attendant uniform.

“A man has had a heart attack.”

“Yes, where?”

“Down on the platform.”

Just then, a much younger man grabbed Rei from behind, a big hand on his shoulder. Rei turned.

“Sir, I’m with the police. What’s the problem?”

Oh my God
, Rei thought. “Officer, a man has had a heart attack on Platform 1A.”

“Yes, show me.”

Rei ran down the stairs, dragging the officer behind and feigning concern. “There they are,” he said.

The two associates had pulled Boriskof out of the car. Leaning his heavy body against a support beam on the platform, they pulled his shirt open, his white-haired chest showing. Then, one associate gently laid the body down as the other pushed down on his chest in a futile effort at CPR.