The Emperor's Revenge

TWENTY-NINE

A polished black limousine pulled up to the luxurious Villa Arte Hotel at eight o’clock at night, ready to take Juan, Gretchen, Eddie, and Linc to the Primorskiy Kray Naval Base. Admiral Zakharin thought it would be best to show them the facilities in the evening when fewer sailors would be around to ask questions about the guests. Juan agreed that the timing was prudent.

His phone rang as they were getting ready to leave the lobby. It was Max. Juan told the rest of them to get in the limo and he’d be out in a minute.

“I hope you’re bringing me back some pirozhkis,” Max said. He had fallen in love with the meat pies when he’d visited the city during the Oregon’s refit. “Is that little place still there? What was it called?”

“Vostok,” Juan said. “We stopped there on the way from the airport. I got you two fish and two mushroom.”

“Only four?”

“I got more, but we ate the rest. I had to fight Linc to save the last ones from him. What’s the news on the Narwhal?” Max had emailed him about Linda’s investigation a few hours ago.

“We’re fairly confident it’s the ship we’re looking for. The owners of the shipping line, two brothers named Dijkstra, were killed in a plane crash on Gibraltar just a few days ago.”

“You know how I love coincidences.”

“About as much as I love my ex-wives’ divorce lawyers.”

“How’s the search going?”

“Thanks to the bank debacle in France last night, the CIA made our request top priority. They retasked a satellite just like we asked and scanned a hundred-and-fifty-mile radius around Malta for any ships fitting the Narwhal’s description. Jackpot.”

“You found it?”

“Steaming northwest at twelve knots. Looks like they’re heading toward Barcelona. They’ve been in the main shipping lanes for a while, then veered away about an hour ago. Maybe hoping to dump the cargo once they’re sure no one will see them. We’re on a pursuit course now. Should be in sight within the hour.”

“Nice work.”

“The port interview was Linda’s idea. I’m just steering the ship.”

“When you catch up, keep them under surveillance until they reach port. We’ll have Spanish customs confiscate the container, provided they haven’t ditched it already. I’m sure Interpol will give us a chance to examine the column as thanks for finding it.”

They could easily stop the Narwhal and seize the container themselves, but high-seas piracy was frowned upon by the maritime authorities. And if it turned out the column wasn’t aboard, they’d be in even deeper trouble.

Gretchen was waving to Juan.

“Max, I gotta go. I’ll give you a call when we’ve got info on the Achilles.”

“And I’ll text you when we have visual contact with the Narwhal.”

Juan hung up and got in the limo, adjusting his suit and tie as he sat. The others had already assumed their roles. Eddie was dressed in a two-thousand-dollar Armani suit and held his phone with one hand as his thumb idly slid across the screen. Linc, wearing a gray T-shirt under a plain black jacket, sat across from him, staring stoically backward. Gretchen, in a white silk blouse, tailored slacks, and black heels, jotted notes on a pad, giving the appearance of being Eddie’s dutiful assistant.

Twenty minutes later, they were waved through the gates of the Primorskiy Kray Naval Base. Two guided missile cruisers were tied up at the docks, next to three immense sheds sheltering dry docks. One of them was open, revealing the huge gantry cranes that were sturdy enough to carry whole ship sections.

The limo came to a stop in front of a Soviet-era office building, notable for its heavy use of concrete and for thorough lack of charm. Two armed sailors and a lieutenant met them at the door. The sailors frisked them and searched their cases, finding no weapons. The only thing that gave them pause was Juan’s artificial leg, but, after a brief inspection, they let him pass.

The lieutenant led them through halls that brought back memories for Juan. He could almost hear Yuri Borodin’s booming voice echoing off the cinder block walls and linoleum floor. The late base commander, who had died in a prison rescue attempt by the Oregon crew, had been a friend of Juan’s.

They were escorted into the office of Admiral Zakharin, who stood and greeted them warmly, hugging Juan before the introductions and a round of handshaking, while his underlings left. To commemorate the meeting, the admiral poured shots of Stolichnaya Gold vodka for all of them, as was the custom.

The generously rotund admiral toasted the group in a deep basso while Juan translated into English for his guest from Hong Kong. “As my old boss and dear late friend Yuri Borodin told me: One man said to the stranger, ‘I have the most delicious bread but no friend to eat it with.’ And the stranger said, ‘I have the finest wine but no friend to drink it with.’ And, with that, they were no longer strangers. So let us drink to making new friends. To our meeting!”

They downed the vodka and sat on the same nineteenth-century furniture that had been here when Borodin was the commander. Like a good bodyguard, Linc remained standing.

“Thank you for meeting us on such short notice, Admiral,” Juan said.

Zakharin grinned. “For an old friend who proposes to bring me even more business, how could I say no? Now, before I give you a tour of our facilities, what kind of ship do you want us to modify?”

“Yachts are what we’re interested in,” Juan said as he rose and poured two more vodkas for him and the admiral. “Have you ever refitted a mega-yacht before?”

Zakharin tossed back the vodka with Juan and said, “Of course! You know we can handle any ship up to three hundred meters in length. And we have the latest technology at our disposal from all over the world.”

“I’m sure you do. For example, what did you put on a yacht called the Achilles?”

The admiral flinched, then stared at him for a moment.

“So you did do work on it?” Juan said.

“You know I can’t share confidential information about our clients. I’m sure you, of all people, would appreciate that.”

“I do, but we suspect the owner of the Achilles, Maxim Antonovich, has stolen our money and, understandably, we’d like it back.”

“That is not my concern,” Zakharin said, standing. “It’s time for you to leave.”

“Actually, it is your concern,” Juan said. He had opened his combat leg and drew his .45 ACP Colt Defender, as well as a small vial of clear liquid, which he opened and gave to Eddie.

“I wouldn’t call for help,” Juan said. “That vial contains the second half of a binary toxin.”

Zakharin was nonplussed for a moment, then looked down at his vodka glass in dawning comprehension.

“You poisoned me?”

“Not really. Not yet. The two halves of the binary poison only work in combination. If my friend here sprays you with the liquid in that vial, it will trigger a massive cardiac seizure. Your aides will rush in and think, quite understandably, given your less-than-healthy lifestyle, that you’ve suffered a sudden heart attack. And we will walk out of here without any suspicion cast upon us.”

Zakharin gawked at him, while Gretchen went over to his file cabinet and began rifling through the contents.

“But if you cooperate with us,” Juan continued, “the binary half that you just drank will pass out of your system in twenty-four hours without ill effect.”

The admiral sank into his chair.

Gretchen pulled a file from the cabinet. “I found something about the Achilles.”

“What is it?” Juan asked.

“Payments related to the refit. But they’re all coded entries, acronyms, and abbreviations. They don’t make much sense without the detailed accounting ledger.”

“No engineering specs?”

“Doesn’t look like it.”

Juan sighed and looked at Zakharin.

“What do you want to know?” the admiral whimpered.

“Unfortunately, I wouldn’t believe a word you told me,” Juan said. “See, I know you were instrumental in getting my old friend Yuri Borodin sent to that Siberian prison. You’d tell me a bunch of lies and send me on my way.”

“So what should I do? Do you have truth serum as well?”

“No. I need you to sit right here and be quiet until we get back. These two gentlemen will keep you company.”

Juan walked over to the secret door hidden in the wall. The latch was exactly where it had been when he’d last used it. It popped open, and he motioned to Gretchen. “After you.” She disappeared into the opening.

“Where are you going?” Zakharin demanded.

“You can either find out when I get back,” Juan said, “or you’ll never know.”

He looked pointedly at the vial in Eddie’s hand and then followed Gretchen into the dimly lit corridor.