Power Play Read Free Page A

must.”
    “I must,” replied Nikolai, “because that manufacturing plant is heavily involved in whatever’s going on. They’re located in the southern Urals, town called Miass, about six hundred miles east of Moscow. And everything fits—the postal code, 456300; the telephone dial code, +7-3513. For all I know, the Koreans are going straight to the factory. But I got something else—maybe in error. It sounded like they were all going to a monastery.”
    “A WHAT!”
    “A monastery. The Russian word’s monastyr. It could have been a misprint, I guess.”
    “You got a copy of the download?”

    “Are you crazy? Someone traces that to my computer, I’m a dead man.”
    “I like you better alive, Nikki. No downloads.”
    “Anyway, then I intercept a new communiqué, usual way, through the ship’s link to the Russian Navy’s most classified network. It’s secure and mostly protected, but if someone gets in, they cannot trace. They can find out and change the codes, but they are not able to locate the hackers. Anyway, I’m cleared for access, because of my work in upgraded sonars.”
    “Okay. What did you find out?”
    “I discovered the Iranians are right in the middle of the plot.”
    “Surprise, surprise. What happens now? We got the Muslim ayatollahs in the monastery with the Christians, right? All praying for the same atom bomb.”
    “You joke, Rani, but I’m telling you this is very serious. There are three Iranian scientists coming into Russia this week—the guys who built and refined those Shahab-3 and Shahab-4 medium-range ballistic missiles. They used a lot of Russian technology and systems. But they became experts in their own right.”
    “I remember, Nikki, the Shahab missile uproar, right after the second Gulf War. Didn’t the United States sanction those guys—Russian, Belarusian, and Ukrainian companies—for exporting nuclear stuff to Iran?”
    “Correct. The Russians also helped other rogue states, Iraq and Syria, with nuclear programs.”
    “Well, what’s this new Russian-Korean-Iranian parlez all about?”
    “I picked up a shred of conversation between the naval high command and the Kremlin. Took me hours to get in using a cell phone I had to destroy. But one phrase was clear in my mind: We’ll show these Yankee bastards who’s really in charge—kick their nuclear football right out of the stadium, huh?”
    “Pretty fucking droll, for a Russian,” muttered Rani. “The Slavic literal mind gone into overdrive.”
    “I’m sure there’s a lot more happening than I know so far. The strange thing is, I have a distinct suspicion that whatever’s happening is centered up here in the North. My own ship, the Admiral Chabanenko, seems to be involved, moored there on the White Sea.”
    “I thought you said the action was in the Makeyev factory in the Urals.”
    “No monastery there, right?”

    “I should forget that bit, Nikki. It’s obviously a mistake. I just can’t see a medium-range missile in the cloisters.”
    Lieutenant Commander Chirkov permitted himself a deep chuckle. Both men took a couple more swigs of the vodka/coffee.
    “Do you have any semblance of a plan?” asked the man from the Mossad.
    “Only that I think there is a lot going on, and I seem to have a way to tap into it. I’m returning to my ship tomorrow, and I suggest you stay right here. There’s no point going back to Moscow when we may already be in a major Russian black-ops area.”
    “Okay. I’ll park myself here till the end of the week. I have my laptop and two cell phones. Will I see you again this trip?”
    “I aim to be back on Friday.”
    “We got anything to eat?”
    “Yup. I bought a few cartons of Tex-Mex at the Sanches Saloon. I’ve had it before, tacos and stuff. It’s good. We can zap it in the microwave. I’ve got a guy coming in tomorrow to clean up. So you’d better be gone by 0900 and check into the Severnaya, soon as I’ve shipped out. You’re fine there as long as