front of Abakov. “There’s my authority. As you know, Colonel, I’m here to escort Admiral Drummond’s remains back to the United States. I was told that I would have full cooperation from the FSB. And from you. Dr. Thorne was Admiral Drummond’s liaison with the U.S. Embassy and the Norwegians. She’s agreed to assist me. And since I don’t have time to waste cutting through bullshit, I’d like to get started as soon as possible.”
Alex’s knuckles went white on the chair arms.
Color rose in Abakov’s face and spread across his bald pate. He rose from his chair behind the desk.
Though he was several inches shorter than Scott, he had thick shoulders and huge, meaty hands that appeared capable of causing severe damage to whatever they grabbed hold of. A heavy vein started pulsing in his neck.
“You Americans,” Abakov said, switching to very good English. “You think you own the world. You use your power to crush opposition to your capitalist policies and to force your values on the rest of the world. In Russia, if we resist, you threaten us and say that we are irrelevant. Everything you do is for the purpose of enriching American business. Everything you do around the world has strings attached.
You are hypocrites!” Abakov’s voice rose until it boomed like rolling thunder. “You would like nothing better than to conquer Mother Russia so your business conglomerates can suck us dry! Your military too!”
The door flew open and a man stuck his head in and looked around. “Yuri, I can hear you all the way down the other end of the hall. Is everything all right?”
Abakov caught his breath. “Yes, go away.”
The man looked around, shrugged, and left. Abakov, slightly winded, sat down.
“Are you finished lecturing us?” Scott said.
Abakov ignored this and read Scott’s orders while touching the pulsing vein in his neck.
“What can you add to your report on Drummond’s death?” Scott said, as if Abakov’s outburst had not occurred.
Abakov bristled. “Nothing. Everything is in the report. Admiral Drummond and another man were both found dead in bed together. Ballistics confirmed that the bullets in their brains had been fired from the gun we found in Admiral Drummond’s possession.”
Scott waved that away. “I’m not questioning the basic facts of the case, Colonel. But allow me to explain something to you.” Scott told Abakov what he knew about Drummond and detailed their professional and personal relationship. He finished, saying, “I assure you, he was not a homosexual.”
Abakov, a blank expression on his face, appeared unconvinced.
“Now let me tell you something,” Abakov said evenly in English. “I’ve been an investigator for almost thirty years. I understand human nature. I learned to think not only with my brain”—he tapped his head with a thick finger—“but also with my eyes. Sometimes the truth is right in front of you and all you have to do is look at it. Sometimes it even jumps up and bites you in the ass. There in Murmansk, in that hotel room, was Admiral Drummond, dead, shot in the head. Lying next to him was the young sailor, Andre Radchenko, also dead. Admiral Drummond had in his hand the pistol used to kill the young man and himself. What the report doesn’t say is that the two were found lying very close together, embracing, you might even say. Each had a hand on the other’s genitals, more or less, rigor mortis being what it is.”
Alex put a hand to her mouth.
“Experience told me that these two had had a gomoseksualist—homosexual—encounter. But something went wrong. Perhaps they had had a lovers’ quarrel. It happens all the time. Or perhaps Admiral Drummond realized that one day he would return to his wife and couldn’t bear the thought of losing his young male lover.”
“Nonsense,” Alex said. “None of that fits the Frank Drummond I knew. What you’ve described is totally out of character.”
Abakov’s gaze fixed on Alex. At
Alex’s knuckles went white on the chair arms.
Color rose in Abakov’s face and spread across his bald pate. He rose from his chair behind the desk.
Though he was several inches shorter than Scott, he had thick shoulders and huge, meaty hands that appeared capable of causing severe damage to whatever they grabbed hold of. A heavy vein started pulsing in his neck.
“You Americans,” Abakov said, switching to very good English. “You think you own the world. You use your power to crush opposition to your capitalist policies and to force your values on the rest of the world. In Russia, if we resist, you threaten us and say that we are irrelevant. Everything you do is for the purpose of enriching American business. Everything you do around the world has strings attached.
You are hypocrites!” Abakov’s voice rose until it boomed like rolling thunder. “You would like nothing better than to conquer Mother Russia so your business conglomerates can suck us dry! Your military too!”
The door flew open and a man stuck his head in and looked around. “Yuri, I can hear you all the way down the other end of the hall. Is everything all right?”
Abakov caught his breath. “Yes, go away.”
The man looked around, shrugged, and left. Abakov, slightly winded, sat down.
“Are you finished lecturing us?” Scott said.
Abakov ignored this and read Scott’s orders while touching the pulsing vein in his neck.
“What can you add to your report on Drummond’s death?” Scott said, as if Abakov’s outburst had not occurred.
Abakov bristled. “Nothing. Everything is in the report. Admiral Drummond and another man were both found dead in bed together. Ballistics confirmed that the bullets in their brains had been fired from the gun we found in Admiral Drummond’s possession.”
Scott waved that away. “I’m not questioning the basic facts of the case, Colonel. But allow me to explain something to you.” Scott told Abakov what he knew about Drummond and detailed their professional and personal relationship. He finished, saying, “I assure you, he was not a homosexual.”
Abakov, a blank expression on his face, appeared unconvinced.
“Now let me tell you something,” Abakov said evenly in English. “I’ve been an investigator for almost thirty years. I understand human nature. I learned to think not only with my brain”—he tapped his head with a thick finger—“but also with my eyes. Sometimes the truth is right in front of you and all you have to do is look at it. Sometimes it even jumps up and bites you in the ass. There in Murmansk, in that hotel room, was Admiral Drummond, dead, shot in the head. Lying next to him was the young sailor, Andre Radchenko, also dead. Admiral Drummond had in his hand the pistol used to kill the young man and himself. What the report doesn’t say is that the two were found lying very close together, embracing, you might even say. Each had a hand on the other’s genitals, more or less, rigor mortis being what it is.”
Alex put a hand to her mouth.
“Experience told me that these two had had a gomoseksualist—homosexual—encounter. But something went wrong. Perhaps they had had a lovers’ quarrel. It happens all the time. Or perhaps Admiral Drummond realized that one day he would return to his wife and couldn’t bear the thought of losing his young male lover.”
“Nonsense,” Alex said. “None of that fits the Frank Drummond I knew. What you’ve described is totally out of character.”
Abakov’s gaze fixed on Alex. At
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