Fatal Thunder: A Jerry Mitchell Novel (20 page)

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.”

9

FATAL ENCOUNTER

1 April 2017

1600 Local Time

The White House

Washington, D.C.

“E-mail will be the death of me yet,” muttered Joanna Patterson as she scrolled down the three screens of waiting correspondence. It had already been a very long Saturday, and she hadn’t had an opportunity to sneak away and thin out the herd. Fortunately, none appeared to be an April Fools’ joke—she’d already announced that she would personally have the first transgressor shipped to Siberia. Even the president didn’t want to challenge her on that one. Her husband, Lowell, proved himself even wiser by sending a dozen red roses instead. “Peace on Earth begins at home,” said the card.

She scanned the titles as she moved down the list, looking for any obvious “Me First!” messages. Joanna saw Jerry’s e-mail two-thirds of the way down on the third screen. The subject line wasn’t reassuring—“Hostile Intent Demonstrated.” She clicked on the e-mail and began reading; the contents were even less encouraging.

Just received an urgent email from Samant. Someone tried to attack Petrov this evening. The assailant appeared to be a Caucasian, not Indian. Petrov believes he was a Russian. Alex has reported the attempted assault to the Russian embassy, but not the local military police. Samant believes it would attract too much attention. If this wasn’t a random act of violence, then someone is worried that Alex knows something. Is there anything we can do to help?

Joanna scrolled down and read Samant’s brief message. It held little additional detail, but the Indian was convinced the attack confirmed his and Petrov’s suspicions. She sighed and shook her head. Yes. The attack, if indeed it wasn’t just a botched mugging, would be an indication, but still it wasn’t proof. She needed hard evidence if she was to advocate getting the U.S. involved. Joanna typed out a quick reply asking Jerry to relay her request. She was about to tell him to keep her apprised when she saw Jerry’s closing line; he was going to be unavailable for the next few days and e-mail contact would be spotty. That could only mean his boat would be at sea. “Damn it,” she whispered. “Talk about really bad timing.”

Briefly, she considered asking the CNO to keep
North Dakota
tied up to the pier for a few more days, or perhaps even a week, but rejected the idea. Admiral Hughes had already done her a huge favor in getting Jerry to San Diego on short notice, and while he might be understanding about another request, it would be seen for what it was—micromanaging a navy asset. Certainly Captain Simonis, the squadron commander, would be very annoyed with more “rudder orders from Washington.” And then there was Lowell’s stern counsel after their meeting with Jerry, “Don’t try to drag Jerry onto your staff. He’s a submarine commanding officer, and he has a boat to run.”

Sighing deeply, she told Jerry to pass on her e-mail address to Samant and Petrov. Joanna promised she’d do what she could to help them, but repeated the need for firm evidence. She clicked the send button, then reached over for her secure phone. Time to call SECSTATE Lloyd and Randall Foster to see just what the U.S. could, and could not, do to assist the two men in India.

2 April 2017

0900 Local Time

Naval Dockyard

Visakhapatnam, India

The sights and sounds of the shipyard were unexpectedly refreshing. As soon as Samant walked onto the graving dock, he looked up at his old submarine. INS
Chakra
sat majestically in the dock on large wooden blocks; there were sparks flying about her sail that made it look like she even had a crown.
Chakra
looked absolutely huge from the floor of the dock; it never failed to amaze him how deceptively small even a large submarine looked when most of the hull was concealed under water. A loud beep, followed by someone shouting at him, forced Samant to scurry to get out of the way of a forklift carrying a pallet of replacement parts. There were people everywhere as the workmen toiled to get
Chakra
ready for sea. Sea trials began in five days.

Up ahead, Samant saw Jain inspecting the main sonar dome with one of the foremen. The composite structure surrounding the submarine’s main hull array, and the coating around it, was still dripping wet. Two men with pressure washers stood at a distance, waiting. Jain saw Samant approaching and waved. After reaching for a clipboard, Jain signed a form and gave the workers a thumbs-up. He then jogged over to Samant, stopped short, snapped to attention, and rendered a smart salute. After Samant had returned the honor, he extended his hand. Jain hesitated, then accepted the offer. He seemed a bit flustered.

“How goes the refit, Maahir?” Samant asked while waving to the surrounding activity.

“I hate being in the shipyard, sir. I can’t wait to get back to sea so I can get some rest,” shouted Jain. He looked uneasy.

Samant nodded sympathetically. “I completely understand, shipyard periods can be very stressful. I always found the noise to be irritating.”

Jain smiled slightly while pointing to his earplugs. “These help, a little. What can I do for you, sir?”

Samant then noticed that Jain was still at attention; his former first officer was behaving as if he were still in the job. The Indian captain sighed. This wasn’t how he wanted their relationship to be now. Finally, he said, “At ease, Maahir.” The younger man visibly relaxed. Moving closer, Samant spoke with an informal, almost fatherly tone. “Listen, Maahir, you are now the commanding officer of a nuclear submarine, that’s a very exclusive club, and we almost have a quorum right here with just the two of us. I’m not your CO anymore, and we’re not even in the same chain of command. Yes, I’m still a senior officer, but we’re now colleagues, and I’d appreciate it if you would see it that way as well.”

Jain looked down, surprised and confused. It took him a moment, but when he lifted his head, he was smiling. “Thank you, sir. I would be honored.” Samant nodded and gave Jain a friendly slap on the shoulder.

“So, Captain, what brings you to this den of chaos?” asked Jain, more upbeat.

Samant chuckled and shook his head. “I had to get away from my office. The work has been most frustrating as of late.”

Jain looked incredulous. “But, you’re on shore duty now. Why are you coming in on a Sunday? The weather is glorious, you should be on the golf course!”