Day of Wrath

He wanted to duck any responsibility for the crash, Helen realized suddenly. And Grushtin’s intervention gave him a convenient out. If Kandalaksha’s most “brilliant” mechanic had missed something in the preflight check, then how could anyone blame a young junior officer like him? Her mouth twisted in distaste as she stared at Chernavin.

She’d never been able to stomach people who tried to dodge accountability for their own actions.

“If Captain Grushtin wasn’t managing the flight line that day, what was his official duty assignment?” Peter Thorn asked abruptly.

Chernavin looked startled. He glanced quickly at Serov’s aide and lowered his voice. “He was in charge of a special project.”’ The Russian lieutenant nodded pointedly toward Thorn’s American uniform and said knowingly, “The special engine project.”

What the hell was this “special engine project,” Helen wondered, and why did Chernavin seem to expect Peter to know all about it? Was there any connection at all between Gasparov’s heroin smuggling, the cryptic notation in John Avery’s inspection log, and this “project”? Or were they looking at a series of unrelated events?

“That’s quite enough, Lieutenant!” Colonel Boris Petrov loudly interrupted, breaking her train of thought.

Chernavin fell silent, looking more worried than ever.

Serov’s top aide scowled at Koniev. “Your authorization for this inquiry does not include prying into unrelated state secrets, Major!

Especially not in front of foreigners! So you will confine your questions to matters involving the An-32 and the ground crews. Is that clear?”

Alexei Koniev stiffened in anger, and Helen braced herself for the explosion. Several months spent working closely with the MVD major had shown her that he had a deeply hidden temper.

It rarely showed itself, but interference in the performance of what he perceived as his duty was the one thing guaranteed to set him off.

Koniev’s cell phone chirped unexpectedly — heading off his intended reply. Impatiently, he flipped it open. “Yes. Koniev speaking.”

The MVD officer listened intently for a time, his face growing angrier by the minute. Finally, he gripped the phone tighter and responded, “I see. You’re quite sure? Very well. I’ll call you back.”

Koniev snapped his phone shut and turned toward Helen and Peter. His lips were compressed in a thin, tight line. “The lab tests on the recovered engine came back. There were fresh tool scrapes on the fuel filter.”

“Meaning what?” Helen asked softly.

“Meaning that Captain Grushtin or one of his men changed the engine fuel filter here at Kandalaksha — and deliberately installed a contaminated replacement,” Koniev said bluntly.

“The evidence is conclusive. The plane carrying Colonel Gasparov, his shipment, and your O.S.I.A inspection team was sabotaged.”’

He whirled on Serov’s aide. “This investigation is now a formal murder inquiry, Colonel Petrov. Do you agree?”

The other man nodded reluctantly. “It appears so, Major. As difficult as I find that to believe.”

“I don’t give a damn what you believe, Colonel! And I don’t give a damn about your so-called state secrets,” Koniev said savagely.

“I expect your full cooperation — real cooperation — this time?”

Petrov stiffened. “Very well.”

“Good.” Koniev eyed him carefully. “Then you, or Colonel General Serov, will tell us exactly where we can find this Captain Nikolai Grushtin. Or you and your commanding officer will explain your refusal to assist us in even less comfortable and less convenient quarters. In Moscow. Is that understood?”

Sitting rigidly upright in his chair, the other man nodded slowly. He seemed completely cowed.

But later Helen found herself wondering uneasily why the hatchet-faced Russian colonel’s lips had twitched briefly into what looked remarkably like a self-satisfied smirk.

JUNE 1

_{Proprietary Materials Assembly Building, Caraco Complex, Chantilly, Virginia (D MINUS 20)}

Caraco’s Washington-area regional headquarters lay in the middle of the green, wooded countryside surrounding Dulles International Airport.

Broad streets, grassy lawns, and patches of oak and pine forest left standing around homes and office buildings gave the area something of a rural feel despite the fact that it was only a few scant miles from the western edge of Washington’s urban sprawl.

Seen from the outside, the Caraco compound was almost wholly unremarkable. It blended well with the neighboring modern-looking office parks and light industrial complexes fanning out from the airport. Its large, boxy buildings were pleasantly anonymous, practical, and architecturally uninteresting — similar in style to dozens of others bearing different corporate logos and names like “Vortech” and “EDC, Inc.”