Odessa Sea

1

A dull glow blanketed the southern horizon in a cottony glaze. Although Istanbul was more than fifty miles away, the electric blaze from its fourteen million inhabitants lit the night sky like a sea of lanterns. Churning slowly toward the light, a weathered black freighter rolled in a choppy sea. The ship rode low, catching the sporadic rogue wave that sent a spray of seawater surging across its deck.

On the wide bridge, the helmsman nudged the wheel to port, fighting a stiff breeze.

“Speed?”

The question came from a bearded man hunched over a chart table. His gray eyes were glassy and bloodshot, and his voice offered a trace of a slur. His sweat-stained clothes hinted at priorities other than hygiene. As the crew expected, in the two days since the ship had left port the freighter’s captain had ventured well into his third bottle of vodka.

“Eight knots, sir,” the helmsman said.

The captain grunted, estimating the time it would take them to clear the Bosphorus Strait.

A bridge wing door opened and an armed man in brown fatigues entered. He approached the glassy-eyed captain with a mix of concern and disdain. “The sea is getting rough. There is water washing over the decks.”

The captain looked at the man and snickered. “You sure it is not just your vomit that is soiling my decks?”

Green at the gills, the armed man found no humor in the comment. “I am responsible for the cargo. Perhaps we should get closer to shore.”

The captain shook his head. He’d had an uneasy feeling when the ship’s owner phoned him minutes before they were to depart Sevastopol, instructing him to wait for a last-minute delivery. The small gang of armed men that arrived in a battered panel van only contributed to his suspicions as he watched them unload a large metal crate. He’d protested when they’d insisted on placing it in the engine room but muffled his complaints when he was handed a bag of uncirculated rubles. Now he glared at one of the two armed men who had accompanied the secret cargo.

“Get off my bridge, you stupid fool. These seas are for children. The Crimean Star can slice through waves five times larger and still deliver your precious cargo intact.”

The armed man steadied himself against a roll and leaned into the captain. “The shipment will go through as scheduled — or I will see that you will be scraping barnacles off an icebreaker in Murmansk.” The man moved off to the side bridge wing. He stood in defiance, the fresh breeze helping quell his seasickness.

The captain ignored him, studying his charts and tracking the ship’s progress.

The freighter rolled along quietly for another twenty minutes before the helmsman called out. “Sir, there’s a vessel approaching off our flank that appears to be mirroring our track.”

The captain raised himself from the table and stepped to the helm. He glanced at the radarscope, which showed the green blip of a vessel approaching from the stern. A faint smaller blip appeared briefly about a mile ahead of the ship. “Come right, steer a course two-three-zero.”

“Right rudder, to two-three-zero degrees.” The helmsman rotated the ship’s wheel.

The freighter eased onto the new heading. A few minutes later, the shadowing vessel was seen to follow.

The captain scowled. “Probably an inexperienced commander looking for a guide to lead them through the strait. Hold your course.”

A moment later, a deep thump sounded across the waves, followed by a slight vibration that shook the decks.

“What was that?” the gunman asked.

The captain stared out the bridge window, trying to focus on the source of the noise.

“Sir, it’s an explosion in the water.” The helmsman pointed off the bow. “Directly ahead of us.”

The captain found his focus and spotted the falling remnants of a large water spire a hundred meters ahead of the ship.

“Engine ahead one-third.” He reached for a pair of binoculars.

There was little to focus on, aside from a frothy boil of water in their path. He glanced out the rear bridge window and noticed the lights of the accompanying vessel had drawn closer.

An acrid odor enveloped the bridge, subtle, initially, then overpowering. The armed man near the doorway felt the effects first, choking and coughing, then dropping his weapon and falling to his knees. The helmsman followed, gagging and crumpling to the deck.

His senses numbed by alcohol, the captain was slower to feel the invisible assault. As his two companions on the bridge turned silent and stiff, his mind grasped to understand what was happening. Somewhere nearby he heard a gunshot, then he felt his throat constrict. His pulse raced as he struggled to breathe. Staggering to the helm, he grabbed the radio transmitter and rasped into it, “Mayday! Mayday! This is the Crimean Star. We are under attack. Please help us.”

Confusion and fear were consumed by an overpowering pain. He swayed for a second as the transmitter slipped from his hand and then he collapsed to the deck, dead.

2

“Sir, there’s no response on the emergency channel.” The youthful third officer looked up from the communications station and gazed at a lean man studying the ship’s radarscope.

Dirk Pitt nodded in acknowledgment while keeping his eyes glued to the radar screen. “All right, Chavez. Let them know we’re on our way. Then you best go rouse the captain.”

Pitt straightened his tall frame and turned toward the helmsman. “We’re well clear of the Bosphorus, so you can open her up. The Crimean Star looks to be about thirteen miles ahead of us. Steer a course of zero-five-five degrees and give me everything she’s got.”

As the helmsman acknowledged the order, Pitt called the engine room and had the chief engineer apply all available power to the vessel’s twin screws. A low whine reverberated through the fifty-meter oceanographic research ship as its twin diesels wound to maximum revolutions. A few minutes later, the ship’s captain, a large, sandy-haired man named Bill Stenseth, stepped onto the bridge. He was followed by Third Officer Chavez, who resumed his place at the communications station.

Stenseth suppressed a yawn. “We’ve got a Mayday?”

“A single distress call from a vessel named Crimean Star,” Pitt said. “Listed as a Romanian-flagged bulk freighter. She appears to be on a direct inbound course about a dozen miles ahead of us.”

Stenseth gazed at the radar screen, then noted his own ship’s accelerating speed. “Do we know the nature of their emergency?”

“All we picked up was a single distress call. Chavez hailed them repeatedly, but there was no response.” Pitt tapped a finger on the radar screen. “We look to be the closest ship in the area.”

“The Turkish Coast Guard Command might have some fast-responding resources nearby.” He turned to the third officer. “Let’s give them a call, Chavez.”

Pitt grabbed a handheld radio from a charging stand and stepped toward a bridge wing door. “Chavez, when you’re done there, can you ring Al Giordino and have him meet me on the aft deck in ten minutes? I’ll prep a Zodiac in case we’re needed aboard. Call me when we’re clear to launch.”

“Will do,” Chavez said.

As Pitt started to leave, Stenseth squinted at a bulkhead-mounted chronometer. It read two in the morning. “By the way, what were you doing on the bridge at this hour?”

“A loose davit was banging against my cabin bulkhead and woke me up. After securing it, I wandered up to see where we were.”

“Sixth sense, I’d say.”

Pitt smiled as he left the bridge. Over the years, he did seem to have a knack for finding trouble around him. Or perhaps it found him.

The Director of the National Underwater and Marine Agency climbed down two levels, then moved aft along the main deck of the oceanographic research ship. A roar from the engine room revealed that the Macedonia was pressing her rated top speed of seventeen knots, kicking up white foam along her turquoise sides. She was one of several dozen research vessels in the NUMA fleet tasked with studying the world’s oceans.

On the Macedonia’s fantail, Pitt released the lines of a Zodiac, secured to a cradle, and pulled back its oilskin cover. He checked the fuel tank, then attached a lift cable. Satisfied as to its readiness, he stepped to the ship’s rail and peered ahead for the distant lights of the Crimean Star.

He shouldn’t even be here, Pitt thought. He had joined the Macedonia in Istanbul just the day before, after traveling from his headquarters office in Washington, D.C. A last-minute plea for assistance from the Bulgarian Ministry of Culture to help locate a lost Ottoman shipwreck had lured him halfway across the globe.

Twenty minutes later, the NUMA research ship pulled alongside the black freighter, which drifted silently like an illuminated ghost ship. On the Macedonia’s bridge, Captain Stenseth scanned the merchant ship through night vision binoculars.

“Still no response from the vessel,” Chavez said. “Turkish authorities report a cutter is en route, and a rescue helicopter is being scrambled from Istanbul, with an estimated arrival time of twenty-six minutes.”

Stenseth nodded as he held the binoculars firm to his brow. There was no sign of life aboard the ship. He glanced at the radarscope. A small image a half mile distant was moving away from the freighter. Retraining the binoculars, he detected the faint outline of a vessel with no running lights. He picked up a handheld radio. “Bridge to Pitt.”

“Pitt here.”

“The freighter is still silent and adrift. I see no signs of a list or physical damage. Turkish Coast Guard resources are on the way, if you want to sit tight.”

“Negative. There could be lives at risk. Al and I will attempt to board. Pitt out.”

Pitt turned to a short, sleepy-eyed man standing next to the Zodiac. He had a broad, muscular frame that looked like it had been carved out of a block of granite.

“Let’s get over the side,” Pitt said.

Al Giordino yawned. “This better be a real distress. I was cozy in my bunk, dreaming I was in a Turkish harem and the veils were about to come off.”

Pitt smiled. “The girls in the harem will thank me.”

They lowered the Zodiac over the side, climbed down, and released its lift cable. Pitt started the outboard and spun the throttle, shooting the inflatable boat across the choppy water to the freighter’s side. Running down the ship’s length, he spotted a lowered accommodations ladder near the stern and ran toward it.

“Nice of them to leave the welcome mat out.” Giordino hopped onto the base of the ladder and tied off the Zodiac. He sniffed the air and frowned. “Smells like the Easter Bunny left us a basket of rotten eggs.”

“Something in her cargo, perhaps,” Pitt said. But the smell didn’t seem to originate from the ship.

The two ran up the steps and boarded the ship, finding the foul odor gradually diminished. Under the stark illumination of the deck lights, the passageways appeared empty as they moved forward toward the accommodations block. The deck hatches were secured and the ship appeared undamaged, just as Stenseth had reported.

Approaching a companionway to the bridge, they hesitated. A body blocked the doorway, that of a young man in dark fatigues whose hair was sheared in a short buzz cut. In its frozen state of death, his face expressed a mixture of confusion and agony, his open blue eyes searching for reason. His stiff hands cradled an AK-47.

“He was fighting off somebody.” Pitt toed the deck near a handful of spent shell casings.

Giordino played a flashlight on the body. “No visible cause of death.”

They stepped over the body and into the companionway, which they climbed to the bridge on the fifth level. There they found another macabre scene. An armed man in fatigues sprawled beside a crewman near the helm. An older, bearded man, likely the captain, had collapsed near a chart table. Giordino checked for signs of life, but bulging eyes, blue skin, and contorted mouths signified a quick but painful end.

“No external wounds, just like the guy downstairs,” Giordino said.

Pitt noticed a smell of sulfur and opened a bridge window. “Possible gas leak. Why don’t you check the crew’s quarters for survivors? I’ll let the Macedonia know what we’ve found, then see about getting this floating coffin under way.”

Giordino moved down to the companionway to the living quarters beneath the bridge. Pitt relayed a report to Stenseth, then engaged the freighter’s engines and turned on a course toward Istanbul, accompanied by the Macedonia.

The freighter slowly gathered speed, plowing through an endless line of high swells as it angled south. Pitt was checking for approaching traffic when a small explosion reverberated from the stern. He turned to see a fountain of white water erupt outboard of the port flank. The freighter shuddered as red lights flashed on the helm console.

“What was that?” Giordino’s voice crackled over the handheld radio.

“Explosion on the stern.”

“Somebody trying to scuttle her?”

“Could be.”

Pitt studied a navigation monitor. The nearest land was eight miles. He altered course, hopeful he might run the ship aground if necessary. Additional red lights on the console told him they wouldn’t make it. Some papers slid off a corner workstation, confirming the growing list he felt beneath his feet.

“The ship is flooding,” he radioed to Giordino. “How are you making out?”

“Two crewmen dead in their bunks. I think there’s another suite of cabins to check in the deck below.”

Pitt detected something out of the corner of his eye. To his side, a closed-circuit video monitor displayed live feeds from the bow, stern, and engine room. He had seen some sort of movement in the engine room. Looking closer, he could just distinguish a prone figure at the rear of the image.

“Al, finish up and meet me on deck in five minutes. I’m going to check the engine room.”

The helm console was ablaze with flashing lights as the flooding crept through the freighter’s lower recesses. The bow had already begun rising toward the sky as the stern sank lower. Pitt glanced at the distant lights onshore, then ran from the bridge. He reached the main deck and descended a companionway to the engine room.

Pitt found the floor of the engine bay awash, but the power plants continued to churn with a deafening roar. Through flickering lights, he spotted a figure stretched out on a gray case behind a generator. Pitt waded over to find a young crewman in oil-stained coveralls, his feet dangling in the rising water. His face had a bluish tint as he stared at Pitt through listless eyes, then blinked.

“Hang on,” Pitt said. “I’ll get you out of here.”

He hooked an arm around the stricken man, raised him to his feet, and muscled him up the steps. Pitt glanced around for additional survivors, but the bay was empty. He struggled up the steps with his load, a journey made harder by the ship’s list. They reached a hatch door, which Pitt kicked open as a generator below them sizzled to a halt from the rising waters.

Giordino stood near the rail and rushed over to help. “This baby’s about to go under. The Macedonia is ordering us to evacuate right away.”

They were briefly blinded by a powerful searchlight from the NUMA ship that swept over the angled deck. Pitt glanced aft. Waves were washing over the stern rail. Metallic creaks and groans filled the air, along with sporadic crashes from shifting cargo. The freighter had only seconds left afloat.

Pitt and Giordino dragged the crewman across to the accommodations ladder. The freighter’s steep list had raised the stairway to a nearly horizontal angle. Giordino descended first, supporting the engineer over his shoulder as Pitt lowered the injured man by the collar. Alongside them, the freighter shuddered as it fought to stay afloat.

“We’ve got a problem,” Giordino said.

Pitt stared at the Zodiac. Partially submerged, the inflatable was standing on end in the water. As the ship settled, the lower section of the accommodations ladder had dropped underwater. The attached bow line had pulled the Zodiac down with it, leaving it bobbing upright like a cork in the water.

The freighter lurched again, its bow shooting skyward as its stern began sliding into the sea. They could simply wait a few seconds and step off into the water, but they would face the risk of being pulled under by the suction from the sinking ship. Even if they managed to swim free, there was a good chance the semiconscious engineer would drown.

“Take him and grab hold of the Zodiac,” Pitt yelled. Then he stepped off the ladder and dove into the sea.

Pitt struck the surface alongside the upright mass of the Zodiac, the cold water prickling his skin. As he kicked downward, he felt along the inflatable’s fiberglass hull. The Zodiac suddenly jerked away from him as the freighter began its final plunge. Pitt kicked hard to keep up, pulling himself along the inflatable’s surface wherever he could find a grip. In the dark water, he reached out and felt its pointed prow. Grabbing hold, he pulled himself forward while groping with his other hand for the bow line.

The rope was tightly secured in the Zodiac’s interior, so his only chance for a quick release was to free it from the ship’s ladder. He pulled himself hand over hand against the rush of water, a flurry of bubbles obscuring the minimal visibility. The growing water pressure squeezed his ears and lungs as he willed himself down the line. His outstretched hand finally banged against the platform and he grasped the cleat that held the line. The rope was pulled taut by the pressure, but he found the end and began working it loose. With a hard tug, the line broke free.

The accommodations ladder smacked his side as the Zodiac began to shoot toward the surface. Pitt nearly lost his breath but clung tightly to the line. With the freighter continuing to slide past him, he had no sense of ascending until his ears popped. A second later, he was flung above the waves by the momentum of the surfacing inflatable. He regained his bearings and swam to the side of the Zodiac. A waterlogged Al Giordino reached over the side and helped hoist him aboard. He grinned at Pitt. “I’m glad you didn’t wait to hit bottom before releasing the line.”

Pitt forced an exhausted smile. “I wanted to give you your money’s worth. How’s our friend?”

“If you understand Russian, he can tell you himself. He swallowed a bit of seawater during our thrill ride but actually seems better for it after a bit of retching.”

The crewman sat on the floor of the Zodiac, clinging to a bench seat. Though his skin was pale, his eyes appeared steady, and he breathed easily. He glanced up at Pitt and nodded.

Around them, a collection of flotsam coated the water. A motor sounded nearby and a second Zodiac from the Macedonia raced over and towed the battered inflatable back to the research ship. The freighter’s crewman was rushed to sick bay while Pitt and Giordino climbed to the bridge.

Captain Stenseth greeted them with mugs of hot coffee. “You boys cut your exit a little close there.”

Giordino savored the warm brew. “It being a nice night for a midnight swim, we opted for a dip.”

“Only one survivor?”

“Afraid so,” Pitt said. “The other crewmen showed no signs of injury. Looks to be a possible chemical or gas leak.”

“Something to do with that blast?”

“I’m not sure,” Pitt said. “It occurred well aft of the cargo holds.”

“She didn’t look old enough to be a candidate for an insurance policy scuttling,” Giordino said. “That leaves an accident or an aborted hijacking.”

They were interrupted by a call from an approaching Turkish Coast Guard helicopter.

Stenseth turned to Chavez. “Tell them the Crimean Star has gone down and that we’re at the site of the sinking. We’ll welcome their assistance in searching for survivors.”

The thumping drone of the search and rescue chopper sounded a moment later. Pitt and Giordino stepped to the bridge wing as it surveyed the freighter’s small field of floating debris. Its bright searchlight narrowed on a pair of drifting bodies.

Giordino shook his head. “All of her crew gone but one.”

Staring at the roiling sea, Pitt nodded. “A death ship that took her secrets with her. At least for now.”

3

“Do you want the last banitsa?”

Ana Belova looked at the grease-stained bag thrust in her direction and shook her head. “No thanks. Even if I wanted a midnight snack, I prefer to keep my arteries unblocked.”

Her partner, an easygoing man named Petar Ralin, slipped a hand into the bag on the car seat between them, fished out the apple-filled pastry, and stuffed it into his mouth. The Bulgarian lawman never seemed to travel without a bag of bread or sweets, Ana thought, yet kept a lean figure despite it.

He brushed a crumb from his shirt. “Looks like the directorate’s informant is a bust. There hasn’t been a truck through this crossing in two hours.”

Ana peered out the windshield of their gray Škoda sedan at the Malko Tarnovo border station. The smallest of a handful of crossing points between Turkey and Bulgaria, the station catered to light car and tourist traffic traveling near the Black Sea coastline. The rugged woodlands of Strandzha Nature Park dominated the Bulgarian side of the border, while a sparse rural landscape spread across the Turkish territory.

Parked on Turkish soil less than fifty meters from the border, Ana watched as a young man on a motorcycle approached the checkpoint. As he cleared the crossing, she could see he carried a small pig in a crate attached to the rear fender.

“Late-night barbecue fix?” Ralin asked.

“You mean early-morning.” Ana suppressed a yawn. “I guess we’ve wasted enough time and downed enough banitsas to call it a night.”

“Hold on. There’s another vehicle coming.”

A dim spray of yellow light bounced across a hillside, morphing into a pair of headlight beams as it drew closer. The vehicle pulled to a stop at the checkpoint. It was a battered stake-bed truck with a canvas top over its cargo area. A muddy black-on-white license plate revealed its Turkish registry.

“Why don’t you make sure the border guard is awake while I check the plate number,” Ana said.

Ralin stuffed the last bite of pastry into his mouth then ambled toward the idling truck. Ana aimed binoculars at the truck and jotted down its license number. She traded the binoculars for a laptop computer and was typing in the number when she heard a sharp yell.

The truck was pulling forward, its engine revving. The border guard was stepping back into his office, having failed to examine the truck or even hold it up for Ralin’s inspection, as they had agreed. Ana was too far away to see the fold of currency that bulged in the guard’s shirt pocket.

Ralin had yelled, commanding the vehicle to stop. With his left arm outstretched like a traffic cop, he fumbled for his service weapon. Instead of stopping, the truck’s driver accelerated toward Ralin. The police agent had to dive out of the way to avoid getting flattened. The truck’s fender clipped his legs, sending him sprawling.

Ana clambered into the driver’s seat of the Škoda and cranked the ignition. Jamming the stick shift into first, she hit the gas, cursing as the truck rumbled past before she could block it. She hesitated a moment, looking to Ralin. The agent was clutching his ankle, but he turned and waved at her to proceed without him.

The Škoda’s tires squealed as she turned the wheel and floored the gas. The truck hadn’t traveled far, and she caught up to it in seconds. Watching the cargo cover ripple, she prayed the truck bed wasn’t filled with armed thugs. Instead, as the truck passed a streetlamp, she glimpsed a mound of watermelons under the cover. But the man behind the wheel was driving like no farmer.

The truck barreled down a winding hill and into the center of Malko Tarnovo, a dusty Bulgarian farm town twenty-five miles inland from the Black Sea. Beyond lay an expanse of dark, rolling hills that stretched for a dozen miles to the next village. The open terrain was not the place Ana would want to apprehend the truck’s occupants single-handedly. Pressing the accelerator, she tried to pull alongside. The truck’s driver caught the move and jerked to the side, closing the gap. Ana had to jam the brakes to avoid a parked car as the truck held to the center line. There was no way she could pass.

Ana pictured the town’s layout, recalling a main street that ran through the center of Malko Tarnovo and two parallel paved roads that stretched for about eight blocks. Initially approaching a side street, Ana braked again and turned the car left. She sped to the next block and turned right, running parallel to the main road. She gunned the engine and shifted hard, racing down the street and sending the sedan airborne with every bump.

The Škoda quickly ate up five blocks as Ana fumbled to click her seat belt as she drove. She veered right at the last side street, sending the tail of the car into a pair of trash cans as she slid through the corner. Sleepy residents peered out their windows at the streaking gray car whose engine sounded ready to explode.

As Ana approached the main street, the lights of the truck merged from her right. She was slightly ahead, but not far enough to allow a safe turn in front of it. Gauging the distance, Ana held down the gas a second more, then stomped on the brakes. As the car bucked under the antilock brakes, she nudged the steering wheel to the left.

The car pivoted slightly before making contact, the right side of its bumper slamming into the truck’s left front wheel well. The bang rattled windows up and down the street. The Škoda’s hood vanished under the mass of the truck, which skidded to the curb after its front wheel was decapitated. Under the force of the truck’s momentum, both vehicles slid forward until hopping a curb and striking a lamppost.

Acrid smoke filled the truck’s cabin as its driver tried to shake off the impact. “Josef?” he called to his partner, who lay motionless across the dashboard, unconscious or dead. The driver didn’t bother to check. He wedged his crumpled door open and fell to the street, intending to flee. He glanced at the shattered Škoda. A flattened air bag lay across the steering wheel, but no sign of a driver. He turned — and stepped into the barrel of a SIG Sauer P228 automatic pistol.

With air bag bruises on her face and breathing rapidly, Ana stood with her arms outstretched, pressing the gun into the driver’s cheek.

“On your knees. Hands on your head,” she said in a deep voice, trying to mask her own state of shock. The stunned driver readily obeyed.

Less than a minute later, Ralin and a border agent roared up in a state vehicle. Ralin hopped out of the car with a limp while drawing his gun on the truck driver. “You all right?”

Ana nodded and watched as Ralin handcuffed the driver and threw him in the back of the car.

The border agent checked on the truck’s passenger and returned shaking his head. “The other one’s dead.”

Ralin put his arm around Ana as she sagged and holstered her weapon.

“After he hit you, I just reacted.” She shook her head. “I didn’t want him to get away.”

“You succeeded.” Ralin glanced at the demolished Škoda and smiled. “But I’m not sure the department head will appreciate your sacrificing a new agency sedan for a load of watermelons.”

“Watermelons,” Ana muttered. She climbed into the back of the truck and began tossing the melons aside. Her arms were aching by the time she burrowed to the bottom of the truck bed and uncovered a trio of long wooden crates.

Ralin helped drag one of them onto the street. He found a tire jack and used it to pry open the crate. Inside was a neatly stacked row of Albanian-made AK-47 assault rifles bound for the black market. “Just as advertised,” Ralin said. “Score one for our paid informant.”

“I guess his payment will be a reduced jail term,” she said. “Not our biggest arms bust, but, hopefully, we saved a few innocent lives somewhere.”

“And gained the department enough positive publicity to replace our car.”

Within the hour, a contingent of local and state police arrived to arrest the smuggler and seize the evidence. Ana rested in the border agent’s vehicle, fighting to stay awake after the rush of the chase had passed. At dawn, tow trucks arrived to remove the wrecked vehicles.

Ralin stuck his head into the open car window. “Ana, I just received a call from headquarters in Sofia. Looks like we’re wanted in Istanbul this afternoon.”

“Can’t it wait? I could use some sleep.”

“Apparently, it’s a high-priority assignment based on some information out of Ukraine.”

“Another arms shipment?”

“I don’t think so. Seems to be something more important.”

She forced a smile. “Then I guess they’ll have to give us a new car.”

“I’m not so sure a car will help us on this assignment.”

“Why’s that? Is it an air shipment? Or a rail transfer?”

“Neither,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s a shipwreck.”

4

A brief drizzle dampened an otherwise temperate afternoon at Istinye Harbor, just north of Istanbul. Walking slowly across the compact marina, Ana and Ralin spotted their quarry, a bright turquoise-hulled oceanographic research ship tied at the largest berth.

A short, burly man hoisting aboard a crate watched as they drew near.

“Is this the Macedonia?” Ana asked in English.

Al Giordino regarded the stranger. Her long, dark hair was pulled back in a bun, exposing a delicate face. She had high Slavic cheekbones, softened by a small nose and mouth. But her radiant blue eyes drew his attention. Giordino could see she possessed a mix of determination and vulnerability.

“You’ve come to the right place,” Giordino said.

“I’m Ana Belova, special investigator with Europol, and this is Lieutenant Petar Ralin from the Bulgarian Organized Crime Directorate. We are investigating the sinking of the Crimean Star.”

Giordino introduced himself. “Europol. Is that an offshoot of Interpol?”

“No, the European Police Office is a law enforcement agency of the European Union. Our primary focus is organized crime and counterterrorism.”

“Come on aboard. I’ll let you talk to the boss.” Giordino guided them to the Macedonia’s wardroom, where Pitt and Captain Stenseth were seated, examining a chart. Giordino made the introductions, and coffee was brought for the investigators before they all sat around a table.

“How can we be of assistance?” Pitt asked. “We already gave a full report to the Turkish Coast Guard.”

Ana felt his deep green eyes look right through her. She was surprised to feel her pulse quicken as she listened to the tall, rugged man. “Our respective agencies have concerns over the loss of the Crimean Star. What can you tell us about her sinking?”

Pitt described the events of the previous night, concluding with the rescue of the assistant engineer.

“Do you think the explosion at the stern was intentional?” Ralin asked.

“I suspect so, but I have no evidence to prove it.” Pitt gazed at the investigators. “Do you mind telling us about your interest in the sinking?”

“The answer is threefold,” Ana said. “First, we’ve learned the Crimean Star was under charter to a Russian firm called Nemco Holdings. Nemco has suspected ties to the Russian Mafia. It’s believed to be involved with smuggling arms to Africa and the Middle East. You didn’t happen to examine the ship’s holds?”

“No, our aboard time was short. Have you obtained the ship’s manifest?”

“Electronic records indicate she was carrying agricultural equipment bound for Alexandria, Egypt.”

“Any chemicals or fertilizers as part of that?” Pitt asked.

“None that were listed. But I can’t say we put full faith in the manifest, given that the ship originated from Sevastopol. Why do you ask?”

“We suspect a chemical leak may have killed the crew.”

“We’ve just come from a visit to Memorial Şişli Hospital, where the engineer was admitted,” Ralin said. “The pathologist said tests on the deceased crewmen indicated that death was caused by a concentrated exposure to hydrogen sulfide gas. He suspects a natural gas leak.”

“We detected the odor when we boarded the vessel,” Giordino said, “but we didn’t identify its origin. Natural gas seems a likely source, but the Crimean Star is a bulk freighter, not a liquefied natural gas carrier.”

“Yes, that is correct,” Ana said. “Our primary concern relates to another fact — the assistant engineer who survived.”

“How’s the young man holding up?” Pitt asked.

“Quite well. His exposure to the hydrogen sulfide was limited, presumably because he was working in the engine room. He is expected to make a full recovery. But the doctors discovered a second condition that is more disconcerting. It seems the engineer tested positive for trace levels of radioactivity.”

“Radioactivity?” Giordino asked. “Perhaps he worked on a nuclear-powered ship before crewing aboard the Crimean Star.”

“We explored that possibility, and a few others, but he has no history of working around radioactive materials or near nuclear power facilities.”

“You think it was something on the ship?” Pitt asked.

“That is our fear,” Ralin said. “We have information that the Crimean Star may have been used to smuggle radioactive materials for sale on the black market.”

Ana turned to Pitt. “Petar and I are part of a task force assigned to prevent the trafficking of weapons and nuclear materials in the Black Sea region.”

“There’s still unaccounted nuclear materials out there?” Giordino asked.

“Regrettably so,” Ana said. “The collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991 brought about a free-for-all in nuclear material smuggling for many years. Stronger controls today have reduced that considerably, but there is still an alarming black market demand — much of it related to materials that were stolen years ago. You may be surprised to learn there are still over a dozen arrests each year in the Black Sea region related to nuclear smuggling. The spread of nuclear materials remains a very dangerous risk, especially with the rise of extremism in the Middle East.”

“I suspect war-torn Ukraine hasn’t helped matters any,” Pitt said.

“You are correct. That’s what has us concerned about the Crimean Star. Europol has been searching for a container of highly enriched uranium that disappeared from the Sevastopol Institute of Nuclear Energy during the Russian invasion of Crimea. Intelligence believes it is being transported to Syria, and we suspect the Crimean Star was the carrier.”

Pitt nodded. “Which explains the assistant engineer’s radiation exposure.”

“Remote as it may be, it is a possibility we must explore. If the uranium was stored in the engine room or near his cabin, it might account for his trace readings.”

“What’s the significance of this uranium being highly enriched?” Giordino asked.

“HEU, as it is called, is uranium that has undergone isotope separation to increase its content of U-235. It is the form of uranium used in the most powerful nuclear devices, be it power plants or missiles and bombs.”

“So the question,” Pitt said, “is whether the Crimean Star was intentionally sunk for someone to acquire the HEU?”

“We’ve obviously strolled down a path of multiple assumptions,” Ralin said, “but the circumstantial evidence is compelling.”

“I think you’ve got plenty of reasons to be concerned.”

“Mr. Pitt,” Ana said, “can you tell us the purpose of your visit to the region?”

“NUMA was invited by the Bulgarian Ministry of Culture to participate in the search for a late-Ottoman-era shipwreck that sank off the Bulgarian coast in the eighteenth century.”

Ana glanced at Ralin, then turned to Pitt. “Would you consider delaying the start of your project for a day or so to lend us some assistance?”

“What did you have in mind?”

“I’d like you to find out if there is highly enriched uranium on the Crimean Star.”

“If it was ever on the ship,” Pitt said, “it may have already been removed by those who sank her.”

“A distinct possibility,” Ralin said. “We’d like to believe your arrival disrupted those plans.”

“Why not use local resources?” Pitt asked. “The Turkish Navy surely has the capability.”

“The Turkish Navy can indeed help, but not for another week,” Ana said. “Turkey is not a part of the European Union, so our authority here is less respected. If the HEU is still aboard, it won’t be for long. There are search and rescue teams still on-site, but their efforts will be called off at dusk. We’d like the ship examined as soon as possible.” Her blue eyes met Pitt’s. “Could you return to the site and survey the vessel for us?”

Pitt turned to Giordino and Stenseth. “We’re already a day late. The Crimean Star site is almost on our way. And our Ottoman wreck isn’t going anywhere. I think we can delay our historical hunt a bit longer.” He turned to Ana. “Besides, we could always use a friend at Europol.”

A relieved look crossed the faces of Ana and Ralin. She reached across the table and clasped Pitt’s hand.

“You now have one.”

5

The unmanned aerial vehicle banked in a lazy arc, its long, slender wings buoyed by a stiff easterly breeze. Dual high-resolution video cameras on the fuselage scanned the earth a full mile wide along its flight path. In seconds, the onboard computers registered a small airfield dead ahead, surrounded by a patchwork of green alfalfa fields.

The drone’s operator watched the video feed on a large monitor. The cameras focused on a handful of military transport planes parked near a hangar, then zeroed in on a large black automobile. With the flick of a command, the image was magnified, revealing a Russian-made ZiL limousine, with two uniformed occupants in the backseat.

The operator activated a target sensor, superimposing a flashing red circle with crosshairs over the image of the car. A heavyset man in a blue suit standing beside the operator studied the monitor, then commanded, “Fire.”

The crosshairs turned green and a buzzing sounded from the computer.

The man in the suit turned from the operator and shouted toward the ZiL, parked a few yards away. “General, I regret to inform you that both you and the major were just vaporized by an air-launched missile.” The man’s voice held a clear note of satisfaction.

The Russian Air Force general, an older, sallow man named Zakharin, climbed out of the car and began scanning the gray overcast skies. He saw and heard nothing.

“It’s to the south, General.”

The Russian spun on his heels and squinted southward. A few seconds later, the slate-colored drone came into view, swooping to a landing on the runway and rolling to a stop alongside the limo. Fractionally longer than the car, the drone featured a sleek, twin-fuselage design that faintly resembled a catamaran with wings.

“It is nearly silent,” Zakharin remarked, stepping over to take a closer look.

“That was one of the design drivers for the Peregrine,” Martin Hendriks said. A plump-faced Dutchman with dark red hair and a crisp, authoritarian voice, Hendriks gazed at his creation with pride and resignation. His Armani suit and erect posture advertised his success, but his deep blue eyes betrayed a sad intelligence. Eyes that had once known mirth now were vacantly sober.

“The Americans’ Predator and Reaper drones are larger and more heavily armed,” Hendriks said, “but they are relatively loud and easily visible with radar. That’s fine for fighting guerrilla fighters on horseback in Afghanistan, but not so effective against a technologically advanced opponent.” He pointed to the drone’s sharply angled wings and fuselage. “Please notice the Peregrine’s profile. Its shape is designed to deflect radar signals, while its surface is coated with RF-absorbent materials. That enables her to fly nearly invisible to both ground observers and radar.”

Zakharin placed his hand on the drone’s surface, finding it rubbery. “Not unlike the surface material on our new fighter jet,” he said. “How did you make it so quiet?”

Hendriks pointed to the twin fuselage nacelles, which had large oval scoops at either end. “The Peregrine is powered by dual electric-pulse jet turbofans, which act as mini jet engines. They produce sound vibration at takeoff, but once the craft has reached operating altitude, they are virtually silent. The electric motors and onboard electronics are powered by hydrogen fuel cells, supplemented by solar panels in the wings. Once airborne, the Peregrine can stay aloft for two weeks — even longer under sunny conditions. That compares to half a day for the American drones.” Hendriks smiled. “And that’s only what we’ve achieved with this prototype. We expect further advances in energy storage and avionics to expand that range.”

The general nodded. “There is no substitute for stealth and endurance. Tell me about the armament.”

“Peregrine has a flexible weapons rack, capable of multiple air-to-surface missiles or even conventional ordnance. It was designed with NATO weaponry in mind, but is easily capable of modification. Name your desired weapon, General, and we’ll make it operational.”

“I see. Come, Martin, let us escape the wind and discuss it over a drink.”

Zakharin led Hendriks into a borrowed office in the hangar, where a bottle of Stolichnaya was waiting with two glasses. The Russian filled each glass, then toasted his guest.

Hendriks fired down half a glass and took a seat in a frayed leather chair. “So, what is your opinion of the Peregrine?” Hendriks asked, knowing the general had poorly concealed his interest.

Zakharin drained his vodka like he was drinking water and refilled both glasses. “It could be a useful tool in the aggravated regions near our border. Perhaps even Ukraine. I could foresee the Air Force fielding a small squadron. But I must caution you that our own research services are close to completing a Russian drone.”

“Your Altius drone is a fat, inferior copycat of the Americans’ Reaper vehicle.” Hendriks cracked a rare smile. “It failed its initial flight testing and is months behind schedule.”

Zakharin raised an eyebrow. “It seems you are well informed,” he said, knowing he had just lost any negotiating leverage. “Your Peregrine might indeed fill a temporary void in our reconnaissance needs. But I am aware of a business concern.”

Hendriks forced a startled look. “What could that be?”

“It is my understanding that you have recently sold your avionics company. At a price of several billion dollars, if the press is accurate.”

Hendriks stared at the linoleum floor and nodded. “Yes, I recently sold my avionics company, and I also divested my other business interests.” He unconsciously dipped a hand into his side jacket pocket, his fingers probing for a small metallic object.

“Starting a new chapter in life?”

Hendriks said nothing. Hidden in his coat pocket, his fingers pressed against the sharp metal until they trembled.

“Though you appear a bit young for retirement,” the general said, “I believe one should enjoy the spoils of their work while they can. I offer my congratulations. But my point is this. My government has procured avionics equipment from you for many years. I would not feel comfortable purchasing the Peregrine from new owners. And, of course, there is the question of the legality of obtaining this technology.”

“I own the Peregrine design personally, with royalty rights for the next three years,” Hendriks said. “A retirement gift from the company, you might say. So you would still be doing business with me.”

“And your government? The European Union will not allow the export of such an item to Russia at this time.”

“Not in this form,” Hendriks admitted. “But it is easy enough to circumvent. We piecemeal the parts to you from sources in different countries, and the final assembly can happen here. I’ll even send a team to do it for you.”

Zakharin considered the response and nodded. “Yes, that may be feasible. But I am curious to know why you are not selling the Peregrine to the NATO countries.”

Hendriks’s fingers again went to work on the object in his pocket. “Simple economics. The Americans’ product will limit my sales to NATO. I believe that I can sell more to you.”

“I can make no guarantees.”

“I am not here to ask for any. But there is one other item I hope you may consider. I would be able to offer you a personal commission of five percent on every Peregrine sold to the Russian government.”

Hendriks knew Zakharin had achieved his rank by cronyism, not skill. In the Russian hierarchy, the higher up the chain of command one traveled, the more corruption blossomed. With no surprise, he saw Zakharin’s eyes widen in anticipation.

“What is the selling price?” Zakharin asked.

“The first lot will be twelve million euros each. Less with a quantity purchase. Your commission would be payable in your choice of currency and banking locale.”

“I will discuss it with the Procurement Directorate at once. I am positive we will be able to arrange at least a minimum purchase.” Zakharin eyed the vodka bottle for a celebratory shot.

“Excellent,” Hendriks said with little emotion. “I have an additional request, if I might. It would be a great honor to arrange for the president a demonstration similar to today’s.”

“President Vashenko?” Zakharin gazed at the ceiling. “It would be very difficult to arrange. But he does appreciate modern technology and might enjoy a viewing. Still, my influence is limited, as I am just a lowly military man.”

“I understand. Nevertheless, I would enjoy showing him the Peregrine’s capabilities.” He winked. “It might increase the quantity purchased.”

“Yes, I can see the wisdom in such a demonstration. I will do what I can.” The general looked at his watch. “Well, Martin, I hope that we have the chance to continue our friendship. I was just a captain when you began selling digital aeronautical instruments to Aeroflot many years ago. Since that time, we have had a mutually beneficial relationship.”

“Agreed,” Hendriks said, recalling that Zakharin’s vacation dacha near Sochi was at least partially funded by bribes from his company. “You know, General, I am aware of an external business opportunity that might be of interest to you.” He paused to let the Russian take the bait.

“Yes, please tell me more,” Zakharin said, before downing his third glass of vodka.

“I was recently in Paris and ran into some old colleagues. One has recently brokered a deal for the acquisition of a pair of French attack helicopters in Senegal for the president’s security force. But they were unable to acquire armament for the craft and are seeking to purchase a dozen light air-to-surface missiles. I was told your Vikhr laser-guided missiles would fit the bill quite nicely.”

“Are they willing to pay a commission?”

“Around six figures, I believe.”

The general placed his empty glass on the desk. “I’m sure I could locate a dozen missiles in inventory that could be assigned to field exercises. But transport would be of concern.”

“I’m told that if you can make delivery in Ukraine, they will handle the transport to Africa. Could one of their representatives contact you discreetly?”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Zakharin rose to his feet, his eyes blurry. “I will let you know about the Peregrine.”

“Thank you, General.”

Zakharin returned to his limo and was driven off the airfield. Hendriks approached his technical assistant, who was packing up the Peregrine’s portable control station.

“Are you going to leave the Peregrine here with the Russians?” he asked Hendriks.

“So they can copy us blind? No. They’ve seen all I want them to see. Have it broken down, placed in the truck, and returned to the factory at once.”

“Yes, sir. I will take care of it.”

Hendriks stepped across the tarmac to a waiting private jet.

The jet’s pilot greeted him as he climbed aboard. “We’re cleared for takeoff to Amsterdam at your convenience, sir.”

Hendriks dropped into a leather seat. “Proceed with our flight plan to Amsterdam. But once we clear Russian airspace, divert us to Kiev. I need to make a stop there before we return home.”

Minutes later, the jet roared into the damp sky, leaving the Russian airfield near Moscow hidden beneath dark clouds. Hendriks stared out the window with a dull sense of relief. It was the first glimmer of satisfaction he had known in more than three years.

6

The Macedonia cleared the Bosphorus Strait ahead of a gray dawn and retraced its path toward the site of the freighter’s sinking. A passing Turkish Coast Guard frigate reported the search and rescue efforts had been abandoned the prior evening and no additional survivors had been found.

The lights of another vessel appeared before them, stationary in their path.

“Somebody’s still on the site,” Captain Stenseth said, reaching for his binoculars.

Ana and Ralin stood with Pitt on the bridge. They all gazed at the twinkling lights that cut the morning gloom.

“Another Coast Guard vessel?” Ana asked.

Stenseth deferred judgment until they drew close enough to see it was some sort of work ship or salvage vessel that teemed with cranes. A tattered white, green, and red flag of Bulgaria fluttered from the bridge mast. The transom conspicuously lacked a ship’s name.

“Could they be an insurance investigator?” Ana asked.

“Possible,” Pitt said, “though it’s not likely they would be here already.”

“Then they have no authority to be here,” Ralin said. “May I borrow your ship’s radio?”

Stenseth handed him the transmitter, and the police agent hailed the unidentified ship. “This is Inspector Petar Ralin of the Bulgarian National Police aboard the NUMA ship Macedonia. Please identify yourself and state your business at this location.”

A minute later, a grumbly voice blared through the bridge speaker. “This is a private salvage vessel. We are engaged in excavations on the shipwreck Kerch. Please stand clear.”

“You are near the coordinates of a shipwreck under police authority,” Ralin said. “Identify yourself and move off-site.”

This time, there was no response.

Pitt glanced at a nautical chart. “He’s right, on one score. There is a wreck marked less than a quarter mile from where the Crimean Star sank.” On the helm’s navigation screen, the freighter’s position was marked by a red X. Pitt turned to Stenseth. “We’re still a bit short of the mark.”

“Are they on the Crimean Star’s coordinates?” Ana asked.

“Near to it,” Stenseth said. “Looks like they are a bit to the west… and moving off in that direction.”

In the faint early light, Pitt could make out numerous large cranes on the ship as it eased away. The salvage vessel slowed and held its position several hundred meters away, exactly over the position of the marked wreck.

Pitt sat at a side computer terminal and typed in the wreck’s name, Kerch. “She was a destroyer of the Russian Imperial Navy, built in 1916.” He pulled up a photo of the ship. “It says she sank during an engagement with Ottoman naval forces off the Bosphorus Strait in February 1917.”

“Do you think they are actually working on that wreck and not the Crimean Star?” Ralin asked.

“Not likely, but there’s one way to find out,” Pitt said. “Who’s up for a dive in a submersible?”

Ralin’s face went blank, while Ana produced a faint smile.

“The lady it is,” Pitt said. “Come, follow me, Ms. Belova, for a guided trip to the deep.”

“You’ll bring her back?” Ralin asked, only half joking.

Pitt winked. “I haven’t lost a paying customer yet.”

Ana’s heart was pounding forty minutes later when a rush of seawater washed over the acrylic bubble viewport of the NUMA three-man submersible. Seated in the rear, she looked over the shoulders of Pitt and Giordino at a rush of bubbles that dissipated into a wall of turbid green water. A slight claustrophobia crept over her when she realized visibility was only a few feet. “Is that as clear as the water gets?” she asked.

“The scenery will get much better shortly,” Pitt said. “The deeper waters of the Black Sea are actually anoxic, or oxygen-depleted, which makes for crystal clear viewing. We’re not going very deep, but we should still get a taste of that.”

Giordino tracked a depth monitor. “We should hit the mud at about three hundred feet.”

Pitt’s words soon rang true. Like a veil being pulled away from the viewport, the visibility suddenly expanded to nearly fifty feet, aided by the bright LED lights on the submersible’s exterior.

Ana felt her pulse slow with the improved visibility and the obvious calmness of the men at the controls. “My parents used to take me swimming in the Black Sea off Romania as a child, but I was always afraid of sea creatures.”

“There’s not much to worry about in the Black Sea, except maybe jellyfish,” Pitt said. “You were born in Romania?”

“Yes. I grew up in Bucharest. My father was a history teacher and my mother a seamstress. We would spend summer vacation at Constanţa, where my father loved to swim and snorkel in the sea every day.”

“Sounds like my kind of guy,” Pitt said. “How’d you end up carrying a gun and a badge?”

“My brother was killed by a drug smuggler when I was in high school.” The pain was still evident in her voice. “I found myself in law enforcement academy a few years later, perhaps as a subconscious means of avenging his death. I soon found I actually enjoyed the challenge of the work. After a few years with the Romanian police, I took an assignment with Europol and never left. It’s been a satisfying adventure.” She waved a hand toward the viewport. “I never know where the job might take me.”

A faint, distant light appeared beyond her fingertips.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Must be an ROV or submersible from the salvage ship,” Giordino said. “Maybe they are playing on the other shipwreck.”

The light faded as they neared the bottom. To their right, the dark image of the Crimean Star materialized a short distance away. Pitt adjusted the submersible’s ballast until they hovered a few meters above the sandy seafloor, then engaged the thrusters. A few seconds later, they approached the slab-sided hull of the ship near its bow.

The freighter sat upright on the bottom, appearing mostly unscathed. The ship’s stern had struck the seabed and augered in, as evidenced by the rising slope of the bow. Absent any algae, encrustations, or entangled fishing nets typical of most wrecks, the ship had an alien appearance.

Pitt approached the freighter’s stern and headed to its port flank to investigate the explosion.

“You sure it was this side of the ship?” Giordino asked.

Pitt nodded, nudging the submersible alongside the hull. “The main damage must be concealed in the sand.” He squinted out the viewport. “Take a close look at those plates.”

He pivoted the submersible so its exterior lights shone across the side of the hull. A slight gap was barely visible along a horizontal hull plate just above the seafloor.

“You’re right, they’re buckled,” Giordino said. “There must be much more damage hidden by sand, given how fast the ship sank.”

“Is there any way to tell if she was sunk intentionally?” Ana asked.

“Not without a bit of excavation,” Pitt said. “The ship’s insurer might find it worth the effort, if they have a chance of dodging a payout.”

Giordino nodded. “Truth suddenly becomes important when a buck’s involved.”

Pitt engaged the thrusters and brought the submersible up to the freighter’s main deck. As the sub glided over the side rail, he brought it to a hover beneath the accommodations block. Looking across the forward deck, they saw the freighter’s four large holds fully exposed. Each hold cover was lying to the side, extending over the starboard rail.

“Were those removed or jarred loose when she sank?” Ana asked.

“They look too orderly to have been knocked off by chance,” Giordino said.

Pitt propelled the submersible to the nearest steel cover and examined its painted surface. Fresh gouge marks were clearly visible on one edge.

“By the look of those marks,” Giordino said, “somebody’s scraped those pretty recently.”

“The salvage ship would have the means to do so,” Pitt said. “Let’s see if they left anything behind.”

He cruised to the first hold. The opening was more than double the size of the submersible, and Pitt easily dropped the vessel into the hold. At its bottom was a yellow tractor lashed to the deck, surrounded by miscellaneous farm equipment.

Giordino smiled. “Looks like Old MacDonald’s barn is still there.”

“The contents appear fully intact,” Pitt said. He elevated the submersible and hopscotched over and into the next three holds. Each looked identical, containing a tractor and related agricultural equipment. All of the holds appeared undisturbed.

Giordino turned to Ana. “I guess your ship’s manifest was legit.”

“Yes,” she said, “but it would appear that the salvors were interested in something else.”

“If the HEU was carried aboard,” Pitt asked, “what size container would it require?”

“Not large, depending on the quantity. If precautionary measures were used, it would be stored in a protective canister, which would then be enclosed in a small, secure crate. The engineer’s radioactivity exposure may indicate it was lightly protected — possibly disguised as ordinary goods.”

“Then the engine room it is,” Pitt said.

He turned the submersible around and traveled aft, cutting around the accommodations block to reach the squat rear deck. Unlike the forward area, the stern was a disrupted, mangled mass of twisted steel. A gaping hole was carved along a lower companionway, exposing the aft section of the engine room.

Ana turned pale. “They’ve cut into the engine room,” she said in a low voice.

“In a big way,” Giordino said. “Doesn’t look like they used explosives, though.”

“Maybe a grapple device,” Pitt said.

Giordino grunted. “They sure caused a lot of destruction. If it was just the HEU they were after, some divers could have carried it out.”

Pitt maneuvered the submersible to the jagged edge of the opening and tilted it forward. The craft’s lights flashed across the deck of the engine room, revealing a clean and unmolested bay. The sight triggered his memory. “The crate. I should have remembered it. There was a gray crate in the engine room. The assistant engineer was sprawled across it when I found him.”

They scanned the compartment, but Pitt’s gray box was nowhere to be seen.

“That must have been what they were after,” Giordino said. “Your uranium story might have some teeth to it after all.”

“I was hoping otherwise,” she said.

Pitt ascended the submersible and hovered for a moment over the Crimean Star’s fantail. He eyed a digital compass and then propelled the craft on a westerly heading.

“Are we surfacing?” Ana asked.

“A slight detour on the way up,” he said.

Giordino was already scanning the terrain ahead. After they traversed a thousand meters, he motioned to Pitt. “Possible target ahead on the left.”

Pitt saw a dark smudge in the distance and angled toward it. A short time later, the corroded remains of the Kerch materialized. It looked nothing like the proud warship he had examined in the photo. The ship sat keeled over against a large sand dune that partially covered her stern. The bow was crumpled from colliding with the bottom, while the central part of the ship was a brown mass of concretion-encrusted, rusting steel.

Pitt brought the submersible amidships, where more damage was visible on the remains of the superstructure. He noted an obvious difference in the mangled steel that was twisted open along the side of the bridge, where numerous raw gouges were evident. “Recent handiwork here as well,” he said. “Certainly not from 1917.”

He followed the damage to the rear of the superstructure, where an even larger hole had been carved out of a lower-level bulkhead.

Giordino pointed to a black object sitting on the deck beneath the gap. “Take a look at that.”

Pitt dropped the submersible to the deck level and faced the object. Its perfectly square shape was disrupted on one side by a protruding dial and handle.

“It’s a safe,” Ana said.

“Probably for the ship’s payroll,” Pitt said. “The salvors must have recovered it from the captain’s cabin.”

“It still looks locked and sealed,” Giordino said. “I wonder why they left it here.”

Like an asteroid from the heavens, a faint light approached from above, gradually growing brighter. The glow morphed into a half dozen xenon lights that radiated from the top of a massive lifting claw. The giant grapple drew to a stop midway between the safe and the submersible, dangling a few meters above the deck. Ever so slowly, the device extended its titanium-tipped fingers like a cat extending its claws.

Ana watched, mesmerized. “It’s big enough to hoist a car.”

“Or rip open the deck of a ship,” Pitt said.

As if it had a mind of its own, the claw eased over the safe, using a bank of side thrusters. It hesitated, then reversed course and accelerated toward the submersible. Pitt had eyed the heavy thrusters mounted on the claw’s frame and reacted instantly. Hovering the submersible against the back of the Kerch’s superstructure, he drove the craft sideways across the deck.

“What’s it doing?” Ana asked.

“Trying to shake hands.” Pitt applied full power to his own thrusters.

The streamlined claw was quick to move laterally and pursue the submersible, guided by its multiple video cameras.

As they approached the rusting remains of the side rail, Pitt had no choice but to ascend. The action scrubbed off just enough speed for the claw to close the gap. As both machines slipped over the rail, the claw retracted its fingers to grab the submersible.

A metallic scraping reverberated through the interior as the claw grasped at the submersible’s topside. Pitt jammed the thruster controls forward and tried to descend. The grating abated for a moment, then they heard a secondary clang. The submersible nosed forward and jolted to a halt. Ana shrieked.

Pitt turned the thrusters and tried to pull away, but the heavier grapple countered with its own propulsion. The lifting claw rotated, throwing the submersible against the hull of the Kerch. The submersible struck hard by the bow and skittered.

Immediately, the claw spun in the other direction.

Pitt countered the move with his own power, but it wasn’t enough. The submersible was whipped around and thrown stern first against the wreck. A clatter churned the water as the main thruster broke free and was smashed to bits.

Giordino reached back and pulled Ana’s safety belt as tight as he could. “Hang on, sister, we’re in for a ride.”

Powerless to counter the salvage grapple, Pitt, Giordino, and Ana clung to their seats as the vessel was pummeled from side to side. The submersible was repeatedly slammed against the old ship until its exterior resembled a dented soup can. Only when the vessel’s lights flickered out and a stream of bubbles sprayed toward the surface did the hydraulic claw cease its thrashing and release its grip.

The salvage grapple returned to the Kerch’s deck and clasped its fingers around the ship’s safe. With its prize secure, the claw reeled upward toward the surface. As it rose from the bottom, its video cameras caught a final glimpse of the NUMA submersible. Lying inverted and still, the battered craft was left to the silence of the blackened depths beside the long-dead warship.

7

All Pitt could see was red.

It wasn’t blood but a tiny emergency light that pulsed near his face. He blinked away a shooting pain in his head and shoulder, then called into the darkened interior. “Everybody okay?”

“I’m good,” Ana said with a frightened voice.

Giordino grunted. “I guess we survived the tumble dry setting.” Like Pitt, he had been pitched forward from his seat when the submersible flipped over and he lay prone on its ceiling. He rose to his knees, splashing water around him.

“I don’t like the sound of that.” Pitt noticed his own wet feet.

Both men had water up to their ankles as they awkwardly stood. Around them were sounds of hissing and crackling mixed with an acrid, burning odor.

Pitt found a small flashlight and scanned the interior as Giordino helped release Ana from her seat.

“Pressure seems to be holding,” Pitt said. “Must be a hairline crack or a viewport seal.”

“Good thing we’re not a thousand feet deeper,” Giordino said. He knew that a similar breach at those depths could flood the submersible in an instant.

Though Pitt and Giordino discussed the situation with casual calmness, Ana could tell things were dire. “How bad is it?”

“No need to don our swim trunks just yet.” Pitt gave a reassuring smile. “We have limited power at our disposal, but it is currently restricted to just a few applications. Al will do some rewiring to keep our oxygen scrubbers operating.”

“Can’t we call the Macedonia?”

“At the moment, we don’t have power to our communication systems. Plus, there’s our inverted position. Our communications transponder is located on the submersible’s topside, which is now buried beneath us. We might not have much of a signal to transmit. But, no matter, as the Macedonia will come hunting for us soon enough.”

“Can’t we surface on our own?”

“Normally, we could, by thrusters or ballast. But our thrusters were knocked off, and the hissing you hear is a rupture to our ballast tank.”

“That still leaves our emergency drop weights,” Giordino said.

Pitt pointed up. “They’re atop us now. We can’t release them upside down.”

A cold shudder ran through Ana. “How long can we stay down here?”

“If we can keep our scrubbers running, we’re good for at least twenty-four hours.”

Giordino cleared his throat. “We’ve got a recycle interruption.”

“Manageable?” Pitt asked.

“The O2 tanks were separated from the frame.” He spoke the words casually for Ana’s benefit, disguising the severity. The submersible’s supply of oxygen had been ripped away during the assault and now lay unavailable on the seabed. “Power’s down on the scrubbers, but I’m checking a work-around.”

In the darkness, Pitt saw Giordino give him a faint shake of the head. There was no hope for repair.

The gears in Pitt’s head started turning. The severed lines meant they had no access to fresh oxygen. Absent the operation of the carbon dioxide scrubbers, the air in the submersible would grow deadly. He didn’t need a calculator to compute the time. With three people packed into its tight confines, it wouldn’t take long.

Pitt had no doubt the Macedonia would find them. The depth was shallow enough that divers could attach a lift cable and pull them to the surface. But time was now the enemy. The Macedonia’s crew would think they were still on the freighter’s wreck site. If their emergency beacon was muffled, it would take hours, maybe a day, to be found and rescued. More time than they had.

“How about another thought,” he said. “We roll her upright. Or, at least, half over. Far enough to jettison our emergency weights.”

Giordino shined his flashlight out the viewport, highlighting a rusty, growth-covered hull plate. They were positioned alongside the Kerch on an uneven, sandy surface.

“We can only move laterally,” he said, “away from the wreck.”

Pitt rapped a knuckle on the steel above his head. “We’ve got twin ballast tanks. If we can flood the port tank ahead of the starboard tank, the weight might pull us over.”

“Worth a shot… if the pumps are operational. I’ll see if I can get them some juice.”

He wrenched open a side fuse panel and attacked the myriad wires that were housed inside. After a few minutes, he called to Pitt. “Give it a try.”

Pitt reached around the pilot’s seat and toggled the controls to flood the port ballast tank. A whirring could be heard overhead, followed by gurgling water.

“Nice work, Sparky,” Pitt said.

As the ballast tank filled, they could feel the submersible shift slightly. But when the tank reached full and the pumps shut off, it still held to its inverted position. The three tried to help with the weight transfer by all standing on the port side. Giordino even jumped up and down a few times, but the submersible held firm.

Ana let out a low sigh. “We’re still stuck.” The initial sense of claustrophobia crept back into her thoughts, magnified by the stuffy air that was beginning to make her feel light-headed.

“I think we’re close,” Pitt said.

Giordino retrieved a toolbox and some dive gear and stacked it on the weighted side. “I’m afraid we don’t have much else that isn’t nailed down to give us an extra push.”

Pitt regarded his comment. “Actually, we don’t need any more weight, we just need another hand. An extended one, that is.”

Giordino looked at him a moment, then grinned. “Of course. We can try pushing ourselves over.” He brushed past Pitt to the fuse box and began tracking the wires.

“What do you mean?” Ana asked.

“The submersible has a robotic arm mounted to its base,” Pitt said. “If Al can find it some power, we can shove against the Kerch and push ourselves over.”

The interior of the submersible had grown cold and the air noticeably stale when Giordino pronounced electrical success a few minutes later. “We drained a good piece of our emergency reserves with the ballast pumps,” he said. “You might not have much to work with.”

“One push is all we need,” Pitt said. He leaned against the inverted pilot’s seat, reached up to a joystick on the console, and activated the controls. Pitt extended the manipulator from beneath the submersible’s prow and extended it laterally until its articulated grip scraped against the Kerch’s hull. Ana and Giordino took up positions on the port side and held their breath.

Applying full power to the robotic arm, Pitt did the same. A faint murmur sounded from the hydraulics as the red interior light dimmed from the increased electrical draw. Then a creak came from somewhere on the submersible’s frame and the vessel began to tilt. Pitt continued to push with the manipulator, and the submersible leaned to the side until momentum took command. In a slow, easy roll, the submersible tipped onto its side as the occupants scrambled to regain their footing. Sloshing water splashed over the console, and the manipulator controls fell dead.

“I guess that does it for power,” Pitt said. “Perhaps it’s time we surface.”

He opened a floor panel, reached inside, and twisted a pair of T bolts. On the base of the submersible, two lead ballast weights dropped from their cradles and tumbled to the seabed.

Despite its partial flooding, the NUMA submersible tilted off the sand and began to ascend. Ana smiled as Pitt shined his flashlight out the viewport and they watched the Kerch fall away beneath them. The black water surrounding them soon gained color, and Ana was relieved to see the return of the murky green soup that at first had frightened her.

The submersible broke the surface minutes later in a rocky sea doused by steady rain. Craning out the viewport, Ana spotted the Macedonia rising on the swells a half mile away. Giordino didn’t attempt to rewire the radio, seeing the ship turn in their direction and churn the water behind it in full acceleration.

Petar Ralin was pacing the aft deck when the submersible was hooked and lifted aboard. His face melted with relief as Ana climbed out of the hatch, followed by Pitt and Giordino.

Stenseth helped them to the deck. “A longer dive than scheduled,” the captain said. He motioned toward the submersible’s dented frame and mangled thruster mounts. “You run into a sea monster down there?”

“Well, something that did have some sharp claws.” Pitt scanned the gray clouds. “Our salvage friends took a personal interest in our submersible. Are they still about?”

“They steamed off an hour ago.”

Ralin stepped up and gave Ana a hug. “We were so worried about you.” He noticed a fresh bruise on her head. “What happened?”

“They grabbed us with their salvage claw, banged us against the Kerch, then flipped us over. I thought we were trapped, but cooler heads prevailed,” she said, nodding at Pitt and Giordino. “Petar, we need to find that salvage ship before they reach port.”

“Do they have the HEU?”

She looked at Pitt and he responded for her. “It would seem a pretty good reason to try and kill us.” He ran a hand across the dented submersible.

Ana turned to Stenseth. “Can we catch them? Or at least track where they went?”

“They’ve got a healthy jump on us, but we’ll certainly try. Unfortunately, this weather gives us no visibility, and lousy radar coverage.”

The group hustled up to the bridge, where Stenseth ordered the helm to bring the ship to top speed. He joined Pitt at the radarscope. “She moved off to the southwest when she left the site.”

Pitt adjusted the radar’s range to maximum and studied the screen. Large white blotches covered much of it, representing heavy rainfall. At the far edge of the screen, a faint dot pulsed sporadically.

“Could be them,” Pitt said, “on a heading of two-four-zero degrees.”

“Running for the Bosphorus.” Stenseth relayed a course adjustment to the helm.

“Ms. Belova? Mr. Ralin?” Pitt said. “Perhaps you could persuade the Turkish Coast Guard to make a temporary shutdown of the straits?”

“It’s Ana and Petar,” she said with a smile. “And, yes, we can do that. Thank you.”

Ralin made the call and relayed his success a few minutes later. “The Coast Guard has a vessel standing by near the Yavuz Sultan Selim Bridge, monitoring all southbound traffic. They’ll pull her aside when she appears.”

“We’ll do our best to track her,” Stenseth said.

They were able to follow the radar target to the approach of the Bosphorus but lost it amid all the traffic entering and exiting the strait. Continuing heavy rainfall added to the confusion, as the many targets filling the radar screen vanished and reappeared amid the white fuzz of weather distortion. The NUMA crew eventually tracked two southbound targets entering the strait and tried to draw close.

The rain lightened as the vessels reduced speed in the strait, expanding the range of visibility. As the Macedonia pushed the imposed speed limit of ten knots, the first target came into view, a Russian-flagged bulk carrier. The Macedonia slipped past the slower ship to try to catch a glimpse of the second vessel.

The modern Yavuz Sultan Selim suspension bridge poked through the drizzle ahead as an aged freighter began slipping beneath it.

“Was that the second target?” Ana asked.

“Afraid so,” Pitt said.

A radio call to the Coast Guard picket confirmed their disappointment. The salvage ship had not appeared.

“Where could they have gone?” Ana asked.

“They must have turned near the mouth of the Bosphorus,” Pitt said, “perhaps for the very purpose of getting lost in the traffic and foul weather. No telling where they might have gone.”

“We can take it from here,” Ralin said. “We’ll issue alerts to all of the friendly seaports on the Black Sea. We have a rough description. There can’t be too many vessels that fit her profile. She’ll turn up somewhere.”

“I think you’re right about that,” Pitt said.

“We’re almost back to Istanbul, so we can drop you there, if you like,” Stenseth said.

“That would be fine.” Ana turned to Pitt. “We can’t thank you enough for your help. I’m confident we’ll locate the ship in short order.”

“You’ll do me a personal favor by putting them out of business,” Pitt said. “Especially after what they did to my submersible.”

Ana grinned. “The submersible ride was more excitement than I bargained for, but I think I’ve acquired a taste for the sea.”

“Then I guess we can call our foray into the deep a success. Next time you need a ride downstairs, you know where to come.”

“I’ll remember. Good-bye.”

Ana and Ralin climbed to the lower deck and waited for the Macedonia to nudge against the Istanbul commercial dock. Jumping ashore, she silently swore to herself never to set foot on a boat again.

8

Nearly a century earlier, the ten-passenger water taxi had carried diplomats from the Golden Horn of Istanbul to their summer mansions on the upper stretches of the Bosphorus Strait. Its fine mahogany hull was now covered in a thick coat of aged black paint, while its glass-enclosed passenger canopy had been reconfigured with dark-tinted windows. What little brightwork that survived was dull and oxidized. The only opulence that remained from the Italian-built beauty was hidden in the engine bay. The original twin in-line, eight-cylinder engines gleamed with loving care and still snarled as they did when new.

The antique boat charged across the outer harbor of Burgas as dusk began to settle over the Bulgarian city. Its target, the salvage vessel Besso, sat moored a half mile from shore. As the boat slowed and pulled alongside, a pair of long-haired crewmen accepted her lines and tied her fast. A stepladder was lowered to accommodate the lone passenger who stepped from the cabin.

Valentin Mankedo boarded the salvage ship with the steady sea legs of a man who had spent the better part of his days on the water. His trim but hardened frame matched the tautness in his bearded face. Stepping purposefully aboard, he ignored the tending crewmen and marched straight to the wheelhouse. He entered an open door to find a muscular, bald man scanning the harbor with binoculars. His scalp, neck, and arms were covered with tattoos.

He glanced at the intruder and set down the binoculars. “I would have come to see you in the morning.”

“We are playing with fire, Ilya Vasko,” Mankedo said, giving him a cold stare. “There can be no room for error in this operation. Now, tell me what has happened.”

“The Crimean Star was attacked successfully, as planned. All went well, except that the bridge was able to issue a brief call for help. There was nothing we could have done to prevent it.” The bald man rubbed his neck, stroking the head of an octopus tattoo that climbed up from his shoulder. “It was just a single distress call, but it was answered by an American research ship, the Macedonia, which happened to be nearby. We tracked her on the radar as she responded. We boarded the freighter but could not locate the crate. It was not on the bridge, as we had been led to believe. In no time, it seemed, the research ship appeared.”

“Our port informant in Sevastopol has not always been reliable,” Mankedo said. “Why didn’t you radio the Americans from the freighter and tell them it was a false emergency?”

“The research ship contacted the Turkish Coast Guard, and we knew they would soon arrive and investigate thoroughly.”

Mankedo stared at him through dark eyes that burned with intensity, but he said nothing.

“I took the assault crew off the freighter, affixed an external explosive to the stern, and stood off,” Vasko said. “The Macedonia sent a few men aboard and tried to make for Istanbul. The explosive charge ended the attempt. The boarders actually did us a favor, as they brought the ship into shallow waters before she sank.”

“Did they find and remove the container?”

Vasko shook his head. “They wouldn’t have known to look, nor did they have the time to remove it. They had to evacuate after the explosives detonated, as the ship sank quickly.”

“So you just monitored the site?”

“We stood off about ten miles while the search and rescue vessels arrived and scoured the area at daylight. We moved back in and stood over the Kerch site for some practice drills until it got dark and the rescue ships abandoned the area.”

“The Kerch?”

“You remember. We worked her about ten years ago. Pulled up an anchor and a steam condenser, if I recall. She’s a Russian destroyer. Sank in World War I. She’s sitting less than a kilometer from the Crimean Star. I’ve got something to show you from her, down in the machine shop.”

“I don’t care about that,” Mankedo said. “What about the uranium?”

“We wasted a lot of time searching the holds before one of our divers found it in the engine room. He was due to surface, so we had to send down two more men. In the meantime, we picked up a radar contact headed toward the site. I didn’t want to leave empty-handed again, so I dropped the claw and opened up the stern deck. The divers bounced in and dragged it within range and we grabbed it with the claw.”

“You got it?”

“We had to move fast. We barely got the divers up when we realized the approaching vessel was the same American ship, the Macedonia. They radioed us and said the Bulgarian police were aboard. We short-hoisted the claw, still holding the crate, and moved off to the Kerch site and waited. They dropped a submersible on the freighter, then went snooping around the site. We pulled in the crate, then roughed up the submersible.”

“What do you mean?”

“We dropped the claw back on the Kerch, and their submersible was there, poking around. They must have seen the damage to the stern of the Crimean Star and realized we’d taken something. I decided we needed to buy more time, so we destroyed the submersible and left the site. The weather was poor, so we feigned toward the strait before turning north. Radar showed that nobody tracked us to Burgas.”

Mankedo bit his lower lip. “They can identify the Besso.”

“They will be too busy recovering the submersible and its dead occupants. We’ll be rid of the package before they can possibly locate us and then it will be too late. What will they have? No proof of anything. We were there working the Kerch. And I brought back something for you that proves it.”

Mankedo brushed the comment aside. “We don’t need anyone tracking the Besso, now or in the future. I have a lot of money invested in this ship. I can’t afford to put it into hiding or move it to Georgia for months on end.”

“You’ll be able to buy three new ships after we make the delivery,” Vasko said.

“Show me the uranium.”

“I can’t, at the moment.” Vasko pointed at the deck. “Once we moored, I took the claw and dropped the crate onto the seafloor beneath the moon pool. If someone searches the ship, it’s perfectly safe. Once we’re ready to make the delivery, we can hoist it quickly and be on our way.”

“You confirmed it was the highly enriched uranium?”

“We didn’t open the interior container, but it was sealed in a silver case, as described, and the exterior crate was marked with radioactive warnings.” He lowered his voice. “Have you made contact with the Iranians?”

Mankedo slowly nodded. “You can be thankful that the transfer will take place on the open seas and not in port somewhere.” He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and handed it to Vasko. “Here are the coordinates, thirty miles off of Sinop. The transfer will occur in about three days. I will advise you of the exact time when it is confirmed.”

“And we will be taking on a shipment of Fateh-110 surface-to-surface missiles in exchange?”

“Twelve of them. They will be hidden in a barge, which you will take charge of. Then you will head to Ukrainian waters near Sevastopol and await further instructions.”

“Back to where the uranium came from, eh?”

“Yes, but to a different side of the fence.”

“I will be looking forward to the payday.”

Mankedo nodded, his lips hinting at a smile. “The reward will be generous for us all.” He stepped to the bridge window and gazed at the first twinkling lights of the city shoreline. “It is too dangerous here. Move up the coast before daybreak and hold station out at sea. I want you out of sight until the deal is done.”

“Yes, Valentin, as you say. But first, come. There is something from the Kerch I must show you before you leave.”

He led Mankedo from the bridge to a cluttered work bay off the stern deck. Centered near some acetylene tanks was the Kerch’s concretion-covered safe. “The sands have shifted dramatically around the wreck since we worked her back in ’03,” Vasko said. “The forecastle is now almost fully exposed. We did some grappling while waiting for the search and rescue teams to go away and we found the captain’s safe. The boys think it’s still watertight, though I have my doubts. I had one of the men cut away the lock but waited to open it until you got here.”

He picked up a crowbar and handed it to Mankedo, who eyed the safe. Scouring the Black Sea’s depths for scrap and treasure had been Mankedo’s passion for most of his life. It began while fishing off the Burgas coast as a teen when his line had snagged on the bottom. Jumping over the side with a leaky dive mask, he traced his hook to the rail of a sunken trawler. After a dozen more free dives, nearly drowning in the process, he dislodged the vessel’s small brass bell and pulled it to the surface. The prize stirred his soul and sent him scouring the local waters from dawn to dusk.

He made a decent living at first, hiring his cousin Vasko and learning to dive, while befriending the local fishermen, who knew where all the good wrecks were. But salvage values waned with the flood of cheap steel from China. With the collapse of the Soviet Union, smuggling soon became much more lucrative, and he had the knowledge and resources to carve out a profitable niche along the western Black Sea. Small arms and drugs were his bread and butter, but recent contacts with a Middle East broker and a wealthy Dutch client involved in the Ukrainian conflict had elevated his business.

Mankedo’s salvage company remained operational, mostly as a cover for his smuggling, but also as his ingrained love. Like all good salvors, if there was money to be made at the bottom of the sea, he was first in line to grab it. No matter the value, a relic from the sea always stirred his soul.

He approached the safe with a gleam in his eye. Noting the seam where the welder had cut through the lock mechanism, he wedged in the tip of the crowbar and heaved. The safe door resisted, then opened with a rusty creak.

Both men crowded forward to peer inside. To their surprise, the interior was in pristine condition, the safe having remained watertight for a century. Their excitement dimmed when they saw that the safe was empty save for a thin folder. Mankedo opened it, finding a military report written in Russian.

“No payroll, I’m afraid.” Mankedo shook his head. “Not even a few emergency rubles for the captain.”

Vasko failed to hide his disappointment. “Nothing but sailing orders, I suppose.” He cursed. “I am sorry, Valentin. I had hoped a chest full of gold was waiting for us.”

Mankedo tossed aside the crowbar. “Life’s riches usually do not come so easily. Let us remain focused on the payoff within our grasp. Keep yourself invisible, Ilya, until the deal is done. We will obtain our riches soon enough.”

He departed the salvage ship, motoring out of the harbor under the cover of darkness. As he watched the lights of Burgas slip by, he opened the sailing orders from the Kerch. The contents startled him and he studied them again carefully to make sure of their details. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number.

“Yes?” answered a sleepy voice.

“It’s Valentin. I need you to get me everything you have on First World War Russian submarines in the Black Sea Fleet, along with a destroyer named Kerch. I mean, everything.” He hung up without waiting for a response.

Perhaps, he thought, Vasko had in fact delivered much, much more than a chest of gold.

9

Ralin’s head had barely hit the pillow when his cell phone chirped. He didn’t have to look at the number to know who was calling. “Good evening, Ana.”

“Petar, how soon can you be ready to drive to Burgas?”

“About five minutes.”

“I’ll be there in three.”

Ralin dragged himself to his feet, dressed quickly, and exited his apartment. Ana was waiting on the street out front. Ralin smiled as he climbed into a gray Škoda sedan identical to the one she had crashed two nights earlier. “You mean to tell me that the directorate chief has already entrusted you with another state vehicle?”

“My first stop when we got back to Sofia.”

“And he actually said yes?”

“Not exactly,” Ana said, shrugging. “But I agreed to let the motor pool administrator take me to lunch next week in exchange for the car.”

“Extortion at its finest.” He laughed. “So what’s this late-night excursion all about?”

“Our salvage ship may have reappeared. The harbormaster in Burgas sighted a vessel moored in the harbor that matches our description. He thinks it arrived just a few hours ago.”

“They might have already offloaded the HEU — if they ever had it in the first place.”

“It’s a possibility. I’m hoping the fact that they didn’t bring the ship to dock means it’s still aboard.”

“What’s our plan? Do we have clearance to board her?”

“The Burgas police have the ship under surveillance. I just woke up some people in legal and have requested a search warrant. I propose going aboard at dawn and searching her from top to bottom.”

“You’re banking on miracles, my dear.”

“You don’t think there’s a chance the HEU is still there?”

“No, not that.” He shook his head. “Obtaining a warrant from the Bulgarian judiciary before dawn. The salvage ship could sail to Antarctica and back before that’s likely to happen.”

“Petar, when did you turn into such a pessimist?”

He smiled. “When I joined the police force.”

Leaving Sofia, Ana drove fast through the night, arriving at the port city of Burgas three hours later. They threaded their way through the empty streets, reached the waterfront, and drove to the commercial port terminal. At the complex’s security office, a sleepy guard directed them to a small patrol boat docked nearby. Two uniformed city police officers sat in the wheelhouse, monitoring a distant ship with binoculars.

“I am Lieutenant Dukova,” the older one said. He dismissed his underling, who scurried off the boat.

“Where is the salvage ship moored?” Ana asked.

Dukova handed her the binoculars. “She’s the large vessel in the middle of the bay.” He pointed to the lights of a ship a half mile away.

Ana could just make out a myriad of deck cranes under the ship’s lights. She nodded at Ralin. “That appears to be her. How long has she been there?”

“Port security said she was identified around six this evening. She was already at anchor, so we are unsure as to her exact arrival. We’ve had her under surveillance since seven-thirty.” He stifled a yawn. “The harbormaster thinks she’s a local vessel named Besso.”

“Any external activity?” Ralin asked.

“A small black crew boat tied up alongside for about an hour at dusk.”

“Was anything transferred from the ship?” Ana asked.

“Not that we could see. A lone man boarded and later left by himself. There didn’t appear to be any transfer of goods.”

“Did you track the crew boat?”

“No. It left the harbor. I didn’t have the resources to follow it.” Feeling Ana’s eyes bore into him, he waved a hand toward a bench seat beneath a wide window. “Why don’t you sit down and get comfortable? There’s coffee in the galley.”

Ana and Ralin sat and took turns watching the Besso while loading up on Dukova’s coffee.

At half past three, Ralin cleared his throat. “I see some black smoke from the funnel. I think they’ve started their engines.”

Ana pursed her lips and pulled out a cell phone. After a quick call, she shook her head at Ralin. “Still no word on the warrant.”

Ralin studied the ship with the field glasses. “I see a crewman on deck. It had been deserted until now. I think she’s preparing to leave port.”

Dukova nodded. “She could be relocating her mooring, but I doubt it. A half hour to warm the engines and she’ll be on her way.”

“Where’s the rest of your assault team?” Ana asked Dukova.

He looked at his watch. “My team was to assemble at the security shack at four-thirty.”

“Can you get them here now?”

Dukova gave her a doubtful look. “I can try.”

Ralin kept scanning the salvage ship. “Perhaps we can just track her until we get the warrant.”

“I don’t have much range with this,” Dukova said, patting the boat’s wheel. “It could get difficult on the open sea, particularly in poor weather.”

“There seems to be some activity in the wheelhouse,” Ralin said.

“We can’t let them leave.” Ana stared at Dukova. “Take us to her.”

“We can’t board without a warrant,” he said. “We’re too few for an assault anyway.”

“I’ll take responsibility. Just get us aboard — unseen, if possible.”

Dukova looked to Ralin, but the Bulgarian agent saw the determined look in Ana’s eyes and merely nodded.

Dukova cast off the lines and motored the patrol boat from the dock. With its running lights extinguished, he guided the boat in a broad arc around the harbor to approach the salvage ship from her stern. A hundred meters from the ship, he cut speed to a bare idle.

No one was visible on the Besso’s stern as they approached at a cat’s crawl. Dukova brought the small boat alongside with an expert touch, allowing Ralin to leap aboard from the pilothouse roof. Ana tossed him a line and he tied the boat to a stanchion. The Europol agent climbed aboard with her gun drawn, Dukova following a few seconds later.

They moved forward a few steps and stopped in the shadow of a large generator. Ana jumped when the device suddenly churned to life with a puff of black smoke. Ahead of them, a circle of lights flashed on, illuminating a round moon pool in the center stern deck. Above the pool, the huge grappling claw dangled by a thick cable that wound through a crane. On the far deck, a bulky bald man sat in a glass-sided control booth that managed the crane and claw.

“Let’s hold up a minute and see what they’re up to,” Ralin whispered.

The three law officers clung to the shadows as an array of lights flickered on and the grapple mechanism was lowered into the moon pool.

“Is that the device that wrestled with you in the submersible?” Ralin asked.

Ana nodded as she watched it disappear into the water.

“Nasty-looking thing,” he said.

They waited as the bald man manipulated the claw’s controls with the aid of a bank of video monitors. Two crewmen in foul-weather jackets appeared and stood by the moon pool. After several minutes, the crane’s cable drum reversed direction and began reeling in the line. The claw appeared a short time later and rose out of the water. Clutched in its grip was a gray box the size of a small coffee table.

Ralin nudged Ana’s arm. “That has to be it,” he whispered.

Ana nodded as a cold chill surged through her. Her intuition was on the mark. Not only had the Besso taken the HEU, they had concealed it where a shipboard search wouldn’t find it. Now it was right in front of her. She watched as the grapple set the crate on the deck and the two crewmen approached it. “Let’s take it,” Ana said.

She stepped from the shadows with her gun drawn, Ralin marching alongside. Dukova followed a few steps behind, calling the harbor security office on a portable radio for backup.

The agents stepped to the near edge of the moon pool before they were spotted by a crewman on the far side.

Ana yelled out, “Politsiya!”

The crewman dove behind the crate, calling out a warning as he hit the deck. His partner spun around, producing a short-barreled Uzi from beneath his coat, and opened fire.

The law enforcement agents, not expecting the crewmen to be armed, were slow to react. Ralin squeezed off two snap shots, then dove at Ana. He flew into her side as she returned fire, jarring her aim as they both fell.

Dukova was left standing, fumbling with his radio, and paid the price for it. The shooter paused, adjusted his aim, and fired a second burst. The Bulgarian policeman caught the full spray to his torso. He staggered backward a few steps, then fell over dead.

Ana and Ralin were lying in the open on the deck as they returned fire, driving the crewman to lunge behind a stanchion. Ralin eyed a hefty tool bin yards to their right. He nudged Ana and pointed to it. “Go when I fire,” he yelled over the renewed whir of the grapple crane.

Ralin rose to a crouch and emptied his clip at the armed crewman, who danced behind the stanchion for cover and immediately fired back. Ralin’s aim was better, and he tagged the man in the neck with his last two rounds. Spurting blood from his throat, the dying crewman held his trigger depressed and sprayed the last of his clip toward Ralin as he collapsed. His aim was low, but a bullet ricocheted off a deck grating and struck Ralin in the leg.

Ana was halfway to the tool bin when she saw her partner rise and stagger. “Petar!” she screamed, paying no heed to a dark blur to her side.

Ralin threw up a hand to halt her as he buckled forward. “No!” His eyes screamed in protest. The cry wasn’t for his wounds but to stop Ana. He tried to wave her back, but his leg collapsed and he fell forward into the moon pool.

Ana lunged to try to grab him — as the object in her peripheral vision grew large. Too late, she glanced to her side and saw the grapple claw. Having been swung like a pendulum, the huge mechanism was speeding directly toward her.

She dove to the deck, but not in time. The exterior band of one of the grapple’s claws caught her across her head and shoulder. She flew across the ship, her world turning to black before she hit the deck.

10

Ana’s body pulsed with a low vibration, which intensified the shooting pain in her head. She took a leisurely journey back to consciousness, eventually raising a hand to feel a throbbing knot on the back of her head. She had to use her left hand, as her entire right torso was numb. Slowly, she pried open one eyelid, then the other. Blurry vision gradually focused on the heels of a scuffed pair of boots rocking in front of her.

As her senses aligned, she realized it was her head rocking, not the person wearing the boots. A gentle sea swell was the cause, as she detected a mixed odor of saltwater and diesel exhaust. The vibration was from the engines of the Besso, rattling the cold deck plate beneath her. She leaned up on her good elbow, shaking away the dizziness, and looked around.

Multiple high windows and the glow of an overhead radarscope told her she was on the salvage ship’s bridge. The man in boots was talking in low tones with another man at the helm. Ana’s mind cleared and she thought of Ralin. Was he dead? Images of him falling into the moon pool made her shudder. She reached for her kidney holster.

Empty.

The sea breeze from an open side door ruffled her hair, and she saw it was just a short crawl away. Escape was her best option, her foggy mind told her. Murmuring voices from the helm signaled the crewmen were still busy. Pulling forward on her side, she made for the doorway, moving at a turtle’s pace to avoid detection. She nearly reached it. Her hand was crossing the threshold when a deep voice cut the air.

“Going somewhere?”

Ana looked up to see a hefty bald man, the same one who had operated the grappling claw, step toward her. She tried to flee, but he was already there, grabbing the back of her jacket and yanking her to her feet.

A spasm of pain shot through her right arm and shoulder. The ache raced to her head, and she nearly passed out.

He grinned. “Feeling better after your kiss from the claw?”

Ana flinched from his rancid breath. She saw only malice in his dull, dark eyes, framed by a ragged scar that cut across his brow. The tentacles of an octopus tattoo on his back scalp seemed to reach out for her. She resisted the urge to scream. “I am a Europol police officer,” she said. “Release me at once.”

Vasko slipped a hand around her upper arm and pinched her with an iron grip. “Release you?” He laughed, poisoning the air with his breath. “That’s not how we welcome nosey intruders aboard our ship.”

Turning from his imposing face, Ana gazed toward the helmsman, an equally tough-looking character who grinned at her with brown teeth. Beside him, her SIG Sauer pistol lay on a console — tantalizingly close.

“Return this vessel to Burgas at once,” she ordered, surprising herself by the strength in her voice. Adrenaline overcame her wooziness, and she punctuated the statement by kicking her knee at Vasko’s groin while throwing a punch at his throat.

Vasko’s quick reflexes thwarted both moves. As she turned on him, he simply gave her a hard shove. Weak and off balance, she crashed hard into a chart table. Grasping its edge for support, she noticed a pair of brass calipers lying there. Before she could collect herself, Vasko grabbed the back of her shirt and yanked her toward him.

She reached back and grabbed the calipers, hiding them at her side as he spun her around.

Holding her from behind, Vasko slipped his left arm around her throat and squeezed while grabbing a fistful of hair and yanking back her head. “What are you doing aboard my ship?” His lips were just inches from her face.

Pain surpassed fear as Ana struggled to breathe. Vasko slowly loosened his grip, allowing her to gasp for air.

She let her nerves settle before answering. “The highly enriched uranium from the Crimean Star—we know you have it.”

Vasko showed no reaction. “You were aboard the NUMA vessel?”

Ana looked him cold in the eye. “I was aboard the submersible you tried to destroy.”

She caught a flicker of his brow.

“You are mistaken. The uranium is not aboard. We searched but did not find it.” He stuck out his chin and looked down his blunt nose at her. “You cost the lives of your two companions by coming aboard.”

He released his stranglehold and shoved her across the bridge. His brute strength sent her stumbling to the knees of the helmsman. “Lock her up in an empty cabin.”

With a wolfish grin, the helmsman grabbed her and dragged her off the bridge. Ana feared the worst, but he simply led her to a barren cabin and locked the door.

The crewman returned to the bridge and retook his position at the helm. He gazed at Vasko. “What are we going to do with her?”

Vasko stared out the bridge window, his face a mask of concentration. “Same thing we’ll do with her dead police friend on the rear deck,” he said with an indifferent shrug. “We wait till we’re thirty kilometers offshore and throw her over the side.”

11

He felt like he was plunging down a well wrapped in a straitjacket. His world grew dark and cold. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t even seem to move. Death tapped him on the shoulder, but he shook off the unwelcome specter. Petar Ralin wasn’t yet ready to die.

His mind began to function, shaking off the shock of being shot and plunging through the ship’s moon pool. He was about to drown and he knew it. He struggled to get his limbs moving. His legs felt like they were made of lead, but his arms responded. Kicking and flailing, he headed toward a faint light that flickered above. The distance closed quickly, but then he stopped.

The light was from the Besso’s moon pool. He couldn’t surface there or he would be picked off. He turned away, but had to surface quickly. His lungs ached for oxygen. He kicked harder, then collided with the underside of the Besso. Despite the new spasm of pain, he kept moving. Ralin scraped along the hull until he finally broke free and stretched to the surface.

Gasping for air as quietly as he could, he heard voices and movement on the deck above but no gunfire. Dukova was surely dead, but what of Ana? He had to help her, but at the moment that was impossible. He didn’t have the strength to climb aboard even if he wanted to. No, he must try to get help.

He waited until the deck turned quiet and his pulse stopped racing, then pushed off from the ship and began paddling toward shore. The lights of Burgas were less than half a mile away, but the distance might as well have been a thousand. In seconds, Ralin became light-headed. He barely had the strength to make headway against the light current. A wave of fatigue from his bleeding leg wound swept over him. But he pushed on, resisting the urge to give up and sink.

A yellow object in the water caught his attention and he struggled toward it. He recognized it as a mooring ball, and, for Ralin, it was a lifesaver. He swam to the metal sphere and grasped its float chain. Clinging for life, he waited until a friendly wave rolled past, lifting him higher. He used the momentum to slide his torso onto the top of the large metal ball and lay outstretched on it like a drowned rat.

Through blurry eyes, he raised his head and gazed at the lights of the Besso a short distance away, then promptly passed out.

12

Georgi Dimitov paused to wipe the perspiration from his face as he scanned the Varna commercial docks, eyeing the Macedonia at a far berth. Walking past some heavy equipment and stacked commercial cargo, the plump Bulgarian archeologist waddled up to the research ship. He clutched a painting under one arm and tugged a beaten-leather satchel with the other.

A NUMA crewman welcomed him aboard and escorted him to the stern deck, where a tall man in a welder’s mask was repairing a seam on the damaged submersible.

Pitt extinguished the welding torch and removed the face shield. “Dr. Dimitov?” he asked.

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Pitt.” He dropped his satchel and shook hands. “It is an honor to have NUMA’s support for my research project.” The archeologist glanced at the damaged submersible. “Your submersible… is it operational?”

Giordino popped out of the craft’s hatch, clutching a loom of electrical wiring, and introduced himself. “She’s a little dinged up, but the damage isn’t as bad as it looks. Once we replace the thrusters and perform some safety tests, she’ll be ready to go — in forty-eight hours, tops.”

Pitt nodded. “Our sidelined submersible won’t have any impact on our ability to survey.”

“I’m happy to hear that,” Dimitov said, “as I know your time in the Black Sea is limited.”

Pitt eyed the man’s painting and satchel and pointed amidships. “Georgi, let’s get out of the sun, and you can tell us about the Fethiye.”

The three men reconvened in a nearby lab, where Giordino helped the archeologist set the painting against a bulkhead. “You don’t travel light,” Giordino said.

Dimitov smiled. “It’s the only known image of the Fethiye, painted at the time of her launch in 1766. The curator of the Bulgarian National Art Gallery is a friend of mine and he let me borrow it.”

Pitt studied the painting, which depicted a three-masted frigate gliding out of the Golden Horn under full sail. A large red banner fluttered from the stern post, identifying the ship as a vessel of the Ottoman fleet. “A fine-looking ship,” Pitt said. “What can you tell us about her?”

“She was built as a fast frigate, in support of the larger ships of the line. She apparently spent some time on station in Alexandria before returning to the service of the Sultan.”

“How did she end up sinking in the Black Sea?” Giordino asked.

“Early in the Russo-Turkish War, the Russian Army advanced through what is now Ukraine and Moldova, scoring a major victory at the Battle of Kagul. One of Sultan Mehmet III’s wives was at the nearby fortress of Izmail, visiting an injured son, when hostilities drew near. The Sultan dispatched the Fethiye from Constantinople to retrieve them from danger. The royal entourage boarded the ship and sailed down the Danube in August 1770, never to be seen again.”

“Sunk by the Russians?” Pitt asked.

“A few historians believe so, but there is no historical record to substantiate it. Most believe, as do I, that she was lost in a storm somewhere off the Bulgarian coast.”

Pitt shook his head. “Sounds like the makings of a pretty large search area.”

“You know better than I the difficulties in locating a lost shipwreck,” Dimitov said. “The truth of the matter is, the Fethiye could be within a fifty-thousand-square-mile area. I could spend the rest of my life chasing her wake. But I recently discovered some additional information that I think will enable a fruitful search.” He opened his leather case and retrieved a photocopied page of a handwritten diary entry.

Pitt saw it was written in Turkish and thought he recognized a notation about weather. “A ship’s logbook entry?”

“Precisely,” Dimitov said. “It’s from an Ottoman merchant schooner named Cejas. A researcher at the Bulgarian Academy of Sciences came across it in the school’s archives and kindly advised me about it.”

“What does it reveal?” Giordino asked.

Dimitov translated, line by line: “Moderate breeze from the southeast, seas weakening. Departed our mooring off Erulska bluff at noon after weather improved, and resumed passage to Galaţi. Lookout reported concentration of debris to leeward one hour on, including a section of mast with a red tughra banner.”

“Did they mark their position?” Pitt asked.

“I’m afraid not.” Dimitov retrieved a chart of the western Black Sea and unrolled it across the table. “The Erulska bluff proved a bit troublesome, as there are no modern references to such a place along the shoreline. It took a bit of geographical snooping, but we finally found it in an ancient reference to a village north of Varna.”

“They would likely anchor close to shore if riding out a storm from the southeast,” Pitt said.

“We know they departed this point and were headed up the coast toward Romania,” Dimitov said, “so we can make a reasonable guess as to their heading.”

“However far they traveled in an hour along that line would put us in the ballpark,” Pitt said.

“Exactly. But we don’t know their speed, which expands the probable area. A merchant schooner of the typical variety would likely average eight to ten knots, so that gives us a good starting place.”

“What we don’t know is, when the Fethiye sank,” Pitt said, “or how far her debris field may have drifted before crossing the Cejas’s path.”

“Another assumption of our model. The entry states the wreckage seen was concentrated, which leads me to believe she foundered not long before that. We know the state of the sea and wind, so I incorporated some amount of drift in the estimate. It is, of course, a gamble.” Dimitov smiled. “But I have zeroed in on a hundred-square-mile area I feel has the highest probability of her position.”

“Seems reasonable,” Giordino said, eyeing the red grid penciled on the chart. “But how certain are you that the wreckage was actually from the Fethiye?”

“A good question. The key is the red banner.” Dimitov pointed to the painting. “Note the mainmast.”

Giordino nodded. “It has a small red pennant with some sort of swirling logo.”

“That’s called a tughra. It’s a calligraphic monogram of the Sultan, representing his reign. Only the Sultan’s personal ships would fly such a banner. That’s why it was noteworthy in the logbook. They specifically mentioned the tughra. The mast seen in the water most certainly came from the Fethiye.”

“Okay, I’ll bite,” Giordino said. “So where do we start searching?”

“Now you are talking.” Dimitov clapped his hands. “I suggest we begin in the northwest corner of the grid, which is only a few miles up the coast.”

Pitt looked at the eager archeologist. “It appears we have a workable search plan. Are you prepared to stay with us for the full survey?”

Dimitov opened his suitcase and pointed to a stack of paperback novels. “I am aware of the tedium associated with an underwater search,” he said with a grin.

The Macedonia slipped her dock lines within the hour and sailed up the Bulgarian coast, arriving at Dimitov’s search grid after dusk. The ship eased to a halt as Giordino launched an autonomous underwater vehicle over the side. The AUV contained a battery of electronic sensors packed into a torpedo-shaped housing that could skim above the seabed while running a preprogrammed route. Pitt supplemented the AUV survey by releasing a towed array sonar behind the Macedonia. Both underwater units contained a multibeam sonar system that could provide imagery of a shipwreck, or any other object of size, that protruded from the seafloor.

Dimitov joined Pitt and Giordino on the ship’s bridge to monitor the real-time results from the towed sonar. After a few hours of watching a drab, undulating sea bottom pass by on a large screen, he stood and retrieved one of his paperbacks. “Good night, gentlemen.”

Giordino raised an eyebrow. “Retiring from the fight already?”

“Temporarily, my friend, just temporarily. The Fethiye has been resting for over two centuries. I’m sure she will still be there for the hunting tomorrow.” The archeologist gave a formal bow, then stepped out the bridge door and into the night.

13

Dimitov’s words proved true, but just barely. Giordino was manning the Macedonia’s towed array sonar system at five in the morning when a scraggly, oblong shape scrolled across the monitor. He saved an image of the object and continued the survey until Pitt and Dimitov stepped onto the bridge two hours later.

“Picked up an interesting target on the last survey lane,” he said as Pitt handed him a cup of hot coffee.

“Can you show it to us?” Dimitov crowded close to the monitor.

Giordino retrieved the image and magnified it, revealing details of a largely intact shipwreck.

Dimitov’s eyes grew wide, then he shook his head. “It appears to be a sailing ship, but it must be more modern. You can see a capstan, the rudder, even a mast lying across the deck. It is in too good a condition to have sunk two hundred and fifty years ago. Still, an intriguing wreck.”

“What’s the depth of the target?” Pitt asked.

“Just under seventy meters.”

“That’s in the ballpark for the anoxic zone,” Pitt said. “The lower depths of the Black Sea are deprived of oxygen and therefore lack destructive marine organisms. There’ve been a handful of ancient shipwrecks discovered at that depth in an excellent state of preservation. If this wreck is lying in a low-oxygen state, it could in fact be a nicely preserved Fethiye.”

“The dimensions look close to the known specs of the Fethiye,” Giordino said. “It certainly gives the appearance of a three-masted frigate.”

“Yes, I can see it,” Dimitov said with growing excitement. “It would be too good to be true. Can we investigate further?”

“It certainly warrants some attention,” Pitt said. “What are our options, Al?”

“The submersible is dry-docked until we receive some parts from the States. That leaves dropping an ROV over the side or putting down some divers on mixed gas.”

“I vote for the latter.” Pitt had a gleam in his eye. “You up for joining the party?”

Giordino grinned. “Like a New Year’s Eve reveler.”

Dimitov looked puzzled. “You mean, you two are going to dive the wreck?”

“Why leave the fun and glory to someone else?” Pitt said.

The Macedonia returned to the target site for a few additional passes with the sonar to better mark its position. The crew then retrieved the towed system and dropped a buoy alongside. The ship moved off and took up a stationary safety position a few hundred meters away to await the return of the AUV.

Wearing cold-water dry suits, Pitt and Giordino climbed into a Zodiac, which was lowered over the side. Pitt raced the inflatable to the buoy, where Giordino attached a mooring line. Each pulled on a Dräger Mk25 rebreather system, which kept them from having to carry multiple tanks of mixed-gas air while allowing for extended bottom time.

Giordino rinsed out his dive mask before fitting it over his head. “You think Dimitov got lucky?”

“She looks pretty good on sonar, but the Black Sea is littered with wrecks. We ought to be able to tell soon enough.”

“He’s pretty excited about it. You sure there’s no treasure aboard?”

“None that the history books speak of.”

“I’ll bet you a beer there’s something interesting on that wreck.”

Pitt nodded. “Let’s go see what it is.” He slipped his regulator between his teeth and rolled backward off the Zodiac into the water. Checking that his rebreather unit was working properly, he purged his buoyancy compensator and slid slowly under the waves. Giordino splashed into the water beside him a moment later, and the two men kicked for the bottom.

The water grew cold and dark as they reached the hundred-foot mark, and each clicked on an underwater light. They were immune to the cloistering effect of the black depths, having experienced hundreds of dives in every imaginable condition. Pitt felt a jolt of excitement at the prospect of exploring a shipwreck that had lain undiscovered for over two centuries.

They followed the drop line that tailed from the buoy until reaching the bottom, at slightly over two hundred feet. At that depth, they had less than twenty minutes of bottom time.

Pitt spotted a dark shadow to their side and led the way, hovering a few feet off the muddy, featureless seafloor. His light showed a large pronged object. He swam closer and saw it was an anchor. Still secured by its thick chain, the black iron mass hung from a ruddy-colored hull. The anchor, like the wreck itself, was covered by a heavy layer of brown silt.

Pitt followed the anchor chain up toward the bow rail and turned his light across the deck. Despite the layers of silt, he could see the wreck was an old sailing ship in an excellent state of preservation. Giordino joined him as he kicked his way to a fallen mast and fanned away the sediment. Fragments of rope and sail lay on the deck, partially preserved in the oxygen-deprived water.

Giordino activated a small video camera strapped to his rebreather harness and began filming details of the wreck as they worked their way aft. A pair of intricately carved cabin doors with glass inserts caught his attention on the main deck, while Pitt investigated a swivel gun mounted on the port rail. They were astounded at the condition of the ship, as most wooden shipwrecks disintegrate into a debris-strewn mound after just a few years. Seeing just a few metal fixtures, Pitt was certain the vessel was well over two centuries old.

The two met at the helm on the quarter deck, looking for the jackpot. Even if well-preserved, a wooden shipwreck with few known unique details was a difficult challenge to identify. The dead giveaway was the ship’s bell, often engraved with the vessel’s name.

They found the helm’s large spoked wheel still affixed and upright on its frame, but there was no bell alongside it. Giordino felt Pitt tap his arm and point to the main deck. A cone-shaped item lay on its side near the bulkhead. It had to be the bell, having fallen after the disintegrating mounting collapsed under its heavy weight.

Pitt beat his partner to the object, set it upright, and brushed away the sediment. Giordino had his camera ready as the silt settled and a bronze bell emerged, complete with Turkish lettering across its base. He filmed it from all sides, then turned and gave Pitt a thumbs-up.

Pitt checked his orange-faced Doxa dive watch and saw their bottom time had nearly expired. Motioning toward the surface, he waited for Giordino’s acknowledgment, then kicked up from the quarter deck. Shining his light a final time across the wreck, he hesitated at the sight of something on the aft deck. Giordino followed as he turned and swam toward the object, concerned by its human shape.

It was indeed a body, lightly covered with silt. Approaching from the side, Pitt swished his hand above it to remove the thin coating. The probability of finding a human body lying perfectly preserved on the deck of the frigate after two hundred and fifty years seemed astronomical. Still, he couldn’t help but expect an eighteenth-century seaman to emerge from the murk, dressed in a loose-sleeved blouse, pantaloons, and buckled shoes.

But as the water cleared, he instead faced the body of a blue-eyed airman, grimacing at him, in a twentieth-century flight suit.

14

The first thing Ana did was vomit.

The fear, tension, and stress, combined with the ship’s rolling, had sent her stomach into convulsions. A miniature cabin sink caught the discharge, and she was thankful for some running cold water to rinse her face. Feeling drained but suddenly calm, she took in her surroundings.

The locked, windowless cabin wasn’t much larger than a closet. A pair of built-in bunk beds competed with the washbasin for the room’s square footage. Her head still pounding, Ana shuffled to the lower bunk, lay on the wafer-thin mattress, and closed her eyes.

Her headache eased marginally, allowing her to weigh her circumstances. The salvage ship most certainly had recovered the highly enriched uranium. Why else would their boarding meet with such a vicious response? She winced as she pictured Ralin plunging into the moon pool. The bald, tattooed thug who ran the ship seemed capable of anything, brushing off the murder of her comrades like they were mosquitoes. If only the Bulgarian SWAT team had arrived. With an adequate team, things would have played out much differently. She knew she was at fault for rushing in without support. Now the port policeman and Ralin were dead. She fought back tears at the thought.

After a moment, she pried open her eyelids and stared at the dusty underside of the top bunk. She knew she was also doomed. As a witness to the others’ deaths, she wouldn’t be allowed to live. Ana took a few deep breaths, and the throbbing slowly eased from her skull, giving notice to a sharp pain in her backside. She was being jabbed by the points of the calipers she had pocketed on the bridge.

She pulled the device from her pocket, held it before her face, and touched its needle points. It wasn’t much as a weapon, but it could serve as a useful tool. She rose from the bunk and studied the cabin door lock. It was a simple dead bolt, keyed on both sides.

She stared at the lock, contemplating her choices. There was no sense in lingering. She had been thrown in the cabin as a temporary reprieve. She might have days to live — or just a few hours. There was no reason to wait and surrender to her fate.

Spreading open the calipers, she jammed one of its points into the keyhole and twisted and prodded. She labored for twenty minutes, realizing the rounded point was a poor candidate to pick a lock. She yanked out the calipers, threw them on the bed, and gave the cabin door a hard kick.

The door rattled with an encouraging sound. She leaned her head against the door and rapped it with the heel of her palm. There was a tiny echo, matched by a slight vibration on her hand. It was an inexpensive hollow-core door. Ana smiled at her luck.

She sat on the bunk for a moment, mapping her next moves. Her heart raced over the danger involved, but the greater risk was to do nothing. She listened at the door to ensure an empty corridor, backed across the tiny cabin, and took a deep breath. Sprinting forward in the confined space, she leaped up, extended her legs, and thrust her feet against the door.

The door splintered but held loosely together. Ana regained her footing and waited, expecting to hear a cabin door open and close down the corridor, but it was quiet. Then she gave the door another hard stomp near the handle. The door separated from the lock and flew open.

Ana stepped into the corridor, cleaned up the splinters, then refit the door. At a passing glance, it would look intact. She moved aft toward an open side hatch that drew a cool, outside breeze. She swayed with the rolling ship as she approached it and peered out.

Beneath a canopy of low clouds, an empty expanse of the Black Sea spread beyond the ship’s rail. A brown ripple of land on the horizon indicated they were either following the coastline or had just recently left Burgas.

She stuck her head through the hatch to survey the deck — and smacked into the chest of a passing crewman. The young deckhand wore the grease-stained coveralls of an engineer and toted a toolbox. He stared at Ana in surprise.

Keyed up for a confrontation, Ana grabbed him by the lapels and lunged to the side. Burdened by the heavy toolbox, the crewman tripped over Ana and fell awkwardly to the deck. Ana sprang up and kicked the man hard on the chin. Dazed, he was unable to defend himself from a flurry of additional kicks that finally laid him out.

Gasping for air, Ana spun around, expecting the short brawl had drawn attention. But the deck was empty. She grabbed the crewman by his feet, dragged him through the hatch, and left him in the corridor.

She knew her time was now even more limited. She rushed onto the deck, moving aft in search of a dinghy or shore boat. The moon pool sloshed to her right. Across it, an inflatable boat lay secured to the roof of an elevated stores bin. There was still no one around, so she sprinted around the moon pool. She made it halfway, then stopped in her tracks.

There it was.

She stared at the gray crate that had been pulled from the Crimean Star, presumably containing the HEU. The crew hadn’t bothered to move it after their hasty departure from Burgas — or had left it ready to be ditched underwater again if need be. Ana put a hand on the box and gave it a shove, feeling a heavy object inside.

Her heart began to race again. She stepped to the inflatable boat, untied its lashings, then pulled it flat to the deck. She checked the interior, found a full fuel tank, and connected its rubber line to the small outboard motor. Across the deck was a large cable winch, still attached to the crate. It was too conspicuous to use. She found a small deck winch near the rail, likely for use with the boat. Her suspicions were confirmed when she found latches on the nearby rail that allowed a section to be lowered to the deck.

She quickly popped the latches, dropped the rail, and returned to the winch. Locating its power control, she activated the machine and fiddled with its control levers. She discovered the cable take-up and threw it into reverse. Then she stepped around the winch arm, grabbed the unwinding cable hook, and pulled it across the deck. Ana dragged it past the inflatable to the HEU crate, which still had a rope harnessed around it. She unhooked the main winch line, snapped on her own lift hook, and ran back to the controls. She reeled in the loose cable and watched as it dragged the crate across the deck. She pulled it close to the Zodiac, then halted the controls.

She muscled the crate into the inflatable and then reattached the line to a lift cable on the craft. She returned to the crane, hoisted the small boat off the deck, and swung the inflatable over the open rail until it dangled above the water. She was easing out the cable when a cry rang out behind her.

Hailing from across the deck, it was not a friendly call. The crewman who’d earlier wielded the Uzi was pointing at her and yelling. He wasn’t armed but gave her a menacing look and began running toward her. Ana pushed the cable release to high speed and stepped to the rail.

She didn’t stop to watch the inflatable drop to the sea nor did she hesitate at the rail. She had one chance only to escape and she didn’t falter. She stepped to the edge of the deck, grabbed the unspooling cable, and leaped over the side.

It was a fifteen-foot drop, and the inflatable reached the water first. Dropping hard, the Zodiac bounced violently, before jerking backward from the hull of the ship. Ana arrived a second later, catching the boat on the upswing as she struck an inflated side tube. Any later and she would have splashed into the water. Instead, she bounded up and into the bow, losing her grip on the cable as she crashed to the boat’s deck.

She tried to stand and re-grab the cable but was knocked to her knees when the inflatable careened against the ship’s hull. Despite the unreeling cable, the speed of the ship yanked the inflatable like a drunken water-skier. Ana rose to her knees, grabbed the cable hook, and pulled, but the tension was too tight. She looked up and saw that the crewman had reached the crane controls and reversed the line.

Ana remained patient as the boat was viciously tossed around. The savagery would be her savior. She clung to the hook, riding the bucking boat beneath her. She watched as the inflatable suddenly jerked forward, momentarily easing the cable’s tension. Instantly, she released the hook and heaved it skyward.

The inflatable fell back off the ship as the hook rattled against its sides. Ana moved to the stern and primed the outboard motor as she had seen her father do a thousand times, praying it would start. Luckily, with only two heaves on its pulley starter, the motor wheezed to life. She twisted the throttle grip to full and spun the boat toward shore.

She sped fifty meters before daring a glance over her shoulder, only to see the Besso gradually turn in her direction.

15

The dark smudge of land grew closer with agonizing slowness. A mile behind Ana, the gray silhouette of the Besso plowed after her, foam sputtering off the bow. With every passing second Ana was putting more distance between herself and the salvage ship. Of greater concern was a dark object off the ship’s bow that was quickly growing closer. She knew the Besso had more than one shore boat, and by the looks of it, the one chasing her was both bigger and faster.

Steering toward the closest apparent landfall, Ana spotted a ship slightly off her port bow. Over her shoulder, the pursuing boat had drawn closer. She could now identify it as a dirty orange Zodiac, appearing to be carrying three men.

The sight made her feel weak again and she momentarily lost her grip on the throttle. Twisting the rubber handle with an aching hand, she looked across the waves and saw a sudden cause for hope. The vessel ahead showed no wake. And then there was its color.

The ship was painted turquoise.

It was too good to be true. She recalled Pitt telling her the NUMA ship would be surveying near Burgas — and there it was.

Her joy was short-lived when the HEU crate in front of her began to disintegrate in a shower of splinters. Startled, then confused, she looked back and saw muzzle flashes from the pursuing Zodiac. The noise from her outboard was muffling the gunfire.

Ana ducked as low as she could, catching a sliver of wood in her cheek. But her attention was focused on a seam of holes appearing in one of the boat’s inflatable chambers.

As the deflating section sagged, she felt her speed drop. She was still yards ahead of the pursuing Zodiac, but the gunmen were no longer following directly behind. Instead, their boat was angling to her left. The orange inflatable would easily intercept her before she could reach the turquoise ship.

She looked at the approaching shoreline, but it also loomed out of reach. Then she noticed another boat, a small inflatable like hers, moored to a float. It was bobbing, empty, on the ocean, and had a large motor. If nothing else, at least it was fully inflated.

As another section of her own boat drooped from the gunfire, she nosed the bow toward the mystery boat and held her breath.

16

Pitt broke the surface as a light rain began to pelt the sea. A rising surge of bubbles announced the appearance of Giordino a few seconds later. Having followed their shot line to the surface, they found their inflatable boat tied off a few feet away.

Both men bellied into the boat and had begun removing their dive gear when they noticed a roar of approaching boats, followed by the popping sound of gunfire. Pitt turned to see a faded orange inflatable with three men chasing a smaller black Zodiac piloted by a lone woman with flowing black hair. He tensed, realizing it was Ana.

She was barely a hundred yards away, driving directly for them in a deflating boat that wallowed and was slapping the waves.

Again there came a muzzle flash from the orange inflatable, which was between them and the Macedonia.

“Al, cut the mooring line,” Pitt said.

As Giordino released the bow line, Pitt started the outboard and gunned the throttle. He turned the boat toward Ana, quickly closing with her. She and Pitt cut their motors as the boats pulled alongside, bow to stern, and Giordino secured them momentarily.

“Need a lift?” Pitt asked.

Ana kicked open the splintered wooden crate and yanked out a heavy metal cylinder, then staggered to the gunnel. Giordino extended his arms and hoisted it into his boat.

“It’s the HEU.” She jumped off her shattered inflatable and into the NUMA boat.

Pitt gunned the motor again, turning away from the pursuing boat.

“Get down!” Ana said. “They have guns.”

As if on cue, a burst of gunfire rippled the water alongside them.

“Is that the salvage ship?” Pitt motioned toward a distant vessel.

“Yes, the Besso. Petar and I found her in Burgas and boarded her this morning. Petar is dead.” Her eyes welled with tears. “They took me to sea with them, but I escaped. As we suspected, they had the HEU.”

“And I think they’d like to have it back,” Giordino said as another burst of fire slapped the waves.

Pitt eyed the Macedonia a half mile to the south. He turned toward the ship, but the orange inflatable did likewise. He held his course for a moment, gauging the other boat’s speed.

“I tried for the Macedonia, too,” Ana said, “but they drove me away.”

Pitt gave her a half smile. “They’re not going to let us go home, but I think we can stretch them to shore.”

Ana stared at Pitt. He was as calm as a man sipping a beer in a hammock.

He eased the bow to the west, casually watching the pursuing boat follow suit. The boats were now less than a hundred yards apart, but Pitt could see that they were equally matched. The pursuers ceased shooting, conserving their ammunition amid the difficulties of accurate marksmanship on a bouncing boat now pelted by a steady rain.

Aboard the NUMA Zodiac, Giordino began pitching their depleted air tanks over the side to lighten their load and perhaps create an obstacle for the chase boat. Next he uncoupled the lead weights from their dive belts and began flinging them toward the pursuers. The pilot of the chase boat ignored the barrage until one of the weights bounced off his inflatable’s bow and struck him on the shoulder. Temporarily losing his grip on the throttle, he swerved to avoid Giordino’s final artillery shells, adding a few precious seconds to the chase.

Pitt peered through the falling rain at the green coastline, spotting the amber-colored buildings of a town to the south. It was Balchik, a small tourist village he’d seen on the charts a few miles up the coast from Burgas. Pitt angled toward the town. Within a few minutes at full throttle, they approached the entrance to its harbor.

Giordino spotted renewed muzzle flashes from the pursuing boat. “Incoming.”

Pitt crouched low behind the motor, and Ana and Giordino sprawled on the floorboards.

“They don’t want us to reach port,” Ana said.

Several bullets found their mark. One ricocheted off the engine housing, while four more punctured the side inflatable compartments. Pitt ignored the gunfire and aimed for a freighter tied up at the lone commercial dock.

They raced into the harbor, the gunfire increasing as Pitt approached the freighter. He drove along its length, then cut sharply across its bow. He moved straight to the side of the dock, cutting the motor just before they collided with the wharf. Giordino sprang from the bow as they mashed into a support pole, clambered onto the elevated dock with a bow line in hand, and yanked the boat to a halt.

“Everybody off the bus,” he said. He reached down and grabbed Ana’s outstretched hand and pulled her brusquely onto the dock.

“Wait,” she said, “the uranium.”

Pitt lifted up the container and heaved it up to Giordino, who hoisted it onto his shoulder as if it were made of feathers. Pitt scampered onto the dock and surveyed their surroundings. To their right, the Greek-flagged freighter was awaiting a thick stack of shipping containers. To their left, the dock fed onto a busy waterfront street that circled into the town center. At the moment, the entire wharf was empty. Lunch hour had arrived moments before, and the local dockworkers were congregated in a break shack, out of the rain, eating fish stew and beans.

Pitt got a gleam in his eye. The dock’s loading derrick was still harnessed to a full container atop the stack.

He pointed to the road. “See if you can find some transport out of here. I’ll try and slow them down.”

Ana hesitated, but Giordino grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the street. “You heard the man. No time for debate.” They took off at a run, Giordino leading Ana toward a dilapidated pickup truck parked near the dock entrance.

Pitt ran to the lift crane’s controls and fired up its diesel motor. Deciphering its controls, he hoisted the shipping container and pivoted the crane head toward the ship’s hold. But he kept rotating the crane until it dangled over the edge of the dock.

Pitt had no time to spare, as the orange inflatable roared up to the same spot as the NUMA Zodiac. Pitt jammed the cable release and the yellow container crashed to the lip of the dock, then teetered upright and over the side. The blunt end slammed onto the bow of the inflatable, crushing one gunman. The other two were hurled forward as the boat jackknifed under the container’s weight. One slammed face-first into the container, falling limp into the water with a broken neck. Vasko was more fortunate. Flung against the dock pylons, he managed to grab a steel ladder midair.

The crashing prompted a group of dockworkers to come investigate. A distressed crane operator ran up to the cab, waving his arms, as Pitt climbed out.

Pitt shrugged. “The controls, they’re a little loose,” he said.

He turned toward the street but froze when the glass windshield of the crane cab shattered next to him. At the edge of the wharf, a burly, bald, tattooed man was pulling himself onto the dock, holding a smoking pistol aimed at Pitt.

17

Ilya Vasko had recognized the tall, dark-haired man climbing from the crane as the pilot of the inflatable that aided Ana. He knew the shipping container that had dropped on him was no accident. With his assault rifle at the bottom of the harbor, he pulled a pistol from a holster. The best he could do was to fire a snap shot from the ladder before climbing onto the dock and catching his breath. He stood for a moment, shaking off the impact of his ejection from the boat, and glanced at the water. The bodies of his two crewmen floated alongside the punctured inflatable.

Vasko steadied himself against the dock and raised his pistol. A dozen dockworkers scrambled for cover as he scanned the wharf for the tall man with black hair.

Pitt had already jumped away from the crane and was sprinting down the dock. He zigzagged around a forklift and some assorted crates as the pop-pop-pop of gunfire sounded. A pair of bullets whistled past, striking a fence post just in front of him. He searched ahead for Giordino and spotted his partner, waving from the driver’s seat of a dilapidated pickup.

It was a Romanian-built Dacia, at least forty years old, used for light duty around the port. The HEU container lay in the truck’s open bed, and Ana sat in the passenger seat, urging Pitt on with her eyes. Blue exhaust smoke indicated Giordino had already found the keys and started the old truck.

“Go!” Pitt shouted while still a few yards away.

Giordino threw it into gear and rolled forward as another volley sounded from Vasko’s pistol. Pitt caught up to the truck and dove into its bed as a shot tore through the tailgate, followed by another that shattered the cab’s rear window.

Pitt called up to the cab as he lay low. “Fastest you could find?”

“Only thing I could find,” Giordino called back, “with keys.”

The old truck gained speed, and Giordino wheeled it through an open gate at the end of the dock and turned onto the main waterfront drive. Traffic was light, and he was able to accelerate ahead. Police sirens sounded as Vasko ran into the middle of the road after them. A college student on a motorcycle approached from the south and Vasko stood, rock-like, in his path, his gun raised. The startled rider skidded to a stop just a few feet away.

“Off!” Vasko stepped forward and grabbed the handlebars.

The student jumped off and backed away with his hands raised, then turned and ran. Vasko tucked his gun into his waistband and climbed aboard.

A quarter mile ahead, Pitt watched the scene as Giordino drove into the center of town. Like most Bulgarian seaside villages, Balchik was filled with stodgy but colorful buildings and shops that summer tourists found inviting. The truck wheeled around a large traffic circle with a marble statue of the Greek god Dionysus in the center, then sped past a row of cafés and coffee shops.

Pitt moved to sit with his back to the cab. “Gunman’s on a bike in pursuit,” he told Giordino.

“Where are those police cars?” Giordino asked.

Pitt listened to the wailing sirens in the distance. “Coming from the other side of the dock, I’m afraid.”

“Figures.”

Pitt glanced at a man lugging a sack of flour down the street, then turned to Giordino. “Pull to a quick stop, then go up a block and circle back around to the traffic circle. We ought to be able to catch the police there.”

Giordino stood on the brakes. “Okay, but why the stop?”

When he got no response, he turned back to see that both Pitt and the HEU canister were gone.

Ana spied Pitt jogging down the sidewalk. “He jumped out!”

“Taking the heat off us,” Giordino said.

He followed Pitt’s instructions, accelerating up to the next block and turning left. They could hear the high-revving motorcycle behind them as it speeded through traffic.

Vasko entered the traffic circle, his eyes on the old pickup turning left up ahead. Bursting past some slower cars, he swept around the circle, then braked hard at a familiar sight. It was Pitt, walking across the circle as if on an afternoon stroll, except for the jaundiced eye he leveled at Vasko. Though his presence was unnerving, his hands were empty and he posed no threat, so Vasko let off the brakes and sped forward.

Giordino pushed the truck through a second left turn before the motorcycle loomed up in his rearview mirror. As the traffic cleared, he swerved the truck back and forth across the road to prevent the rider from pulling alongside.

Vasko slowed behind the pickup, removed his pistol, and awkwardly fired a few shots at the cab with his left hand. The vehicles reached the end of the block, and Giordino turned left once more, heading for the traffic circle, now in view. As he turned, Vasko had a clear shot and pumped two rounds into the engine compartment.

Steam erupted from under the hood, while a thick trail of oil spilled from beneath. Giordino held the accelerator to the floor despite the eruption and the engine’s clatter. The spray coated the windshield, forcing Giordino to drive blindly toward the traffic circle. Distracted, he lost track of Vasko, who roared alongside the truck’s passenger side. The gunman gazed into the truck bed and saw no HEU canister. He pulled alongside Ana’s door and looked inside for the uranium while pointing his pistol at her.

Ana screamed and Giordino snapped the dying truck to the right. Vasko was already on the brakes, saving himself from being sideswiped. The truck rumbled on, its occupants again hearing the whine of the motorcycle. But, this time, the sound grew more distant.

Sailing blind into the traffic circle, Giordino poked his head out the side window just in time to see a sidewalk in front of him. As he applied its worn brakes, the truck bounded up and over the curb and skidded across a patch of grass. Amid a cloud of steam, it smacked into a fountain at the base of Dionysus and ground to a halt.

Giordino turned to Ana. “You okay?” he asked over the wail of approaching sirens.

“Yeah.” Ana rubbed her shoulder, which had struck the dashboard. “Is he gone?”

“Yep.” He grinned. “Couldn’t keep up with Speedy Al.”

They climbed out of the truck into the glare of flashing lights from three police cars. Pitt stood in the center of the road and directed the lead cars after the motorcycle, while the third car screeched up alongside the battered truck. As the policemen hopped out with guns drawn, Ana and Giordino threw their hands in the air. Producing her Europol badge, she quickly defused the tension and explained their situation.

Pitt stepped over to check on his friends. “Glad you made it back in one piece.”

“Not so sure about the truck.” Giordino patted one of the smoking pickup’s fenders.

“I thought the police were going to come through here,” Pitt said. “I hoped I could organize a welcome party by the time you came back around. Guess my timing was a bit off.”

“Close enough to save our skin,” Giordino said.

Ana joined them after an animated conversation with the police officers.

“They were alerted by the Macedonia,” she said, “and the dockworkers sent them after their stolen truck.”

Pitt nodded. “Plenty of confusion to go around.”

Giordino looked at the puddle of oil next to a front wheel. “I guess we owe the port a new truck.”

“NUMA might manage to fund a replacement,” Pitt said.

“Glad to hear it,” Ana said. “I’m already down a vehicle, with my boss in Sofia.” She peered into the back of the truck and turned pale. “The HEU canister! Did he get it?”

“No.” Pitt gave a reassuring grin. “I put it someplace he wouldn’t be able to reach easily.”

Ana looked around at the shops and apartments. “Did you hide it in a house or café?”

“No, I hid it in plain sight.” Pitt winked and pointed over his shoulder.

Ana and Giordino followed his finger toward the statue and looked up.

Cradled in the outstretched arms of Dionysus, a dozen feet off the ground, was the canister of deadly uranium.

18

The Macedonia eased into Balchik a short time later, arriving amid a glow of flashing police lights along the waterfront. Captain Stenseth found a ship’s berth near the main dock, where he watched a police dive team retrieve two bodies from the water. The divers then assisted some agitated dockworkers in lifting a yellow container from the depths in front of a large freighter.

Once his ship was moored, the captain went ashore, taking a quick peek at the saturated bodies that had been hastily covered with a tarp. Relieved to see they bore unfamiliar faces, he turned his attention toward the lights of police vehicles near the town center. Walking the few blocks to the main traffic circle, he jumped aside as a fire department ladder truck roared up onto the sidewalk and stopped beside a tall marble statue. The statue itself was surrounded by a growing throng of policemen.

Stenseth made his way to the opposite side, where a battered pickup truck was mashed against a fountain at the statue’s base. Its tailgate was down, and two men in wetsuits were seated on it, speaking to the police.

The Macedonia’s captain approached Pitt and Giordino with a relieved smile. “You boys didn’t tell me you were planning some sightseeing after your dive.”

“We just offered a ride to a local hitchhiker.” Giordino pointed toward Ana, who was arguing with several Bulgarian police authorities.

“Ana?” Stenseth said. “I didn’t recognize her when the mayhem started. Bad timing on our part, as we were well off your dive site recovering the AUV when you surfaced.”

“As I requested,” Pitt said, “though I kind of wish you hadn’t listened to me.”

“We saw the gunfire and tried to give chase, but we couldn’t match your speed. I knew things were bad when the salvage ship materialized out of the mist. I take it Ana was aboard the vessel?”

Pitt nodded. “She tracked the Besso to the harbor at Burgas — and was abducted during a raid. Ralin apparently wasn’t so lucky.”

Stenseth shook his head. “We alerted the Coast Guard, who in turn called the local police when you were spotted entering port.”

“A good thing, too,” Giordino said. “Our beloved chariot here was about to give up the ghost, with us in it, when the police finally appeared.”

“I saw at the wharf that you got two of them.”

Giordino smiled. “Dirk dropped a load on them.”

Stenseth pointed to the bullet holes that peppered the truck. “And the third gunman?”

“Got away on a motorcycle,” Pitt said. “Hopefully, the police will catch him.” He looked to the dock. “Any trouble from the Besso?”

“No. They ran a parallel course to shore with us, then turned back to sea when we got close to Balchik.”

Ana extricated herself from the policemen and stepped to the truck. Her body sagged under the weight of the turmoil of the last two days, but her eyes smiled at the sight of the three NUMA men. “It took some conniving, but I talked the police out of arresting the two of you and impounding your ship.”

“I guess this means a ticker-tape parade is out of the question?” Giordino asked.

“There is the matter of a stolen pickup truck and a sunken cargo container that has a few of the locals upset. They obviously don’t understand what was at stake, and even the police are slightly skeptical. They’ve asked that you and your ship remain in Balchik until they confirm the contents of the HEU canister.”

Pitt frowned. “How long is that likely to take?”

“They’ve called in an Army bomb disposal unit to transfer the canister to a military installation near Sofia. I suspect we won’t have an answer until late tomorrow.”

“So be it. You’re welcome to bunk aboard the Macedonia tonight, if you’re going to be detained here yourself,” Pitt said.

“Thank you. It appears I will be coordinating enforcement response with the local authorities for a bit longer.”

“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” Stenseth said. “If the HEU was aboard the Besso, where is the canister now?”

Pitt gave him a crooked smile and pointed at the statue. They all watched as a ladder was extended from a fire truck to the marble Dionysus, a replica of a statue found in the waters off the town centuries earlier. A pudgy fireman climbed the ladder and nervously collected the canister. When he descended, he was surrounded by a circle of policemen, who made him set the canister on the ground as they huddled around. Nearly an hour later, a bomb disposal unit from the Bulgarian Army arrived to collect it. They loaded it into a van, then roared out of town with an armed escort, leaving the townspeople to gawk at the two divers on the pickup truck and contemplate what strange things they had brought to town.

It was early evening before Ana and the NUMA men returned to the Macedonia under a police escort. They stopped to examine the damaged container now sitting on the dock alongside the two mangled Zodiacs.

Thankful to board ship, they cleaned up for dinner after Ana was shown to a guest cabin. An hour later, she bounded into the wardroom, refreshed from a shower and a short rest. Wearing a borrowed ship’s jumpsuit, with her hair hanging freely, she raced to the table where Pitt, Giordino, and Stenseth awaited her.

“You look like a new person,” Pitt said.

Her eyes misted with joy. “I received a message from my office with fabulous news. Petar is alive!”

“I knew he was a tough cat,” Giordino said.

“He somehow survived his gunshot wound and was rescued in the harbor. He’s recovering at a hospital in Burgas.”

“That is indeed happy news.” Pitt stood and offered her a chair. “We’ll run down to Burgas and check on him once we’re cleared to leave port. I’m sure he’ll be happy to know you are all right.”

Georgi Dimitov entered the room and approached the table. “There you two are. Safe from your adventure, I’m glad to see.”

As Dimitov took a seat at the table, Pitt introduced him to Ana.

“I’ve heard all kinds of rumors aboard ship about your chase today,” Dimitov said. “Pray tell, what was all the excitement about?”

“Ana got caught up with some smugglers that happened our way,” Pitt said. “We helped her to shore and waited for the authorities to arrive.”

“Saved my life, would be more accurate,” Ana said. “And the lives of many others.”

“We were all quite worried aboard ship, I can tell you that.”

Pitt and Giordino eyed each other, knowing the archeologist was bursting with curiosity about the shipwreck.

Dimitov broke quickly. “We were wondering, as well, what you discovered on your dive?”

“Hmm, do you recall, Al?”

“Let’s see,” Giordino said. “I saw a nice lobster, but he eluded me in the debris of that old shipwreck.”

“It’s an old wreck?” Dimitov asked, his voice rising.

“Yes, easily two hundred years old,” Pitt said. “A beautifully preserved three-masted warship of about forty meters. Appeared to have a Turkish inscription on the bell.”

“You found the ship’s bell!” Dimitov popped out of his seat.

“Al’s got video of the whole thing, if we can find his camera in the harbor. Congratulations, Doctor, you’ve got a nice shipwreck on your hands… that is in all probability the Fethiye.”

Dimitov hopped around the table and shook Pitt’s hand, nearly pulling his arm off. As he tried the same with Giordino, Al jokingly crushed his hand in return.

“This is news that was worth waiting for.” He couldn’t stop smiling. “I trust that you will be able to return to the wreck site for additional dives?”

“Certainly. We’re stuck in Balchik for the moment, and awaiting some parts for the submersible, but we should be able to return to the wreck site at full strength soon enough and perform a detailed investigation. Plus, there is a delicate matter associated with the wreck that we’ll need to address with the local authorities.”

“What’s that?”

“A mystery, of sorts.” Pitt reached into his pocket and handed Dimitov a set of dog tags he had carefully removed from the submerged airman’s body. “On the wreck, we discovered the body of a man in a military flight suit with a parachute. The anoxic waters at that depth have left him quite well preserved. Judging by the suit, I’d say he’s been there forty or fifty years.”

Dimitov’s joviality vanished as he grasped the tags.

Anna shook her head. “I thought you said the shipwreck dated from the eighteenth century.”

“It does. Sank in 1770, if we have the right wreck.”

“Our flyboy likely bailed out of an airplane and drowned,” Giordino said. “As he sank to the depths, he may have been pushed along by a deep current until his parachute snagged on the wreck.”

“It’s quite macabre,” Dimitov said as he carefully studied the metal identification tags. “He’s Russian, a sergeant by the name of Alexander Krayevski. His unit is listed as the Fifty-seventh Bomber Division. And his blood type is O positive.”

“That info should get him a formal burial,” Pitt said.

“I believe so. I know an amateur historian near Burgas who would be very interested in this discovery.”

“Perhaps he could tell us about what happened to his airplane,” Ana said, “and help make burial arrangements.”

“Yes, quite possibly.”

Pitt turned to Stenseth. “Well, Captain, I guess our next destination has been determined, once we obtain our walking papers from Balchik.”

Stenseth gave an affirming nod. “Burgas it is.”

19

The grim faces that greeted Martin Hendriks foretold bad news.

“I wasn’t expecting a visit,” Valentin Mankedo said, “but it is good of you to come on short notice.” He ushered the Dutch industrialist and Vasko into the office of his marine salvage yard thirty miles north of Burgas.

“I was traveling when I received your text and decided a personal visit might be in order,” Hendriks said. “Your message was a bit cryptic, but it seemed to indicate the worst. Tell me what happened.”

“We have lost the highly enriched uranium,” Mankedo said.

Hendriks said nothing, but his ruddy face flushed.

“Europol and the Bulgarian police took an interest in the Crimean Star accident, working off an American research ship in the area,” Mankedo said. “I believe they had suspicions about her cargo, which may have been leaked by your Ukrainian supplier.”

“It is unrealistic to expect fidelity when you are dealing with thieves.” Hendriks shook his head. “I understood that you initially recovered the uranium?”

“We did. But the American ship came across our recovery operation shortly before its conclusion. Ilya was able to retrieve the HEU and left the site, but they realized we had recovered it.” He felt no need to mention Vasko attacking the Macedonia’s submersible.

“So how did they acquire it?”

Mankedo nodded at his cousin to take the rap.

“The American ship followed us,” Vasko said, “but we lost them near the Bosphorus. We sailed to Burgas, where we were awaiting instructions on the rendezvous with the Iranians. As we were preparing to leave port, we were boarded by a law enforcement team. We killed two of them, and I lost three of my men. In the engagement, the HEU was spirited off the ship.”

“I see. Not only did you lose the HEU, you potentially exposed us all.”

An icy silence filled the air. “All has not been compromised,” Mankedo said. “Our dead were anonymous contract workers from Ukraine, and the Besso escaped custody.”

“The authorities surely know her name and appearance. They will find her and track her to you.”

“I am making arrangements to remedy that… and hope to move the vessel out of the Black Sea shortly. I am confident in our safety, and in your secrecy. There will be less attention in fact since they recovered the stolen HEU.”

Hendriks leaned back in his chair and stared at the ground. “I recently had a meeting with Colonel Markovich in Kiev. He has indicated that the Russians are amplifying their presence in eastern Ukraine, while Europe and the United States watch idly. The national Army is demoralized and in disarray. The only effective counterforce has been Colonel Markovich’s band of irregulars.”

He turned his gaze to Mankedo. “As you know, I have contributed to their cause. In the process, I have paid you considerable sums to smuggle weapons and supplies to Markovich’s forces. They are facing a critical turning point. The Iranian missiles would have permitted a strike back at Crimea in a bold fashion that would have raised the cost of Russia’s intervention.” He scowled. “That opportunity is now lost.”

“Is there no way to acquire the missiles in another manner?” Mankedo asked.

“They are not for sale. The HEU was the only barter the Iranians would consider. Believe me, I pursued all avenues.”

“The operation was not without its risks,” Mankedo said. “It was in fact carried out exactly to plan. We couldn’t have foreseen the intrusion by the Americans nor the apparent foreknowledge of Europol, which I am convinced originated in Ukraine.”

Hendriks nodded and receded into his thoughts. His right hand unconsciously dipped into his coat pocket and his fingers located the reassuring shard of metal. “It is important that we act,” he said in halting words. His eyes regained their sharpness and he gazed out the office door. “I noticed you have in the compound a large number of crates marked ‘munitions.’”

“They are mostly ancient mines and artillery shells we recovered a few months ago.” Mankedo shook his head. “They came from a Russian World War II munitions ship that sank near Sochi. The brass shell casings have salvage value, when commodity prices are at the proper level.”

“How much do you have?”

“About twenty tons,” Vasko said.

“Do they still retain their explosive capability?”

“They are still quite dangerous,” Mankedo said. “The shells, in particular, show only light corrosion, due to the depth of the shipwreck. But they are of little use as weapons, considering their age and caliber.”

“But their explosive content has worth.” Hendriks looked at a painting on the wall, an amateurish seascape of gulls gliding above a curled breaker. “Your attack on the Crimean Star,” he said. “Tell me again how the crew was incapacitated.”

“Much of the waters of the Black Sea are devoid of oxygen,” Mankedo said. “Near the coastline, this begins at a depth of around fifty meters. Farther from shore, the oxygen-deprived waters occur at one hundred meters and deeper. Eons ago, the Black Sea was like a swamp. The algae consumed all the oxygen in the water, which in turn killed all the living organisms, then the algae itself. Over time, the dead organisms chemically converted to hydrogen sulfide, which remains locked in the depths. It is relatively harmless to swim through but turns into a deadly gas when it reaches the surface.”

“So you set off an underwater explosion ahead of the ship and the rising gas killed the crew?”

Mankedo nodded. “We discovered the phenomenon while salvaging a freighter off of Romania. We were blasting the wreck to get at its cargo. One of our dive boats was anchored directly above it. The explosion released a gas bubble that enveloped the boat. The entire dive crew died. I lost four good men, and learned that the Black Sea can be deadlier than we know.”

“If you can make a small blast,” Hendriks said, “then why not a large one?”

“I suppose there’s no limit on the size of the hydrogen sulfide cloud you could create, given a sufficient explosion and the appropriate location. What did you have in mind?”

“I want to annihilate Sevastopol.”

It was Mankedo’s turn to fall silent. “That would be mass murder,” he finally said.

“I’m not interested in striking the city. I’m interested in striking the Russian fleet’s port facility.”

Mankedo eyed the Dutchman. He had known him less than three years yet had seen a drastic change in his personality. The billionaire had transformed from a buoyant, arrogant man to a brooding and wrathful lost soul.

“I will pay you three times the market value for your munitions, plus five million euros for the attempt.”

“That is a generous proposal,” Mankedo said, “but it is not such a simple act. For the Crimean Star, we dropped a small explosive in her direct path and she sailed into the ensuing cloud. Targeting a fixed point on land is not controllable.”

Vasko sat up straight. “I worked the commercial docks there one summer as a youth. The prevailing winds are westerly. Providing there are no unusual weather patterns or heavy rains, you might target an explosion offshore that would drift over the port.”

“There is still the difficulty of approach,” Mankedo said. “The Russian Navy is not known for its welcoming behavior.”

“It depends on the depths and corresponding anoxic level,” Vasko said. “We might not need to get that close.”

Mankedo considered the payoff. “Let’s take a look at the port entrances. I believe I have a nautical chart of Sevastopol in storage.”

After he stood and left the room, Hendriks turned to Vasko. “Your accent. You are not Bulgarian. Are you from Ukraine?”

“Yes. I was raised in Petrovske, a town near Luhansk. I hear it was destroyed during the Crimean invasion.”

“Your family?”

“My father drank himself to death years ago. My mother and sister fled to Kiev when the artillery shells began to fall. They are living there with cousins, the last I heard.”

“How do you feel about Russia today?”

Vasko stared him in the eyes. “I will help you kill as many Russians as you desire.”

Mankedo returned with a chart, which he unfurled across the desk. The three men huddled around it, studying the narrow harbor of Sevastopol that cut into the western coast of the Crimean Peninsula.

“The Russian fleet is based here.” Vasko pointed to the northern side of the harbor. He dragged his finger due west, past the harbor entrance. “A mile or so out, the depth is about one hundred and twenty meters. Deep enough to reach a strong anoxic zone. The question would be, how much explosive is enough to set it off?”

“Twenty tons ought to be enough to send a message,” Hendriks said.

“I am no scientist,” Mankedo said, “but from what we’ve experienced, I would have to believe that would release an extremely powerful cloud of gas.” He gave Hendriks a hard look. “An act such as this would draw a great deal of attention.”

“You get me a towboat and barge filled with explosives and I will pilot it myself,” Hendriks said in a low tone.

“There is no need for such heroics,” Mankedo said. “We can set an unmanned boat on a course with either timed or remote charges to make the attack.”

Vasko nodded. “We can place a small explosive on the barge that will cause it to sink when it reaches a GPS-coded location, with a second timed charge to detonate the munitions at the designated depth. We will need a tow vessel capable of making the trek — one that would be untraceable to us.”

“A Russian-flagged vessel might be best,” Hendriks said.

“We might be able to acquire something out of Sochi,” Mankedo said.

“That will take too long,” Hendriks said. “I wish to strike soon. What about Turkey? Or a foreign ship?”

“A foreign ship, you say?” Vasko gave Mankedo a hard, knowing look. “I think I know just the vessel.”

20

It was late the next day when Ana received the word from the Bulgarian authorities that she was waiting to hear. Climbing the steps to the Macedonia’s bridge, she found Pitt and Giordino and relayed the news. “Bulgarian Army scientists have confirmed that the canister contains twenty-two kilos of weapons-grade highly enriched uranium.”

“So it was the real deal,” Pitt said.

“Enough to construct a sophisticated nuclear weapon, I’m told. It matches the material stolen from the Sevastopol Institute of Nuclear Energy in 2014.”

“Congratulations on its recovery,” Giordino said. “Do you know where the stuff was headed?”

“We suspect it was originally bound for a weapons dealer in Syria. But we’re still behind the curve in identifying its more recent owners. It seems our bald friend managed to elude the police yesterday.”

“What about his two associates?” Pitt asked.

Ana shook her head. “Neither was carrying any identification. Forensics has come up empty in matching anything in the Bulgarian databases. One was carrying Ukrainian coins in his pocket, so we suspect they were foreign workers operating under the radar.”

“That still leaves the Besso,” Giordino said.

“A more hopeful source,” Ana said. “The ship is registered in Malta to a shell company, but the Burgas harbormaster reports she has been a familiar sight in these waters. With some canvassing of the nearby port towns, we should be able to track her down.”

Captain Stenseth stepped over and joined the conversation. “If you really want to find her, just stay aboard the Macedonia a few more days,” he said with a laugh. “We can’t seem to avoid her.”

“I appreciate your hospitality, but I’m happier with solid ground under my feet. Are you still intending to sail to Burgas?”

“Just as soon as we’re cleared to depart.”

“I’ll pay a visit to the Balchik police chief and make sure that takes place right away.”

The NUMA ship was on the move within the hour and reached the port of Burgas just after sundown. Giordino joined Pitt and Ana on the bridge as the Macedonia nudged into an open berth and cast its mooring lines.

Giordino frowned. “I’m told our submersible parts won’t be delivered until morning.”

“Guess that means we have the night off,” Pitt said.

“Why don’t you two come with me to visit Petar?” Ana said. “He’d be happy to see you.”

“He could probably use some cheering up,” Pitt said.

The three made their way down the gangway, where they encountered Dimitov exiting the ship.

“Where are you off to, Professor?” Pitt asked.

“I’m going to call on my associate and see what we can find about your mysterious aviator. The ship isn’t leaving soon, is it?”

“We’ll be here at least until midday tomorrow,” Pitt said. “We won’t leave without you.”

Pitt hailed a taxi to the MBAL Burgas Hospital a mile away, where Ralin had a private room on the third floor. Ana peeked into his room and found him fast asleep. Letting him rest, the trio hiked a short way to a café for dinner, where they dined on grilled Black Sea turbot.

When they returned to his room, Ralin was groggy but awake. At the sight of Ana, his face lit up.

“I heard about Lieutenant Dukova,” he said, “but they told me nothing about you.”

“I feared the worst about you,” Ana said, sitting on the edge of his bed. “How do you feel?”

“Mostly just tired from the medication they keep pumping into me.”

Pitt eyed his heavily bandaged left leg. “How soon before you can dance again?”

“The doctors tell me I should make a complete recovery, but I can expect a few weeks of therapy. My femur got nicked up, but I’m bolted back together, with a leg full of titanium.”

Ana squeezed his hand. “I am so glad you are all right.”

“What happened on the salvage ship after I went for a swim?” he asked.

Ana relayed her escape from the salvage ship with the HEU and her fortunate encounter with the NUMA men.

He looked to Pitt and Giordino. “You two seem to have a nose for rescue.”

“Trouble smells us out all too often,” Pitt joked.

“Did the ship get away?”

“Unfortunately,” Ana said.

“We’ll find her sooner or later.”

“We’re searching,” Ana said. “Now, tell us what happened to you after you fell in the moon pool.”

“There’s not much to tell. I swam to the surface and clung to a mooring ball until a passing fishing boat spotted me. Good thing they found me when they did. The doctors say I wouldn’t have lasted much longer.”

An overweight nurse with slate gray eyes entered the room holding an intravenous bag and gave the visitors a petulant gaze. “It’s a bit late for visitors.”

“We’ll leave you to your care,” Pitt said to Ralin. Then he turned to Ana. “Are you going to return to the ship with us?”

Ana caught a fond look in Ralin’s eyes and pointed to a stuffed chair in the corner of the room. “I think I’ll stay with Petar tonight. I have to travel to Sofia in the morning to make my reports, so I’ll just leave from here.”

The NUMA men said their good-byes, promising to check on both agents the next time they were ashore. Exiting the hospital just after midnight, they found no taxis, so opted to walk back to the ship.

“They make a nice couple,” Giordino said.

“It would seem they’re on the verge of figuring that out.”

“I hope they don’t become targets for the gang that stole the HEU.”

“Someone won’t be happy,” Pitt said, “but they’re probably smart enough not to pick a fight with Europol.”

The bustling town had grown silent as they walked its narrow streets. They skipped the temptation to visit one of the smoky pubs still open along their route and hiked to the waterfront.

The commercial dock was dark and quiet as they stepped across its diesel-soaked timbers. Approaching the Macedonia’s berth, both men tensed, then stopped in their tracks. In front of them, the black harbor waters lapped gently against an empty dock.

The Macedonia was gone.