Odessa Sea

21

Heavy raindrops splattered against the window of the high corner office in the headquarters building of the Main Intelligence Directorate. A blanket of gray obscured the normally expansive vista across the Khoroshyovsky District of Moscow.

The GRU’s foreign intelligence field director, Maxim Federov, was oblivious to the weather as he sat at his desk, silently studying a crinkled document. The spymaster was equally unmindful of a slight, bespectacled man who sat nervously in front of him. Federov looked up only when a knock rattled against his office door and a third man entered.

Tall, with an athlete’s build and a soldier’s posture, he crossed the room with an air of confidence. His short blond hair framed a well-tanned face and striking blue eyes. Federov grimaced at the man’s beige Yves St. Laurent suit, yellow tie, and Italian loafers.

“Viktor Mansfield, you are ten minutes late,” Federov said. “Say hello to Dr. Anton Kromer of the State Historical Museum.”

“The unexpected rainfall was a deterrent to traffic.” Mansfield fell into a chair alongside Kromer and shook hands with the professor.

“Rain in Moscow in July is hardly unexpected,” Federov said.

“I hope this won’t take long.” Mansfield glanced at his watch. “I have tickets to the Bolshoi.”

Federov gave him a cutting stare. Viktor Mansfield, a nom de guerre, was one of his best field agents. His cover long established as a wealthy Austrian playboy with a murky royal background, Mansfield had made inroads with Europe’s leading industrialists and politicians, along with a few movie starlets. He played the role well, Federov thought. Perhaps too well, judging by his expense reports.

“Dr. Kromer has recently uncovered a historical document that has great importance to the state.”

Federov looked to Kromer to continue.

The pale academic cleared his throat. “I am the chief archivist for the State Historical Museum, which houses a sizable collection of artifacts from the Romanov era. We were preparing an exhibit on the works of nineteenth-century Russian artists held in the Imperial Collection and had retrieved some paintings from long-term storage in St. Petersburg. There were twenty-two paintings, some marvelous works. We were cleaning them in preparation for the exhibit when an interesting discovery was made on the back of one.”

He opened a thin photo album and showed Mansfield several shots of a large painting, brushed in vivid colors, of mounted Cossacks.

“Looks like an Ilya Repin,” Mansfield said.

Kromer smiled. “Indeed it is. One of just three in the collection.”

“What exactly was found with the painting?”

Kromer flipped a page to reveal several photos of the back of the painting. A close-up showed a piece of parchment wedged into one corner. “A sheet of aged paper, inserted facedown, was found affixed to the painting. We thought it would be some artist’s notes or perhaps an early sketch of the painting. It turned out to be something quite different.”

Federov held up the document. “It’s a treaty, of sorts.”

“What kind of treaty?” Mansfield asked.

“The Treaty of Petrograd, or so it is labeled. It’s an agreement between the Russian Empire and Great Britain.” Federov returned the fragile document to his desk. “The heart of the agreement entails a transfer of twenty percent of the oil and mineral rights of lands occupied by the Russian Empire to the British for a period of one hundred years, beginning some months after the treaty’s signature date.”

“That’s mad,” Mansfield said. “Who would sign such a document?”

“The Tsar himself.”

Kromer nodded. “We have verified the signature of Tsar Nicholas II on the document.”

“Why would he have signed away so much wealth?” Mansfield asked.

“To protect his own,” Federov said. “It was a reflection of the times. Dr. Kromer can explain.”

“The treaty is dated February 20, 1917. It was a desperate time for the Tsar. The Army was demoralized and unraveling after repeated battle losses to the Germans. Riots by factory workers and citizens had erupted in St. Petersburg. The Bolsheviks were beginning to stage violent protests throughout the country in the name of revolution. Sympathy for the cause existed not just among the peasants and factory workers, but also by many in the military. Nicholas knew the empire was slipping from his fingers and he looked for salvation from the Allies.”

“The Romanovs had many relatives throughout Europe,” Mansfield said.

“They certainly did. Both Nicholas and his wife, Alexandra, were first cousins to Britain’s King George V, as well as other European heads of state. And Nicholas had ongoing business dealings with the Allies during the war, especially for arms procurement. So the contacts were in place as the pressure closed in around him. Little did Nicholas and Alexandra know that after abdicating the crown on March fifteenth, they and their four children would be shipped off to the Urals — and assassinated a year later.”

“What was the Tsar hoping to gain by passing off a portion of the nation’s mineral wealth?”

“Political support,” Kromer said, “and, more critically, military assistance to the armed forces still loyal to him, which later evolved into the White Army. That, and security for a substantial sum of his own royal assets.”

“I assume you mean gold.”

“Aside from controlling the assets of the State, the Romanov family personally owned many of the gold mines in the Urals. It is well known that the State’s supply of gold bullion gradually disappeared during the revolutionary years. There has been much documentation about the Romanov gold in foreign hands, but little is known of the whereabouts of the family’s personal stock.”

“The treaty states,” Federov said, “that a to-be-determined sum of royal family assets were to be transferred to the Bank of England for safekeeping until stability was restored to the Imperial Russian Empire, at which time the treaty would be voided.”

“That didn’t work out so well,” Mansfield said. “How much did the Brits end up with?”

Federov gave him a blank look.

“We don’t know,” Kromer finally said. “I have a team researching the issue. There is evidence that some members of the Leib Guard escorted a shipment from St. Petersburg to Odessa shortly after the treaty date. Official records from that era are quite sporadic due to the chaos at the time. But rumors have persisted in some circles that a substantial sum of the Tsar’s gold was shipped out of Moscow banks.”

“No records on the British end?”

“The British banking records were heavily scrutinized by the Bolshevik government in the 1920s concerning the gold shipments made during the war for munitions purchases. But no evidence was ever uncovered of a supplemental deposit on behalf of the Romanovs. My own feeling is, the assets never made it into the hands of the British.”

“How much are we talking here?”

Kromer shrugged. “Without further clues, it is impossible to say. Given estimates of the Romanovs’ wealth and what was known to have ended up in the Bolsheviks’ coffers, easily one hundred and twenty-five to one hundred and fifty billion rubles, in today’s currency, were never accounted for.”

“Two billion U.S.?” Mansfield said, accustomed to spending cash in euros and dollars.

Kromer nodded. “It was presumably intended to be a sizable sum.”

“Well, it is a very interesting tale.” Mansfield sat up in his chair. “Is the GRU planning to publish a history book on the lost wealth of Imperial Russia?”

Federov stared daggers at Mansfield. “There are just four people who have seen this document.” He tapped the treaty with a stiff finger. “The three of us in this room — and the President. I can tell you that the President is extremely concerned about the contents of this treaty. At the very least, its existence represents a potential embarrassment to the Russian Federation, not to mention the possible legal and financial claims against the government.”

“Then why not just stuff it beneath Lenin’s tomb?” Mansfield said. “Or, better yet, put a match to it?”

“Because it may not be the only copy.”

“The treaty was signed by Tsar Nicholas II and British Special Envoy Sir Leigh Hunt,” Kromer said. “If one or more copies of the treaty was in Hunt’s possession, as seems likely, then for some reason they were never delivered to Whitehall.”

“Why’s that?”

“Hunt boarded a British cruiser named Canterbury in Archangel shortly after the treaty was signed. The vessel was sunk by a German submarine less than a week later, somewhere in the Norwegian Sea. There were no survivors.”

“Then the other treaty copies were destroyed,” Mansfield said. “End of story.”

Federov gazed out the window at the rain falling in ever-larger drops. He continued staring at the rain while responding to Mansfield. “As I indicated, the President has taken a specific interest in the matter. He has directed the agency to find and destroy any evidence or remaining copies of the treaty — and to pursue any links to the Romanov gold that was spirited out of the country and remains unaccounted.”

“There is a possibility that the treaty’s heavy parchment could survive cold-water immersion in a consular travel bag,” Kromer said. “And we don’t know what other communications may have been sent by Hunt.”

Mansfield got an uneasy feeling. Federov was in an impossible situation, and now the spy chief was sharing the same fate with him. To disappoint the current Russian president would not only be career-limiting, it could also be life-limiting. Federov gave him no chance to bow out of the assignment.

“Viktor,” Federov said, “you are an ex — Navy commando trained in underwater demolitions. You also have experience in piloting submersibles, even if lately it has been for the benefit of fat, wealthy Europeans looking at fish in the Mediterranean.” He gave him a cold smile. “You are the best-qualified man I’ve got for this assignment, and you will not fail me.”

“I appreciate your continued faith in me,” Mansfield said with just a hint of sarcasm.

“You will have the full support of the agency, as well as Dr. Kromer and his team, who will continue their historical research.”

“I understand.” Mansfield sighed. “When do I start?”

“The Arctic oceanographic ship Tavda is awaiting you in Murmansk. You have twenty-four hours to get aboard.”

“And if there is nothing left of the British ship when we find her?”

Federov looked out the window once more, wishing he could trade positions with Mansfield. He looked at the spy and cast a grim smile. “Then you will have enjoyed a nice sea cruise in a place only slightly less hospitable than Moscow.”

22

The assault team came from two small boats, deployed from a vessel that remained offshore under cover of darkness. Landing at a remote corner of the Burgas commercial dock, the eight black-clad intruders made their way to their target like a pack of alley cats on the prowl. At the ship’s gangway, the team divided into three groups. One held to the dock and manned the mooring lines while the others boarded the Macedonia.

Captain Stenseth was up late, computing fuel reserves with the second officer on watch. Two armed men stormed the bridge and leveled compact Uzi assault rifles at the two NUMA officers. But black knit hats and facial greasepaint didn’t cover the tattooed octopus tentacle on one of the intruder’s necks.

“What’s this all about?” Stenseth said.

Vasko leveled his weapon at the captain’s head. “We are borrowing your ship. Attempt to interfere and you will die. Now, tell me, how many are aboard?”

The Macedonia was carrying a complement of forty, plus the visiting archeologist. But Pitt, Giordino, and Dimitov were ashore. Stenseth was mentally dropping another head or two from the count, hoping someone might escape detection, when the Uzi erupted.

Vasko fired a single shot, which tore through Stenseth’s right arm just above the elbow. The sleeve of his white officer’s shirt grew red as blood ran down his arm. “I want the answer — now.”

The second officer took a step forward and dove at Vasko. But the Bulgarian detected the move and jumped aside. As the officer grabbed at his legs, Vasko fired a stream of bullets across his back, killing him instantly. Stenseth dropped to his knees to try to aid the man, but Vasko kicked him in the shoulder. “The crew count?”

“Thirty-eight,” Stenseth said through gritted teeth. The Macedonia’s captain was pulled to his feet, shoved face-first against the bulkhead, his wrists zip-tied behind his back.

Vasko clicked the transmitter of a small radio on his hip. “Engine room secure,” came the prompt reply.

“Bridge secure,” Vasko said. “Give me power to the main engines.”

“Affirmative. Five minutes.”

Vasko signaled the shore team, who released the ship’s berthing lines and hopped aboard. Most of the Macedonia’s crew had long since retired to their cabins and the intruders let them be. But they rounded up the midnight crew and a handful of scientists who were working late.

While waiting to get under way, Vasko opened a panel near the helm and disabled the satellite communications system and AIS transmitter, which allowed third parties to track the ship’s position. When the Macedonia’s engines rumbled to life, Vasko eased the vessel out of the harbor at a crawl, drawing no attention.

Once at sea, he extinguished the running lights and turned north, accelerating to top speed. Stenseth was allowed to remain on the bridge. He mentally recorded the route until he became woozy from blood loss.

After two hours, the ship slowed and turned toward the coastline. Vasko made a cryptic call over the ship’s radio and two green lights blinked a mile or so distant. He steered for the lights, which marked the narrow entrance to a small, rocky cove at the base of a high cliff.

Inside the narrow cove, a single pier extended across the water. Under its shaded lampposts, Stenseth could make out a salvage ship that looked like the Besso and a black crew boat tied up near shore. An open barge was moored at the opposite end of the pier.

Vasko spun the Macedonia around in the tight confines of the cove and slid it against the remaining open dock, backing its stern to the barge. A handful of workmen came out to meet the ship, several carrying assault rifles.

The Macedonia’s crew was roused from their cabins, stripped of any phones or electronics, and escorted off the ship under armed guard. As they were marched down the dock, Stenseth saw a pair of workers rigging a tow line from the barge, which was filled with heavy wooden crates.

The NUMA personnel were led into a warehouse and forced to stand at gunpoint. Satisfied they were secure, Vasko stepped to a main office and housing structure across the compound.

Mankedo didn’t bother to look up from his laptop when Vasko sat across the desk from him. “Any problems?”

“None,” Vasko said. “We crept out of Burgas without so much as a nod in our direction.”

“You made good time. We should have her out of sight of the coastline before sunup.”

“She runs about seventeen knots. Is the barge wired?”

“I’ve placed a small charge in the bilge to sink her. You’ll need to manage the munitions blow.”

“Semtex?”

“There’s plenty left in the explosives locker,” Mankedo said.

“What’s the plan of attack?”

Mankedo spun around his laptop, revealing a map of Sevastopol Harbor. “We’ll set the ship’s auto helm to run to a coordinate two miles due west of the harbor entrance. When the Macedonia reaches within five hundred meters of that point, it will trigger a detonation of the barge’s hull charge. We can use the same signal to initiate a timed detonation of the munitions.”

“Twenty minutes should be enough to allow her to sink to the seafloor. What about the tow line?”

“We could blow it separately, but the target depth is only ninety meters, well less than the length of the tow line. Once sunk, it will act as an anchor for the NUMA ship.”

“What do you want to do with the crew?” Vasko asked.

“Are they still aboard?”

“They’re in the warehouse.”

“Lock them in one of the caves for now. We’ll dispense with them later.” He closed the laptop and rose from his chair.

“I see the Besso beat us back,” Vasko said. “The reconfiguration went well.”

“Yes, the crew worked around the clock to change her appearance. It should be enough to pass a casual inspection. By the way, her new name is Nevena.”

“I thought by now she’d be headed to the Mediterranean.”

“She should be, but another project came up. Something we need to jump on just as soon as the Macedonia is on her way.”

He opened the door to a small anteroom. A heavyset man was bent over a table inside, poring through a stack of documents. Beside him, a small bowl contained some metal tags. The man looked up with mild disturbance.

“Ilya,” Mankedo said. “Say hello to Dr. Georgi Dimitov.”

23

Ana found Giordino refilling a coffee cup in the Burgas Police Department break room. Across the corridor, they could see Pitt arguing with the chief of police.

“How’s he doing?” Ana asked.

“Ready to eat someone’s liver for breakfast. Beyond notifying the Coast Guard, the chief constable’s reaction in searching for the Macedonia has been, shall we say, minus four hundred and sixty degrees Fahrenheit.”

“Absolute zero?”

Giordino nodded.

“I’m working through Europol to notify coastal towns in Romania, Turkey, and Ukraine. I’m not sure the local police can do a whole lot more.” She looked at Pitt, whose green eyes seemed afire. “I’ve never seen him so intense.”

“He doesn’t take kindly to anyone messing with his ships — or his people. He has a lot of friends aboard the Macedonia.”

“Loyalty means a lot to him?”

Giordino nodded. “You better know it. He’d swim the Atlantic if it meant helping a friend. On top of that, he’s not one to take no for an answer.”

“We better get him out of the chief’s hair before he gets himself thrown into a jail cell. I’ve got the video link with Washington set to go.” Ana poked her head into the chief’s office and retrieved Pitt.

He shook his head. “I finally convinced him to send some investigators to the dock. Should have been done hours ago. Any word from the Coast Guard?”

“They are organizing their resources and will be initiating search efforts shortly. The wet weather, unfortunately, will hamper an air search.”

She led Pitt and Giordino down the corridor to a darkened room with several chairs and a computer in it. A video conference link to the computer monitor showed two men at a table with a NUMA logo on the wall behind them. Hiram Yaeger, the ponytailed head of NUMA’s computer resource center, sat next to Rudi Gunn, Pitt’s deputy director. Both had a weary look from working into the wee hours of the morning.

“Good morning, gentlemen, and thanks for hanging in with us,” Pitt said. “What can you tell us from your end?”

“Our satellite link with the Macedonia was severed at 12:05 a.m. local time,” Yaeger said. “I checked the regional AIS system, which tracks the position and identity of all commercial vessels via satellite. It was deactivated a few minutes later. Both systems show the ship’s last recorded position as the commercial terminal in Burgas Harbor.”

“So the systems were disabled even before the ship left port,” Pitt said.

“That’s what the data indicates.”

“Someone knew a thing or two about hijacking,” Giordino said.

“Assuming it was a hijacking, every hour counts,” Gunn said. “The Macedonia is rated at a top speed of seventeen knots. Eleven hours have elapsed, so by now she could be two hundred miles from Burgas. That could place her anywhere from Ukraine to the gates of the Dardanelles.”

“We’ve issued alerts to all regional country Coast Guards,” Ana said. “The Bulgarian Coast Guard will be initiating sea searches out of Burgas and Varna, supplemented by an air search once the weather improves.”

“Any evidence who may have taken the ship? Or why?” Gunn asked.

“We can only suspect the salvage crew that wanted to sell the stolen uranium,” Pitt said. “I don’t have a good answer why they would take the Macedonia, other than payback for intercepting the HEU.”

“We’re getting some leads on their salvage ship, the Besso,” Ana said. “She has been a familiar site in these waters and has been listed as an additional target of the Coast Guard search.”

“Perhaps one will lead to the other,” Gunn said.

“What other search resources do we have at our disposal?” Pitt asked.

“I’ve got Max conducting an inventory of all available satellite imagery for the area,” Yaeger said, referring to the holographic interface he used to communicate with NUMA’s supercomputer. “These days, the reconnaissance focus is more directed toward Ukraine, so the coverage around Bulgaria may be slim.”

“We may have better luck with the Air Force,” Gunn said. “I’ve been in touch with the U.S. commander at Bezmer Air Base, about sixty miles west of Burgas. We have joint forces stationed there with the Bulgarians, including some recon aircraft. They’ve agreed to assist with the search efforts but also cited the local wet weather as restricting their capabilities.”

“Anything we can throw up there will help,” Pitt said.

“The Navy also has a visiting cruiser in the Black Sea,” Gunn said, “and they’ve been informed of the Macedonia’s disappearance. They’ve promised to do what they can.” Gunn could see the impatient look in Pitt’s eyes. “I’m afraid there’s not much more that can be done at the moment, boss. We’ll have to sit tight while the search resources get deployed.”

“Thanks, Rudi, I know you’ve done all you can.”

Gunn’s eyes focused through his thick horn-rimmed glasses. “Dirk, I hate to ask, but is there any chance they took the Macedonia offshore and sank her?”

Pitt stared at the monitor a long moment. “No,” he said in a determined voice. “That’s a proposition I simply won’t accept.”

24

The armor-plated BMW X5 pulled up to an aged white apartment building on the outskirts of Kramatorsk. The building’s only distinguishing feature was a multitude of triangular concrete barricades that surrounded it like a ring of dragon’s teeth. One of the armed guards patrolling the perimeter directed the luxury SUV to a side parking lot. The driver parked beside a pockmarked armored personnel carrier and opened the rear passenger door.

Martin Hendriks felt the chill of a damp Ukrainian morning as he approached the building’s portico. A soldier at the entrance prepared to search him but was overruled by an older armed man who had appeared at the door and greeted the businessman. “It is good to see you again, Mr. Hendriks. This way, please.”

The guard led the Dutchman up two flights of stairs to a corner apartment that had been converted into a war room. But it was not the abode of a well-provisioned military leader. The room’s few furnishings were old and tattered. Boxes of canned food were stacked in a corner near some army cots.

At the room’s center, a bearded man in fatigues was bent over a table, studying a map. His grizzled face warmed at the sight of Hendriks. “Martin, a surprise to see you again so soon after our visit in Kiev.” He stepped over and shook hands.

“I had business in Bulgaria, Colonel, and thought I would stop by on my return.”

Colonel Arseny Markovich led Hendriks to a pair of overstuffed chairs near the window. Markovich was commander of the 24th Territorial Battalion, one of several pro-government paramilitary forces established in Ukraine after the Russian annexation of Crimea in 2014. Loosely supporting the government’s Armed Forces of Ukraine, the battalion operated in the hotly contested Donetsk and Luhansk regions of eastern Ukraine.

“Do you bring good news on your deal to acquire surface-to-surface missiles?” the commander asked.

“Regrettably not,” Hendriks said. “Our stock-in-trade was intercepted by the authorities before we could get it to the Iranians. The deal is now dead. I’m sorry to have let you down.”

Colonel Markovich, whose home village was controlled by Russian-supported separatist rebels, accepted the news stoically. “You have provided us a great deal of arms and equipment over the past three years. Our situation would be much worse without your support.”

“How is the situation?”

“Relatively calm at the moment, but it is simply a part of the seasonal cycle. A cease-fire gets brokered in the fall and things remain quiet over the winter. Then in the spring the separatists ignore the peace treaties and launch new offensives.”

Hendriks shook his head. “Those missiles would have been a nice deterrent.”

“They might have even turned the tide. The real problem, as you know, is the Russians. Without their stealth support of the rebels, we could collectively crush the separatist forces and restore unity to Ukraine in a matter of weeks.”

“They are still present everywhere?”

Markovich nodded. “I have received reports that plain-uniformed Russian troops are filtering into Luhansk in great numbers. They mean to launch an offensive to the west, perhaps in an attempt to take Dnipropetrovsk. Who knows, maybe even Kiev?”

“Can they be stopped?”

“Not if the West continues to look the other way. We lack the resources to halt the Russians if they wish to take Ukraine. Outside military support would become critical to our survival.” He shook his head. “The European nations are too reluctant to help. Our only hope is with America. We need them to step in with weapons support. Or more.”

“I have come to the same conclusion. The Americans are cautious, but they can be provoked into action. The natural mistrust between the U.S. and Russia presents an opportunity to be exploited.”

“But what can we do?”

“Simply strike a spark between the two. We may in fact draw the Americans in very soon.” Hendriks explained the planned attack on Sevastopol.

A smile crossed the colonel’s face. “That is striking at the heart of the matter. Maintaining their naval port at Sevastopol was certainly a key to the Russian invasion of Crimea.”

“Truth be known, I would prefer a strike at Moscow.”

Markovich nodded, realizing Hendriks’s hatred of the Russians matched his own. “You may incite a dangerous reaction,” he said. “The Russians will have to save face. They might retaliate by sinking an American warship, as they did the nuclear submarine Scorpion.”

Hendriks gave him a long, cold stare. “That is what I am banking on. The Americans will be angered. It will cause them to fight any further attempts at Russian expansionism, beginning with Ukraine. It would not surprise me to see American troops on the ground here within a few weeks. Then, I trust, you will be able to exterminate the separatists once and for all.”

“With delight,” the colonel said. “It is a bold, shrewd plan. You have given us a gift greater than missiles. You have given us hope for victory.”

“That is what I wish.”

“You are a true friend of Ukraine.”

Hendriks stood and put on his overcoat, and Markovich escorted him down the stairs. At the door, the colonel turned and asked, “Are you making a visit to Hrabove?”

“Yes.” Hendriks looked down at the ground.

“Be careful. And don’t drive on the road after dark.”

“I will be back to the airfield at Dnipropetrovsk well before then.”

Hendriks returned to the BMW, where his driver waited with the engine idling. He climbed into the warm interior and stared out the window as the car headed southeast. Leaving the city, they drove across miles of rolling plains. Scattered plots of maize and beans gave way to large fields of wheat and barley.

Thirty miles on, they neared the town of Toretsk, where they were stopped at a makeshift border crossing that divided government lands from separatist-held territory. As an unarmed businessman from the Netherlands, he was quickly allowed to pass. The BMW drove another forty miles across rural lands before approaching the dusty farm town of Hrabove.

Hendriks, who had been dozing, suddenly grew more attentive. Making note of the local landmarks, he guided the driver out of town and down a dirt road. Gazing at a vacant field that looked like all the others, he had him stop. Hendriks climbed out and walked a few yards to a small pile of stacked rocks. Scattered about its base were the remains of some long-dead flowers. He clawed one of the dried stems from the dusty soil and stepped into the adjacent field.

He walked to its center, stopped, and stared up at the sky. He stood for nearly an hour, lost in another place and time. A cold breeze knifed through his clothes, but it didn’t touch his already frozen soul. Standing there in the field, he felt more dead than alive.

After a while, he patted his coat pocket, feeling the familiar metallic object, which gave him a morsel of comfort. He dropped the flower stem, reached down, and grabbed a fistful of the dark, untilled soil. Squeezing it until his hand shook, he released the earth into the sacred confines of his pocket. Words, a curse of some sort, tried to form on his lips but were lost in the wind.

His anguish at last released, the broken man returned to the car, a lone tear dried on his cheek.

25

Summer Pitt shook her head as she approached the Odin’s survey shack. Even with the door closed, a heady blues riff from guitarist Joe Bonamassa could be heard blaring from the small room. Flinging open the door, Summer found her twin brother, Dirk Jr., seated in front of a sonar monitor, stomping his feet to the music.

As she entered, he nonchalantly cranked down the volume on a tabletop speaker.

“Really?” she said. “You’re waking the fish from here to the North Pole.”

He stifled a yawn. “Just needed a little juice to finish my shift.” He glanced at a clock on the bulkhead and saw it was a few minutes to four in the morning.

“I should have known you were headed down an all-consuming path when Dad loaned you his Eric Clapton collection.”

Dirk smiled. “He knows a thing or two about the blues.”

There was no disguising their resemblance to their father, the head of NUMA. Both carried his strong facial features and were tall, lithe, and strong. But while Dirk had the same dark hair, Summer was a redhead. They had followed in his seafaring footsteps, studying marine engineering and oceanography before joining him at the underwater research agency.

“Anything to report on the sonar?” she asked.

“It’s been a steady diet of mud and sand.”

They were performing a multibeam sonar survey of the northern coastal fjord region of Norway to study its former glaciers. Those glaciers were believed to have extended beyond the current fjord channels, leaving subsea scouring and debris zones when they retreated after the last Ice Age. Deploying a towed array sonar, the NUMA research ship Odin surveyed the region, allowing scientists to study the history of glacial retreats in conjunction with changes in global climate.

“We should finish surveying the final search grid on your shift,” Dirk said.

“It’s been a long, cold, and tiring four weeks,” Summer said. “I’ll be glad to wrap up this project.”

“If we hang around here much longer, we’re liable to be dodging icebergs soon.”

She motioned for Dirk to give up his seat, but he shook his head. “I’ve got two minutes left on shift.” He motioned toward the clock. “Grab yourself a cup of coffee.”

Summer rolled her eyes and stepped to a coffeepot wedged in the corner of the cramped sonar bay. “What are you hoping to find in the last two minutes?” she asked, pouring herself a cup. “Signs of a new glacier?”

Silence.

She turned to her brother, who had his face glued to the monitor.

“Not a glacier,” he said slowly, “but a shipwreck.”

Summer rushed over to see a dark image scroll down the screen. It had a clearly defined rectangular shape with a pointed prow. A thin shadow protruded off one side.

“A steel wreck, sitting upright,” she said. “It looks to be in pretty good shape.”

Dirk marked the position, then consulted a nautical chart spread on the table. “Must be an unknown wreck. It’s not marked on the chart.”

“It’s nearly one hundred and fifty meters long,” Summer said. “A pretty large vessel.”

“Take a look at that.” Dirk pointed to a small shadow. “Might be a gun turret.”

“If it’s a warship, there must be a record of its loss.” She waved him out of his seat. “A pretty nice score on the two-minute drill, but we still have a geological survey to complete. I’ll take it from here.”

Dirk eased out of the chair and refilled his coffee cup.

“Aren’t you going to bed?”

“Heck, no. First I have to go to the ship’s library and see if I can find out what ship that is.”

“And then?”

“And then I have to talk the captain into letting us dive it.”

Four hours later, Summer completed her sonar shift, concluding the final search grid without any new geological discoveries. The Odin turned around and retraced its path southward toward the site of the shipwreck. As the NUMA survey was ahead of schedule, Dirk had no problem convincing the captain to take an extra day on the journey home to investigate the wreck.

Dirk joined Summer at the sonar station as they made several more passes over the target, gathering detailed images of the wreck while pinpointing its location. In a chilly breeze on the stern deck, they met a brawny underwater technology specialist named Jack Dahlgren, who helped retrieve the sonar towfish.

“It’s colder than my ex on an iceberg,” Dahlgren said.

Dirk grinned. “Feels like Amarillo in August to me.”

“I wish. Y’all want to take a dive on the wreck now?”

“The seas look stable enough.” Dirk gazed over the ship’s rail. “Let’s get the submersible prepped while the captain puts us on position.”

An hour later, under darkening skies, a bulb-shaped yellow submarine was lowered over the stern. The light green waters of the Norwegian Sea washed over the vessel as Dirk flooded its ballast tanks. Summer sat beside him at the controls while Dahlgren wedged into a seat behind. They let gravity draw them to the seabed as the waters outside their viewport faded to black.

“So, ancient Viking ship or Norwegian cruise liner?” Dahlgren asked.

“Neither, methinks,” Dirk said. “The online records are pretty sparse for shipwreck data in this region. I couldn’t find any record of a commercial vessel lost near here, so if it’s a freighter or fishing schooner, it might be a challenge to identify.”

Summer looked over her shoulder at Dahlgren. “But we don’t think it’s a commercial ship.”

“That’s right. The sonar passes show what look to be gun turrets at several locations around the ship. I also found one historical reference to a warship that was presumed lost in the area.”

“What was that?” Dahlgren asked.

“The Canterbury. A Royal Navy C-class light cruiser built in 1915. She was presumed lost at sea in February 1917, but postwar records indicated she was torpedoed by a German U-boat, the UC-29.”

“This is a long ways from Jutland,” Dahlgren said. “What were they doing squaring off way up here?”

“The Allies were running guns and munitions to the Russians via Archangel,” Dirk said. “Once the Germans got wind of things, they tried to intervene as best they could.”

“So the Canterbury was an escort ship?”

“Possibly. She was on a return voyage from Archangel, though the records didn’t indicate whether she was accompanied by any other vessels.”

Dirk eased their descent as they approached the bottom at two hundred meters. Almost directly below them, a long dark shape materialized on the seafloor. Too small for a ship, Summer identified it as a ship’s funnel. Lying dented in the sand, it pointed toward a towering black shape at the fringe of their view.

Dirk engaged the thrusters and glided toward the object, scattering a deep school of mackerel. The ship materialized moments later, a forest green mass of steel engulfed in cold deepwater encrustation. Dirk held up a photo of the Canterbury he had culled from his research.

Dahlgren glanced at the slab vertical sides of the ship in the image and compared it to the mass in front of them. “Looks like the spitting image.”

They approached the wreck from its starboard flank, noting the ship rested on its keel at a slight angle. Moving up the side of its hull, Dirk turned to his right, guiding the submersible toward the forward deck. He could already tell from the size and limited open decking that the wreck was neither a freighter nor a fishing vessel. As they hovered above the starboard rail, he spotted the first indication of the ship’s true intent, a corroded light machine gun mounted on a stand. As they moved toward the bow, the submersible’s bright lights cast a shadow over a large gun and turret.

“Certainly looks like one of her six-inch guns,” Dirk said.

“We need to roll video.” Summer reached to a control panel and activated an exterior-mounted camera.

“I’ll try to cover as many features as I can,” Dirk said.

He slowly crisscrossed the length of the ship, allowing the camera to record the three additional six-inch gun turrets, a stack of torpedoes and launching tubes near the stern, and one remaining funnel. On the port flank, they found a large hole in the lower hull, the handiwork of the U-boat. After filming the damage in detail, Dirk guided the submersible to the Canterbury’s forward superstructure, rising to bridge level.

Approaching the top-level bridge, they peered through the empty window frames into the control station. Though the wooden ship’s wheel had long since vanished as a feast for marine organisms, the remnants of the brass binnacle and telegraph stood erect near the helm.

Dirk eased the submersible around the side of the bridge until its propulsion fans kicked up a cloud of sediment that obscured their visibility. He descended a level and moved aft, finding a short bank of cabins whose doors had been jarred open by the ship’s sinking. Poking the nose of the submersible into each room, he let the camera film until the sediment again flew. He continued moving down and aft until the submersible reached the stern rail.

“That’s almost an hour of video.” Summer shut down the camera. “If that’s not enough detail to document her as the Canterbury, I don’t know what will.”

“I bet there are some descendants of her crew that will appreciate a viewing,” Dirk said.

She nodded. “I’ll make sure a copy gets sent to the Royal Navy Association.”

Dirk took another high-level pass, the ship appearing forlorn in the dark depths. As the submersible began its slow ascent, a silent rumination fell over the NUMA crew, their thoughts on the young sailors who died on the ship a century before.

Their quiet reflection ended when the submersible broke the surface to find a modern Russian oceanographic ship commanding the seas barely a hundred yards away.

26

“They’re on it.”

Viktor Mansfield grimaced at the words. He looked to the ship’s captain, who stood beside a sonar operator’s console.

“Are you sure it is the same wreck?” Mansfield asked.

“Our hull-mounted sonar array shows a one-hundred-and-thirty-five-meter steel wreck, possibly mounting guns. We’re within a half mile of the German submarine’s coordinates of the sinking, in an otherwise remote section of the Norwegian coast. Come see for yourself.”

Mansfield stomped across the bridge of the Russian oceanographic survey ship Tavda and glanced at the color sonar screen. He didn’t have to study the image’s details to know it was the Canterbury. “How did they know to get here now?”

The hog-faced captain of the Tavda chortled. “Why don’t you call them up and ask?”

“You talk to them. Tell them the wreck is a sovereign ship of Russia and to stand off.”

The captain nodded. “I can do that.”

Mansfield gazed at the turquoise survey ship, then focused on a submersible surfacing near its stern. “Before you talk to them, have my demolitions kit brought to the launch deck. I’m going to take care of the wreck straightaway.”

Across the waves, the recovery team pulled the yellow NUMA submersible aboard the Odin. The lights on the stern deck were fully ablaze under the fading daylight as Dirk, Summer, and Dahlgren exited the craft. Dahlgren set the recovery team to work, inspecting the submersible and preparing it for future dives.

“I’m going to make a copy of the video first thing.” Summer hurried toward a nearby laboratory bay, carrying a portable hard drive.

Dirk gave her a wave. “I’ll report to the bridge and see what the Russians are doing here.”

He made his way to the Odin’s pilothouse, where the captain, a bearded man named Littleton, was peering through binoculars at the Tavda. “What’s up with our nosey neighbors?”

“Good question,” Littleton said. “He steamed right up to our position and wasn’t very considerate about backing away when I told him we had underwater operations in progress.” He passed the binoculars to Dirk. “Nice-looking ship, though.”

Dirk admired the Russian vessel, nearly twice the size of the Odin. It featured multiple A-frames for deploying equipment, a moon pool, and a covered helicopter on an elevated pad amidships.

“She’s called the Tavda,” Littleton said. “A recently launched oceanographic research ship with icebreaking capability. Apparently, she’s also designed to perform deep-sea salvage operations. Or so say the news reports.”

“Looks first-rate. I wonder what she’s doing here?”

His query was answered a short time later when the ship’s radio crackled with a Russian-accented voice. “Research vessel Odin, this is the survey ship Tavda. You are intruding on a shipwreck of the Russian Federation. Please vacate the area at once.”

“Tavda, this is Odin,” Littleton said. “We have conducted a survey of the wreck and ascertained she is the British light cruiser Canterbury, sunk in 1917. Over.”

There was a long pause. “Negative. The wreck is a warship of Russia. We must insist that you vacate the site at once.”

Littleton looked at the Tavda again with his binoculars. A small contingent of armed Marines were assembling on the fan deck. He turned back to Dirk. “I think they’re serious about the wreck. Could they be right?”

“It’s possible but doesn’t seem likely. The wreck’s dimensions and features match up perfectly to the specs we have on the Canterbury. But I guess it doesn’t much matter now. We’ve got the video of the survey. We can turn it over to the British and let them fight the Russians over it.”

The captain nodded. “Then I guess we’re done here.” Littleton radioed the Tavda and informed them the NUMA ship would move off the site as requested.

Summer stepped onto the bridge a few minutes later. “Why are we moving?” she asked.

“We don’t want to get shot over a rusty shipwreck.” Dirk motioned toward the Tavda. “Our Russian neighbors claim it’s theirs — and seem willing to wage a war over it.”

Summer shook her head. “No, I think we need to take another dive on her. There’s something on the video I think you should see.”

She plugged a flash drive into a computer at the rear of the bridge. Dirk and Littleton crowded around as footage of the Canterbury appeared. Summer fast-forwarded to the halfway point.

“At about thirty minutes in, we filmed the starboard cabins just beneath the bridge,” she said. “This is the first one coming up.”

The video showed the interior of the bridge as the submersible slid around to the starboard side. The submersible then dropped down a level and focused on an open steel door. The camera peered into the small room, showing the corroded remains of a metal desk and porcelain sink on one side and some scattered debris on the floor. The view lingered for a moment, then slowly turned away and out of the cabin as a flurry of silt from one of the submersible’s side thrusters filled the room.

“There!” Summer stopped the video.

Dirk and Littleton looked at each other and shook their heads.

“Didn’t see anything,” Dirk said.

“Look on the floor, near the side bulkhead, just before the silt gets thrown up.” Summer replayed the last section of the video, this time at slow speed.

“That?” Dirk pointed at a reflection in the corner.

“Yes.”

Summer froze the frame and enlarged the image. Dirk and Littleton stared at it and nodded. There was no mistaking the small object that glimmered on the floor.

It was a bar of solid gold.

27

With a large plastic crate of explosives secured to the submersible’s prow, Mansfield could barely see through the forward viewport. Only by raising his head and sitting forward in the pilot’s seat could he see past the crate to the stern of the Tavda.

He glanced to the right of the cockpit, where a technician completed a predive checklist.

“Clear to proceed?” Mansfield asked.

“Yes, all systems are operational.”

Mansfield radioed the deck crew to initiate launch. The large white submersible was hoisted over the ship’s moon pool and lowered into the water. Mansfield flooded the ballast tanks and activated a forward-looking sonar system. Before the submersible reached the seafloor, he had a directional bead on the shipwreck.

He approached the Canterbury from the stern, then elevated the submersible past one of the ship’s massive bronze propellers, which were embedded in the seafloor. Reaching the stern rail, he moved forward along the portside deck. Due to his limited visibility, he kept the submersible well outboard of the ship.

As he passed a gun turret amidships, he discerned the rising shadow of the cruiser’s high superstructure. Ascending to the bridge, he inspected it briefly, then eased the submersible down a level. As gently as he could, he parked the vessel on the corroded steel supports of what had been a teakwood deck. A row of four cabins stretched in front of them.

Mansfield nodded to the technician. “Release the explosives here.”

Kromer, the Moscow researcher, had provided him a crude plan of the ship and concluded Sir Leigh Hunt most likely would have berthed among the officers’ cabins beneath the bridge.

Using an articulated robotic arm, the technician released a strap securing the explosives, then pushed the plastic crate off a forward-mounted skid plate. Mansfield assisted by backing the submersible away from the bulkhead. As the crate slid away, stirring a small cloud of silt, Mansfield noticed a faint light near the top of the bridge.

The technician strained to see through the murk. “It’s away, and positioned against the bulkhead.”

Mansfield looked for himself, then immediately elevated the submersible. Ascending past the top of the bridge, he was met by the lights of another submersible.

The two crafts faced each other nose to nose, their LED exterior lights blinding each other’s pilot. Mansfield made out the blue lettering NUMA on the opposing vessel’s stern. In the opposing cockpit, he spotted two men and a woman wearing turquoise jumpsuits.

The two submersibles operated on different communication frequencies, so they could not talk to each other. Mansfield called his support ship to relay a message to the Odin. A response came seconds later.

“The NUMA ship reports its submersible left something on the wreck that it needs to retrieve. They will leave the site shortly.”

Mansfield shook his head. “I think not,” he said to his copilot.

As the NUMA submersible turned and descended on the starboard side of the superstructure, its occupants gave Mansfield a friendly wave. The Russian watched it disappear, then guided his submersible down a parallel path on the port side of the bridge. Returning to the crate of explosives, he eased close and hovered over it. “Activate the timer.”

The technician extended the manipulator arm and opened a small compartment door. Mansfield edged close so that they could look down into the opening, where a timer clock sat next to a large toggle switch.

The technician glanced at Mansfield for confirmation, then reached in with the manipulator and flipped the switch. The LED timer illuminated with a preset time of twenty minutes, which began counting down. “Detonation timer activated,” he said.

Mansfield nodded and activated the thrusters. Backing away from the Canterbury, he purged the ballast tanks and they began ascending toward the surface. Rising above the wreck, he spotted the lights of the NUMA submersible on the opposite side of the Canterbury’s bridge. He watched with satisfaction as he distanced himself from the opposing submersible — and the explosives-laden wreck.

28

“Get me a little closer,” Summer urged.

Dirk had maneuvered the submersible to the doorway of the first starboard cabin, where Summer extended the manipulator to its full reach. The gold bar, under a thin coating of silt, lay just beyond Summer’s grasp.

“I can’t get much closer without knocking down a bulkhead or two.” Dirk elevated the submersible and pivoted it slightly before bringing the nose against the doorway a second time, then dropping to the deck. A fresh cloud of silt rolled through the cabin, forcing Summer to wait for the water to clear.

Through the easing murk, she extended the manipulator once more and again fell short.

Dahlgren noticed a slim bone handle protruding beneath the bar. “It looks like it’s sitting atop the remains of an attaché case. Maybe you can pull it over.”

Summer grabbed the handle with the claw. Pulling gently, she shook her head as the handle tore away from the decayed remains of the case. “Nice idea, in theory.” She released the handle and gazed at the gold bar. “I’d hate to leave it here for the Russians.”

“You just need a rake.” Dirk scanned the cabin and pointed to several thin, rusty slats. “Try one of those bits of scrap over there.”

Summer used the manipulator to reach one of the steel slats, a remnant of a bed frame. Using it like a rake as Dirk suggested, she dragged the bar a foot or two, then released the beam and wrapped the manipulator’s claws around the gold bar. “Got it.”

Dirk began easing the submersible away from the cabin when a deep rumble sounded through the water. A second later, they were struck by an invisible shock wave. The submersible was hurled away from the ship, smashing over the side rail and tumbling end over end until driven into the seabed a short distance away. As bits of corroded debris fell through the water in a black rain, the submersible vanished in a cloud of silt.

The submersible’s darkened interior echoed with hissing, creaking, and electrical alarms, as well as some human moans. Summer wiped a bead of blood from her eyes that had trickled from a gashed scalp and realized the interior wasn’t completely dark. A thin row of panel lights flashed near the helm, filling the interior with red and yellow hues.

Her head felt like a jackhammer was splitting her skull, and when she tried to move, her limbs refused to respond. Someone rummaged around the floorboards and shoved her leg aside, igniting a new agony. She tried to cry out but felt too woozy to speak. She perked up when she realized it was her brother but flinched when he leaned over and she saw his face was red. Was it blood or just the lights?

“Hang on, sis,” he said. “The elevator is headed up.”

She gave him a smile and then drifted into a cold, deep sleep.

29

Mansfield’s submersible reached the surface as the explosives detonated. He and his copilot felt only a slight vibration but watched as a fountain of froth erupted from the sea nearby. The submersible was hoisted aboard the Tavda, and Mansfield made his way to the bridge.

“The American ship has inquired about an explosion,” the captain said.

“Tell them we know nothing about it but are standing by to assist if needed.”

Mansfield listened to the angry voice of Littleton relay that he had a submersible in the water. Smiling, he turned to the Tavda’s captain. “Reply that we can assist in the search, but, regrettably, our own submersible requires immediate repairs, which will take several hours.”

The Odin’s captain ignored the message.

A short time later, Mansfield noticed the NUMA ship had several spotlights trained on the water. Following the beams through a pair of binoculars, he spotted the yellow submarine bobbing on the surface.

“So they survived,” he muttered. He turned to the captain. “The Americans will surely leave the site now. When they do, follow them at the extreme range of our radar system until they give an indication of turning to port.”

“What then?”

Mansfield yawned and headed for the door. “Alert your helicopter pilot, then wake me in my cabin.”

Across a rising sea, the NUMA submersible was lifted aboard ship and surrounded by an anxious circle of crewmen. Captain Littleton joined them as the hatch was opened. Dirk appeared, battered and bruised, holding the semiconscious body of his sister. Passing Summer to the ship’s doctor, he ducked back inside to help Dahlgren, who could stand on only one leg. Dirk accompanied them to the ship’s medical ward, then hobbled over to Littleton.

“You all right, son?” the captain asked.

“We got knocked around pretty good down there, but I’m fine. Jack has a compound fracture to his left leg, and I fear Summer has some internal injuries as well as a concussion.”

“We’ve got a good doctor aboard, but we’ll make for Bergen at top speed all the same.” Littleton gazed at the submersible’s dinged and discolored exterior. “What happened down there?”

“I’m not sure.” Dirk shook his head. “I’m guessing some sort of large explosion on the port side of the ship. But there’s one thing. We met up with the Russians’ submersible in the general vicinity just a few minutes earlier.”

“They surfaced right about the time of the blow,” Littleton said.

“I should have known. They must have set a timed charge. Blew apart the entire superstructure. We were lucky to have had the cabin deck as a barrier or else we would have bought it. Fortunately, the sub maintained internal pressure. I was able to purge one of the ballast tanks with emergency power and we floundered to the surface.” He began walking around the submersible, inspecting its damage.

“The Russians offered to help search for you,” Littleton said, “but claimed their submersible was down for repairs.”

“They must be after something belowdecks on the Canterbury.”

“More gold?”

“Perhaps.”

“Were you able to grab the gold bar you’d seen in the cabin?”

Dirk shrugged. “We had it for a moment. Wasn’t a big concern after everything went black.”

The two men made their way to the front of the submersible.

“I guess the trip paid for itself.” Dirk pointed to the cradled manipulator.

Visible within the clutch of its steel claws was the yellow sheen of the gold bar.

30

“Al, they’ve found the Macedonia.”

Dozing in a corner of the Burgas police station’s video conference room, Giordino woke with a start. He stood and moved swiftly to the conference table, where Pitt was back in touch with Gunn and Yaeger in Washington. The men showed a sudden sense of vigor that masked the fatigue of the last forty-eight hours.

Giordino took a seat at the table and joined the conversation. “Where is it?”

“North-central Black Sea,” Yaeger said, “about forty miles southeast of Sevastopol. We just identified her on a satellite image from the National Reconnaissance Office. It’s from one of their Air Force birds, taken about ninety minutes ago.”

Yaeger typed at his console and displayed on the screen a grainy photo. The digitally enhanced image showed a small ship trailed by a box-shaped vessel. Yaeger enlarged the photo until a few distinct features on the ship could be seen. “It wasn’t a direct satellite pass, and the weather adds degradation, but it appears to be the Macedonia. The dimensions match up, the topside structures are correct, and you can even make out a submersible on the aft deck.”

“That’s her,” Pitt said.

“Yep.” Giordino nodded. “That’s exactly where the submersible was positioned when we came into port.”

“Nice work, Hiram,” Pitt said. “You found the needle in a haystack.”

“Max did all the work,” Yaeger said. “I just input the vessel’s configuration and sent her to work scanning satellite images.”

“What’s with the vessel behind her?” Giordino asked. “Is she towing a barge?”

Yaeger readjusted the image and zoomed in on the second vessel. Under magnification, they could see, it was an open-hulled steel barge loaded with crates.

“It’s a towed barge, all right,” Pitt said. “You can make out the tow line on one of the forward bollards.”

“Why would someone hijack a research ship and use it to tow a barge?” Gunn asked.

“There must be a clue in the cargo,” Yaeger said.

“Most likely,” Pitt said. “Whatever they’re towing, it’s slowing them down. That will make them more vulnerable.”

“If she makes it to Sevastopol, things might get ugly trying to pry her back from the Russians,” Gunn said.

Pitt nodded. “Give us her coordinates. We’ll contact the Ukrainians and see if their Coast Guard can get to her first. They can at least radio Macedonia and see who answers. How about our own Navy?”

“We’ll have to check,” Gunn said. “The Montreux Convention allows us only a temporary naval presence in the Black Sea, but the Aegis-class destroyer Truxton is currently on deployment.”

“Get on it,” Pitt said. “I’ll also need a contact for the Bezmer Air Base commander.”

“You going to request a flyby?” Gunn asked.

Pitt gave Giordino a knowing look. “Something like that.” He signed off the video call and made arrangements with the Bulgarian police to contact the Ukrainian Sea Guard. In Washington, Gunn contacted a friend who was aide to the Chief of Naval Operations, while Yaeger continued trying to track the Macedonia and studying satellite images. Something in the barge photo caught his eye and he examined it under different levels of lighting and magnification. Finally, he saw it. On the top of one crate was a word in black paint. He adjusted the brightness, contrast, and magnification in multiple variations, but he couldn’t make out the lettering.

“Max,” he called out. “Are you there?”

A holographic image of a woman appeared beyond Yaeger’s computer console. She was young and attractive, modeled after his wife, and she looked at him attentively. “I’m here around the clock for you,” she said in a seductive voice. “You should know that by now.”

“This photo on display from your database,” he said. “It shows a barge containing crates. On the port rail, third crate from the stern, there are some visible markings. Do you see it?”

“Yes. Rather blurry from a thousand miles up.”

“Do your best to tell me what it says.”

Max crinkled her nose as the supercomputer that created her leaped at the challenge. The photographic image was broken down and redisplayed many thousand different ways, as an optical scanner recorded each variation. One by one, each letter was dissected. After less than a minute, Max winked at Yaeger. “You may want to inform the boss.”

“What does it say?”

“боеприпаси.”

“You lost me,” Yaeger said.

“It’s Bulgarian.” Max gave him an abrasive look. “It’s the word for munitions.”

31

Dirk stepped onto the Odin’s bridge wing as the ship entered Hjeltefjorden, a twenty-two-mile waterway that stretched southeast toward Norway’s Bergen Peninsula. Snowcapped hills rose sharply on either side, as the vessel steamed toward Bergen. The sun shone brightly, casting the waters a brilliant sapphire while softening the chill of a stiff southerly breeze.

A thumping caught his attention and he turned to spot a helicopter approaching from behind. Skimming over the fjord, the chopper raced by just off Odin’s beam. Dirk didn’t recognize the model, and its registration markings appeared to be taped over. He watched the helicopter disappear over the horizon on the route to Bergen, then he descended two flights of stairs and entered the wardroom. In the corner, Jack Dahlgren sat at a table, sipping coffee. His left leg was wrapped in a temporary cast and propped on a suitcase.

Dirk smiled. “They finally kick you out of sick bay, stumpy?”

“I exhausted their supply of painkillers, so there was no reason to stick around,” Dahlgren said. The discomfort from his broken leg was evident in the hooded squint of his eyes.

“How’s the leg?”

“Mostly numb, except when I move. The doc did what he could, but with a shattered femur, I’m headed for shoreside surgery and a leg full of tin.”

“I’m sure you’ll get top care in Bergen, along with all the lutefisk you can stomach.”

“I was banking on it, but I think your sis has other designs.” He pointed across the room at Summer, who had just entered and was striding toward them, carrying a leather purse. She limped from a sore ankle and was trying to hide a large bruise on the side of her face by letting her long red hair hang loose.

“The second member of the Walking Wounded Club arrives,” Dirk said.

Summer shook her head. “The submersible rolls over — and Jack breaks his leg and I get a new face. Meanwhile, you waltz out without so much as a scratch. Show me the justice in that.”

“I think when we tumbled, his skull put a few dents in the submersible,” Dahlgren said. “Did more damage to the submersible than to himself.”

“Always was hardheaded,” Summer said.

“But not the only one in the family,” Dirk said. “So what’s this about not letting Jack get patched up in Bergen?”

“I just booked tickets for the three of us on an afternoon flight to London.”

“Why London?”

“The Royal National Orthopaedic Hospital, the Royal Navy, and Cambridge University.”

Dirk and Dahlgren looked at each other and shrugged.

“Okay, I’ll bite,” Dahlgren said. “What’s the significance of those three establishments?”

“Well, for starters, the hospital is where Dr. Steven Miller holds seasonal residency. Miller is a world-renowned orthopedic surgeon from Muncie, Indiana, who happens to be an old friend of Rudi Gunn. At Rudi’s request, Dr. Miller is ready and waiting to rebuild Jack’s leg as soon as we arrive.”

Dahlgren smiled. “Adios, lutefisk.”

“Nice of Rudi to help out,” Dirk said. “I assume a stop at the Royal Navy isn’t for Jack’s benefit?”

“That will be to return this.” Summer raised her purse and set it on the table with a clunk.

“Is that what I think it is?” Dahlgren asked.

“Hasn’t left her side,” Dirk said. “I think she sleeps with it under her pillow.”

“It’s not something I care to lose.” She unsnapped her purse and retrieved the gold bar from the Canterbury.

“May I?” Dahlgren reached out his hands.

Summer passed him the bar.

“Sweetness.” He balanced its weight, then held it up to the light.

Summer smiled. There was something intrinsically magical about the heavy yellow mineral that elicited a childlike amazement in everyone who touched it. No wonder there were so many treasure hunters scouring the globe for gold nuggets and coins.

Dahlgren rapped a knuckle against the top of the bar, which was engraved with various numbers and symbols. “Have you deciphered the hieroglyphics and the two-headed chicken?”

“That’s no chicken,” she said. “It’s actually an eagle, the coat of arms of the Romanov family. It ties with the accompanying Cyrillic lettering, which indicates some sort of tracking number and the smelting date, October 1914.”

“Romanov gold?” Dirk asked.

“I’m no expert, but from what I can determine, the markings indicate it came from the Imperial Russian Treasury.”

“That might explain the appearance of the Tavda.”

“The Russians must think there’s more gold aboard,” Dahlgren said.

“It’s possible,” Dirk said, “though there was no mention of gold shipments in the Canterbury’s history that I found.”

Dahlgren looked to Summer. “So you want to rat out the Russians in London?”

“The Canterbury is a British naval ship as well as a war grave. The Royal Navy should be notified that the Russians are claiming it as theirs and possibly blowing it apart in a search for gold.”

“Sounds like the right thing to do. But how about this?” Dahlgren held up the gold bar. “Going to keep it as a finder’s fee?”

“Of course not,” Summer grabbed the bar out of his hands and deposited it in her purse. “It will be given to the Royal Navy, along with the wreck’s coordinates.”

He shook his head. “Always the saint.”

“I think I can dispute that,” Dirk said.

Summer snorted. “Never you mind.”

“So I understand flying to London to fix Jack’s leg and to kiss the gold bar good-bye,” Dirk said. “But how does Cambridge play into the trip?”

“That’s something of a bonus. I tried calling St. Julien Perlmutter in Washington to enlist his help in researching the Canterbury. If anyone could find out if there’s gold aboard an old shipwreck, it would be Julien. By luck, he happens to be attending a nautical history symposium at Cambridge.”

“Summer,” Dahlgren said, “I never knew you were such a gold hound.”

“It’s not the gold itself. I just want to know why it was aboard. And why the Russians are claiming the ship.”

“The British Admiralty records might be helpful,” Dirk said.

“With Julien’s assistance, we’re sure to find something.”

“I just have one question for you, Summer.” Dahlgren eased his leg to the floor and sat upright. “How are you going to carry both me and that gold bar off the ship in Bergen?”

Two hours later, the Odin arrived at Norway’s second-largest city and docked near the commercial wharves. Without any assistance from Summer, Dahlgren hobbled off the ship on crutches. Dirk hoisted their bags, and the trio squeezed into a waiting Volvo taxi. As they exited the dock facility, the taxi passed a brown sedan idling at the curb with two men inside.

Mansfield folded up a compact pair of binoculars and stuffed them in a pocket of the door panel. “That’s our mark. Stay with them.”

The nondescript sedan, rented for the occasion by the Russian Consulate, scooted into traffic and followed the taxi a few car lengths behind. The driver was a professional, holding back and hiding in back of the intervening vehicles but bolting forward at traffic signals so as not to be left behind.

The two vehicles swept around the waterfront city, following route E39 south for twelve miles to the Bergen Airport. Traffic was light as the taxi stopped at the departure terminal. The sedan pulled to the curb a safe distance back. After the Americans entered the terminal, Mansfield hopped out to follow. He was dressed in a casual winter jacket and wore fashion-rimmed glasses to draw attention from his unshaven face. He took his place in line at the check-in counter and scanned the departures listed on the monitor.

As Dirk, Summer, and Dahlgren reached the counter and began checking in, Mansfield cut out of line and stepped to an adjacent counter, under the guise of getting a baggage label. With his back to the Americans, he listened as the gate agent checked their bags and told them their gate.

The Russian returned to his place in line, turning the other way as the trio headed for security. When he reached the check-in agent a few minutes later, he politely handed her a French passport.

“Where are you traveling to today, sir?”

“A ticket to London, please. One way, no baggage.”

32

“Sonar contact, bearing two-one-two degrees.”

Captain Vladimir Popov nodded at the sonar operator and rose from his seat with a smile. “Helm, steer two-one-two degrees. Let’s close on her.”

Popov began pacing the cramped combat information center of the Russian Krivak-class missile frigate Ladny. The low-lit bay, several levels below the ship’s bridge, was filled with electronics and weapons specialists wedged into individual computer stations. But there was nothing futuristic about the layout. The Ladny was more than thirty years old, and most of her electronic equipment was older than its operators. Popov retook his seat, facing a video screen that constituted one of the few updates. The screen was dotted with symbols depicting nearby ships and aircraft detected by the ship’s radar.

“Sonar, what’s your range?” he asked.

“Sir, target is at an approximate distance of eight thousand meters, speed of fourteen knots, depth of eighty meters.”

“Excellent. Stay with her. She’s ours now.”

The sonar operator continued calling out ranges as the frigate, running at nearly double the speed, quickly closed on the submerged target.

“Sir, the target has turned to three-one-five degrees. She’s putting on speed.”

The radar operator spoke again before Popov could answer.

“Captain, I show two unidentified vessels breaching the western border of the restricted sea zone at a speed of nine knots.”

“Acknowledged,” Popov said. “Helm, steer three-one-five degrees.”

The sonar operator continued tracking the submerged target. Popov sat on the edge of his seat, excitement in his eye as he closed in for the kill. When they were less than a thousand meters away, he gave the order. “Sonar, blast her!”

The operator maximized the power to the frigate’s hull-mounted sonar transponder and triggered five extended acoustic signal bursts. Three hundred feet below the surface, the sonar operator aboard the Russian submarine Novorossiysk ripped off his headset. “They got us.”

Popov leaped out of his chair and danced around the bay, high-fiving the sailors nearby. For six days, he and his crew had been playing a cat-and-mouse war game with the nuclear submarine. Until now, the Ladny had been on the receiving end of the simulated attacks. At last, the frigate’s crew had turned the tables. “Notify the fleet simulation coordinator that we have destroyed the Novorossiysk and await new redeployment,” he said to his communications operator.

As the excitement in the bay subsided, the radar operator called again to the captain. “Sir, the unknown targets continue to cross the restricted zone. They will soon be nearing the approach to Sevastopol.”

On the video board, a pair of red triangles cut across the left side of the screen in tandem.

“Radio the fools and tell them they have entered restricted waters and must move thirty kilometers to the south before resuming course to Sevastopol.”

“Yes, sir,” the communications officer said. After several minutes, he reported back to the captain. “Sir, I have relayed the message but have received no response.”

Popov glanced again at the combat screen. The two vessels had not deviated from their course.

The ship’s executive officer studied the image, then approached the captain. “A tow ship, sir?”

“Possibly.” Popov’s joy turned to irritation. “Lay in an intercept course, then request an airborne reconnaissance. I want a visual on her, one way or the other. Keep communications after her as well.”

“Yes, sir,” the exec said. “What’s your wager, sir? That she’s a freighter with a drunken captain or a derelict tug with a bad radio?”

Popov nodded. “In these waters, what else could it be?”

33

“I’ve got a visual,” Giordino said over his radio headset. “About eighty degrees.”

Pitt scanned the expanse of open sea beneath their helicopter and spotted a faint gray object to his right. He pressed the pedals that tilted the rear rotor, sending the Bell OH-58 Kiowa in a slight bank to starboard until the distant speck lined up with the center of the windscreen.

Two hours earlier, they had commandeered the light observation chopper at Bezmer Air Base, west of Burgas. Though Pitt and Giordino’s Air Force flying days were well behind them, both retained qualification to pilot a variety of aircraft. The rigors of flying a helicopter for an extended period hadn’t waned, and Pitt felt his muscles beginning to ache as the chopper reached the limits of its flight range. He established radio contact with the ship ahead and received permission to land as the gray vessel gradually loomed beneath them.

It wasn’t the Macedonia but the U.S. Navy Aegis-class destroyer Truxton that was speeding to the northeast at better than thirty knots. Pitt approached from the stern, where he was guided down to the ship’s flight deck, normally reserved for the vessel’s twin SH-60 Seahawk helicopters. As he shut down the Kiowa’s single engine, the ship’s flight crew rushed over to begin refueling.

Pitt and Giordino climbed out to stretch their legs and were promptly met by a pert blond woman, who extended her hand in greeting. “Mr. Pitt, Mr. Giordino, welcome to the Truxton. I’m Commander Deborah Kenfield, Executive Officer. The ship’s captain sends his greetings from the bridge.”

“Thank you for the stopover and fill-up, Commander,” Pitt said.

“We’re trying to get you as close as we can, but we’re still eighty miles away.”

“Do you know where the Macedonia is right now?” Giordino asked.

“We’re tracking her on the Aegis radar. She’s about ten miles from Sevastopol and creating a bit of a stir.”

“How’s that?” Pitt asked.

“The Russians recently established a restricted sea zone west of Crimea. Presumably, it’s an area where the Russian Navy performs weapons testing and engages in tactical simulations. It seems the Macedonia has sailed into the center of the restricted zone. We’ve picked up some scattered radio communications and it doesn’t sound as if the Russians are too happy.”

“The Macedonia is towing a barge filled with munitions to Sevastopol,” Pitt said, “and the Russians don’t know about it?”

“Not from what we can tell. They’ve identified it as an American vessel but don’t seem to be in direct contact. We’ve informed the Russians that we believe the ship has been hijacked and requested intervention, but they haven’t advised us as to their intent.” The look in Kenfield’s eyes told Pitt there was no reason to expect cooperation.

“Do you think they might sink her?” Giordino asked.

“This close to Ukraine, we believe their missile frigate Ladny will be apt to shoot first and ask questions later. For that reason, the captain has respectfully requested you cancel your flight plans, as the Macedonia has already crossed into their territorial waters.”

Pitt shook his head. “We don’t know if the crew is still aboard.”

The nearby ground crew pulled away their refueling gear and indicated the helicopter was topped up.

“Tell your captain we appreciate his concern,” Pitt said, “but we need to know for certain.”

“He suspected as much,” Kenfield said. She passed him a slip of paper. “The Macedonia’s last coordinates. We’ll do what we can to support you. Good luck.”

“Thanks, Commander.”

Pitt walked over and thanked the Truxton’s flight support crew. When he returned to the helicopter, he found Giordino in the pilot’s seat.

“Sorry, boss, but the Air Force said we had to split seat time for extended flights before they gave us the keys.”

“Guess I didn’t read the fine print,” Pitt said. Glad for the break, he stepped around and climbed into the copilot’s seat.

Giordino lifted off quickly and accelerated toward the Macedonia’s coordinates. Thirty minutes later, they spotted the turquoise research ship with its tow barge. The cloud cover had finally thinned and in the distance they could see the hills of the Crimean Peninsula. To the north they could make out the slim gray figure of the Ladny under speed.

Giordino brought the helicopter in low over the barge, examining the wooden crates packed into the open hold.

Pitt pointed to some crates on the starboard side. “There’s a damaged lid.”

Giordino eased the chopper down until they were hovering just above it. The lid of one crate had been worked loose by the jostling seas, allowing a partial glimpse inside. Both men could make out a row of brass cylindrical objects.

“Yaeger was right,” Pitt said. “She is indeed loaded with munitions.”

“Why would someone steal an oceanographic research ship and use it to haul a barge full of artillery shells to Sevastopol?” Giordino asked.

Pitt shook his head. “For no good reason I can think of.”

Giordino pushed the helicopter’s cyclic control forward, propelling them past the barge and over the water. He followed the tow line to the Macedonia, where he made a wide loop around the ship. No one appeared on deck to watch the thumping chopper skim overhead.

“Must be a skeleton crew,” Giordino said.

“Let’s see who’s on the bridge.”

Giordino eased close alongside the port bridge wing, where they had a clear view inside. The entire bridge was empty.

“No wonder she’s defying the Russians,” Pitt said. “No one’s home. She must be on autopilot.”

“If the crew’s locked belowdecks, that might not be good.”

“Get me aboard,” Pitt said.

Giordino elevated the Bell to better scan the moving ship beneath him. The topsides were an unfriendly maze of cranes, antennas, and radar masts. Moving aft, he pointed to the Macedonia’s submersible, which had been left dangling from a lift crane while under repair. “Not optimal, but if I can get a clear drop over the submersible, you can use it as a ladder.”

“Do it,” Pitt said.

Giordino brought the chopper around the stern and over the submersible, expertly matching speed with the ship.

As he eased the helicopter lower, Pitt rapped him on the arm. “See you in Varna. First beer’s on me.” Pitt tore off his radio headset, opened the side door, and stepped down onto the landing skid.

Despite the rotor wash buffeting off the deck, Giordino held the helicopter rock steady.

Pitt took a short leap from the skid, landing atop the submersible while grabbing a lift cable for support.

The helicopter instantly pulled up and away from the ship as Pitt slid down the exterior of the submersible, landing on his feet. He raced forward across the deck and ducked into a covered passageway.

As Giordino watched him disappear, the helicopter radio erupted with a deep voice speaking in heavily accented English. “American vessel Macedonia, this is the warship Ladny. You are instructed to halt for inspection or turn away and exit the restricted zone at once. This is your final warning. Please respond or be fired upon.”

Only silence came from the ship.

34

Popov looked from the large display to a nearby computer monitor, which displayed the distant image of the Macedonia through a long-range video camera. The turquoise ship was plodding through the waves as a green helicopter hovered close behind.

“Sir, the American helicopter has repeated its request not to fire.” The communications officer had translated Giordino’s radio transmission, which was broadcast through the combat information center.

Popov gazed from the camera view to the large screen. “I detect no change in speed or course. Radio the vessel one last time. Tell them to respond at once or be fired upon.”

As the message was relayed to the NUMA ship, the Ladny’s executive officer rushed up to Popov with a slip of paper. “Fleet Headquarters has approved our defense of territorial waters. We may strike at the vessel with discretion.”

Popov read the order, folded the paper, and slipped it into his pocket.

“Status, surface weapons?” he said in a commanding voice.

A weapons officer at a nearby console spoke in a similar tone, as the rest of the combat information center fell quiet. “Sir, forward batteries loaded and armed. Target coordinates have been input to port battery. Torpedoes set to surface running.”

Popov nodded. “Ready, port missile one?”

“Port missile one ready, sir.”

Popov looked at his communications officer. “Any response?”

The officer returned his gaze with a faint shake of the head. “Still no reply, sir.”

The captain took a deep breath. “Fire port missile one.”

“Fire port missile one.”

The weapons specialist’s fingers danced over the console. A loud rushing sound echoed from above and the ship swayed on its keel.

“Port missile one away,” he said.

Popov turned to the turquoise ship displayed on the video monitor and watched for it to disappear.

35

Pitt stepped onto the bridge of the Macedonia to be met by Giordino’s voice blaring through the radio speaker. “Dirk, if you’re there, radio the Ladny that you’re aboard. They’ve got their finger on the trigger.”

“Let’s get her turned around first,” Pitt muttered aloud as Giordino repeated the warning.

He stepped to the helm console and disengaged the autopilot. He set the throttle, then spun the rudder control dial one hundred and eighty degrees to send the ship on a starboard pivot in the opposite direction. As he watched the tip of the bow begin to nudge right, Giordino’s voice blared once more through the radio. This time, his voice had an urgent tone.

“Dirk, I’ve spotted a flash from the Russian ship. They’ve fired! They’ve fired! Get off the ship now!”

Pitt coolly glanced at the radarscope, his brain responding in hyperdrive. He was no stranger to life-or-death situations, and, for him, time seemed to slow in those moments. His mind raced back to a pair of Russian warships they had passed in the Bosphorus a few days earlier. They were aged vessels, at least forty years old, showing rust and poor maintenance. Even the sailors appeared slovenly. It signaled to him that Russia’s frontline Navy, with its most modern ships and weapons, was deployed somewhere other than the Black Sea. That meant he had a chance.

He calculated that he had two, maybe three minutes tops, as his body began to move ahead of his thoughts. He adjusted the rudder controls, then sprinted toward the door, muttering, “Please let it be a torpedo.”

A few seconds later, Giordino brought the helicopter in tight alongside the bridge to give warning. Finding the bridge empty, he elevated the chopper and fell back. Pitt was running across the stern deck toward the submersible.

Giordino swooped in to pick him up, but Pitt waved him off, instead climbing onto the lift crane controls.

With quick precision, Pitt powered up the crane and swung the submersible out over the stern. The sub swayed over the angled tow line pulling the distant barge and splashed into the sea. Pitt reversed the cable spool attached to the lift line, allowing the submersible to fall back of the moving ship. Watching the bobbing submersible recede behind him, he saw the smoky trail of the approaching Russian missile.

He moved to return to the bridge but hesitated when he heard a loud pop. It came from the barge, angled far to Pitt’s left. He noted a small puff of smoke rising from the barge’s stern, then turned and raced to the Macedonia’s bridge.

Five hundred feet above the NUMA ship, Giordino watched Pitt’s defensive measure, then turned to the imminent threat. The incoming missile was skimming above the waves. At a quarter mile away, the missile dropped an object into the water and continued on its flight.

But the missile did not align on the Macedonia after Pitt had changed course. Instead, it flew past the ship and continued toward the horizon, where it would expire harmlessly once its fuel was spent.

So far, Pitt’s luck was holding. The Russians had fired an SS-N-14 Silex missile, whose payload was an underslung torpedo that was dropped near the target. While free of a missile strike, the torpedo was nearly as deadly.

Giordino searched the water for the torpedo, spotting its white-water tail as it bore down on the Macedonia. Pitt had turned the research ship away from the Ladny, so the assault would strike from the stern. Giordino watched helplessly as the homing torpedo locked onto the ship and raced toward its transom. The torpedo seemed to gain speed as it drew closer to the research ship until it struck paydirt — and exploded in a towering cloud of spray and debris.

36

The Ladny’s long-range camera showed an upheaval of sea and white smoke rising high into the air. Popov and his crew seldom had the opportunity to fire live weapons, let alone against an actual opponent. They stared at the video monitor with a mixed sense of wonder and satisfaction. But Popov’s pride turned to confusion as a ghostly image appeared on the screen.

It was the Macedonia, sailing past the dissolving smoke. The NUMA vessel was apparently still charging toward Sevastopol, completely unscathed. Popov looked to the combat screen to affirm he wasn’t seeing things. The red triangles of the two targets were still moving east, though now positioned parallel to each other rather than in tandem.

“What has gone wrong?” Popov yelled.

The executive officer shook his head. “It must have been a premature detonation.”

“Do we have a second missile ready?”

“Port missile two armed and ready,” the weapons officer said.

“Fire port missile two.”

Seconds after the frigate shuddered under the launch, the Ladny’s communications officer turned to Popov with a startled look. “Sir, I’m receiving a call from the American ship.”

“What? Patch it through.”

Pitt’s voice was transmitted through the bay. “Ladny, this is the Macedonia. Thanks for the warm hospitality, but we’ve decided to save Crimea for another vacation. We’ll be departing your restricted zone shortly. Do svidaniya!”

The communications officer turned pale. “Sir, what do I say? The missile has already been launched.”

The weapons officer seated nearby looked at a firing clock. “The torpedo is about to deploy, sir. It’s too late to stop it now.”

Popov turned to the communications officer with a sober gaze.

“There is nothing to say now,” he said in a low voice. He turned to the exec. “Have the crew stand down.”

Peering from the helm of the Macedonia, Pitt could see the second Silex missile coming at him. He felt only slightly more confident in this second deadly game of chicken. He could tell the Macedonia was faster and more responsive since the barge tow cable had been severed when the first torpedo had struck the submersible tailing behind, exploding well aft of the research ship. And this time he had more than just a tiny submersible to run interference.

Pitt had briefly driven the ship toward the Ladny but now spun the vessel around and away from the oncoming missile. He pushed the Macedonia to full speed as he made for a collision course with the munitions barge. The open tow boat was barely fifty yards ahead, sitting low in the water from its keel-shattering explosion.

“Torpedo’s away,” Giordino said over the bridge radio.

Pitt watched the Silex missile shriek by low overhead after jettisoning its payload. He had just a few seconds for the torpedo’s acoustic homing device to lock onto the rumble of the Macedonia’s engines and rush in for the kill.

The sinking barge loomed off the bow as Giordino radioed him again from his observation point in the sky. “She’s on you. About five hundred meters.”

“Got it. You best fly clear.” Pitt held the helm steady to the last possible second, then cut to his port side, following the current. The turquoise ship barely slipped alongside the barge, scraping its hull paint in the process.

“One hundred meters,” Giordino said, easing the helicopter away to watch from a safe distance.

After he cleared the barge, Pitt wheeled the Macedonia back to starboard, centering the drifting vessel in his wake. He counted the seconds, hoping to put as much blue water behind him as possible, when the first explosion sounded. The loud report was followed a second later by the bellow of an exploding volcano.

The barge disintegrated in a massive fireball that rose a hundred feet into the sky. Metallic debris rained down from the plume, peppering a large radius of the sea.

On board the Macedonia, Pitt was knocked from his feet. The shock wave blew out the bridge’s rear windows and lifted the ship’s stern with a billowing wave. The hull and topsides were splattered with shrapnel. Most of the damage was superficial.

Regaining his feet, Pitt found the Macedonia continuing to churn away from the maelstrom. He looked back at the remnants of the barge, which was foundering under a thick blanket of black smoke. The Air Force helicopter appeared above, circling around the haze.

“Dirk, are you all right?” Giordino radioed.

“No harm done,” Pitt replied. He set the helm on a southwesterly bearing that would take the Macedonia out of the restricted zone as soon as possible. “Just tell me our friends are done shooting.”

“I guarantee they’ve holstered their weapons. The Truxton just threatened to send them to the bottom if they fire again.”

“Jolly good for the Navy.”

“From up here, the Macedonia looks like a spotted frog. You’ve got a few smoldering hot spots on the aft deck that could use some dousing.”

“I’ll get on it shortly.” He noticed for the first time some dried blood on the floor of the bridge.

“Have to ask you,” Giordino said, “what inspired the idea to turn toward the Russians and invite that second missile attack?”

“The barge,” Pitt said. “I saw a small charge detonate on her, away from the stored munitions. I think they intentionally blew out her keel to sink her.”

“Why would they drag it three hundred miles across the Black Sea to sink it outside of Sevastopol?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they were trying to block the harbor and their timing was off.”

“Any sign of the Macedonia’s crew?”

“None,” Pitt said. “Going to check now.”

He set the helm on auto and exited the bridge with a handheld radio. Starting in the engine room and working his way up, he surveyed the entire ship. From open journals in the laboratories, to moldy half-eaten plates of food in the galley, he found numerous indications of a hurried crew departure.

As Pitt returned to the bridge, Giordino was flying point off the ship’s bow. The Macedonia was nearly clear of the restricted zone and the Truxton was now visible on the radarscope. His mind on the missing crew, Pitt stood at the helm and stared at the open waters before him. After a time, he turned to a chart table — and noticed a miniature wireless video camera concealed in the ceiling.

He pulled it down and saw it was actually twin cameras, one pointed at the helm and the other out the rear window. He tossed it on the table, then carefully examined the entire bridge for a clue. He checked the ship’s log first, but the most recent entry was days old, from when the Macedonia last entered port. Communications records, charts, and all other paperwork lying about the bridge were equally uninformative. But when he took a second look at the dried bloodstains on the floor, he noticed something.

It was a light swirl in a smaller stain by the bulkhead. The smudge had been created by the toe of a shoe while the blood was still liquid. Looking closer, he saw a nearly invisible message that told Pitt what he already suspected. It was a single word smeared on the floor.

Besso.

37

Mankedo and Vasko watched in disbelief as Pitt ripped the camera from the ceiling, sending the satellite-fed video link to black.

Mankedo snapped shut the laptop on which they had watched the last hour’s events and shoved it to the side of his desk. “It was nearly there, on its way to a submerged detonation. Instead, destroyed on the surface, to no effect.”

“That man!” Vasko said, his voice seething. “He was the same one on the inflatable who aided the Europol agent and took the uranium. How did he find the ship?”

“He must be the head of NUMA that Dimitov dealt with on the Macedonia. His name is Pitt. Apparently, he’s an accomplished marine engineer.”

“Why wasn’t he among the captured crew?”

“Dimitov said this Pitt and another man responsible for the submersible were ashore when the ship was taken.”

Mankedo rose from the desk and paced his office. “I fear this will bring increased police scrutiny. We must move the Besso out of the Black Sea at once. I have a secondary project in the Mediterranean and will send Dimitov to initiate things. But first I will call Hendriks. This may finish our relationship.”

“I don’t think so,” Vasko said. “He knew it was a risky project.”

“Perhaps, but we have failed him in the bold strike he desired. That will likely mean an end to future jobs with him.”

“You are wrong about that, Valentin. I have seen Hendriks and I have talked to the man. He is operating from a state of high emotion. He’s no longer the calculating business virtuoso that made millions. He is in a totally different place, and I believe he will support any grand plan that satisfies his need for aggression. The grander, the better. And we can give it to him. With the bomber.”

“The bomber,” Mankedo said softly.

“I’ve been working on it with Dimitov. He told me about the Ottoman wreck and the pilot’s body. The identification tags, as we know, confirm he was a flight engineer on the missing Tupolev bomber. It reminded me of some data we obtained from a fisherman in Balchik years ago. We purchased his snag records of underwater obstructions, hoping to find a salvageable wreck. He mentioned an odd tire assembly he pulled up in the area. It was back in the 1990s, so he may have forgotten or he didn’t know about the lost bomber.”

“It could have been from another aircraft or something else entirely.”

“Perhaps, but I checked his records. The fisherman described it as a nose wheel assembly, and his notes indicate it was found only three kilometers from the Ottoman wreck site. Dimitov and I have put together a compact search grid based on his coordinates. It’s worth a look.”

“We don’t know if the rumors about the aircraft are even true.”

“We also don’t know if they’re not. Just think about it, Valentin. We’d have something in our hands for which Hendriks would pay us dearly. If the plane is where we think it is, in relatively shallow water, we can find the truth easily enough.”

Mankedo contemplated the idea and nodded. “Yes, it may soften the blow with Hendriks. But we’ll have to work fast. I’ll allow twenty-four hours to find it before I send Dimitov and the Besso off to the Mediterranean.”

Vasko rubbed a hand across his bald head and smiled with confidence.

“Consider it done.”

38

The distant glow of lights from London greeted Dirk, Summer, and Dahlgren as they exited the terminal at Heathrow Airport. The trio squeezed into a black taxicab for the twenty-mile ride into the city. An off-duty cab tucked in behind them, while Mansfield followed several car lengths back in a plain white panel van driven by a female agent.

Reaching the city center, the lead cab turned north, passing through Soho, before pulling into the entrance of the Royal National Orthopaedic Hospital. Summer helped Dahlgren hobble into the lobby and check in. A nurse arrived with a wheelchair and carted him off for a battery of tests and X-rays ahead of his scheduled surgery the next morning.

Summer waved to him. “We’ll pick you up tomorrow night for dancing at the Savoy.”

“I hope they’ll permit a peg leg in to mar the ballroom floor,” Dahlgren said.

Dirk and Summer returned to their waiting cab, which backtracked south and west through London. The panel van took up a tailing position this time, maneuvering aggressively through the city’s heavy traffic to remain on the cab’s rear bumper. They entered Kensington, and the cab pulled into the entrance of The Gore, a four-star hotel just off Hyde Park.

The panel van drove past the hotel and pulled to the curb a half block later. Mansfield looked to his driver, a cool, serious woman named Martina who wore her dark hair cut short. “Do you have system access to The Gore?”

Martina retrieved a small electronic tablet hidden beneath the seat and consulted a long list of London hotels. She found a mark highlighted next to The Gore’s name and nodded. Never known for their high degree of security, the reservation systems of most hotels in major cities were long ago hacked by foreign intelligence agencies in order to track people of interest.

“We’ll have their room number the instant they check in,” she said. “Ivan in the taxi will keep watch in the lobby until my surveillance team can be put in place.”

“How long will that take?”

“Less than an hour.”

Mansfield looked across the street at a small hotel called the Queen’s Gate.

“I’ll take a room there and wait for your surveillance data. Perhaps we can have a drink together afterward?” he said with a charming raise of the brow.

Martina gave him a glacial stare. “The data will be delivered once it is acquired.”

Mansfield chortled and exited the car.

Inside The Gore, Dirk and Summer checked in at the front desk, where a message was handed to them.

“It’s from St. Julien,” Summer said. “He’ll be by in an hour to take us to dinner.”

“Knowing Julien, we better dress for fine dining.”

They settled into adjacent rooms on the third floor and returned to the lobby an hour later. Summer was dressed in a soft, beige cashmere sweater and boot-length skirt, while Dirk wore a dark blue sport coat and gray slacks.

Standing behind a porter’s cart and pretending to study a tourist map, the agent named Ivan discreetly watched their movements.

They made their way out to the portico, where right on time an elegant Rolls-Royce Phantom III Town Car pulled to the entrance. Dirk recognized it as a 1937 Sedanca de Ville.

The driver, a man of Pakistani descent in a chauffeur’s uniform, hopped out and opened the rear door. “Ms. Pitt? Mr. Pitt?” He waved a gloved hand toward the interior.

Summer climbed in first and found a massively rotund man occupying the bulk of the rear seat. He patted the Connolly leather beside him. “Plenty of room here, my dear. We’ll give Dirk the jump seat.”

Summer gave him a hug and squeezed in beside him.

Dirk wriggled in and parked himself on a fold-down seat, then reached across and shook the big man’s hand. “Traveling in style, I see.”

“Coachwork by Barker,” Perlmutter said, stroking his long, full beard. “A bit roomier, you know. I will say that it does earn high marks for styling.”

“It’s gorgeous,” Summer said, “especially for an eighty-year-old car.”

Perlmutter reached forward and wrapped a knuckle against the window to the driver’s compartment, then lowered the glass an inch. “To Le Gavroche, James.”

The chauffeur nodded, dropped the car into gear, and silently pulled forward as Perlmutter rolled the window back up.

“A chauffeur named James?” Summer asked.

Perlmutter shrugged. “I believe his name is actually Ravi, but he kindly answers to James.”

Summer laughed. “It’s wonderful to see you again, Julien. How was your nautical history conference?”

“Smashing. There were some excellent papers on early wrecks being investigated in the Mediterranean, as well as some exciting research topics here in England. My presentation on the Aztec sea canoes you and your father discovered in the Caribbean was quite well received.”

As one of the world’s leading maritime historians, Perlmutter was a walking encyclopedia of shipwreck knowledge. A longtime friend of the Pitt family, he had been a trusted resource on many NUMA projects, as well as being a reliably jovial dining companion. Aside from his passion for nautical history, Perlmutter was a dedicated gourmand.

“I almost forgot.” Summer handed over a bottle in a felt bag. “A gift from Norway.”

Perlmutter opened the bag to reveal a dark green bottle. He studied the label, then chuckled. “Aquavit, of course. Why, thank you. It makes for a delightful cordial.” He slid open a walnut compartment beneath the driver’s window, exposing a small bar set. Cracking the seal on the bottle, he poured three glasses and passed them around.

“Skål!” he toasted.

Summer sniffed the harsh-tasting liquid with a grimace.

Dirk noticed her reaction and smiled. “At least it will keep you warm if the London fog rolls in.”

As they sipped their drinks, the Rolls driver slithered around the east end of Hyde Park before pulling up to a corner brick building. Perlmutter led his guests into a side door beneath a brass plate engraved Le Gavroche. A historic training ground for London’s top chefs, Le Gavroche was easily the city’s best French restaurant.

Perlmutter had a spring in his step as they were guided downstairs and seated in a green velveteen tufted booth. Ordering a lobster mousse appetizer, he sighed with delight. “I recall when a pork pie was considered haute cuisine in London. My, how times have changed for the better.”

“Tell the truth, Julien,” Summer asked. “Was it the nautical conference or London’s fine dining that enticed your visit from Washington?”

“I refuse to answer that on the grounds it may prove incriminatory.” He patted his stomach and laughed.

Ordering a roast duck in port jus to Dirk’s turbot and Summer’s Dover sole, he forced himself to turn his attention from food. “Now, tell me about this Norwegian shipwreck of yours.”

“It’s British, actually.” Dirk described their discovery of the Canterbury and their encounter with the Russian salvage ship.

“My word, that is most aggressive behavior,” Perlmutter said. “Any idea why the Russians would take such a keen interest in a rusty Royal Navy cruiser?”

Summer reached into her purse and retrieved a photo of the gold bar. “We found this in a cabin near the bridge.”

Perlmutter’s eyes lit up. “Perhaps there is more in the hold, though a light cruiser makes for a poor cargo ship.”

“We suspect that’s what the Russians are after,” Dirk said. “Note the stampings on the bar.”

Perlmutter had already focused on the imprint of the double-headed eagle. “House of Romanov,” he whispered. “Small wonder the Russians claimed the wreck as their own. Tell me again, when was the Canterbury sunk?”

“February twenty-sixth, 1917,” Dirk said. “She had left Archangel a few days earlier.”

The wheels began churning in Perlmutter’s head, taking him far from the French restaurant. “Most curious.” He placed the photo on the table. “My land-based history may be a bit rusty, but, as I recall, the Russian monarchy possessed an enormous inventory of gold at the beginning of World War I. What they didn’t have, however, was an adequate supply of weapons and ammunition for their troops. They shipped gold bullion to the Allies in exchange for munitions, first via Archangel, then from Vladivostok after the Germans wised up and laid mines in the west. An attempted gold shipment from Archangel in 1917 would have been both dangerous and somewhat extraordinary but not impossible.”

“How can we find out more about the Canterbury’s last voyage?” Summer asked.

“Dr. Charles Trehorne, Emeritus Professor of Nautical Archaeology at Oxford. He’s a colleague and an expert on Royal Navy shipwrecks. I’ll ring him this evening and see if we can meet with him tomorrow.” He twirled the wineglass with his thick fingers.

Savoring the aroma of the Bordeaux, he slipped the photo of the gold bar back to her. “What did you do with the gold itself?”

“We brought it with us,” Summer said. “It’s in the room safe at the hotel. I’m sure no one would suspect I have anything of value there.”

Perlmutter nodded and took another sip. He had no way of knowing, but at that very moment, Summer’s room safe was both open and empty.

Dressed in a housemaid’s uniform, the Russian agent Martina had entered The Gore’s rear service door, concealing an assortment of electronic infiltration devices in a bucket of cleaning supplies covered by a towel. She climbed a stairwell to the third floor and found the room numbers to which she’d been directed by a hacker at the Russian Embassy.

She started with Dirk’s room, slipping a card key into the door lock, which had been precoded by the hacker with the correct security code. Dirk hadn’t bothered unpacking, which made her mission simpler. She started with his unlocked suitcase, rifling through it and finding nothing of intelligence value. Moving to the room telephone, she attached a tiny wireless transmitter to its base, supplemented by a signal booster she attached to the back of the window curtains. The device would transmit all phone and room conversations to a listening station in the panel van parked down the street, at least until its batteries expired in a week or so. Finally, she dug out a ring of keys and found a master that matched the hotel manager’s emergency key to the room safe. Inside, she found only Dirk’s passport. She ignored that, closed the safe, and hurried to the next room.

She repeated the procedure in Summer’s suite, at least to the point of opening the room safe. Startled by the gold bar, she removed it and set it on the bed, along with Summer’s passport, laptop, and a flash drive. Using her small electronic tablet, she photographed the bar from all sides, then returned it to the safe with the computer and passport. She inserted the flash drive into the tablet and copied its files, then returned it and closed the safe.

Martina placed her devices at the bottom of her bucket and was turning to leave when she heard a knock at the door and a click of the lock. She froze as the door swung open and a housekeeper entered, carrying a jar of mints. The housekeeper stopped and stared at the Russian. “Are you turning down this room?”

“Naw, they just wanted a’nuther towel,” Martina said in a practiced East Ender accent. She pointed to the towel in her bucket and made for the door, slipping past the night housekeeper and walking briskly down the hall. She didn’t look back until she had left the hotel and walked two blocks south.

Satisfied she had drawn no further interest, Martina circled around the neighborhood to Mansfield’s hotel and knocked on the door of his street-view room. He pushed aside a room service table topped with a half-eaten steak and a bottle of Montepulciano and invited her in.

“Any trouble?” He poured her a glass of wine.

“No.” She took the glass and set it down without drinking. “The listening devices are in place and activated.”

She reached into her bucket and handed him a disposable cell phone. “The van will record all conversations and notify you of any potential transmissions. You are welcome to join the technicians for eavesdropping.”

“I’ll just wait for the call.” He gave a smug grin. “Were you able to arrange a meeting with the financial expert?”

“Yes. Ten o’clock tomorrow.” She handed him a folded note with an address.

“Joining me?”

“No, I will be on surveillance duty at that time.”

“A pity. You sure you won’t stay for a drink?”

Martina shook her head. “I wouldn’t want to disrupt your studies.” She handed him the tablet. “I downloaded the contents of a flash drive the woman had stored in her room safe. You’ll also want to check the photographs I took of another object I found in the safe. Good night.”

Martina turned on her heels and let herself out the door. Mansfield activated the tablet and pulled up the file copied from Summer’s flash drive. It was her underwater video footage of the Canterbury. Mansfield watched the sixty-minute recording of the shipwreck, which concluded with a surface shot of the Tavda at dusk near the wreck site.

He started to set aside the tablet, then remembered Martina’s parting comments. He opened the digital folder marked PHOTOGRAPHS, and out sprang a half dozen images of the gold bar. With eyes wide, he stared at the Russian Imperial Seal engraved on it, then reached over and picked up the in-house telephone.

“Room service? I’m going to need another bottle of wine, please.”

39

At precisely eight in the morning, Perlmutter collected Dirk and Summer in his rented Rolls-Royce. It was only a short drive to the hospital, where they caught Jack Dahlgren a few minutes before he was wheeled into surgery. They waited in the cafeteria drinking coffee until Dahlgren cleared the recovery room a few hours later. Groggy from the medication, he laughed with his friends after being told he would make a full recovery. Dirk promised to smuggle him a beer on their next visit, and they left him in the watchful care of a nurse who resembled the singer Adele.

The Rolls was soon on the move again, tailed discreetly by a silver Audi sedan. Their destination was Churchill Gardens and a penthouse flat in a large gray stone building that fronted the Thames River. A cramped elevator carried them to the top floor, where Perlmutter rapped a miniature anchor knocker affixed to a polished hall-end door. A large sandy-haired man holding a pot of tea welcomed them in.

“Just off the boil,” Charles Trehorne said in a soft, upper-schooled accent. “My wife Rosella set it just before slipping out to run some errands. Please do come in.”

The flat resembled a private library. Walnut shelves stuffed with nautical books filled the open floor plan, accented with oriental carpets, antique ship prints, and modern leather furniture. Dirk and Summer looked at each other and smiled.

“Your residence bears a striking resemblance to St. Julien’s home in Washington,” Summer said.

“Yes, the books,” Trehorne said. “An occupational hazard. But I believe Julien has a more exquisite collection.”

“Only in numbers,” Perlmutter said. “We’d make a formidable maritime repository if we consolidated resources.”

“Best in the English-speaking world, I daresay. Please sit down.” He ushered them to a round table beside a glass wall that overlooked the river.

Summer watched a small dredge move by. “Stunning view of the Thames.”

“Inspiring and distracting at the same time,” Trehorne said. He poured tea while Perlmutter helped himself to a plate of scones. Trehorne reached into a nearby book cabinet and produced a bottle of Balvenie single malt Scotch hidden in back. He poured a stiff shot into his cup of tea and passed the bottle to Perlmutter. “A pleasant fortifier, if you like.” Trehorne sampled the results with satisfaction and set his cup back on the table. “So, tell me about this Yankee interest in a Royal Navy C-class cruiser.”

“We located the Canterbury by chance off the coast of Norway,” Dirk said, “then found we weren’t the only ones interested in her.”

“Julien told me about your scrape with the Russians. It leads me to believe there was more to her last voyage than meets the eye.”

“What can you tell us about the Canterbury?” Summer asked.

Trehorne opened a file that he had prepared. “The Canterbury was commissioned in October 1914, the second in the Cambrian class of light cruisers built by John Brown and Company. She was assigned to the Harwich Force early in her career, defending the eastern approaches to the English Channel. She saw light action in the Mediterranean in 1916, then was assigned convoy duty near the end of the year. She was lost off the coast of Norway in February 1917, later determined to have been sunk by the German U-boat UC-29.”

“Nothing out of the ordinary there,” Perlmutter said. “What do you know of her last voyages?”

“Convoy duty.” Trehorne dug deeper into the file. “She made a convoy run to Archangel in November 1916, accompanying a munitions shipment, and returned to Scapa Flow for minor repairs a few weeks later. In the middle of February, she helped escort a second convoy, arriving in Archangel on the eighteenth. But that’s where things turn interesting.” He looked up at Perlmutter and smiled. “She sailed on convoy with three other Royal Navy ships: the Concord, the Marksman, and the Trident. Those vessels returned with the convoy, arriving in Scapa Flow on February twenty-fifth. The Canterbury wasn’t among them, but German records indicate she was sunk by the UC-29 on February twenty-sixth.”

“A day after the convoy had returned to England?” Perlmutter’s lips drooped in skepticism.

“Exactly. It doesn’t make any sense. Of course, the Germans could have been off on their dates, but I did some digging at the National Archives and found this.” He handed Perlmutter a photocopy of a typewritten order from the Office of the British Admiralty to the captain of the Canterbury. Buried within the sailing and refueling orders, Perlmutter found directions for the captain to hold his ship in port for the return of Special Envoy Sir Leigh Hunt.

“Who’s Hunt?” Perlmutter asked.

“At the time of his death, he was Special Envoy to Prime Minister Lloyd George. Up until 1916, he had served as Consul General to the British Embassy in St. Petersburg. His biography indicates he had a strong personal relationship with the Tsar.”

Dirk turned to Trehorne. “So he returned to St. Petersburg in the waning days of the monarchy and held up the Canterbury for a ride home?”

“It would seem so. But I find it unusual that the Canterbury abandoned the return convoy to wait for Hunt and make the voyage alone.”

“You’re certain the ship did in fact wait for Hunt?” Perlmutter asked.

“Yes. He is listed as having perished aboard the Canterbury. I made some inquiries and found that Hunt’s personal papers are stored at the National Archives. They may shed some light on what he was doing back in Russia. But for the moment, it is all a bit of a puzzle.”

“Dr. Trehorne,” Summer said, “I have an additional clue to the mystery.” She reached into her handbag and retrieved the gold bar, which she clunked on the table.

Trehorne regarded it with mild curiosity. “An attractive girl like yourself shouldn’t be prancing around Westminster with such a treasure.”

Dirk smiled. “I’d pity the fool who would try to take it from her.”

“I will be more than happy to be rid of it,” she said, “if you can advise an appropriate recipient.”

“I have plenty of contacts in the Royal Navy who would be thrilled to have it. It will probably end up in their fine museum in Portsmouth.” He slipped on a pair of reading glasses and studied the bar. “The Romanov crown markings, if I’m not mistaken.”

“That’s our interpretation,” Summer said. “Do you think the Canterbury might have been carrying a large shipment of gold from Russia?”

Trehorne set down the bar and stroked his chin. “Anything is possible, but I would be skeptical. Gold shipments, even in World War I, were very well documented. There’s nothing in the ship’s record that suggests as much. By that time, Russian gold shipments to the Bank of England for munition purchases had already been rerouted to the Pacific.” He shook his head. “Perhaps the Russians know something we don’t. Where exactly aboard ship did you locate this sample?” He passed across the table a black and white photo of the Canterbury.

Dirk pointed to the squat cabin deck beneath the bridge. “The first cabin there on the starboard side.”

“A likely accommodation for a diplomat such as Hunt,” Trehorne said.

Summer frowned. “Destroyed now, thanks to the Tavda.”

“Perhaps by design.” Trehorne’s voice trailed off. He stood and carried the whiskey bottle to the cabinet. “Well, Julien, you best dispose of that gold bar before every Artful Dodger in London gets on your tail. In the meantime, I’ll make an appointment with the National Archives to take a look at Sir Hunt’s papers.”

“Very kind of you to help us,” Summer said. “Is there anything we can do to repay you?”

“There most certainly is.” He glanced about the room, then stuffed the bottle back into its hiding place. “You can kindly not inform my wife how I took my tea.”

40

Across London in the East End neighborhood of Whitechapel, Viktor Mansfield stepped into a dark pub called the Boar’s Head. Wearing a navy Prada sport coat, he was notably overdressed among the sparse crowd drinking at the bar before noon. Only a gray man in a gray suit, seated at a rear booth, appeared similarly out of place. Mansfield ordered two pints of Guinness at the bar and took them to the man’s table.

“Mr. Bainbridge?” he asked.

“Yes.” The single syllable was uttered in the dry monotone of a banker reviewing a loan application. He gave the beers a derisive look. “A bit early for me, I’m afraid.”

“No worries.” Mansfield took a long draw on one of the pints, set the glass aside, and leaned forward. “I need information on a gold shipment from Russia to Britain in early 1917.”

“Yes, that is what I was told,” Bainbridge said. “The Bank of England archives, to which I have full access, are quite clear on the matter. There was a single recorded transfer of twenty million pounds placed into the Bank of England repository in Ottawa in April 1917.”

“Ottawa, Canada?”

“Between 1914 and 1917, there were four major shipments of gold to Britain on agreement for war material. The first occurred in October 1914, when two British warships, the HMS Drake and the HMS Mantois, received a nighttime transfer of eight million pounds’ worth of gold at a rendezvous point thirty miles off Archangel. Despite the attempted secrecy, the Germans learned of the shipment and nearly sank the vessels before they could safely reach Liverpool. Subsequent shipments were sent overland to Vladivostok, where Japanese warships carried the gold to Vancouver. The bullion was transferred to a Bank of England emergency repository in Ottawa, where it was held for safekeeping. There were shipments of ten million in 1915, thirty million in 1916, and the twenty million mentioned in 1917.”

As the banker spoke, Mansfield found the bottom of his Guinness and set the empty glass down. “It doesn’t sound like a substantial amount of gold was actually transferred,” he said, reaching for the second beer.

“Well, sixty-eight million doesn’t sound like a great deal today, but that represents almost thirteen billion in today’s gold and currency values.”

“Thirteen billion?”

Bainbridge nodded indifferently.

“You indicated those shipments were for war material,” Mansfield said. “Are you aware of any transfers on behalf of the royal family or the Tsar personally?”

Bainbridge shook his head. “The shipments were payments for military aid. The first consignment was arranged by the Russian Ambassador to England, Count Benckendorff. The remaining shipments were by agreement of the Russian Finance Minister and Prime Minister Lloyd George, after a meeting in Paris in 1915. Some more distant Romanov family members had holdings in England, but late in the war Nicholas II made a show of bringing home all foreign deposits. By the time of his abdication, he and his immediate family had no assets in the Bank of England.”

Mansfield leaned forward. “I am interested in another transfer that occurred, or may have been scheduled to occur, in 1917 via the Mediterranean.”

Bainbridge stared back. “I am a banker and a banking historian. I deal in records and documents archived at the Bank of England. If there were additional gold shipments received by the bank in 1917, there would be evidence. My search revealed neither an additional deposit, nor evidence of a pending deposit, originating from the Mediterranean or elsewhere. If there had been an additional gold shipment made to England, it didn’t involve the Bank of England.”

“Would there be others, outside of the military, who would have advance logistics information of a proposed gold shipment, whether it went to the Bank of England or some third party?”

“The diplomatic corps might, but security and transport would in all likelihood be handled by the military.” Something tugged at Bainbridge’s mind and he looked out the pub window. Across the street, plastered on a bus stop bench, was an advertisement for a Lloyd’s of London insurance office.

“There is one other avenue you may consider investigating,” he said. “The initial shipment from Archangel in 1914. It was carried on Royal Navy vessels. The War Risks Insurance Office in London insured the shipment and charged the Russian government a premium, along with the transport fee, totaling one percent of the shipment. If your phantom shipment was to be carried on a Royal Navy ship, there’s a fair chance the Insurance Office would have known something about it.”

A wide smile crossed Mansfield’s face. “I knew that you would be of great service.” He stood and bowed. “Thank you, Mr. Bainbridge, for the information and for the beer.” He turned and left the pub, leaving Bainbridge to stare at the twin empty glasses.

41

“Good morning, Summer,” Julien said on the telephone. “I have some intriguing news.”

“Good morning, Julien.” With her free hand, Summer pulled open the curtains of her hotel room and glanced at the cloudy weather. “What kind of news?”

“Charles Trehorne just called me from the reading room of the National Archives, where he got an early start this morning. He says he found an extraordinary document in the papers of Sir Leigh Hunt. He didn’t elaborate but encouraged us to meet him there.”

“Do you think it’s information about the gold?”

“All he said was that it might explain a few questions about the Canterbury. I’m on my way over now and can pick you up in about ten minutes.”

“I’ll grab Dirk and see you downstairs.”

The Rolls was waiting at the curb when the twins exited the hotel. Dirk and Summer climbed in back, where Perlmutter was reading a copy of the London Times.

“Trehorne worked pretty fast,” Dirk said.

“He practically lives at the National Archives. Plus, it doesn’t take much of a historical mystery to get him fired up.”

As the Rolls began to exit the hotel drive, they heard a loud-revving car. The Rolls jolted to a stop, amid a crunch of gears, and its occupants were flung forward as the old car suddenly sped in reverse. An instant later, a black car burst by, its side door careening off the Rolls’s front bumper amid a squeal of tires. The speeding car hopped the curb, plowed through a small garden, and slammed into the brick façade of the hotel’s gift shop.

Ravi rolled down the divider window. “Is everyone all right?”

“Yes, thank heavens,” Perlmutter said. “The blasted fool nearly sent us to our demise.”

“Ravi, that was a fine bit of accident avoidance,” Dirk said. “How did you know he was going to strike us?”

Ravi smiled. “Private security driving school. We were taught how to minimize a collision. I heard the loud engine, saw his driving angle, and had an inkling he was headed our way. Fortunately, this old car dropped into reverse in a flash.”

“Do you think he survived?” Summer motioned toward a cloud of smoke around the smashed car.

They exited the Rolls and approached the car, an old black cab whose front end looked like an accordion. The driver’s door was wedged open but the interior was empty. A crowd surrounded the car. There was no sign of a driver.

Examining the car, Dirk noted a racing-type four-point safety harness in the driver’s seat and the absence of a license plate. He scanned the crowd, but whoever was driving had melded into the onlookers, then escaped.

“A missing driver,” Perlmutter said. “That’s odd.”

“Probably wasn’t a registered driver and wished to avoid a jail sentence,” Ravi said, before walking back and examining a long crease on the Rolls’s bumper. Soon the police arrived, an accident report was completed, and they were permitted to leave.

“I hope that concludes the excitement for the day,” Perlmutter said as the Rolls got moving again. “And I hope it doesn’t make us late for lunch.”

“I’m sure the National Archives building has a cafeteria,” Summer said. “We can grab a bite after we meet with Dr. Trehorne.”

“Don’t trifle with me, young lady. There’s a Michelin-rated Korean restaurant near the Archives that I insist we sample.”

She gave him a stern look. “Business before pleasure.”

It was less than a fifteen-minute drive to the National Archives in the west London borough of Richmond upon Thames, where a thousand years of British historical documents were housed. Perlmutter led Dirk and Summer up a flight of steps to the entrance of the modern glass structure and into its atrium. While Dirk eyed an attractive woman in a leather jacket who was studying the floor plan, Perlmutter asked at the front desk about Trehorne.

The receptionist perked up at the mention of his name. “I’m sure Dr. Trehorne is at his usual table in the Document Reading Room. I’ll have someone take you there.”

A research assistant escorted them through a security checkpoint and into the expansive room. “He’s in the far back.” She pointed to a distant corner.

The trio made their way past dozens of students and researchers at small wooden desks, quietly examining ancient documents. Threading their way to the corner, they found Trehorne wedged behind a long table sided by sliding bookshelves. Two thick document files and some loose pages were stacked on the table, but his focus was on a slim blue binder opened before him.

He looked over the top of his reading glasses and smiled. “Good morning, all. You found me without trouble, I hope?”

“That was the least of our difficulties this morning,” Perlmutter said. “You have quite a reputation in these parts.”

“I apologize for troubling you with a visit, but I thought you would like to see the original pages of the documents I found. They are quite fascinating.”

“We’re glad you called,” Summer said. “What is it that you found?”

“I had the papers of Sir Leigh Hunt pulled for the period of 1916 to 1917.” He patted the binder. “It was in his last set of documents that I found—”

His words were cut off by a loud siren.

“Oh, dear,” he said. “That sounds like the fire alarm.”

As people began evacuating the reading room, a woman approached the table. Dirk was surprised to see it was the dark-haired beauty he had noticed in the lobby. She ignored him and addressed Trehorne.

“I’m afraid you must evacuate the building,” Martina said in an authoritative voice. “I must collect the documents you have checked out.”

“Edith in Foreign Service Records provided me these documents,” Trehorne said.

“I’ll need to return them.” Martina slid past Perlmutter to the side of the table.

“This is most unusual,” Trehorne said, setting down the blue binder.

Martina leaned across the table and collected the two thick folders, then the binder. Dirk watched as her leather jacket flapped open, revealing a small automatic pistol tucked into a shoulder holster. He realized that unlike the other library assistants, she wasn’t wearing a name badge.

Standing between Summer and Perlmutter, he elbowed his sister and motioned at a door along the back wall. He discreetly moved his foot to the side and slipped it around Perlmutter’s ankle.

“Forgive me, Julien,” he said, then shoved him toward the woman.

The big man stumbled and fell to the side, colliding hard with the Russian. The documents in her hands went flying across the table as she was knocked to the floor.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Perlmutter said. Catching himself on a chair back, he leaned over and pulled Martina to her feet.

“Clumsy fool!” She jerked away from his helpful hands.

The nearby door clicked closed, and she wheeled around. In an instant, her trained eyes registered that Dirk, Summer, and the blue binder were gone. Boxed in by Perlmutter and Trehorne, she dove across the table, rolled onto her feet on the opposite side, and drew her gun. She rushed to the door, flung it open, and charged in.

The door opened onto a stairwell landing. She heard the clatter of footfalls and looked over the rail, catching a glimpse of Dirk and Summer on the floor above. She raised her gun and fired a single shot, which reverberated like a cannon in the stairwell. An instant later, a door slammed.

Martina hesitated, then pulled a two-way radio from her pocket. “The two younger ones have entered the second floor, east side,” she said in Russian. “They have the documents.”

42

“Why is she shooting at us?” Summer asked as they burst onto the second floor.

Dirk pushed his sister ahead. “Let’s not stop and ask her.”

They had stepped into a small map room whose occupants had already cleared out. A doorway at the far end led to a larger map and document reading room. Dirk looked to the far room, then pushed Summer toward a side door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY.

They found themselves in a large, dimly lit bay. They took a second to let their eyes adjust, thankful that the alarm blaring throughout the building was muted inside. The bay contained one of the Archives’ many large book depositories. Wedged into the cavernous bay were row upon row of sliding bookshelves standing eight feet high. As they padded down a narrow opening between shelves, Summer noted the books contained Britain’s tax collection rolls. They reached the end of the shelf only to find more rows beyond.

Dirk gazed at a back wall to his left, then turned to Summer. “Stay here and keep an eye on the door — and a tight grip on that binder. I’ll run down and see if there’s another exit at that end.”

“Okay. I’ll follow if we have company.”

As Dirk ran off, Summer stepped a few feet in the opposite direction, keeping an eye down the aisles toward the door they had entered. The next row of shelves to her left ran short, ending at a wall with a large canvas cart filled with books. Curious, she scurried down the aisle and found a freight elevator just beyond. She pushed the call button, then hurried back down the row to regain her view of the entry door. It still seemed quiet.

But as she resumed her watch position, a voice called from nearby. “I believe the Archives are now closed.”

Summer nearly jumped out of her shoes as she turned and faced a familiar man with blond hair.

“I’ll take the documents,” Mansfield said in an easygoing voice.

Summer noticed he was nicely dressed in a sport coat and slacks, and held a Beretta aimed at her midsection. It took a moment for her to place his face. “Wasn’t it enough to blow up half of the Canterbury?” She intentionally spoke in a nervous, high-pitched voice.

“Not when there are still tales to tell. Your brother?” he asked, waving his gun from side to side.

“Coming on the elevator with security.” She took a half step back as she motioned over her shoulder at the freight elevator.

They stood facing each other in a narrow track between bookshelves, but Summer had eased past the end of the rack. “What is so important in the files?”

Mansfield could see she was stalling for time. He reached out his free hand. “Give me the folder. Now.”

A loud ding announced the arrival of the freight elevator. Mansfield turned and peered over Summer’s shoulder toward the opening doors. A second later, a rumbling emanated near his feet. He looked back to see Summer leaping to the side as one of the towering bookshelves toppled toward him.

Two shelves over, Dirk had his shoulder pressed to a center rack and was shoving against it like a charging rhino.

Before Mansfield could brace himself, the twin sliding shelves slammed into him. His chest caught a high shelf that jammed his ribs. He winced as a collection of dusty tax books cascaded onto him, dropping him to the floor as the shelves bounced off him.

Dirk let go and sprinted toward the elevator, shouting to his sister, “Lift!”

Summer was already on the move, reaching the open elevator ahead of him. She jabbed the lowest-floor button and glanced back at the bookshelves. The two mashed shelves around Mansfield began to part. A hand emerged from the pile of books, aiming a gun in her direction. Dirk was still several paces away.

“Get down!” she said, ducking to the side of the elevator door.

Dirk took a step and leaped, sliding headfirst into the elevator. As the twin doors rattled to a close, two shots splattered into the elevator’s back wall.

“You all right?” Summer asked.

“Yes.” Dirk climbed to his feet. “Where’d he come from?”

“Either slipped in when I was checking the elevator or found another entrance. The woman must have tipped him off.” She watched the lights of the floors flash by. “I’m glad you were able to sneak back quietly.”

“I heard you speak up and figured it wasn’t a good thing.”

Summer gave her brother a concerned look. “He was the pilot on the Russian submersible.”

“What?”

“I’m certain of it. He’s from the Tavda. And he didn’t deny it.”

“Apparently, it’s more than gold they’re after.” His eyes fell to the blue binder that Summer clutched with an iron grip. “We need to find security.”

“The front entrance is our best bet. Where are we headed?”

The elevator doors opened. They had dropped into the building’s warehouse and loading dock. Packages of dry foodstuffs for the Archives’ restaurant were stacked near shrink-wrapped crates of books and calendars for the gift shop. They walked past orderly stacks of plastic containers of contemporary government records fresh from Parliament. They continued along an empty loading dock, framed by a large drop-down garage door. A nearby fire alarm, one of many clanging throughout the building, suddenly stopped.

Summer hesitated and grabbed Dirk’s arm. “Someone’s coming.”

Dirk heard it, too, someone running down a flight of stairs. He glanced away from the sound to his right, where an exit door stood beside the loading dock. At the opposite end of the bay, another door burst open. Martina came flying out, her eyes locking onto the twins.

Dirk was already on the move, dragging Summer to the exit door and flinging it open. The door led outside. They raced down a flight of steps to the base of the loading dock. They were at the rear of the Archives, whose blank walls stretched in either direction. A short delivery driveway extended from the dock to a narrow side lane. Otherwise, they were surrounded by open asphalt.

“Nothing like a distinct lack of cover,” Dirk muttered as he led Summer at a full run to the road. Just across the paved lane, a large open field rolled down to the banks of the Thames. The field was flanked by a pair of industrial buildings positioned a healthy sprint away. As the warehouse door banged open behind them, Dirk looked to the river.

Upriver from the bustle of central London, the Thames was relatively serene, a haven more for sport rowers than commercial boats. From their vantage, the river was empty except for a lone tugboat chugging downstream.

Dirk led Summer into the field, angling toward the nearest industrial building. They could see some teens near the water’s edge, along with a long, lean object resting on the bank.

“It’s too far.” Between gasps for air, Summer motioned to the building ahead.

But Dirk had an alternate plan. “This way. To the river.”

“Swim for it?”

Dirk just pointed to the riverbank.

With their head start, the downward sloping field gave them a hint of cover from Martina’s pistol. The Russian woman reached the top of the field as Dirk and Summer approached the riverbank.

As they drew near the water, Summer shook her head. “You can’t be serious.”

She stared at a four-man rowing scull beached on the rocks. Its owners, four teen boys who had stopped for a break, were upriver exploring the reeds.

“We don’t have to go far,” Dirk said.

He muscled the scull off the bank, hesitated a second for Summer to take a seat, then shoved it into the water and hopped aboard. The rail-thin scull would have capsized, but Summer was quick to steady it with a pair of oars. Dirk took to another set and they were quickly stroking toward the center of the river.

Pursuing them at a run, Martina reached the middle of the field. She pulled to a stop and raised her pistol. But the teen boys had noticed the boat thieves and raced along the riverbank, shouting at the two rowers. One took to hurling rocks and the others followed suit. With four witnesses directly in front of her, Martina lowered her pistol and slid it into her shoulder holster.

She stood for a moment, watching the scull cross the bow of the small tug, then turn along its opposite side.

“Martina!” Mansfield called from the road, where he stood watching the scene.

She hurried back across the field and reached him just as a silver Audi driven by Ivan screeched to a halt in front of them. Mansfield jumped into the front seat, and she climbed in back a second later.

As Ivan hit the gas, Mansfield turned to her with his blue eyes ablaze. “We need a boat.” His voice was calmer than his expression. “And we need it right now.”

43

The green vessel blew its horn at the rowers crossing its path and cut sharply to starboard to avoid slicing through the forty-foot rowing shell. It wasn’t a tugboat, Dirk could now see, but a stout fishing boat. Built in the fashion of a North Sea trawler, the steel-hulled vessel had been designed for endurance in all-weather climates.

After cutting across the trawler’s path, Dirk and Summer shelved their portside oars and dug in with their starboard blades. They swung the scull alongside the fishing boat until Dirk could grab a side tire fender. Summer rose and stretched for the side rail and pulled herself aboard. She quickly reached back and snared the blue binder that had been at her feet. Dirk followed her aboard, kicking the scull toward shore as he pulled himself onto the deck.

They were greeted by a black and tan dachshund that approached with its tail wagging, offering an ominous howl. Summer knelt in surrender, eliciting a lick and a melodious greeting.

The dog was followed by a tall silver-haired man who gazed at them through curious coral-sea green eyes. “Are you a boarding party?”

“No, just hitchhikers.” Summer rose to her feet. “Sorry to board without asking, but they were trying to kill us.” She pointed at the opposite riverbank.

The old man looked across the river. He ignored a silver Audi speeding down the road and focused on the four boys wearing spandex and hurling rocks and insults from the shoreline.

“Killers, eh?” He shook his head. “I guess they do look slightly hostile. I would be, too, if someone stole my boat.”

“You don’t understand—”

“Excuse me, but I need to get back to the wheel.” He turned and stepped to the pilothouse, trailed by the dachshund.

Following behind, Dirk and Summer noticed a life ring outside the wheelhouse identified the boat’s name as First Attempt.

“Is there a river police station on the Thames?” Dirk asked.

“I think the Brits have some sort of patrol station up near the London Eye. It’s along my way, so I can drop you.”

“We’d be very grateful.” Summer noticed the boat’s owner was drinking coffee from a mug inscribed with Balboa Yacht Club and the initials CC. “What’s a fellow Yank doing sailing on the Thames?”

“Mauser and I decided to see the world by boat.” He nodded toward the dachshund, now curled up on a pillow near his feet. “We’re coming down from a side trip to Oxford.” He waved a hand at the windscreen, beyond which the tall landmarks of central London could be seen in the distance. “I always found that you see the worst side of a town driving past it on the highway. The great old cities seem to preserve their best face for the waterfront. We’ve enjoyed London and are off now to cross the Channel for the Seine River and Paris.”

“Did you cross the Atlantic in the First Attempt?” Dirk asked.

“Oh, yes, we sailed her across. She’s built like a battleship, and just as stable. I’ve got extra fuel tanks below that give us a range of over three thousand miles.”

“How fast can she go?” Summer gazed the shoreline for signs of the two Russians.

“With a friendly breeze and a favorable current, she’s good for nine and a half knots.” He rapped the throttle forward to its stops. “Don’t you worry, miss. I’ll have you to the police dock in about twenty minutes.”

Less than ten minutes later, Mansfield found a boat. By luck, the Chiswick Pier Marina a mile downriver had a handful of boats for hire. Martina arranged a rental by phone seconds before the Audi skidded to a stop out front.

“Keep downriver, and track them as best you can,” Mansfield told the Audi’s driver.

Ivan had a bruised cheek and a fresh cut on his hand from his collision in the old taxi but brushed off any pain and nodded at Mansfield.

Martina followed Mansfield as he jumped out of the car and hurried to a wiry man wearing coveralls and carrying a gas can.

“You here for the boat?” he asked with a friendly grin.

“Yes.”

“The fastest we have, per the lady’s request.” He pointed past a row of sailboats to a small powerboat at the end of the dock. “A Seafarer 23. She’s no cigarette boat but a fine old runner nevertheless, all fueled up and ready to go. I’ll just need your driver’s license and a credit card.”

Mansfield handed him his phony French passport with several hundred-pound banknotes protruding from the cover. “I presume this will suffice?”

The boatman’s eyes grew wide. “The keys are in the ignition. Just have it back before it gets dark. Cheers.” He watched with curiosity as the attractive, nicely dressed couple sprinted to the boat and roared off into the Thames.

44

The trawler had followed the meandering path of the Thames through west London and reached a northerly turn near Battersea Park when the pursuing speedboat raced into view. Dirk was the first to spot it, recognizing Mansfield and Martina in the front seats. “Can you drop us somewhere quick?” he asked the old man.

“There’s nothing close ahead. We just passed St. George Wharf a bit ago,” he said. “Do you want to go back?”

Dirk eyed the closing speedboat. “No, let’s just keep on.”

The sedate old Thames grew busy as they neared central London, the waterway bustling with tourist boats and the occasional small barge. The First Attempt held to the center of the river to avoid the growing traffic, the old man holding a steady hand on the wheel. While he was looking ahead, Dirk and Summer stared out the rear window at the approaching boat.

Mansfield brought his boat alongside the First Attempt’s starboard beam and slowed to match speeds. He tapped his horn to get the old man’s attention, then drew his hand horizontally beneath his chin.

“This fellow seems to want me to stop,” he said. “Is he the one who tried to kill you?”

Summer gave him an earnest look and nodded.

The old man smiled and waved at Mansfield, then turned away, keeping the throttle set at full.

Mansfield moved in tighter and displayed a pistol beneath his jacket.

The old man repeated his wave and smile.

“I believe he may use that piece.” He looked to Summer and stepped away from the window. “You might want to keep your head down.”

Mansfield didn’t shoot but dropped behind the First Attempt, then eased up to its port flank. Martina stood on her seat cushion and reached for the trawler’s rail.

“The woman is trying to climb aboard,” Summer said.

Dirk scanned the pilothouse and spotted a half-empty wine bottle on a wall rack. He grabbed the bottle by the neck, stepped out of the doorway, and tossed it rearward. The bottle skidded across the deck and struck Martina in the chest. More startled than injured, she fell back into the boat.

Mansfield replied by pumping three shots from his Beretta into the wheelhouse as Dirk dove for cover.

“I think you got them angry now,” the old man said, wheeling the trawler to port.

“They weren’t too happy to begin with,” Summer said.

Rising to his feet, Dirk scanned the river ahead. There was a pier a half mile downstream, but until then shore access was nonexistent. On the river itself, a small barge was approaching along the shoreline, while ahead a triple-decked tourist boat cruised slowly off their starboard bow.

He had to catch his balance as the old man spun the wheel hard over, sending the boat careening. A second later, he reversed the helm and the boat swerved back. He was trying to dodge the speedboat as it attempted another boarding.

“If you can get us alongside that tour boat,” Dirk said, “we’ll get out of your hair.”

“I can try.”

The old sailor continued corkscrewing his trawler, tormenting Mansfield’s attempts to transfer a now cautious Martina aboard. “When I give the word,” he said, “slip in front of the wheelhouse and stay low.” He swung the trawler in a hard turn to starboard and held the wheel until the side doorway was out of view of the speedboat. “Now!” he yelled.

Dirk and Summer bolted out the door and crouched on the bow as the boat heeled back to port. A few seconds later, the First Attempt caught up with the tour boat.

The old man could see that the tourist boat’s rear deck offered the easiest point of access, so he pulled parallel, then rapped on the windscreen to alert Dirk and Summer.

As the speedboat approached on his port flank, the old man swung the trawler hard right until it slapped the side of the tour boat.

Dirk and Summer leaped without hesitation and scampered up and over the side of the tour boat, blocked from Mansfield’s view by the First Attempt.

“Sorry for the troubles, but thanks for the lift,” Dirk called out.

The old man stuck his head out the side window and waved. “No worries. But you do owe me a half bottle of Bordeaux.”

He killed the throttle and let the tour boat slip ahead as the trawler drifted with the current. Mansfield caught the move late but slowed and pulled alongside and Martina easily jumped aboard.

With gun drawn, she sprinted to the wheelhouse. In the doorway, she leveled her weapon at the old man as the dachshund erupted in a howling frenzy. “Where are they?”

The old man smiled and said nothing. Martina looked over his shoulder and noticed the tour boat pulling ahead. She looked back at the old man and shook her head. “Today, you are lucky.” She aimed a kick at the barking dog and ran back to the speedboat.

Mansfield stood at the wheel with an anxious look. “Well?”

Martina pointed up the river. “They’re on the tour boat.”

45

The Sir Francis Drake was one of the larger boats to ply the Thames River tourist trade, covering the waterway from Kew Gardens in west London to Greenwich in the east. Featuring an indoor café and a topside bar, the triple-deck tour boat could seat a thousand sightseers. But on this cloudy summer weekday, she carried fewer than three hundred passengers.

An inebriated holidaymaker from Yorkshire helped pull Summer onto the open stern deck.

“Welcome aboard, love,” he said, giving her a lecherous gaze. “Join me for a drink?”

Dirk was quick to intervene. “Come along, dear.” He took her by the arm that still clutched the blue binder and pulled her forward.

Summer feigned disappointment for the drunk’s benefit. “Perhaps another time.”

She followed her brother through a swinging door that led into the lower deck’s enclosed salon. They ignored a Private — Reserved for the McIntyre Company placard at the entrance and stepped down the main aisle. The bay was filled with workers from a local high-tech firm enjoying an excursion on the founder’s birthday. Well-dressed employees ate cake and drank beer and wine while looking out the window as the Palace of Westminster came into view. A hired photographer snapped a flash photo of Dirk and Summer as they tried to pass a standing throng and make for the forward stairwell.

While everyone was looking forward out the portside window toward Big Ben, Dirk peered upriver. The First Attempt still drifted in the center of the river. But the speedboat was accelerating past her bow toward the tour boat.

Summer hailed a passing busboy. “Can you tell me when the boat will stop next?”

The busboy glanced out the window. “We should tie up to the London Bridge City Pier in about five minutes.”

“And where will we exit the boat?”

“The Lido, or second-deck level. I think it will be the portside gangway.”

Summer considered the corporate group, then turned to her brother. “I have an idea. Get up to the top deck and make yourself seen by the speedboat. Then slip down to the Lido deck and meet me at the gangway when we dock.”

Dirk nodded. “Save me a piece of cake.”

“I had a beer in mind.”

He ran up the forward staircase to the open top deck, then worked his way to the aft rail and watched the speedboat approach the side of the Drake.

Martina made eye contact with him as she stood on the speedboat’s passenger seat. Mansfield bumped the boat against the Drake, and Martina leaped for its side rail.

The drunken Yorkshireman was still there to grab her arm and help her across the rail. “My heavens, a second angel from the deep. What’s your name, my lovely?”

Martina’s answer was a knee to the groin that sent the man and his beer sprawling across the deck. By the time he regained his feet, Martina was scampering up the external stairwell. She stepped onto the upper level as the Drake sounded its horn.

The deck vibrated beneath her feet as the tour boat briefly reversed power, slowing its approach to a wooden dock that extended into the river. Half of the seated tourists rose to their feet and crowded toward the stairs as a loudspeaker announced their arrival at London Bridge City Pier.

Martina filtered her way through the crowd, searching for the tall dark-haired man, but Dirk was nowhere to be seen.

She descended the forward stairwell and met a mob of tourists and McIntyre employees who crowded against the portside rail, waiting for the boat to dock. Near the front of the line, she spotted Dirk and Summer, both standing nearly a head taller than the elderly passengers around them. She retrieved her handheld radio and pressed it to her lips. “They are exiting the boat. Get to shore.”

Mansfield was already scouring the pier for a place to tie up. He found an open berth and drove the speedboat alongside.

A dockworker in a blue jumpsuit saw him approach and ran to the water’s edge. “I’m sorry, sir, but no private mooring is allowed. This pier is for licensed tourist boats only.”

Mansfield ignored the man’s comments as he tied up the boat and climbed onto the dock.

“I’m with Scotland Yard on a security matter,” he said. He reached into his pocket and extended to the man a hundred-pound note. “Can you watch my boat for a few minutes?”

The dockworker looked up and down the pier to make sure he wasn’t being observed, then snatched the bill. “Glad to, sir. She’ll be waiting right here for you when you return.”

Mansfield ran toward the Drake but was a few seconds too late. The gangway had already been extended and the initial throng of tourists had swarmed off. He spotted Martina near the back of the pack, trying to push through the line.

Martina waved for him to join her. The remnants of the crowd were diverging, some exiting straight off the pier, while most followed a raised walkway along the river’s bank.

He wormed his way beside her. “Where are they?”

“Near the front,” she said, “but we have them now. They’re headed aboard the Belfast.”

Mansfield looked ahead. The walkway fed into a ramp that extended over the water to a large gray warship. The HMS Belfast was a Royal Navy cruiser built in 1938 that had seen extensive action in World War II. Preserved as a museum, she was now permanently moored in the Thames, across the river from the Tower of London.

At the ship’s entry ramp, Dirk stopped and turned to Summer. “You sure we want to board her?”

She moved ahead. “We need to buy some time waiting for the tour boat.”

They led the pack of tourists to the ship’s entrance, keeping tabs on Mansfield and Martina following behind. Boarding the old cruiser on her lower deck, they were given free rein to explore most of the ship’s inner workings. Summer and Dirk immediately headed aft, walking briskly to the quarter deck and crossing to the starboard rail. A ladder led up to an open hatchway to one of the ship’s triple-gun turrets. They climbed two levels and ducked inside. The breeches of three massive six-inch guns filled the circular turret. Peeking through a cutout on the opposite side, Summer could see Martina standing watch on the gangway.

Dirk looked through another viewport as Mansfield pushed past some tourists to skirt around the aft base of the turret. “He’s on us.”

“Let’s get forward and go as high up as we can.”

“We’ll need to drop down before we can go up,” Dirk said.

They scurried down a ladder and entered a bay leading forward, then passed through an exhibit of the ship’s laundry station, complete with a mannequin loading an industrial-sized washer. Dirk found a companionway out a side hatch and they descended several more levels, arriving at one of the Belfast’s twin engine rooms. They made their way forward as quickly as they could, maneuvering past a maze of pipes and machinery surrounding one of the ship’s boilers, as well as past a few slow-moving tourists.

When they reached the forward-most bulkhead, they climbed up the nearest ladder. Dirk hesitated on the steps and peered down the passageway from where they had just come. At the far end of the engine room, Mansfield was hurrying through the bay.

They continued the cat-and-mouse chase, pushing forward and higher through the ship. Dirk and Summer passed the crew’s mess on the lower deck before finally reaching the forward superstructure. From there, they clambered up several decks to the narrow confines of the Belfast’s bridge. Summer hesitated, checked her watch, then peered out the forward windows. A horn sounded ahead of the ship and she nodded. “That’s our tour boat, departing right on time. Let’s go up to the flybridge.”

They climbed another level to the exposed flybridge, which offered a stunning view of the river and the Tower of London on the opposite bank. They stepped to the port side and briefly looked down at Martina, still guarding the gangway. Then they crossed the bridge to the starboard rail and gazed at the river.

Mansfield arrived less than a minute later. He approached them casually but somewhat out of breath. “Well, we could certainly have dispensed with the ship calisthenics.”

“You could have sent your girlfriend,” Summer said.

Mansfield smiled. “She’s not my girlfriend, but you are correct. She is probably in better shape than me. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll have the folder.”

Summer held out her hands, both empty. “We don’t have it.”

Mansfield frowned. “Yes, very clever to have hidden it somewhere on this ship.” He gazed around the flybridge, which was shared at the moment by a young family admiring the view. Mansfield turned back to Dirk and Summer, speaking in a low tone. “Siblings, aren’t you?” He addressed Summer. “When the family departs, I will shoot your brother unless you produce the folder. And if not, I will shoot you, too.” The calm coldness to his voice left no room for doubt.

Summer watched as the family migrated to the stairwell after taking several pictures. “Who are you?” she said. “And why are you claiming the wreck of the Canterbury when it’s clearly a British ship? Is it the gold?”

Mansfield laughed. “There’s no more gold aboard, so I have no interest in the ship now. My name is Viktor Mansfield, if you must know, and I will take that file, please.” He tilted his head toward the family, which was now descending the stairwell.

“I didn’t hide it aboard the Belfast,” Summer said. “I left it on the tour boat.” She motioned toward the Drake, which was passing alongside the warship on its way to Greenwich. “If you look closely, you can just make it out on the lower aft deck.”

Mansfield peered over the rail at the passing boat, focusing on its stern. A heavyset man leaned against a tall table drinking a beer, but the small open area was otherwise empty. Then he saw it. The blue binder sat on the center of one of the empty tables, weighted down by a pint of beer.

“I wondered where my beer went,” Dirk said.

Mansfield pulled his radio and called to Martina, in Russian, “Get the boat!” He turned to Dirk and Summer as an elderly couple stepped onto the flybridge. “It could be unfortunate for you if this is a trick.”

“It isn’t,” Summer said.

Mansfield nodded, trusting her body language that she was telling the truth. “I trust we shan’t meet again.” He turned and left the bridge.

Summer sagged in relief as Dirk watched the Drake disappear under the Tower Bridge.

He shook his head. “I can’t believe you gave it up without finding out what was in it.”

“Not exactly,” she said. “We’ll find out everything that was in that binder tonight. But it’s going to cost us fifty pounds and another dinner at La Gavroche.”

“La Gavroche again? Are you trying to break the bank?”

Summer shrugged. “Sorry. It’s the only restaurant in London I know.”

46

The second meal at La Gavroche was just as delicious, and just as expensive, as the first. But the company was decidedly less captivating. Dirk had immediately recognized the photographer from the tour boat as he approached their table, underdressed and unkempt. For his part, the photographer was also disappointed, having expected a private dinner date with Summer.

“Hi, Terrence. I’m glad you could join us,” she said. “I’d like you to meet my boyfriend, Dirk.”

The men reluctantly shook hands and took a seat on either side of Summer.

“I… I thought we might be dining alone,” Terrence said.

“Don’t be silly,” she said. “I see you brought the photographs. How did they come out?” Before he could answer, she plucked the large manila envelope from his hands and passed it to Dirk.

“A moving boat wasn’t the best platform on which to photograph documents,” Terrence said, “but they came out fine, every page readable.”

“That’s wonderful. Now, what would you like to eat?”

Dirk and Summer hurried through their exquisite meals at high speed, and Terrence followed suit when the remaining conversation fell away. After skipping dessert, they bid farewell. Summer rewarded the photographer with a peck on the check, along with a fifty-pound note.

“That was a bit cruel,” Dirk said as he hopped into a cab with Summer.

“I think he was pretty well compensated for just taking a few photographs.”

“True, but I don’t think it was quite the compensation he had in mind.”

They refrained from opening the envelope until they arrived at Charles Trehorne’s residence. They found the historian drinking tea with Perlmutter, served by Trehorne’s vivacious wife, Rosella.

“You two don’t look the worse for wear after your escapades this afternoon,” Perlmutter said. “You gave us quite a scare after you disappeared with that armed woman in pursuit.”

“We realized the fire alarm was a staged diversion so someone could get their hands on the file that Dr. Trehorne discovered,” Summer said.

“Who on earth would go to such extremes for some dusty old documents?” Trehorne asked.

“The same people who blew apart the Canterbury,” Dirk said. “The Russians.”

“I wish I’d have known that when I gave my report to the police,” Trehorne said. “Julien tells me you were forced to hand over the Archives’ folder on Sir Hunt.”

“I’m afraid so,” Summer said.

“That’s a pity. I didn’t have a chance to review the entire contents. I phoned Julien when I came across a report of Hunt taking a top secret document to St. Petersburg and I presumed we would find our answer.” He set down his tea and looked out the window at the lights across the Thames. “My friends at the Archives won’t be pleased, either.”

“We may have lost the original, but we do have this,” Summer said. She opened the manila envelope and pulled out a thin stack of page-sized photos.

Trehorne gazed at the top photo, of a letter handwritten by Hunt. “That was the first document in the binder.”

Summer nodded. “I found a photographer on the run who snapped pictures of the binder’s contents. Hopefully, he didn’t miss any pages.”

“Wonderful thinking,” Julien said.

“Oh, it cost us.” Dirk cast a sideways glance at Summer.

Trehorne held up the first photo and smiled. “This is almost as clear as the document itself. Let’s see what else we have in here.”

It didn’t take them long to filter through the photos, most of which captured mundane administrative documents. Then they came to one marked Proposed Treaty of Petrograd. Trehorne skimmed the three-page draft, then passed it to Perlmutter with a shaky hand.

“Take a look at this, Julien. Quite remarkable. I think I may require a drink.” He rose to locate his bottle of Balvenie.

Perlmutter began reading the document aloud. It was a draft copy of the treaty transferring Russian mineral rights to Great Britain in exchange for securing the Romanov family wealth. The room remained silent as Perlmutter read to the end.

“That’s unbelievable,” Dirk said. “The Romanovs shipping their gold to the Allies is one thing, but assigning a piece of their mineral rights for a century to come…?”

“Tsar Nicholas must have considered it a last-ditch effort to save the crown,” Trehorne said. “Turning to Britain for help wouldn’t have been unusual. After all, King George V and Nicholas II were cousins. But it is still a remarkable proposal.”

“Could the treaty still be enforced after all these years?” Summer asked.

“I’m sure an army of the Queen’s best attorneys would try to find out, particularly if they could beat the expiration date,” Trehorne said. “With billions potentially at stake, there would certainly be an incentive to try.”

“But that’s only if the deal was signed,” Perlmutter said, “and the Romanov gold was actually transferred to Great Britain.”

Trehorne retrieved four glasses and poured a tall shot of Scotch in each. Downing his own glass, he picked up the first photo and studied it again.

“It’s dated February tenth, 1917,” he said. “That’s two days before Hunt set foot on the Canterbury in Liverpool and sailed to Archangel. Seems likely he took it to the Tsar to sign. I found a Foreign Office report in another file that Hunt did in fact have a meeting with Nicholas, but no details were provided.”

“There seems to be no record of such a treaty,” Perlmutter said, “so Nicholas must never have signed it.”

“I disagree,” Dirk said. “I think the treaty was in fact signed and that Hunt was returning to England with a copy on the Canterbury.”

“No way to prove that,” Trehorne said.

“We already have the proof,” Dirk said, “and that’s with the Russians. They arrived at the wreck site of the Canterbury, claimed it was theirs, and proceeded to blast it apart.”

“They might have believed the ship was carrying gold,” Summer said.

Dirk shook his head. “There’s three reasons why they didn’t. First, they set their explosives to blow up the ship’s superstructure. Any quantity of gold would have been carried in the lower holds, so they should have been blasting open the deck or a side hull.”

“They may have been working their way there,” she said, “or just wanted to eliminate us first.”

“True, and they might still be there blasting it open as we speak. But I think not, for the second reason. The Russian on the submersible who handled the demolition is now here in London. He’s tracking our movements and stealing historical documents from the National Archives.” He tapped the stack of photos.

“There’s logic to what you say,” Perlmutter said. “The Russians may have blown up the Canterbury’s superstructure because that’s where Hunt would have been berthed. If he was carrying a signed treaty copy in a diplomatic pouch, or even a heavy leather valise, there is at least a possibility it could have survived the sinking.” He looked at Dirk and Summer. “They know you two were suspicious about the wreck and may have been trying to circumvent your discovery of the treaty.”

“And the associated Romanov treasure that was to be sent to England,” Trehorne said.

“Indeed,” Perlmutter said.

Summer looked to her brother. “You said you had three reasons. I counted only two.”

“Our encounter with Viktor Mansfield today. Do you remember what he said when you mentioned the Canterbury’s gold?”

“He said there is no more gold aboard her. But if the treaty was signed and no gold was shipped on the Canterbury, then where did it go?”

“Probably captured by the Bolsheviks, along with the rest of the Romanov assets, when they overran St. Petersburg a short time later,” Perlmutter said.

Trehorne cleared his throat. “Perhaps not.” He held up the final photograph. The image depicted a typewritten letter from Hunt to an Admiral Ballard. The letter was red-lined, with a few handwritten word changes, indicating a draft copy.

“Please read it to us, Charles,” Perlmutter said.

“It’s a letter dated February eleventh, 1917, addressed to Rear Admiral George Ballard, Commander, Malta Dockyard,” Trehorne said.

“My, my,” Perlmutter said. “That certainly sounds like they were up to something, if this Pelikan is a Russian vessel.”

“Quite so. Let me see what I can find on these two ships.” Trehorne walked to the other room, perused his library for a few minutes, and returned with a pair of hardcover books and an old atlas of the Mediterranean.

“Let’s start with vessels of the Russian Imperial Navy.” He opened the first book. “The Pelikan. Yes, here it is. It was actually a submarine. One of the Bars class, the largest of the Russian subs, at sixty-eight meters and six-hundred-and-fifty-ton displacement. Her hull was laid down in September 1915 and she entered service the following April, assigned to the Black Sea Fleet. The Pelikan supported the Caucasus Campaign and saw action off the Danube in 1916. She was listed as missing in action and presumed sunk by Turkish warships off Chios in February 1917.”

“Chios, Greece?” Perlmutter said. “She must have snuck through the Bosphorus and the Dardanelles.”

“A risky move during the war,” Dirk said. “Prompted by special cargo?”

“She was a large boat for the day, so theoretically she could have carried a sizable cargo of bullion,” Trehorne said. “A crafty move, if that’s what it was, sliding it right under the nose of the Ottomans.”

“Nicholas may not have had much choice,” Perlmutter said. “The Imperial gold reserves were held in Moscow and St. Petersburg. Perhaps he knew that St. Petersburg was about to fall, and that it was too risky to send the gold north. There was still the overland route to Vladivostok, but I believe his loyalist forces were strongest in the south.”

“That is true,” Trehorne said. “The rise of the loyalist White Army was centered in what is now Ukraine. So in the waning hours of Nicholas’s reign, that may have been the safest route.”

“Where is this Epanohoron Cape, the designated rendezvous point?” Summer asked.

Perlmutter consulted the atlas. “It’s the northern point of the Greek island of Chios. The same region where the Pelikan was listed as sunk,” he said with a raised brow.

“If she sank in February, then it is questionable whether she made her rendezvous with the Sentinel,” Dirk said.

Trehorne opened the second book. “Let’s see what the Royal Navy has to say about our second vessel. Here it is. The HMS Sentinel was a scout cruiser built in 1904. She served in the Mediterranean Fleet during much of the war, based out of Malta. She struck a mine and sank off Sardinia in March 1917.”

“A couple of unlucky vessels,” Summer said.

“She sank in March,” Dirk said. “That means she came nowhere close to sailing to Liverpool after the rendezvous.”

“Quite right,” Perlmutter said.

“Which means the gold is still on her — or, more likely, the Pelikan,” Summer said, excitement in her voice.

Trehorne nodded. “It would seem to be a strong possibility.”

Summer looked at her brother. “What do you say? It’s a nice time of year to take a visit to the Mediterranean.”

“That sounds good to me, but there’s one problem.” Dirk gazed at the picture of the Russian submarine. “We’re not likely to be the only ones making the trip.”

47

Sixty miles east of Odessa, a mud-splattered pickup turned off a narrow dirt road and into a pasture. The flat property was no different than the neighboring farms that stretched as far as the eye could see except for two vehicles parked behind a strand of trees. One was a large green semi-trailer truck, the other a sleek Peregrine unmanned aerial vehicle.

Martin Hendriks emerged from the trailer with an assistant and greeted the driver. “You are right on time.”

“Colonel Markovich sends his regards.”

“Was the delivery made without incident?”

The driver, an overweight man with a thick beard, nodded. “Yes, the Russians handed them over to us in Sochi. They thought we were dockworkers putting them on a ship to Africa.” He laughed. “They have no idea that they’ll be seeing them again.”

He walked to the back of the pickup, removed a tarp, and uncovered four Vikhr laser-guided antitank missiles, commonly deployed on Russian attack helicopters. “We accepted delivery of twelve missiles and, per your directive, kept eight for our use.”

“Can you help load two onto our trailer,” Hendriks said, “and the other two onto the drone?”

“Of course.”

The driver and Hendriks’s assistant loaded two of the one-hundred-pound missiles into a hidden storage compartment on the trailer, then attached the remaining two on the Peregrine’s underwing launch racks.

As the driver climbed back into his pickup, Hendriks stuffed a wad of Ukrainian currency into the driver’s hands. “Tell Colonel Markovich to put the other eight to good use.”

“We will,” the man promised, then drove away.

Hendriks inspected the armed drone, then turned to his assistant. “Gerard, let’s launch the Peregrine.”

Gerard wheeled out a radio control console, which Hendriks used to start the drone’s motors. The vehicle rolled forward and easily took to the air under its wide flared wings. Hendriks had it circle the field a few times, then sent it south. He switched off the local radio signal and transferred guidance control to a commercial satellite system relay. By the time the drone reached the Black Sea coastline a few miles away, it was cruising at twelve hundred meters.

Gerard opened a laptop and pulled up a map of the Black Sea showing green triangles that marked the locations of GPS-monitored commercial ships. He zoomed in on the coastal region near Odessa and studied a myriad of vessels.

“Mr. Hendriks, I show two Russian-flagged ships. One is a tanker, the Nevskiy, near the mouth of the Dnieper. The other is a freighter, the Carina, which appears en route to Istanbul.”

“Let’s take a look at the freighter. How far off is she?”

“Just under fifty kilometers. We’ll catch her before dark.”

Hendriks nodded.

Gerard programmed the freighter’s speed, direction, and coordinates into the flight control system. A half hour later, a red freighter appeared on the drone’s long-range camera. Hendriks took over manual control and approached the ship from the stern while maintaining a covert distance.

The Peregrine’s camera showed a small bulk carrier riding low in the water, its white, blue, and red Russian flag flapping at the sternpost. Hendriks turned the drone away and let Gerard program the vehicle to fly in a slow holding pattern.

“That will make for an acceptable target,” Hendriks said, stepping from the console. “Let’s engage in about five hours.”

The Dutchman retired to a small cabin that stood at one end of the trailer. At two in the morning, he awoke and returned to the console. The Peregrine was trailing the Carina by three kilometers, but it was close enough for Hendriks to lock on the drone’s laser targeting system to the freighter’s bridge.

“How is the surrounding traffic?” he asked.

“I’ll check.” Gerard yawned and consulted his computer. “The nearest vessel is twenty kilometers away, heading north.”

Hendriks nodded, then pressed a pair of red buttons. A hundred kilometers away, the two Vikhr missiles whooshed off the Peregrine and rocketed toward the ship. Hendriks held the camera tight on the freighter as the missiles struck in tandem at the rear of the Carina’s blockhouse. The bridge structure disintegrated in a bright fireball that was quickly swallowed by the night sky.

Hendriks watched for several minutes, then passed the controls to Gerard. “It will appear as an internal accident. Move the Peregrine off thirty kilometers to a remote section of sea. At dawn, bring her back to the area at low altitude and search for survivors. Be sure and run video when you find them. Hopefully, we’ll be the first to call it in to the Ukrainian Coast Guard.”

Gerard quietly nodded, then stared with discomfort at the sinking ship.

Hendriks felt no such sensation. He returned to his cabin bed and slept like the newly dead until morning.

48

The two ships slogged through a heavy rain, running parallel courses. Each towed a side-scan sonar towfish on two hundred meters of electronic cable. Working together, they took less than twelve hours to survey thirteen square kilometers of seafloor — and locate the remains of Alexander Krayevski’s aircraft.

Valentin Mankedo stepped to the sonar station wedged into a corner of the Besso’s bridge. Renamed the Nevena, the salvage ship looked like a different vessel. Several deck cranes had been removed and her moon pool covered with a temporary cover. Plywood bays had been added about the main deck to alter her topside appearance, plus a fake funnel was added well aft of the functioning one, which had also been altered. A re-spray of paint from gray to blue completed the Besso’s transformation. Mankedo knew it would deceive any casual observer.

“She should be coming up any second now,” Vasko said from a seat in front of the sonar monitor.

Archeologist Georgi Dimitov joined Mankedo in watching the screen. Dimitov moved unsteadily, his ghost-pale complexion revealing a losing fight with seasickness.

On the monitor, a gold-tinted image of the seafloor scrolled by, the signal fed from the towfish. Gradually, a black linear object appeared on the screen, taking the shape of a thick letter T. It took little imagination to see the shadow as the remains of a large airplane. One wing and part of the tail were absent, but the rest of the aircraft appeared intact, sitting upright on the bottom.

“What do you think, Georgi?” Mankedo asked.

“Twin motors on the remaining wing is a positive indicator.” Dimitov tried to focus on the moving image. “Can you determine the dimensions?”

Vasko used a computer mouse to drag a line along the image.

“Fuselage is thirty meters long. The wing looks to be about twenty meters.”

Dimitov nodded. “Those are the correct parameters.”

Mankedo stared at the monitor as the plane’s image scrolled past, deep in thought. “I had heard stories from the old-timers about a lost Russian bomber that supposedly went down near Durankulak in the 1950s. Apparently, the legend is true and only the location is wrong.”

“Do you think its payload remained intact?” Dimitov asked.

“The fuselage appears whole,” Vasko said, “but no telling if it was jettisoned. We’ll have to take a closer look to find out.”

Mankedo ordered the Besso to drop a buoy to mark the position, then turn around and make another pass.

“The history I found is that local fishermen in Durankulak were quietly hired by the Russians to search for debris from the aircraft,” Dimitov said. “My uncle was a young crewmate on one of the boats. That’s why I knew the significance of the body found on the Ottoman wreck. My uncle said they never found any sign of the plane, only the rumor of an oil slick spotted in the sea near the Romanian border.”

Mankedo shook his head. “A false lead that sent the searchers too far north.”

“I guess we have the Americans to thank,” Vasko said.

The salvage operator in Mankedo took over and he turned his attention to the operation to retrieve the old bomber’s payload. A remotely operated vehicle was sent to video the wreck site and from there he developed a plan for extraction.

Mankedo personally led the first dive team to the site, carrying an assortment of torches, cutting tools, and small explosives to gain access to the fuselage. Topside, Vasko assembled a sling and harness lift system to use with the stern A-frame.

When Mankedo returned to the ship from his dive, he was all smiles. “A nice fat baby ready for delivery,” he said, then gave Vasko measurements for the lift system. “Side access is wide open. A block pulley should work to pull it out.”

Vasko led the next dive team to the plane, taking the cabled sling and harness and a framed pulley. Working more deliberately than usual on a salvage job, he secured the lone weapon in the bomb bay with the harness. Then he used the pulley affixed to the fuselage frame to slide it horizontally from the bay. Once it was clear of the plane, he activated the ship’s cable and raised the weapon slowly to the surface.

Vasko swam alongside the behemoth until nearly reaching the surface, then returned to the ship. Standing in a dripping wetsuit beside Mankedo, he watched as the bomb was hoisted from the sea and set on a wooden deck rack.

Dimitov approached and looked at the weapon with astonishment. “It appears nearly new. Hardly any corrosion.”

“A gift of the anoxic seas,” Mankedo said. “If it has remained watertight, then it should still be able to go bang.”

The thought made them all a bit nervous and they studied the weapon with reverence. Vasko directed some crewmen to secure the device and cover it with a tarp.

“I’m not sure that keeping it aboard the Besso is the safest move.”

“True,” Mankedo said. “The weather is lifting, and I want to get the ship to the Mediterranean as soon as possible. We’ll drop it at the facility and see if our Dutch friend has an interest.”

“There’s no question he’ll have an interest. The question will be whether he has the money.”

Mankedo smiled. “Exactly.”

49

Viktor Mansfield sat in the passenger seat of the silver Audi rereading the blue binder he had recovered from the tour boat.

To his right, Martina nervously tapped the steering wheel with her long manicured fingernails. “We should have taken another car,” she said.

Mansfield gazed out the windshield, past the church parking lot, to the concrete and glass National Archives building two blocks down the street. “No, we’re safely out of view. Besides, there was no time to change cars. I need the data on the British ship before the Pitts or their cronies find it.”

They waited another hour before Ivan appeared with a folder under his arm. He glanced around to ensure he wasn’t being followed, then made a beeline for the Audi and climbed into the backseat.

“Any suspicions?” Martina asked.

“None.” His deep, clipped voice revealed his Muscovite roots. “There were no questions about my data request. There may have been a different research librarian than before.”

“What were you able to find?” Mansfield asked.

Ivan passed him the folder, which contained a handful of photocopied papers. “Very little on the HMS Sentinel, I’m afraid. They had some build specifications and sea trial data, which I grabbed, along with a brief history. She apparently sank off Italy after striking a mine in March of 1917. The librarian said the Portsmouth Naval Museum might possess a greater operational history of the ship.”

“What about the risk insurance?” Mansfield asked.

“That’s what took some time. The original War Risks Insurance Office records were absorbed into the Ministry of Transport in 1919. I checked the data and found one payment in 1917 from Russia.”

He pointed to a page in the folder and Mansfield held it up. It was a statement of accounts for the full year 1917. Amid a long list of payments for merchant ships and cargoes lost at the hands of the German naval forces was a large credit posted from the Imperial Russian Treasury. The notation listed an April payment of two hundred thousand pounds drawn from an account in Ottawa.

Mansfield shook his head. “That was for an earlier shipment of arms valued at twenty million pounds.”

“Look on the next page,” Ivan said.

The following page held a short list of uncredited receivables. An additional entry was shown for the Imperial Russian Treasury in the amount of one hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds.

“It says a pending shipment to Liverpool,” Ivan said. “But it was never paid.”

“From the submarine mentioned in the other file?” Martina asked.

“Yes, it must be the Pelikan,” Mansfield said. “My Moscow historian indicated it was lost in the Aegean in late February 1917. They evidently made it that far with the gold.”

“But the British government didn’t collect the insurance premium. They must not have received the gold.”

Mansfield noted the payment amount and whistled. “The Tsar paid one hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds to insure the shipment.”

“That sounds like a healthy amount in 1917,” Ivan said.

Mansfield thought back to his meeting with Bainbridge. The banker said the earlier gold shipments were insured by a one percent premium on the shipment value. If the same formula held for this shipment, it would place the value of the gold aboard the Pelikan, at today’s prices, at more than two billion pounds. “There were no other indications that the premium was paid?”

“No,” Ivan said. “If you look at the other documents, you’ll see it was carried in their records for several years and ultimately written off as an uncollectible in 1925.”

Martina started the car and backed out of the church lot. “Is that the answer you were looking for?”

“It’s a data point. Not the concrete evidence I would prefer, but it provides strong inference.”

“What about the Americans?” she asked. “Are you satisfied they can cause no further trouble with what they know?”

“I am satisfied there is no signed copy of the treaty in England to worry about. As for the Americans, they can be a persistent bunch, so we must act to preserve what is ours.”

“What did you have in mind?”

He gave her an assured smile. “Tell me, Martina. Have you ever been to Greece?”

50

The Macedonia crept into Burgas Harbor just after dusk, the waters calm and glowing from the lights of the waterfront shops. The NUMA vessel’s lone crewman expertly piloted the ship alongside an open berth, where Giordino and a handful of dockworkers secured it to the wharf. Ana watched from nearby with a police escort, noting the speckled damage to the ship’s exterior.

“Ready to go aboard?” Giordino asked her.

“Yes, of course.”

He led her onto the Macedonia and up to the bridge, where they found Pitt shutting down the engines. His face was furrowed with exhaustion, but his eyes sparkled at the sight of the two visitors.

Giordino grinned. “How’s our zombie captain holding up?”

“Ready to sleep like Rip Van Winkle.” He lightly stomped his feet, cursing the pain in his knees that seemed to strike with more frequency as the years rolled by.

“How long were you at the wheel?” Ana asked.

Pitt eyed a bridge chronometer. “About twenty hours. Nearly drained the galley’s supply of coffee and peanut butter and jelly.”

“Rudi has a backup skeleton crew en route from the States that should arrive tomorrow,” Giordino said. “And Ana has arranged round-the-clock security from our friends at the Burgas Police Department.”

“Glad to hear. I wasn’t looking forward to standing watch tonight.”

“We better get you off your feet,” Ana said. “Is there a place we can sit?”

They relocated to the wardroom, where they found comfortable chairs around a conference table.

“Al told me about your ordeal with the Russian warship,” Ana said. “I still don’t know how you could have survived such an attack.”

Pitt patted the top of the table. “The Macedonia’s a pretty responsive old gal when she wants to be. The question is, who would instigate such an attack on Sevastopol — and why?”

“I can’t answer the why, but we may have a lead on the who,” she said. “Forensics came through for us on one of the two men killed on the docks here. He was a Ukrainian national from Mykolaiv. A police interview with his family indicates he took a job just a few months ago with a salvage company near Burgas. We canvassed the area and found only one salvage operation of any size. Thracia Salvage is located on a remote section of the coast between Burgas and Varna.”

“What do you know about them?” Pitt asked.

“They’ve been around almost thirty years, run by a man named Valentin Mankedo. He may be an ex — Romanian Navy diver. Apparently, the company works throughout the Black Sea, though it isn’t particularly well known in Burgas. Local authorities report that in recent years, expensive cars and boats have been seen near his yard.”

“That doesn’t sound like the lifestyle of any salvage operators I know,” Pitt said.

“Although it appears he’s involved in something more financially rewarding,” Ana said, “the regional police have no record of any illicit activity.”

“So we don’t have a lot to go on,” Giordino said.

“Except for this.” Ana pulled a photo from her purse and laid it on the table. It was a grainy overhead shot of a ship and boat docked in a narrow cove.

“Satellite photo?” Pitt asked.

“From NATO, taken about six months ago. It’s a blowup of an image of the coastal area that includes the Thracia salvage facility. It is a bit fuzzy, but we believe the ship is—”

“The Besso,” Pitt said.

Giordino nodded. “That crane configuration is what we saw at the site of the Crimean Star.”

“Authorities in the nearby town of Obzor confirm sightings of the Besso. She’s registered in Cypress to an entity that may be a front for Thracia Salvage.”

“Is the Besso there now?” Pitt asked.

“No. I have the yard under surveillance and she’s not there. I’m afraid we don’t know her whereabouts.”

“Why don’t you shake down this Mankedo character?” Giordino asked.

“I obtained a warrant this afternoon to pick him up for questioning. I also have approval to search his salvage yard.” She looked to Pitt. “We don’t have any evidence they were responsible for the Macedonia’s hijacking. But like you, my suspicions are high. I’m going in with a small team first thing in the morning. I thought you might want to be there.”

Pitt glanced around the empty wardroom, wondering about the crew’s fate. A deep resolve overshadowed the fatigue that marked his face. He gave Ana a firm nod.

“You thought right.”

51

Some one hundred and twenty miles to the southeast, the Besso received radio permission from the Turkish Control Station at the Türkeli lighthouse to enter the Bosphorus Strait. Only she was no longer the salvage vessel Besso but the oil supply ship Nevena. Renamed, repainted, reconfigured, and littered with a stack of drill pipe on her deck for good measure, she bore little resemblance to her former self.

Joining the other southbound traffic that was permitted entry from noon to midnight, the Nevena churned past the Türkeli light and entered the narrow passage. Two hours and sixteen miles later, the ship crept past the Golden Horn. Georgi Dimitov buttoned up his jacket as he stood on the bow, watching the lights of Istanbul twinkle by on both Asian and European shorelines. The city lights gradually faded as the ship entered the Sea of Marmara a short time later and the Nevena increased speed.

The archeologist made his way to the bridge, where the helmsman breathed a sigh of relief.

“Difficult passage?” Dimitov asked.

“It’s always a challenge, but especially at night. I don’t know how the big tankers manage it. There are tight turns, strong currents, and endless traffic to contend with.”

“A pilot is not required aboard?”

“Only for Turkish ships. We have a Cypriot registry.”

Dimitov stepped from the window and studied a digital map of the sea ahead on a monitor.

The helmsman read his mind. “Chios Island?”

“Yes.”

“About eighteen hours, if we sailed direct.”

Dimitov nodded and stared out the forward window. Although there was nothing but blackness ahead of the ship, all he could see was gold.

52

The battery-powered drone flitted above the salvage yard like an overgrown butterfly. Nearly invisible in the dawn light, the device flew high enough that the whine from its four rotors could barely be heard. Crisscrossing over the facility, the drone eventually flew past the entrance and down the road a hundred meters, then landed behind a large hedge.

Ana glanced from the video monitor to the device itself as it landed a few feet away.

The drone’s operator, a cadet with the Bulgarian National Police Service, retrieved the device and began packing it in a case. “See everything that you needed to?” he asked her.

“Yes, as much as we could with the minimal light.”

Pitt and Giordino eyed the drone before it disappeared into its case. “If those things can deliver a pizza,” Giordino said, “I might have to invest in one.”

Ana ignored the comment and joined five other heavily armed agents who stood by the hood of her car, examining satellite photos of the Thracia Salvage Company’s compound.

“The photos were taken some time ago,” she said, “but the drone view looks little different. The large salvage vessel is gone, but two other vessels are still at the dock, a workboat and a passenger craft.” She nodded to two men to her left. “Mikel and Anton, you’ll secure the dock in case anyone decides to leave by boat. The rest of us will cover the main compound building, which appears to contain on-site residences and offices. Any questions?”

“Do we approach on foot or in our vehicles?” one of the policemen asked.

“We’ll leave our cars at the front gate and enter on foot. The drone shows that the street gate and a heavier, second gate farther in are both open.” She pointed to one of the photos. “There’s a long walled corridor after the second gate that we must pass through to enter the compound. It opens up near the dock. From there, we’ll have to backtrack to the main building. It’s the only entry point, aside from the narrow cut from the sea, so let’s move through it quickly. Remember, the suspects are likely armed and apt to resist.”

As the teams broke to prepare the raid, Pitt approached Ana. “Al and I spotted a small boat just down the road. Spare us a weapon and we’ll cover the sea approach.”

Ana considered the offer and decided it would keep Pitt and Giordino out of harm’s way. They really shouldn’t even be there, but she owed them the opportunity to discover the fate of the Macedonia’s crew. “All right. One weapon, for defensive use only.” She handed Pitt her SIG Sauer handgun. “No entering the facility until we have it secured.”

“We’ll just hang out beyond the shore, sailing a sea of discontent,” Giordino said.

As Ana and her team slipped into tactical vests and checked their weapons, Pitt and Giordino strode down the road to a pebble-strewn beach. They headed to a small wooden skiff lying hull up on the gravel. They flipped the boat over and found a mast, sail, and oars wedged under its three bench seats.

“I wouldn’t sail her to Fiji,” Pitt said, “but she looks like she can make it around the breakwater.”

They dragged the boat to the water’s edge and pushed it through the small breakers and climbed aboard. Giordino raised the mast and rigged the single lateen sail. Pitt tied off the boom, took a seat at the tiller, and turned the boat leeward. The sail rippled tight from the offshore breeze, and the small boat jumped ahead through the waves.

Pitt tacked to the north, aiming for a short-walled breakwater. As they sailed past it, they gazed into the narrow sea entrance of the salvage yard. As the gray dawn washed over the shoreline, Pitt could appreciate the site’s seclusion. To the north and west of the complex, steep rocky cliffs provided a natural barrier. A high rock wall ran along the southern barrier, melding into the breakwater.

Pitt dropped the sail and allowed the boat to drift toward the narrow opening between the seawall and a mound of high rocks. Giordino shipped the oars and rowed into the entrance. The boat came to a sudden halt with a scraping metallic sound.

“Run aground?” Pitt asked, although they were in the center of the slender channel.

“No, a chain.” Leaning over the bow, he could see a submerged chain curtain, its top strand stretched just beneath the surface. The barricade extended from the side boulders to the seawall.

“Guess they like their privacy.” Pitt nodded to a video camera on a pole amid the rocky border.

From the barrier, they had a clear view of the compound. On their right a long warehouse faced the water, while a two-story brick building stood at the far end of the cove. Both appeared to have been built into the cliffside, and both looked more than a century old. Between the structures, open paved grounds were dotted with crates and equipment. Ahead and to their left was a thin wooden dock and the two boats Ana had seen with the drone. Left of the dock was another wall, creating a high corridor with the seawall as the facility’s lone shore entry.

Their vantage on the water allowed Pitt and Giordino one other sight. Peering through the gray, they could see a low rock outcropping just past the corridor. Crouching behind the rocks were two men with automatic weapons, waiting in perfect ambush for Ana and her men.

53

The two police cars approached the salvage yard with their headlights dimmed, stopping just short of the entrance. Ana led the team on foot to a rickety chain-link gate beneath a battered sign proclaiming THRACIA SALVAGE. A large anchor beside an old fishing net strewn across a boulder created the desired image of a low-budget operation. Had the law enforcement agents looked closer, they might have found a motion-activated video surveillance camera hidden in the net.

Mikel opened the gate and the team moved down the shrub-lined entry, not knowing they had activated an alarm that was sounding deep within the facility. The road curved as they approached the compound’s true entrance, which the foliage had concealed from the main road. Ten-foot walls bordered a paved drive that ran toward the sea.

The team moved past a thick steel gate that was standing open, the men accelerating their pace at Ana’s lead. Not until they had gone another twenty yards and the steel gate silently closed behind them did Ana realize they were into more than they had bargained for.

She knew from the drone video that the corridor ran nearly to the water before opening left onto the dock, where they would have to backtrack inland to the shore facilities. The opening was in sight, just a few yards ahead, when a single gunshot split the dawn air. It was nearby but seemed to come from the sea and be aimed elsewhere.

Ana froze and crouched low to the ground, as did the five-man assault team that had fanned out behind her.

She didn’t breathe, feeling her heart thump, before the dawn erupted in gunfire.

The hidden figures behind the rocks ahead opened fire on them. Ana dove to the ground as the chatter from a pair of AK-47s reverberated off the walls. Three of the men behind her went down hard and the other two scrambled to return fire. Ana did the same, pulling up a Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun and firing a short burst at the rocks.

“Keep moving!” she yelled at her team. They were sitting ducks in the confined corridor. She squeezed off another burst, then leaped up and sprinted a few yards before again diving to the ground. A second later, two of her comrades followed suit and slammed to the ground behind her. She saw it was Anton and Mikel.

“Give me cover to get around the near wall and I’ll do the same for you,” she said. Not waiting for an answer, she popped up and bolted to the end of the wall. The opposing fire was reduced by half, and Ana saw it was now directed toward the sea entrance.

As Anton and Mikel scrambled to her side, she took careful aim at a lone shooter visible behind the rocks and emptied her clip. The distant muzzle flashes ceased.

She paused to reload. “Where are the others?” she asked Anton.

“They’re all down.”

Thoughts of tending to her team vanished when gunfire erupted from the main building ahead of them. Two or three figures emerged from the structure and scattered behind some heavy equipment. One of them looked heavy, muscular, and bald.

The agents were exposed as they faced the compound, but cover presented itself in the form of a storage shed wedged against the wall. The trio sprinted for it but came under fire from someone on the dock. Mikel hit the ground, and Ana felt a stinging in her calf, followed by a hard blow to her side.

She gasped and fell. As she tried to get up, Vasko approached from ahead and lobbed a rock-sized object in their direction. The shed was just ahead, so she tried crawling toward it, hugging the wall beside her.

The ground near her erupted, showering her with rocks and debris. Her ears rang, blocking the sounds of battle. She coughed out the dust in her lungs and looked up to see a figure emerge through the haze. It was the gunman from the dock, firing his assault rifle. Ana tried to raise her gun, but her arm was too numb.

The gunman stepped closer and centered his weapon on her face. As she waited for the gunshot, his dark eyes rolled back in their sockets when a red spot appeared on his temple. He dropped his gun and crumpled to the ground.

An instant later, Pitt was at her side, gripping the smoking SIG Sauer. Giordino arrived beside him and they dragged her to the safety of the shed.

The ringing in her ears lessened enough to hear Pitt say, “My mother’s not going to allow us to be friends if you keep getting us into trouble.”

Despite the pain in her leg and side, she smiled as he emptied the clip at a distant figure.

Gunfire converged on them from all directions. Then the ground shook under another concussion grenade, more powerful than the first. This one struck at the base of the wall, just ahead of the shed. It was followed immediately by a second explosion that obliterated the shed, along with a section of the rock structure beside it. Ana felt an avalanche of rocks and mortar rain down upon her. First the pain, then the noise, and finally the light around her slipped away to nothingness.

54

The ache began in Ana’s wrists and extended through her elbows to her shoulders. She shook her hair from her eyes and the fog from her mind — and the other pains returned. Worst was the hammering bruise to her side where her tactical vest had repelled a slug from an AK-47. A flesh wound to her calf still throbbed, but that was the least of her agonies. The ringing in her ears had been replaced by a headache. It was her wrists and arms, however, which vied for her primary attention. As she regained her focus, she saw why.

Her wrists were tied with a rope that stretched over her head to a warehouse rafter. Somehow she found the balance to put her weight on her feet and she stood erect, relieving the tension on her arms. With that minor relief, she gazed around the dimly lit warehouse. She wasn’t alone. A few feet to her right, Mikel hung from his wrists, unconscious. To her left, Giordino and Pitt were similarly bound.

“Welcome back,” Pitt said, “although sleeping it out like your friend would appear the wiser strategy.”

“How… how long was I out?” The words were scratchy from her dry throat.

“We’ve been stretching our arms for about twenty minutes,” Giordino said.

Ana stared at the two men. They were covered with dust from head to foot, and their clothes were torn and spotted with blood. She looked down and saw her own appearance was little better. “What happened?”

“A pair of grenades uprooted a section of the wall,” Pitt said. “Collapsed on top of us.”

“What about Anton?”

Pitt shook his head.

“I remember now,” Ana said. “The wall came down right after you saved me from that gunman.” She shook her head at the memory. “You were supposed to stay in the boat.”

“We saw two armed men setting up an ambush,” Giordino said. “Dirk tried to warn you.”

“Yes, they caught us in the open.”

“We had to contend with getting the boat over a chain barricade, otherwise we would have gotten to shore sooner.”

“All you had was my pistol.” She looked at the men. “I’m sorry. I wish you had stayed in the boat and gotten away.”

“And miss the chance to hang out together?” Giordino asked.

Ana shook her head at the Americans.

A door slid open at the end of the building and a lone figure entered the warehouse. A ray of light glinted off his shaved head. Vasko carried a capstan bar, using it as a walking stick. The wooden pole, once used by sailors for leverage on manual capstans to weigh anchor, clicked on the concrete floor as he strode toward his prisoners.

He approached his first victim, Mikel, who hung like a side of beef in a meat house. Vasko eyed him, then swung the bar like a baseball bat, striking him in the ribs. The unconscious man gasped reflexively but otherwise hung limp.

“Apparently, he is indeed asleep.” Vasko turned to the others and looked them up and down. “My three old friends, dropping in for a visit? You should have told me you were stopping by. I would have planned a warmer welcome.”

“It was plenty warm, thanks all the same,” Giordino said.

“Did I ask for you to answer me?” Vasko plunged the end of the bar into Giordino’s stomach. Most men would have gasped in agony, but Giordino looked down at the man and smirked.

Vasko took another step and approached Pitt. “How about you? Do you have anything to add?”

“Cut me down from here and I might.”

Vasko turned the rod and swung it into Pitt’s midsection. Pitt tightened his stomach muscles and twisted to catch the blow beneath his ribs. He nearly lost his breath, but he mimicked Giordino and glared at Vasko with a tight grin.

“Seeking to make things difficult, I see,” Vasko said. “We’ll see how tough you are after a thorough tenderizing.” He swung the rod within a whisker of Giordino’s face, then tossed it aside.

He walked past the two men and slowly approached Ana.

“And you, Agent Belova,” he said, reading a name badge clipped to her vest. “You must have missed me, to return so soon.” He slipped an arm around her back and yanked her toward him.

Ana turned away, holding her breath as he pulled her tight. The bearded stubble of his face grazed her cheek.

“Once I have finished with your friends, we’ll have some fun together,” he said. “Just the two of us.”

The blindside blow struck Vasko in the kidneys, sending him sprawling across the floor. He sprang to his feet and spun around as Giordino swung backward on the rope after landing a flying kick. Vasko charged into him, arms flailing.

Defenseless, Giordino absorbed half a dozen body blows to his midsection. His only weapon was his feet. He kicked when given the chance, eventually landing a counterblow to his attacker’s knee.

Vasko staggered back, then reached to his hip. He produced a large folding knife and snapped the blade into place. He held it in front of him and flashed the serrated edge at Giordino. “Your time is over, my friend.”

He turned an eye toward Pitt to ensure no interference from him, then crouched low and sprang forward. The tactic worked against him. Giordino braced and timed a counterkick that caught Vasko in the wrist. The kick threw off Vasko’s lunge and the knife skirted past Giordino’s leg. Vasko immediately jumped back, pulling the knife with him. He caught the side of Giordino’s leg on the backstroke, slicing his pants and sending a trickle of blood down his leg.

Vasko learned his lesson and stood upright, turning his side toward Giordino. This time, he would rush high and deliver a quick, fatal blow where it could not be deflected. Raising the knife, he took a step forward — as a call sounded. “Ilya!”

The low, measured voice stopped him in his tracks. He glanced at Giordino, then stood back and gazed toward the open door.

The tall figure of Valentin Mankedo approached quickly. He wore an anxious look. “This is no time to be playing games.”

“She is the Europol agent who boarded the Besso.” Vasko pointed the knife at Ana. “And her two friends are the ones from the NUMA ship who disrupted our Sevastopol operation.”

Mankedo regarded Pitt and Giordino with curiosity, then approached Ana. “Why did you come here?”

“To arrest you, Valentin Mankedo,” she said in a firm voice.

He noticed a folded paper in her vest pocket and pulled it out. “My arrest warrant?”

Ana tilted her head in a faint nod.

He opened the paper and read it while walking away from the prisoners.

Vasko followed at his heels.

“What do they know?” he asked in a low voice.

“Most everything.” Mankedo shook his head. “We’re suspects in the sinking of the Crimean Star, the hijacking of the Macedonia, and a possible attack on Sevastopol. Not to mention possible involvement in the trafficking of restricted nuclear materials.”

“They must have identified and tracked the Besso to the yard.” Vasko spat on the ground. “It’s that female police agent.”

“More will be on the way,” Mankedo said. “We’ll have to evacuate the yard at once.” His dark eyes narrowed. “I need you to dispose of the bodies and the police vehicles while I eliminate our records.”

“We can’t leave that here.” Vasko motioned toward the end of the warehouse, where a flatbed truck held the weapon from the Tupolev bomber. The device was covered with heavy tarps.

“The Dutchman is the only person with the resources to help us with that now.”

“Does he know about it?”

“Yes,” Mankedo said. “He was quite intrigued and was organizing the expertise to do something with it. I’ll call him now and see if he can arrange immediate transportation. When the yard is clear, drive it somewhere remote. If he can come through, it will be your ticket out of the country.”

He looked out the warehouse as one of his men dragged a body past the door. “I’ll take the rest of the men on the workboat to Turkey and we’ll make our way overland to meet the Besso in the Aegean. We still have two large opportunities in front of us, and plenty of work in Ukraine when the heat dissipates.”

“The heat.” Vasko turned and waved a meaty arm at the four prisoners. “What about our guests? We lost three men, on account of them.”

Mankedo checked his watch, then glanced at the prisoners.

“Don’t waste any more time. Bury them with the others,” he said, then turned and strode into the sunlight.

55

The four prisoners dangled by their wrists for another hour as the salvage yard workers scrambled to evacuate the compound. Mikel regained consciousness, only to moan continuously in pain. Pitt watched as a workman started the flatbed truck and let the engine run for several minutes before shutting it off.

“How soon before the cavalry arrives, Ana?” Giordino asked.

“The Bulgarian police are probably formulating a response now after our failure to report. Given our remote location, it may be a few hours before they can assemble and position a team.”

“By which time, it would appear, Mankedo and company will be long gone.” Pitt struggled with his wrist bindings. “Anyone have a chance of slipping free?”

“It must have been a former Boy Scout who strung us up,” Giordino said. “I can’t move a millimeter.” He flexed his powerful arm muscles to exert pressure on the ropes, but they refused to budge.

Vasko entered the warehouse holding an assault rifle and accompanied by a young bearded man. He passed his folding knife to his accomplice. “You will remain positioned apart and walk in single-file. If anyone tries anything foolish, I will shoot every one of you.” He smiled as if hoping to be given the opportunity.

Pitt watched as first Mikel, then Ana and Giordino were cut down. The bearded man had to stand on his tiptoes to reach above Pitt’s wrists and cut the thick line. He immediately jumped back, keeping the knife at the ready, as Pitt lowered his arms.

The knife wielder moved back to Mikel and led the captives forward, with Vasko taking up the rear behind Pitt. Mikel tripped and fell several times, and Giordino was allowed to assist him along. As they approached the warehouse entrance, Pitt eyed the flatbed truck. He pretended to stumble, dropping to one knee to try to get a glimpse under the tarps. He saw just a rounded metal skin, the surface dark and smooth, before Vasko’s work boot landed between his shoulder blades.

“On your feet.”

Pitt stood and followed the others into the daylight. With their wrists still bound in front of them, they walked across the open yard toward the other building, then were led into an opening in the rocky cliff. A pair of rusty rails set in crumbling concrete led from the tunnel, and Pitt recognized the remnants of a mining operation, confirmed by a nearby slag heap. The site was a small tin mine that dated to the Byzantine Empire. Limited commercial operations had continued into the 1930s, until the main ore deposits were deemed tapped out.

The tunnel soon opened into a wide cavern illuminated by dangling overhead lights. Pallets loaded with wooden crates, like the munitions stores Pitt and Giordino had seen on the barge, filled the center. Along the side walls, an assortment of boulders remained from the mine’s final days of blasting.

Vasko guided them to a large front-end loader parked between two massive boulders, its blade to the wall. The bearded man climbed onto the rig and started its clattering diesel engine. He raised the steel blade and backed the loader away from the wall, exposing a low opening that led to another room.

Vasko motioned toward the opening with his rifle. “It is time to say good-bye.”

Pitt and Giordino eyed each other, but Vasko intervened, leveling his gun at Giordino.

“You first, shorty.”

Giordino glared at him, then ducked through the opening, followed by Mikel.

Vasko motioned at Pitt next. “I’m sure you’ll have a tearful reunion. Now, go.”

Pitt lingered near Ana, but caught Vasko’s gun muzzle to his back, and reluctantly ducked through the opening.

Vasko lowered his weapon and stepped close to Ana. “You have created quite an inconvenience for us.” He leaned into her. “I wish I had the time to repay you for the troubles you’ve caused.” He grabbed her in a bear hug and kissed her hard on the mouth.

Ana fought the urge to struggle against the vile assault and instead stood limp and cold. It had the desired effect.

“No love today? Then that tears it.” He yanked her off her feet and tossed her through the opening. She had barely left his arms when he turned to the man on the front-end loader. “Seal it up. For good.”

Ana would have nose-dived onto the rock floor but for Pitt. Waiting on one knee, he caught her as best he could with bound hands. Ana leaned over and spat, trying to remove the taste of Vasko from her mouth, before thanking Pitt.

The front-end loader started forward on the other side of the wall, its steel blade grinding against rock. Rather than seal the cavern with just the machine, the driver used it to shove one of the boulders into place, blocking the opening with a twenty-ton chunk of granite.

All fell quiet as Pitt helped Ana to her feet. They stood and turned to face a second cavern, about half the size of the first. A battered gas lantern, perched on a rock several yards away, cast a dull amber glow. It gave off just enough light to reveal the three dozen haggard, anxious faces of the Macedonia’s crew, crowding close around them.

56

Thirty minutes later, the salvage yard was abandoned. Mankedo loaded a cache of weapons, explosives, and research materials onto the workboat, then supervised the final, gruesome cleanup. The bodies of both the police and his own men were placed inside the two police cars, which had been driven alongside the quay. Using a dockside loading crane, each car was hoisted over the side and sunk in twenty feet of water.

Mankedo watched the bubbles rise from the second vehicle as Vasko approached from the crane controls.

“That should keep the next batch of police at bay,” the bald man said.

Mankedo motioned toward the damaged stone wall. “There are still signs of the firefight. Nearby residents may have heard the shooting.”

“I’ll make a pass down the drive with the front-end loader and clean things up. But if they don’t find the bodies, they will have nothing.”

“The others are secured?”

“They’re sealed up in the side cavern. Unless someone reopens the mine a hundred years from now, they’ll never be found.” Vasko nodded toward some crates near the tunnel. “Do you want to blow the remaining munitions on the way out?”

Mankedo looked about the compound like an aggrieved parent. “No. I’ve already loaded the explosives. This has been our home as well as our base for over ten years. I hope to be back.”

“With that agent Belova gone, their case will be, too,” Vasko said. “Things will blow over, as they always do, and then we can resume operations here.”

“Yes, but we best leave now. I reached Hendriks and he said he will try to arrange transport out of Stara Zagora before midnight. He asks that you accompany the device until it’s in a safe place. Do your best to stay invisible until then. Once you’ve made delivery, you can join us in Greece.”

“Have you negotiated a price?”

“Twenty million, if it is still operational.”

Vasko smiled. “That should buy us a nice base in the Aegean.”

Mankedo took the remaining crew and boarded the workboat. They opened the barrier chain, motored into the Black Sea, and heading south toward the coast of Turkey.

Vasko ran the front-end loader down the entry road, obscuring any tracks while scraping up shell casings and wall debris. He guided the pile across the dock and shoved it all into the lagoon. Then he started the flatbed and exited the compound, locking the gates behind him.

A few miles down the road, he passed a string of police cars headed toward the salvage yard. None of them paid any attention to the well-worn truck. Vasko exited the coastal road at the first opportunity and drove inland at a moderate speed.

He drove for several hours, crossing the eastern plains of Bulgaria that were filled with checkerboard swaths of barley and wheat fields. Near Stara Zagora, a prosperous industrial center, he turned south toward the regional airport. A short time later, he parked the truck off a remote section of the runway and watched a sporadic mix of private planes and small commercial flights take off and land.

At half past nine, a huge cargo jet touched down and pulled to a stop well short of the terminal. With the runway lights, Vasko could see a small flag of Ukraine painted on the side. He started the truck and passed through an open security gate that stood unguarded.

He drove to the rear of the aircraft, which was lowering a drop-down landing ramp.

A man in a flight suit approached with a suspicious air. “Name?” he asked through the open side window.

“Vasko. I’m with Mankedo.”

The man nodded as he eyed the truck. “I’m the flight engineer. You’ll do as I say. We’re going to take the whole truck. Drive it up the ramp.”

Vasko drove into the cargo compartment of an Antonov An-124, one of the world’s largest commercial transports. The truck was carefully secured to the deck by the flight engineer, then Vasko was guided forward to a spartan row of bench seats just behind the cockpit. By the time he took a seat and buckled in, the plane was already moving. He could peer into the open cockpit and watch as the runway rolled beneath them and the big jet took to the sky.

Once the plane reached cruising altitude, the flight engineer reappeared with a cup of coffee, which he handed to Vasko.

“Thanks,” Vasko said. “How soon do we land?”

The flight engineer glanced at his watch. “About eleven hours.”

“Eleven hours!” Vasko nearly spilled his coffee. “Aren’t we just hopping over to Ukraine?”

The man shook his head. “Nowhere near, I’m afraid. We’re headed west, with orders to deliver your cargo to Mr. Hendriks’s private compound.”

“How far west?”

“Halfway across the Atlantic,” the man said, grinning. “To Bermuda.”

57

The cavern was cold, dark, and silent. As Pitt’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, a trim man in a dirty white uniform approached. It was Chavez, the Macedonia’s third officer.

“Welcome to our dark little corner of the world.” He reached out to untie Pitt’s hands.

“We’d feared the worst,” Pitt said. “Is the entire crew accounted for?”

“We’re all here, doing as well as can be expected. Except for Second Officer Briggs. He was killed in the assault. And the captain’s in a bad way.” He motioned toward the rock that supported the lantern.

A prone figure lay with a jacket draped over his torso. Even from a distance, Pitt could see the man’s labored breathing.

The rope fell free from Pitt’s hands and he rubbed his wrists, then turned to untie Ana’s bindings while Chavez went to work on Giordino’s. Mikel was next. The injured Bulgarian officer lay on the ground, drifting in and out of consciousness.

“Tell us what happened,” Pitt said.

“It wasn’t long after the three of you left the ship in Burgas. That archeologist was ashore also. An armed assault team came out of nowhere and took over the ship before anyone knew what was happening. They killed Briggs and shot the captain in the arm.” His voice trailed off briefly. “They sailed the Macedonia out of Burgas straightaway. Brought us to this lovely pit. Nobody’s had anything to eat in several days, but they did leave us plenty of water.”

Pitt finished untying Ana’s hands. “I want to see the captain.”

Chavez guided them past the NUMA crew and scientists, who looked gaunt but were encouraged by Pitt’s presence. Captain Stenseth seemed to be sleeping, but when Pitt knelt beside him, his eyes popped open.

“How are you feeling, Captain?”

“Arm’s giving me fits,” he said in a raspy voice, “but otherwise good.”

Stenseth’s right arm was crudely bandaged just above the elbow. More alarming, it had swollen to nearly twice the size of his other arm. Obviously infected, the wound had become life-threatening.

“Are you here to get us out of this cave?” he asked.

“Yes,” Pitt said. “In just a short while.”

A faint smile crossed Stenseth’s lips before he closed his eyes and drifted into unconsciousness. Pitt stepped away from the captain, joined by the others.

“That arm doesn’t look good,” Giordino said in a low voice.

“He needs immediate medical attention,” Ana said. “As does Mikel.”

“Then we need to find an exit, sooner rather than later.” Pitt turned to Chavez. “Have you explored the perimeter?”

“Solid rock all the way around, as far as I could tell, except for the gap they shoved us into.” Chavez grabbed the lantern and passed it to Pitt. “Have a look.”

With Ana and Giordino at his side, Pitt walked the perimeter of the cavern. The walls were as Chavez had indicated, chiseled and grooved stone that rose ten feet high. Above the walls, solid rock tapered to a cathedral ceiling some fifty feet overhead. A shaft of light at the very crest provided a faint supply of fresh air — and a glimmer of hope.

Giordino gazed up at the opening and shook his head. “Even Spider-Man would have a tough time making it out that way.”

Pitt continued the circuit until they reached the lone entrance, which was sealed by two massive boulders. Pitt stood in front of the rocks, studying them a long while. “That’s our only way out,” he said finally.

“Going to be a little tough without a drill bit and some explosives,” Giordino said.

Pitt looked to Chavez. “Are there any tools in here?”

“Nope. Just an old car engine and some wreckage behind those rocks.” He pointed to the center of the cavern and a low pile of ore tailings. Some rusty pieces of metal protruded from the opposite side.

Pitt held up the lantern. “I’d like to take a look.”

Giordino followed him to the rock pile. Skirting a stack of tunnel support timbers, they found the skeletal remains of an antique car. Pitt waved the lantern over a bare chassis that supported its engine and radiator in front and a fuel tank in back. Stacked in a heap beyond were the rusty, dust-covered remains of the car’s body. The chassis had carried a convertible body, Pitt could see, with fenders that were highly flared.

“Odd place to open a body shop,” Giordino said.

“They stripped it down to use the engine,” Pitt said. “Looks like it dates to the 1920s.” He stepped close to the engine, a big straight-eight painted black, and examined the rear mounting. The transmission and driveshaft had been replaced by a makeshift pulley system attached to the flywheel.

“They drove or rolled it in here and used the engine as a power source,” Pitt said. “Probably to drive a pump for draining water out of the mine’s lower levels.”

“Quite a power plant,” Giordino said. He walked to the front of the chassis and admired the large nickel-plated radiator. With his palm, he wiped away a layer of grime on the top of the shell, revealing the white letters IF against a blue background.

“You know what it is?” Giordino asked.

“An Isotta Fraschini.” Pitt smiled. “A high-end classic car that was built in Italy. Rudolph Valentino drove one.”

“I’ll remember that the next time I need a lift in the Sahara. Wish we could drive it out of here.” Giordino blew a coat of dust off the chassis, revealing a rusty surface. “Looks a little rough, even for your collection.”

Pitt said nothing. He owned a warehouse full of antique cars back in Washington, D.C. But he wasn’t considering the car for its collector appeal. He leaned over the engine block and pulled out its dipstick, noting the crankcase was full of oil. He replaced it with a nod of satisfaction.

Ana looked at him and shook her head. “I don’t think this relic can help us any.”

“On the contrary,” Pitt said. “This old beast is our ticket out of here.”

Ana looked at him like he was crazy. “How can this pile of junk get us out of here?”

Pitt gave her a knowing wink. “Quite simple, actually. We just need to use an old trick that once worked for Hannibal.”

58

The Nevena, formerly the Besso, lay anchored in the Turkish harbor of Kabatepe. An offshore current pulled at the vessel until she floated perpendicular to land. A short distance away, the town’s central dock was filled with small, sun-beaten fishing boats. A delivery truck emblazoned with IRMAK PRODUCE motored to the end of the dock and stopped with a squeal of its brakes. Valentin Mankedo hopped out of the cab and opened the rear of the truck, releasing three crewmen who had been wedged between crates of tomatoes.

Mankedo returned to the cab, pulled out a thousand euros from his wallet, and handed the bills to the driver. “Be gone, Irmak. And remember, you didn’t bring us here.”

“Of course, of course, Valentin,” the driver said with a smile. “Good luck with your treasure hunt.”

As the truck drove away, a small launch was released from the Nevena. The boat sped quickly to shore and collected Mankedo and his men.

Returning to the ship, Mankedo climbed up to the bridge, where Dimitov and the ship’s pilot welcomed him.

“Any issues passing the Bosphorus?” Mankedo asked.

“None,” the pilot said. “We registered as the Nevena and passed without question.”

“Good.” He turned to Dimitov. “Now, where are we with the Pelikan?”

“Some positive developments. As you know, available Russian war records only indicate she was lost in the Aegean. Turkish naval records have no information. But I did find a reprimand in March 1917, issued to the commander of a shore battery in the Dardanelles for allowing an enemy submarine to slip past the nets at the southern end of the Sea of Marmara.”

“That doesn’t sound encouraging. If the Turks sank her but have no record of it, that doesn’t leave us much to go on.”

“Actually, they didn’t sink her,” Dimitov said. “It was the Germans. While they had no real surface fleet in the Mediterranean, they did have an active submarine fleet. One of their U-boats, the UB-42, reported attacking and sinking a suspected Allied submarine in February 1917. It can only have been the Pelikan.”

“Do we know where?”

“Navy records indicate the engagement took place twenty kilometers off the northwest coast of Chios, within sight of Epanohoron Cape.”

“That narrows things down a bit.”

“But wartime records are notoriously inaccurate. We might have a weeks-long search on our hands.”

“No matter. Let’s get under way and out of Turkish waters.”

The Nevena raised anchor and sailed south, drawing within sight of Chios eight hours later. One of the larger Greek islands, Chios lay in the central Aegean, just four miles from the Turkish mainland. They approached the northern tip of the island and angled to a point twenty kilometers offshore. A towed side-scan sonar array was lowered off the stern, and the ship began sweeping across a search grid of three-mile-long lanes.

They quickly disproved the conventional wisdom of underwater explorers that lost shipwrecks are never where they’re supposed to be. On only its second survey lane, the Nevena located a prime target. Barely six hours into the search, a lowered ROV confirmed that they had found the Pelikan.

59

“Hannibal?” Giordino said. “I don’t see any elephants. This old car doesn’t even have a trunk.”

“If you’d stayed awake in history class,” Pitt said, “you might remember how Hannibal solved a problem in moving his elephants, and the rest of his army, across the Alps.”

In 218 B.C., Hannibal Barca had led the one-hundred-thousand-man Carthaginian Army in a surprise attack against the Roman Empire, launching what would later be called the Second Punic War. History remembers his epic trek across the Alps from Gaul in the company of thirty-eight war elephants to make a bold strike from the north. But while his army descended the rugged slopes into Italy, its path was blocked by a massive landslide.

Bottled up in the mountains, Hannibal turned his army into laborers, clearing away the loose rock. But several enormous boulders still blocked their way. So the Carthaginian leader turned to an old mining technique that dated to the ancient Egyptians. He set fires beneath the boulders, then doused them with vinegar, which caused them to fracture into smaller pieces that could be hauled aside. With their way now clear, his army proceeded to attack and defeat the Roman forces protecting Milan. Though ultimately repelled by the Romans, Hannibal’s march over the Alps remains a classic case study in military strategy.

Pitt knew the fire-setting technique could still work without vinegar. With Giordino’s assistance, he hauled several of the support timbers to the base of one of the boulders that sealed the cavern. He then turned to the Isotta Fraschini for a way to ignite the wood. Prying and pounding the crankcase drain plug with rocks until it spun free, he collected the engine’s syrupy oil in an empty gravel bucket. He punctured the car’s fuel tank with a tire iron, adding some stale gasoline to the mix, and applied it to the boulder and timbers.

“Everybody stay back,” he told the NUMA crew. Using the lantern’s flame, he ignited the formula. At first the oil and gas mixture burned with a low, smoky flame, but the dry timbers eventually produced a roaring fire.

As the flames danced up the face of the boulder, Pitt stood aside with Ana and Giordino.

“I’m a little worried about the fumes,” Pitt said, pointing at the small opening above their heads. “Ventilation is on the weak side.”

“Beats shivering to death in a cold, black cave,” Giordino said.

The two men kept the fire raging for nearly an hour before testing their thermal shock theory. Pitt filled the bucket with drinking water left by their captors, then flung the contents onto the boulder. The water struck the rock with a crackling sound, sending off a cloud of steam. But the boulder held intact. A few minutes later, a flat sliver cracked off and fell to the ground.

Pitt kicked at the small piece. “Not the avalanche I had in mind.”

“At least it proves your theory is working,” Ana said.

In the lantern light, Pitt saw she appeared sleepy, and her eyes were unfocused. “Are you feeling all right?”

“I’m just feeling very tired.”

“Why don’t you go sit with the others and keep an eye on the captain for me?”

Ana nodded, and Pitt guided her to the back of the cavern, where Stenseth and Mikel had been moved. The captain briefly opened an eye at their arrival, then drifted back to his labored breathing. Ana sat down next to him, thankful to be off her feet, and stared off into the fire.

Returning to the blaze, Pitt could see the cavern was filled by a hazy layer of smoke. The scent of burnt wood hung heavy in the air. He approached Giordino, who was dragging another timber toward the blaze. “We’ve got a problem,” Pitt said.

Giordino muscled the wood onto the flames, brushed his hands clean, and turned to Pitt. “Are we all out of marshmallows?”

“Yes. And we have a hefty dose of carbon monoxide to make up for it.”

“That might explain my pounding headache.” Giordino looked up at the small overhead opening, which was gathering most of the fire’s smoke. “Any kind of opening down here would aid the ventilation.”

Pitt eyed the massive boulder and frowned. “We need to make it happen fast.”

The two men redoubled their efforts, hauling timbers to the fire and dousing the rock with water at regular intervals. Standing close to the fire, they both experienced symptoms from the invisible carbon monoxide gas: dizziness, blurred vision, shortness of breath, and dull headaches. Willing themselves past the poisoning, they attacked the boulder for another hour.

Pitt used the Isotta Fraschini’s tire iron to chisel and pound at the rock. Small chunks split from the boulder, but the large mass remained intact. Pitt felt his strength ebb and he stopped and sat to catch his breath. He saw Giordino dragging a timber across the floor in a drunken stagger and he rose to help.

Barely able to stand, both men dragged and rolled the wood to the slowly dying fire.

“That’s the last timber.” Giordino gasped and fell to the ground, holding his hands to his aching head.

Pitt wanted to lie down and go to sleep, but he forced himself to carry the bucket to the crate of bottled water. He dug through dozens of empties before finding a full bottle. Like the timbers, it was the last one. He poured it into the bucket and staggered back to the fire. Every step seemed to magnify his dizziness, and he nearly tripped and fell onto the fiery rock.

He stopped in front of the rock and turned to Giordino. His old friend was no longer sitting upright but sprawled across the ground, his eyes closed.

Pitt turned back to the boulder and cursed. “Break, you bastard.”

With his last ounce of energy, he flung the bucket at the crown of the rock. The rusty pail clanged against the boulder, its contents spilling down the heated granite. Pitt stumbled back as a cloud of steam rose from the surface in a searing wave. He swayed on his feet, ready to collapse, as his burning eyes stared at the rock. “Come on!” he yelled, though his voice was raw and weak.

Above the crackling fire he heard something. It was a deep rumble that sounded far away. The sound grew in intensity, then fell silent. Pitt stood, still swaying, and looked up.

With a crack like a thunderbolt, the boulder gave way. Fracturing into a half dozen large chunks, the massive rock crumbled in front of him. The thundering collapse knocked him off his feet and doused the fire with a cloud of pulverized rock. The cavern grew deathly silent as the light was snuffed out and dust floated to the ground like snowflakes.

Coughing and rubbing his eyes, Pitt rolled over and pushed himself to his knees. He sat for a moment and waited for the dust to clear. Through the haze, he saw a large opening in the wall and smiled as a steady blast of fresh air blew over him.

60

The water surrounding St. David’s Island sparkled in the sunshine as the Antonov transport touched down on the single runway of L.F. Wade International Airport. The plane taxied to the cargo terminal and shut down its engines. A waiting ground crew had already filed a phony duty record with the local customs inspector and went to work offloading the Bulgarian flatbed truck, after ensuring its cargo was still concealed.

Vasko shook off a few hours of fitful sleep as he was escorted to a white pickup truck, which followed the flatbed off the airport grounds. The convoy crossed a causeway to Bermuda’s Main Island, then traveled a short distance to Tucker’s Town, a private enclave of imposing mansions where Hendriks maintained his beachfront estate.

Entering a high-walled gate, Vasko was duly impressed. After ascending a long winding drive, the vehicles arrived at a gleaming white house overlooking the ocean. The trucks drove past a fountain to a garage tucked away on the side, which matched the house with its high-gabled roof. As the trucks entered the garage, a drop-down door closed behind them and a bank of overhead lights flicked on.

Vasko could see the garage was a huge structure, much larger than it appeared from the front. It also contained a working laboratory. Rows of CAD/CAM stations stood across from stainless steel lab benches backed by racks of test equipment. Above one table hung a large drone aircraft, suspended by wires from the ceiling. Hendriks stood by a side door watching the trucks enter, accompanied by two older men. A handful of technicians in lab coats waited behind them.

Vasko jumped out of the pickup and approached Hendriks as he led his entourage toward the flatbed.

“Let’s see what you brought us,” the Dutchman said.

The two truck drivers removed the tarps, exposing a large, zeppelin-shaped atomic bomb.

Hendriks slowly walked around the platform, his eyes glued to the Cold War — era weapon. He climbed onto the truck bed and ran his fingers over its cold steel skin. Approaching the nose, he stared into a small glass sensor that was coated with dried silt. He finally climbed down, spoke quietly to the two older men, then approached Vasko.

“Fine work, Ilya,” he said without emotion. “You and Valentin have delivered something special. Come, let’s have a drink while my scientists look it over.”

He guided Vasko along a cobbled path to a veranda at the rear of the main house. He mixed them each a rum gimlet, then sat down at a shaded table overlooking the Atlantic.

“Bermuda is quite beautiful,” Vasko said. “But I was expecting a shorter flight, to Ukraine or Romania.”

Hendriks took a sip of his drink and nodded. “Ukraine was my first inclination, but I decided that security there was too unreliable. There are pro-Russian agents everywhere. When Valentin told me the weapon appeared in good condition, I chartered a long-range aircraft to give me some options. Bermuda made sense, as it is a trusting locale, and I have a special relationship with the customs officials.”

“And an impressive working facility,” Vasko said.

Hendriks waved toward the garage. “Yes, I have a research lab that I have used for some of my avionics projects. Much of my Peregrine surveillance drone was developed here. The facilities should prove useful for revitalizing the weapon.” He leaned forward. “Valentin indicated your Bulgarian salvage yard was raided by police agents.”

“Yes, we had to abandon the site.”

“And the weapon was transported to Stara Zagora Airport without detection?”

Vasko smiled. “The intruders were dealt with before we departed.”

“And Valentin?”

“He should be on our salvage vessel in the Aegean by now, searching for a submarine he believes contains treasure. I am to join him.”

They were interrupted by the arrival of one of the white-haired men, who was accompanied by a security escort. “Mr. Hendriks,” he said with a Slavic accent. “We have performed a cursory examination of the weapon. The condition appears exceptional, for its age. Aside from some water leakage and corrosion in the tail assembly, the remainder of the device has remained watertight and appears undamaged. We removed the arming mechanism and it looks pristine.”

“You are familiar with this weapon?”

“My colleague had early training experience with the RDS-4 and RDS-5 bombs. They are less powerful, but also less complicated, than the later hydrogen weapons, which is what we had expected to receive.”

“I just need to know,” Hendriks asked, “is it still functional?”

“Its components are quite primitive, by modern standards. We would propose updating all of the electrical components with microchip circuitry and replacing the arming mechanism and detonator with modern electromagnetic devices. But its radioactive elements are still quite potent. And we can provide additional stabilization and monitoring capabilities as part of the refurbishment.” He gave Hendriks a firm nod. “In answer to your question, yes, we can make it both functional and more reliable.”

Hendriks maintained his look of indifference. “How long will it take you to refurbish the weapon?”

“Less than a week, assuming we can obtain the needed components here.”

“I’ll have anything you need jetted in. Thank you, Doctor. Please proceed with the effort.”

The old man nodded and shuffled back to the garage.

Hendriks watched him go, waiting until he was out of earshot. “He and his partner were two of the top Russian nuclear weapons scientists in the 1970s. They emigrated to France when the Soviet Union dissolved and took up with the French Air Force. They’ve worked for a few years on a satellite-related contract with my firm.”

“Can they be trusted?”

“Every man has his price,” Hendriks said. “I told Valentin I would pay him twenty million dollars if the weapon was usable. And so it seems.” He gave Vasko a hard stare. “I will pay you an additional ten million dollars if you will deploy it for me.”

“I’m no bomber pilot,” Vasko said.

Hendriks shook his head. “The attack will be launched from the sea. I intend to use what you’ve learned in the Black Sea.”

“For another attack on Sevastopol?”

“No, I have a different target in mind.” He described his design for deploying the vintage atomic bomb.

Vasko had an inkling that the billionaire was mentally unstable, and his plan confirmed it. He stared at his drink, then took a sip. “That’s liable to cause quite a reaction.”

Hendriks stared out at the ocean. “Yes, it is my intent. You and I are not strong enough to purge the separatists and Russians from Ukraine, but others are. If we are successful, a wrath of fury will rain down upon the invaders in response to our actions.”

“I can see that,” Vasko said with a nod, “but why not use your own men?”

“Because I see no fear in you,” Hendriks said. “My staff people are scientists and engineers. They might be able to construct weapons of death, but they don’t have the mettle to use them. I need someone who is not afraid to pull the trigger.”

“There will be great risks involved.”

“Risks that can be mitigated with a direct and simple plan of deployment. Ten million dollars, I should think, will also buy you a great deal of security.”

Vasko thought of Mankedo and the search for the submarine. Maybe he could pull off the job alone. If things went awry, he could still join Mankedo in the Aegean.

“I want half the money up front,” Vasko said. “There’s to be no mention to Valentin. And I’ll call the shots on final deployment, since my neck will be on the line.”

“Agreed,” Hendriks said. “But first I will need for you to go to Ukraine.”

Vasko didn’t relish a return flight so soon. “For what purpose?”

“For an important delivery,” Hendriks said. “And for the plan’s ultimate success.”

61

Ana awoke with a shiver, the cold stone floor sapping her body heat. The headache that had rattled her skull was back, now at exponential strength. Even opening her eyes caused a stab of pain.

But the light was different, much brighter. She looked up at a string of overhead bulbs. She heard a murmur of voices and slowly leaned up on her elbows. The movement sent a spasm of pain and a curtain of black spots before her eyes. When her vision returned, she saw a haggard group of people climbing out through a tunnel-like opening in a side rock wall. It was the crew of the Macedonia.

Ana watched as the crewmen and scientists emerged from the cavern one at a time. Her colleague Mikel lay nearby. She saw the ship’s third officer, Chavez, crawl out, but there was no sign of Pitt and Giordino. Finally, when it seemed there was nobody left, the two NUMA men exited the smoke of the smaller cavern, carrying the limp body of Captain Stenseth. The captain’s eyes were open, and he winced as they lay him beside her. Pitt and Giordino smiled at seeing she was now alert.

“Well, Sleeping Beauty has awoken,” Giordino said.

“What happened?” she asked.

“You nearly slept the big sleep,” Pitt said.

Giordino motioned a thumb toward Pitt. “His Boy Scout fire gave us all a good dose of carbon monoxide poisoning. A tanker full of aspirin would definitely be in order.”

Ana glanced at the opening in the wall, where a tumble of rocks were piled at its base.

“The fire broke the boulder?”

“Not as fast as I would have liked,” Pitt said, “but Hannibal didn’t let us down.”

She moved to a sitting position. “Is everyone okay?”

“Seems to be,” Pitt said. “I think you took the worst of it, hanging close to the fire with us.”

“Are Mankedo and his men gone?”

Before Pitt could reply, a sharp cry came from the cavern’s main entrance. “Nobody move!”

Two uniformed men carrying automatic rifles stepped into the room, their weapons held high.

“Put those guns down,” Ana yelled back, then winced. “I’m Agent Belova.”

She slowly raised her hand and pulled out an identification badge from a front pocket. The two Bulgarian police officers approached close enough to read her badge, then noted the weary appearance of everyone in the cavern. They looked at each other and lowered their guns. “Are you safe?” one of them asked.

“We are now.” Ana glanced toward Pitt. “What happened outside?”

“There’s nobody here. Where’s the rest of your team?”

Ana pointed to Mikel, who was now sitting upright in a dazed state. “That’s it.”

“Officer,” Pitt said, “we have two men here who need immediate medical attention. Everyone else could use some fresh air.”

A paramedic team waiting outside the compound was called in to treat Stenseth and Mikel. They carried the two out on stretchers and took them to the hospital in Burgas, along with a few of the Macedonia’s crew members suffering the worst effects from the carbon monoxide poisoning. Ana, Pitt, and Giordino should have been among that group, but they refused treatment, helping the remaining crew outside and taking relief in the fresh sea air.

As Ana briefed the lead relief officer, Pitt walked over to the warehouse. He noted the flatbed truck was gone. A panel of corroded aluminum rested against the wall where the truck had been parked, and he studied it with curiosity. Pitt recognized it as a cargo door from an airplane.

He returned to Ana, who was speaking with the officer about the disappearance of her colleagues and vehicles.

“You might check the lagoon.” Pitt pointed to the newly graded road and the nearby front-end loader. “Did everyone make a clean getaway?”

Ana nodded with a scowl. “We’ll search for the workboat, but it could be in three different countries by now.”

“Don’t forget the flatbed truck. It’s missing from the warehouse, and they seemed to value the object it carried.”

“Yes, that might be easier to track down.” She gave a detailed description to the officer. When he stepped to his car to call in the data, Ana approached Pitt. “Do you think they knew we were coming?”

“No, but they were prepared.”

“We’ll find them.” She looked at the Macedonia’s crew, huddling around the building. “They’ve called in some buses to transport everyone down to Burgas. Are you and Al going to stay in Bulgaria much longer?”

“I’m due back in Washington shortly, but there’s one thing I need to do first.”

“What’s that?”

Pitt gazed at the empty warehouse with a resolute look.

“I need to make one more dive in the Black Sea.”

62

A stiff breeze from the northwest rippled the waters around Cagliari as Dirk and Summer climbed out of a cramped airport taxi. While Dirk collected their bags and paid the driver, Summer looked across the boulevard at Sardinia’s capital city. A blanket of rustic brownstone buildings rose up the hillside, enveloping the old Italian port that had changed ownership more than a dozen times through the centuries.

“I don’t see our ride,” Dirk said. He was looking in the opposite direction at the bustling port, one of the largest in the Mediterranean.

“The Iberia isn’t due for another couple of hours. Let’s go find a coffee somewhere.”

They walked off their flight from London by strolling along the waterfront to a cozy sidewalk café. Though she didn’t need the jolt, Summer joined her brother in ordering an espresso, having learned on a trip to Milan that proper Italians never drink latté after noon.

“I still say we should have gone to Greece and searched for the Pelikan,” she said, dousing her espresso with sugar.

“We’ve been over this,” Dirk replied. “It came down to logistics. There are no NUMA vessels available in the Aegean for at least a week. We might have been able to charter something out of Athens, but that would have taken a few days to organize. Instead, we’ve got the Iberia available right now in Sardinia, close to where the Sentinel went down.”

“What about Mansfield?”

“We can’t control his moves. He may well be looking for a boat in Greece, too. Besides, there are no guarantees that the gold is on the Pelikan. Julian and Charles are back at the National Archives hunting for new leads on both vessels. They might find the truth before anyone else does.”

From his vantage by the window, Dirk kept a lookout to sea, eventually spotting a blue-green dot sliding across the horizon. The turquoise-colored Iberia, an intermediate-sized NUMA oceanographic ship studying subsurface currents in the southern Mediterranean, slowly sailed into the harbor and docked at Cagliari’s inner port facility. An energetic captain by the name of Myers welcomed them aboard a short time later.

“Thanks for swinging by and grabbing us here,” Dirk said.

“No trouble at all,” Myers said. “We were running low on fuel and water and needed to make a port run anyway.” The captain swayed on his feet, feeling the leftover effect of some bumpy seas. “The crew is quite excited to be participating in a shipwreck search.” His eyes were bright. “Everybody is wondering what it is. A Phoenician trader? Maybe a Roman galley?”

“Nothing that exotic,” Dirk said. “Just a rusty World War I cruiser named the Sentinel.”

As the Iberia finished refueling, a black sedan sped onto the port facility, then slowed as it neared the NUMA ship. A passenger snapped photos of the research ship with an electronic tablet, which went undetected through the tinted windows. The car motored to the end of the dock and parked near some containers, facing the port’s exit to the sea.

Dirk made his way to the bow and watched the deck crew retrieve the mooring lines. Summer joined him as the Iberia got under way. They stood at the prow as the Iberia eased out of the harbor, watching the historic city slip away behind them.

“Do you think he might have followed us here?” Summer asked.

“Your blond friend? I doubt it. We have insurance this time even if he does show. But he probably took the blue binder and ran back to Moscow. I bet he’s two thousand miles from here.”

“I hope so,” Summer said.

But intuition told her that wasn’t the case.

Mansfield wasn’t two thousand miles away but instead nine hundred. The Russian stood on the bridge of a dilapidated salvage ship he’d boarded six hours earlier in Athens. But the vessel’s shabby appearance was only a disguise, concealing its true purpose as a spy ship. Diverted from tracking NATO ship maneuvers in the Adriatic, the ship sped east across the Aegean, crossing above the Cyclades chain of Greek islands.

Mansfield stared at the expanse of blue water off the bow, then turned to a grim-faced man near the helm. “Captain, how much longer until we reach northern Chios?”

“About three hours.”

A GRU intelligence officer like Mansfield, the captain resented being pulled off his assignment in the Adriatic to chase a shipwreck. “How accurate is your target position?”

“I can’t say. They’re German coordinates from the vessel that sank her. It’s all we have to go on.” Mansfield ignored the captain’s frown. “What do you have on board in the way of survey equipment?”

“We have an older towed array side-scan system, but the hull-mounted sonar is far superior. I’ll lay in a survey grid around your coordinates.” He stepped to a computer terminal at the rear of the bridge, leaving Mansfield standing there.

The agent stared at the horizon, making out the faint shape of land in the distance, then retired to his cabin two decks below.

The blue binder lay on his bunk. He picked it up and reread it for the tenth time. The data suggested the Pelikan sank with the gold, yet something about the timing of the events bothered him. The scheduled rendezvous and the submarine’s sinking had occurred very close together. Still, it was all the information he had. He felt like he was assembling a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing.

He dozed off while studying Hunt’s letters only to be awakened by a sharp rap on the door. He shook off the sleep and opened the cabin door, surprised to find the captain.

“We have arrived at the coordinates,” he said.

“Thank you for alerting me. Are you prepared to initiate the survey?”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“And why is that?”

The captain gave a sly smile. “It appears that someone else has already beaten you to the wreck.”

63

Mansfield followed the captain to the bridge and looked out the windscreen. A half mile off the bow lay a blue-colored salvage ship. “Who is she?” he asked.

“A Croatian-flagged ship named Nevena,” the captain said.

“Is the hull-mounted sonar activated?”

“It can be momentarily.”

“Activate the system and take a tight pass across their stern.”

Mansfield moved behind a computer station where a crewman activated the multibeam sonar system. A colored image of the seafloor appeared, scrolling as the ship moved. The captain followed Mansfield’s directions, taking the vessel within fifty meters of the Nevena.

As they drew near, the Nevena radioed the Russian ship. “We are engaged in underwater operations, please do not approach.”

“Affirmative, passing clear.” The Russian captain nodded at the helm to hold course.

A pair of tough-looking crewmen scowled from the Nevena’s stern deck as the spy ship glided past.

Mansfield studied the sonar monitor as a dark line appeared and expanded into the cigar-shaped image of a submarine.

The captain ordered the helmsman to proceed another mile and stop engines, then stepped to the sonar station. He glanced at the wreck’s image captured on the screen. “Looks like your submarine.”

“Can’t be anything else.”

“What do you intend to do now?”

“Only one thing we can do,” Mansfield said. “Take it from them.”

64

Mankedo stood on the bridge of the Nevena, studying the Russian vessel through binoculars as it took up a holding position in the distance.

“Any trouble?” Dimitov asked.

Mankedo lowered the glasses and gave a faint nod. “Possibly. I’ve never seen a salvage ship configured with so many communication antennas.”

“Are they with the Greek government?”

“They would have let us know. The Greek flag they’re flying is probably as legitimate as our Croatian flag.”

“Perhaps we should pull off the site?” Dimitov said.

“No!” Mankedo said. “We’re on the Pelikan—and we’ll finish what we started.”

He instructed the helmsman to keep a sharp watch on the other vessel, then climbed down to the stern deck with Dimitov. At the edge of the moon pool, he found two crewmen working over a small yellow ROV. “Are we ready to deploy?”

The nearest crewman said yes.

“Then lower away.”

Mankedo stepped into a bay that housed the ROV’s control station. He took a seat and activated the camera, which briefly displayed a crewman’s feet before the device was lowered into the moon pool. Mankedo powered on the unit’s lights and waited as it descended. At a depth of sixty meters, the seabed came into view and he engaged the ROV’s thrusters.

A healthy current had pulled the ROV off its intended drop position, and Mankedo pivoted the device to obtain a view of the surroundings. The dark shape of the Pelikan was just visible to the north, and he steered the ROV in that direction.

The Russian submarine lay upright but partially buried in the sediment. After a hundred years underwater, a thick layer of concretion coated its surface. The ROV approached from the stern and cruised along the sub’s starboard hull, revealing several large rectangular openings in the side cut by Mankedo and his divers to gain access to the interior.

The ROV skimmed over the cut steel slabs that lay on the seafloor, fresh torch burns visible around their perimeters. The ROV continued forward, past the conning tower and a deck gun, to a final cutout close to the bow. Next to the hole lay a large mesh tray filled with gas tanks and cutting equipment the divers had used to slice into the hull.

Mankedo sat forward in his chair. With a light touch on the toggle controls, he guided the ROV into the forward opening. The vehicle immediately bumped into a rack of silt-covered torpedoes. Mankedo pivoted the ROV right, displaying the sub’s two forward torpedo tubes. Maneuvering in the opposite direction, he guided the ROV across the torpedo room and through an open aft hatch.

Dimitov edged close to the monitor. “A fortunate break that the hatch is open. The crew quarters should be just beyond, which represents an additional storage area.”

Mankedo maneuvered the ROV past some damaged pipes and overhead valves, then guided it into the next compartment. There was little to see in the small room to suggest it was once the living quarters for thirty enlisted men. Metal frames from the bunks that lined one side of the bulkhead were the most significant feature.

Mankedo scoured the bay with the ROV, peering into rusty lockers and poking through strands of debris. Satisfied there was no gold, he guided the ROV back to the torpedo room and out the opening. Below the torpedo room was an additional compartment in which the ROV barely fit. Mankedo piloted the vehicle over an open bilge and arrived at a mass of large, metal-encased batteries. “That would seem to do it for the forward compartment.”

Dimitov nodded. “Yes, I believe we have covered the available cargo areas.”

Mankedo threaded the ROV back through the compartment. As it exited the submarine, a bright flash of light whisked past its lens.

“What was that?” Dimitov asked.

Mankedo turned the ROV to follow, but the object was traveling much faster. The glow from its light dimmed near the stern, then began to grow brighter.

“It’s turning back and coming up the port flank,” Dimitov said.

Mankedo elevated the ROV just above the sub’s deck level, then killed its lights. Guiding the probe by compass, he thrust it forward and across the Pelikan’s deck and halted it in the darkness somewhere above the port bow.

The lights approached slowly from the stern. Mankedo waited until the object was just below, then flicked on the ROV’s lights.

A vehicle resembling a Jet Ski appeared, ridden by two men in scuba gear. The pilot, a blond-haired man, gave the ROV a nonchalant glance while the passenger aimed a video camera at the sub. The manned vehicle continued on its way around the nose of the Pelikan and vanished into the darkness.

A pained smile crossed Mankedo’s lips. “I don’t know who you are, my friend, but you are a little late to the party.”

65

They came in two silent boats, a few hours after nightfall but ahead of a rising moon. Mansfield led three armed men in the first boat, approaching the Nevena from her port beam, while the second boat targeted the stern. But what was expected to be a quiet and bloodless seizure erupted in a fury of gunfire before any of the Russians had even set foot aboard.

One of Mankedo’s armed crewmen, on watch and patrolling the deck, had spotted two men in black scaling the stern rail. He opened fire, killing one of the intruders and wounding the other. The two other Russians in the boat returned fire, pinning the crewman behind a winch.

Mansfield quickly climbed aboard the port deck. Sending two of his team to take the bridge, he moved aft with the third man. They reached the open moon pool, across which the crewman was firing toward the stern. Mansfield raised an automatic pistol at arm’s length and dropped the crewman with one shot.

He spoke into a radio headset. “Team two status?”

“Two down,” a grim voice said.

“Cover the starboard deck,” Mansfield ordered. He sent the man next to him, a young agent named Sergei, to cover the port deck.

He couldn’t believe their bad luck. It wasn’t a great surprise that a salvage ship working a treasure wreck would have an armed crewman standing watch. But for his team of boarders, all highly trained GRU Spetsnaz special forces members, this assault should have been child’s play. They were to capture the ship, transfer the gold, and be on their merry way. Not only was the element of surprise now lost, but they were already down two men.

The brief firefight had awoken the ship. Crewmen appeared everywhere. To Mansfield’s dismay, most were armed. Yet that wasn’t to prove his biggest disappointment.

As the stern team met further resistance on the starboard deck, Mansfield ducked into a prefabricated bay next to the moon pool. It was a combination laboratory and repair shop for the underwater equipment. An overweight man with a black mustache cowered behind a table strewn with books and charts. Mansfield stepped closer and raised his pistol as he evaluated the man. He was too old, too flabby, and too well dressed to be a working crewman. Much better than Mansfield had even hoped.

“Stand up,” he ordered.

Georgi Dimitov rose to his feet and raised his hands in the air.

“Where’s the gold?” Mansfield asked.

“What gold?” Dimitov said.

Mansfield lowered the barrel of his pistol and fired a shot at the archeologist’s left foot. It purposely grazed the outer edge. Dimitov stared, dumbfounded, as a trickle of blood oozed out of the hole on the side of his shoe, then grunted in pain.

“There is no gold,” he pleaded rapidly.

Mansfield took aim at his right foot.

“I swear it. There is no gold. The submarine was empty.”

“Did somebody beat you to it?”

“No, the vessel appeared undisturbed.” Dimitov collapsed into his chair, weakened by the sight of his own blood.

“You’ve examined the entire vessel?”

“Yes. Every potential cargo area was accessed. We found nothing.”

Mansfield stared at the archeologist. Shaking his head in disgust, he left the bay to reassemble the remnants of his assault team.

In a cabin behind the bridge, Mankedo had been studying a chart of the Aegean when the first gunshots sounded. He dropped the chart and pulled a case from beneath his bunk that contained an AK-47 and several ammunition clips. He jammed in a loaded clip, released the safety, and stepped to the cabin door.

He heard the shouts of the two assault team members as they stormed onto the bridge and threatened the lone crewman standing watch. Mankedo stepped back from the door, raised his weapon, and waited.

It took less than thirty seconds for one of the Russians to spot the wooden door at the rear of the bridge and fling it open. Mankedo fired a single shot into the man’s forehead and stepped through the door before the man hit the deck. The other assailant stood across the bridge with his weapon trained on the crewman but turned at the sound of the gunshot. He was a second late, and Mankedo pumped three shots into him. The Russian fired a wild burst into the ceiling as he collapsed against the bulkhead and slid to the deck.

“Grab his weapon and guard the bridge,” Mankedo ordered the crewman, then raced out the bridge wing door.

Had he exited the port wing, he might have spotted Mansfield retiring to the inflatable tied amidships. But he exited the starboard door, toward the sound of gunfire.

With most of its deck lights shot out, the Nevena was now as black as the sea. Only the underwater lights of the moon pool burned brightly, casting a warbly green glow about the stern deck. Dropping down a companionway to the main deck, Mankedo found two of his crewmen huddled behind a steel storage bin, firing aft. “How many are there?”

“Two or three on the stern,” a crewman said. “I think they’re pulling back.”

As if in retort, a short muzzle flash appeared on the aft deck, and a corresponding spray of bullets peppered the underside of the bridge wing above Mankedo’s head.

“Cover fire and advance,” Mankedo yelled.

His two crewmen popped up and fired toward the muzzle flash. As they did, Mankedo hugged the bulkhead and ran aft, advancing nearly to the moon pool. He stopped and initiated covering fire, shooting at some shadows near the stern rail, as his two crewmen advanced to his side. This time, there was no return fire. As they caught their breath, Mankedo gave instructions for a final charge at the transom.

On the opposite side of the ship, Mansfield had dropped into the inflatable and radioed both assault teams to evacuate. He had lost contact with the men sent to the bridge and assumed the worst. The heavy resistance they had encountered began to weigh against the archeologist’s testimony. Perhaps the gold had been recovered and stowed somewhere on the ship. There was only one way to find out.

He reached beneath one of the bench seats for a heavy duffel bag and withdrew an electronic timer attached to a detonator and twenty pounds of plastic explosives. He set the timer for ten minutes and heaved the bag onto the deck.

The sound of someone approaching at a run sent him reaching for his gun and he looked up to see Sergei approach the inflatable.

“Quick,” Mansfield said, “toss that bag into the engine room.”

Sergei grabbed the bag and ran to an open hatch a few yards away. He heaved the bag inside and sprinted back to the inflatable as Mansfield started the electric motor and cast off. Mansfield gunned the motor and darted away from the side of the ship, sailing in a wide arc around the Nevena’s stern. He was just in time to watch the final firefight.

The two remaining Russians were climbing into the other inflatable when Mankedo and his men stormed across the deck, their guns blazing. One Russian tried to return fire but was cut down. The other managed to get the boat under way as bullets whizzed over his head.

From the other inflatable, Sergei knelt and swept the deck with a long burst of covering fire. Mankedo caught a grazing wound to his elbow, but that didn’t slow him. He ran to the rail and emptied his clip into the two black boats, which quickly melded into the darkness.

One of the crewmen approached Mankedo at the rail. “You’re wounded, sir.”

Mankedo ignored the blood dripping from his arm and stared at the lights of the distant spy ship. He spat over the side. “I want to know who they are!”

He was to never find out.

The two inflatables were nearly back to the spy ship when the detonator went off. A massive fireball erupted from the center of the Nevena, then a thunderclap sounded across the waves. The shock wave could be felt even at the distance of the small boats. Mansfield stopped the motor and watched as the salvage ship disappeared in a tower of smoke and flames. In minutes, the Bulgarian salvage ship broke in half and plunged beneath the waves.

The two inflatables eased back to the spy ship, where her captain stood on the deck fuming. Once the boats were hoisted aboard, he pulled Mansfield aside. “Four men! You killed four of my men and wounded a fifth!”

“I didn’t kill them, they did,” Mansfield said, motioning toward the Nevena’s former position.

“And a very subtle exit as well, not likely to draw any attention at all,” the captain said sarcastically. “I thought you were simply going to take the gold at gunpoint from some salvage thieves. Aside from potentially blowing our cover, you made that task a far sight more difficult.”

“I don’t think the ship has recovered any gold,” Mansfield said calmly. “I’ll dive it in the morning to be sure. If you have any further complaints, I suggest you take them up with the President.”

He turned on his heels and walked away, leaving the captain stewing. Reaching his cabin, he set his pistol on a bureau and rummaged through his suitcase for a bottle of Chivas Regal he kept wrapped in a sweater. He twisted off the cap and started to pour himself a glass, then thought the better of it, knowing in a few hours he would make another deepwater dive. He set the bottle next to a laptop computer, which he flipped on. An e-mail from Martina was waiting for him.

Captioned Cagliari, it contained a photo of a turquoise NUMA ship leaving the dock in Sardinia. The photo was centered on the ship’s bow, and Mansfield zoomed in to see the ship’s name. As he did, the figures of Dirk and Summer standing at the rail popped out at him.

Eyeing the twins, the normally restrained agent flung the laptop across the room, then proceeded to pour himself a double shot of Chivas.

66

The Black Sea was as flat as a billiard table when the two divers splashed into the dark green water. Neither hesitating at the surface, Pitt and Giordino descended within sight of an anchored shot line. The calm waters aided visibility, and they reached the one-hundred-and-twenty-foot mark before turning on their lights. A coarse, sandy bottom appeared thirty feet later.

Pitt checked a compass on his dive console and swam to the east, with Giordino following close by. A small school of sturgeon cruised past, then the dirty silver outline of an airplane materialized.

After returning to the site of the Ottoman frigate Fethiye, Pitt and the crew of the Macedonia had needed only a few hours to locate the plane with sonar. So far, Pitt’s growing list of hunches had been borne out. The body of the Russian airman had indeed come from a sunken aircraft, which he had predicted after the Bulgarian archeologist Dimitov suddenly disappeared. The cargo door at the salvage yard, if from the same plane, revealed a link to Mankedo.

The polished aluminum skin had tarnished, collecting a thin layer of silt. But under the glow of their flashlights, the aircraft was still impressive. It was huge, the fuselage extending nearly a hundred feet, while its lone remaining wing stretched another sixty feet.

The two divers approached the port wing, floating above its twin eighteen-cylinder radial engines. The outer engine’s propeller was absent, while the interior’s was bent from impact. The divers reached the fuselage and swam aft until reaching the large tail assembly that still rose skyward. Pitt brushed the silt off the vertical stabilizer, revealing a large red star. Beneath the star, in black paint, was the number 223002, which Pitt committed to memory.

He and Giordino swam to the other side of the plane and found a completely different scene. As Pitt knew from the sonar survey, the right wing had been sheared off and lay a hundred yards to the east. Astern of the missing wing’s mounting was a gaping hole in the side of the fuselage. The breach, Pitt saw, hadn’t come from the plane’s crash.

The two men examined its clear rectangular cut and the telltale torching along the borders. Aiming his flashlight at the seabed, Pitt spotted the removed aluminum section a few yards away. Missing from its center was a cargo hatch of the size Pitt had seen at Mankedo’s salvage yard.

The two men entered the bomb bay, which was empty of ordnance. Pitt examined a single large support rack on the floor of the bay. Like the rest of the interior, it was well preserved in the oxygen-deprived water. Giordino spread his arms across the rack, showing it carried a weapon about five feet wide.

They moved forward inside the plane, scaring away a small eel, before they were halted by a wall of charred debris and twisted metal that blocked the passage. Judging by the ruins and a soot-coated ceiling, Pitt could see that a fire had brought down the plane. Given the amount of destruction, he was surprised that the aircraft had been able to ditch at sea relatively intact.

He checked his watch and saw that they had expended their bottom time. He motioned to the surface and Giordino nodded. They returned to the opening and exited the plane, swimming back to the opposite side. They followed their shot line to the surface, where an inflatable boat was moored a short distance from the Macedonia.

As they climbed into the boat and removed their gear, Giordino was the first to speak. “I thought she was a B-29 until I saw the red star. Looks like somebody took a can opener to her pretty recently.”

“Yep,” Pitt said. “And that was no ordinary bomb bay inside.”

“You thinking what I’m thinking?”

Pitt gave a firm nod. “It would seem our buddies from Thracia Salvage have a sixty-five-year-old atomic bomb on their hands.”