Odessa Sea

67

The abandoned farmhouse looked like any other in the rolling hills south of Kiev. Its white stucco walls had discolored to a dirty brown and were flaking in large chunks. The narrow windows had been boarded up, and the metal roof was streaked with rust. Its lone distinguishing characteristic, a crooked weather vane — the silhouette of a duck — swung loosely above the porch in the light breeze.

Vasko spotted the weather vane and turned his rental car into the weed-infested drive. He exited the car, stood, and listened. The faint sound of some cows in a nearby pasture wafted in the wind. He listened for other vehicles on the lonely farm road, but there were none.

He walked around the dilapidated house to the rear porch, which appeared to be an ongoing buffet line for a horde of termites. Vasko turned away from the house and paced in the direction of an adjacent potato field until he reached a small cellar door embedded in the ground. The door opened easily, and he stepped into the cramped room to find a large workman’s toolbox. He carried the box into the daylight and opened it.

Inside were freshly pressed green camouflage fatigues and a matching ball cap. Vasko held them up. They were adorned with patches from the Ukrainian Air Force’s 40th Tactical Brigade. He set aside the fatigues and pulled out a holstered Russian GSh-18 automatic pistol with a silencer and a pair of short-handled wire cutters. At the bottom of the box was a heavy rectangular packet wrapped in brown paper, along with an electronic detonator and a battery-operated timer.

Vasko carefully repackaged everything but the gun and carried the toolbox to the trunk of the car. He slipped the pistol under the seat and backed out of the farmhouse drive. Sticking to lightly traveled back roads, he drove west to the outskirts of Vasylkiv, a central Ukrainian city some thirty kilometers from Kiev. Finding a vacant field, he parked behind a high embankment and checked his watch. He had an hour until nightfall. With time to spare, he pulled out his phone and dialed Mankedo. The line was busy, as it had been the last few times he’d called. He tried a satellite number for the Nevena and got the same result. Finally, he dialed Hendriks, who was still in Bermuda.

“I prefer you don’t call unless absolutely necessary,” the Dutchman said.

“My boss has gone silent. I fear a problem.”

“It shouldn’t affect you. I can make some inquiries if you give me his whereabouts.”

“I’ll do so when I see you again. Did you make the transfer for our recovery?”

“Yes. Wired to the account in Cyprus.”

“Have you received confirmation of its transfer?”

“Not from him, but I can assure you the funds were moved.”

Vasko fell silent, wondering what had become of his partner of twenty years.

“Are you on schedule?” Hendriks asked.

“Yes. I found the materials and am arranging delivery.”

“Very well. I hope you hurry back. Your next delivery will be waiting.”

“Keep the rum chilled,” Vasko said, but Hendriks had already hung up.

As the sky turned black, he retrieved the toolbox and slipped into the fatigues. He tucked the silencer into the box and returned to the road. A few miles north of Vasylkiv, he located a military air base. Avoiding the front gate, he drove to the opposite side of the tarmac and parked near some houses in clear view of the main runway.

Hendriks had informed him that an American transport plane was making twice-weekly deliveries of civilian aid to the Ukrainian government while en route to a NATO air base in Turkey. If the schedule hadn’t changed, then a flight was due tonight.

Hendriks’s information was soon proven accurate. The screaming whine from four turbofan jet engines fractured the night air as a massive gray aircraft descended to the runway. It was a C-5M Super Galaxy transport, operating from the 9th Airlift Squadron based in Dover, Delaware.

The big plane taxied to a stop near an open hangar and its rear loading ramp was lowered. Vasko grabbed the toolbox, crossed a ditch and short field, and approached a tall chain-link fence. He made quick order of snipping an opening and crawling onto the base. Walking quickly, he strode across an unlit section of the runway and approached the main hangar. A handful of Ukrainian MiG-29s were parked inside, next to a growing mountain of pallets being unloaded from the American plane.

Vasko pulled his cap low over his eyes and approached the C-5. He waited for a loaded forklift to slip by, then climbed up the loading ramp and entered the cavernous plane. A pair of Ukrainian airmen stood by the nearest pallets, checking an inventory list. Wearing the same green fatigues, they ignored Vasko as he moved forward with his toolbox.

He moved past the pallets to a pair of Humvees secured to the deck in the middle of the plane. His eyes grew big at the sight beyond. Several rows of antitank missiles were secured in low metal racks, bound for Turkey. Hendriks was a lucky man, Vasko thought.

He threaded his way to the last rack and knelt behind it. From the toolbox he removed the brown-wrapped package, which contained a block of PPV-5A plastic explosives favored by the Russian military. He taped the block to one of the missiles and began to insert the detonator.

“Can I help you, pardner?” said a voice with a thick Oklahoma accent.

Vasko looked up to see a hefty American gazing at him from across the bay. On his shoulder he wore a starred insignia surrounded by a thick band of chevrons.

“Hydraulic leak, Sergeant,” Vasko said.

“Sorry, friend, but I’m the flight engineer on this bird and I didn’t authorize any local repairs.” He stepped closer, eyeing Vasko with suspicion.

Vasko set down the detonator and pulled the silencer from the toolbox. He casually raised the gun and pumped three shots into the airman. The sergeant gasped, then looked at his wounds in shock, before falling dead to the cargo floor. Inside the huge airplane, it all went unnoticed.

Ignoring the dead man, Vasko wired the detonator to the timer and powered it on. Setting the timer for ten minutes, he tucked the package under the missile rack, then dragged the sergeant’s body alongside. He was making his way to the rear of the plane when a crash sounded ahead of him.

The forklift operator had knocked over a pallet, which had burst and spilled its contents of portable radios. A Ukrainian officer had appeared and was admonishing the forklift driver as Vasko tried to slip by.

“You there,” the officer said, waving at Vasko. “Help clean up this mess. I’ll go get a cart.”

Vasko nodded and set down the toolbox, keeping his head low. As the officer set off down the ramp, he began gathering up the loose radios, waiting for the forklift to depart with another load. But the forklift driver dithered with caution, and by the time he started to remove the next pallet, the officer was returning with a cart.

Vasko quickly picked up the radios and threw them in the cart, his mind on the high explosives preparing to detonate. With the cart full, he began wheeling it down the ramp.

“Hey, wait a minute,” the officer called.

“Yes, sir?” Vasko said. Despite the cool night air, sweat was beginning to drip down his temple.

“You forgot your toolbox.”

Vasko nodded and scooped up the toolbox, avoiding eye contact with the officer. “Thank you, sir.” He scurried down the ramp.

He ditched the cart inside the hangar and ducked outside, rushing down the flight line and away from the airplane. He reached the end of the hangar, cut around the corner, and checked his watch. It was too close now to be in the open, so he backed to the wall and waited.

As the antitank missiles erupted in succession, a ripple of concussions shook the ground. Vasko peeked around the corner as the entire midsection of the plane evaporated in a ball of black smoke. Debris rained down across the airfield, and he waited for the pelting to subside before stepping onto the tarmac.

As fire alarms rang through the night air, he crossed the runway, stopping only to pick up a charred gray fragment of aluminum from the C-5’s fuselage. He ducked through the hole in the fence, threw the toolbox and aluminum shard into the rental car, and drove away, not bothering to look back at the billowing inferno he had just created.

68

The Sofia office of Europol occupied a corner section of the Bulgarian Criminal Police Directorate’s headquarters, housed in a drab concrete building in the capital city’s center. Wearing a patterned skirt and silk blouse that showed the wrinkles of too many hours at her desk, Ana was rifling through yet another stack of border patrol reports when something caught her eye. She glanced up to see Pitt and Giordino standing in the hallway, smiling at her through the window of her office door.

Ana rushed into the hall and gave each man a hug. “I didn’t expect to see you two again before you left.”

“We booked our flight to Washington from Sofia so we could see you,” Pitt said.

Giordino shook his head. “Sorry to say, it’s more than just a social call.”

Ana led them into her office and pulled a pair of chairs close to her desk.

“How goes the hunt for Mankedo?” Pitt asked.

“We’ve had some interesting developments in the last few days but no luck in locating Mankedo, I’m afraid.” She sorted through some papers and pulled out a photo of a workboat tied to a crowded dock. “Look familiar?”

“That looks like the workboat that was docked at Thracia when we raided the yard,” Pitt said.

“It was found abandoned in Karaburun, a Turkish port near the Bosphorus.”

“So he fled to Turkey,” Giordino said. “Any chance of finding him there?”

She shook her head. “Istanbul is an easy place to disappear.”

“It seems a lot of people are disappearing lately,” Giordino said.

“Speaking of which, take a look at this.”

She handed them a copy of a short news article. It told of the discovery of Bulgarian Ministry of Culture archeologist Georgi Dimitov, whose body was found washed ashore on a beach in Chios.

“Found dead in Greece?” Giordino said. “What do you make of that?”

“It’s very odd. Some local fishermen reported an explosion at sea the night before his body was found. The Greeks are investigating.”

“You may want to keep close tabs on that investigation,” Pitt said. “Dimitov wandered off the Macedonia after we discovered the Russian airman on the wreck of the Fethiye and we never heard from him again.”

“Do you think there’s some sort of connection?”

Pitt and Giordino looked at each other.

“When we were tied up in Mankedo’s warehouse,” Pitt said, “do you recall seeing a piece of wreckage behind the truck?”

“I don’t remember much.”

“There was a weathered sheet of aluminum. It looked to be a cargo hatch, from an aircraft built fifty or sixty years ago.”

“The plane that belonged to the Russian airman?”

“Yes. After our discovery of the deceased flier, not only did Dimitov vanish, but the Macedonia was hijacked. While it may be that Mankedo simply wished to use our ship to attack Sevastopol, he may also have wanted us away from the Ottoman wreck and the Russian bomber, which we now know is nearby.”

“For what purpose?”

“To get at the bomber’s cargo.”

“Do you know what is was?”

“I have an idea.” Pitt described the site of the wreck and its empty bomb bay.

“An atomic bomb,” she whispered. “You think that’s what was hidden on the back of Mankedo’s truck?”

“It’s a distinct possibility. We need to learn more about the aircraft to be sure.”

“That certainly ups the stakes,” Ana said, scribbling some notes.

“Any leads on the truck or our bald friend?” Giordino asked.

“Actually, yes.” Ana slid her chair close to her computer. “We issued a regional alert to all seaports, border stations, airports, and rail stations. That’s how we found the boat in Turkey.”

She tapped at her keyboard and produced a grainy video feed of a gated roadway. “I just received this today. Take a look.”

The video, a short clip from a security camera, showed a truck approach a gatehouse, stop briefly, then pass through. The video, taken at night, was short on clarity and detail. Ana played it again, this time stopping at individual frames.

“It’s difficult to see the driver until the truck passes.” She halted the video once more, catching the fuzzy image of a stocky driver with no hair.

“That’s him,” Giordino said.

“And that’s our truck.” Pitt pointed to the tarp-covered object on the flatbed. “Where was this taken?”

“The entrance to Stara Zagora Airport, a small facility about a hundred miles west of Burgas. It was taken the same day we were there. Or that night, I should say. The guard gate was unmanned at that time, but at least somebody reviewed the video later.”

“So they’ve already flown it out of the country,” Pitt said.

“Most likely.”

The door to her office opened and Petar Ralin rolled in in a wheelchair, a stack of files on his lap.

“We didn’t expect to see you back to work so soon,” Giordino said.

“Ana thought I’d get better care under her watch,” he said, which caused her to blush. “And I thought I better keep an eye on her dangerous wanderings.”

“Of which there have been a few,” Pitt agreed with a laugh. “How’s the leg coming along?”

“I should be out of the chair and on crutches in another day or two.”

“I think he’s secretly capable of walking now, but just likes me to push him around,” Ana said.

Ralin smiled. “No argument there.” He rolled forward and passed the files to Ana. “Stara Zagora Airport came through for us.”

“I just showed Dirk and Al the video.” Ana explained the discovery of the Russian bomber.

“This may be a key lead,” Ralin said. “They sent a list of flight traffic for the evening, which is pretty light. The airport serves primarily commuter traffic and private planes, with little nighttime activity. There were four small plane landings and one large jet arrival before midnight. The jet arrived at eight-thirty and departed at five after nine. The airport provided its tail number, and we identified it as an Antonov An-124 transport plane, operated by a commercial charter company out of Ukraine.”

“Little surprise that they would have transported the bomb to Ukraine,” Ana said.

“Actually, they didn’t,” Ralin said. “I had to check a dozen airport databases, but I found that the plane next landed at Lisbon’s Portela Airport around midnight. The aircraft then showed up at Bermuda’s L.F. Wade International Airport, before returning to Kiev the following evening.”

“You said the transport is owned by a charter company,” Pitt said. “Do you know who chartered the plane?”

“Yes, although it took a number of threatening calls to Ukraine to find out. The company claimed they didn’t have a flight plan for the charter but did finally identify the customer as one Peregrine Surveillance Corporation.”

“A shell company?” Ana asked.

“No, a small holding company and subsidiary of a Dutch firm called Arnhem Flight Systems.”

“Don’t they make commercial aircraft instruments?” Pitt said.

“That’s right,” Ralin said. “They’re a diversified aviation company known primarily for their avionics. Privately held by an industrialist named Martin Hendriks. Or they were. Hendriks recently cashed out, selling the company to Airbus.”

“So someone at Airbus chartered the plane?” Ana asked.

“No, it was Hendriks. He still owns Peregrine. So he, or an employee of Peregrine, chartered the plane.”

“He doesn’t sound like the type who would be involved with Mankedo,” Ana said.

Ralin shrugged. “Hard to say. He’s an extremely private person. Public press about him is almost nonexistent. I did, however, find that his company has had numerous business dealings with Moscow over the years, so he would appear to be pro-Russian. His Peregrine company was in the news recently when one of his aviation drones helped rescue some shipwrecked sailors off of Ukraine.”

“We need to know more about this Hendriks and if he has any facilities near Lisbon,” Ana said. “I’ll call the Europol office there and have them check the airport as well.”

“A good idea,” Ralin said, “but I don’t suspect anything will pan out there.”

“Why’s that?”

“The Antonov transport was on the ground in Lisbon for less than an hour. They could have offloaded the weapon, but most likely stopped to refuel before heading across the Atlantic. At the end of the day, Bermuda’s where you really want to be.”

“But what’s in Bermuda?”

Ralin smiled. “For starters, a multimillion-dollar oceanfront mansion owned by one Martin Hendriks.”

69

The NUMA research ship Iberia wallowed in ten-foot seas as it battled a slow-moving summer storm that crept across the Mediterranean. Since leaving Sardinia, the ship had sailed into the teeth of it, sending her crew searching for their seasick pills.

Seated at the back of the bridge, Summer clutched a cup of coffee to keep it from sliding across the computer table. Dirk sat beside her, studying a blurry sonar image on a workstation monitor.

“It’s a shipwreck, all right.” He tapped a dark oblong object on the screen. “Whether it’s our shipwreck, is difficult to say.”

“The wave action is just too severe on the towfish,” Summer said. “It’s bouncing around like a rubber ball and scrambling the sonar images.”

“The dimensions, fuzzy as they appear, look pretty close to the Sentinel.”

“Should we check it out or keep surveying?”

Dirk turned to Myers, who stood near the helm. “Captain, how’s the weather forecast looking?”

“The worst of the storm has passed. The seas should ease a bit over the next six hours and lie down within twenty-four. The extended forecast shows clear.”

Dirk turned to his sister. “Sonar records will still be sloppy for a while. It’s the best target we’ve had in three days of surveying. I say we prep for a dive and try to catch a soft spot in the surf to deploy.”

Summer grabbed at her coffee cup, which was sliding across the table again. “It’ll be calmer underwater. Let’s do it.”

An hour later, a yellow and turquoise submersible dangled over the stern, pitching with the movement of the ship. The seas had moderated slightly but were still risky for deployment. Dirk and Summer waited inside the vessel, eyeing the surrounding seas. After a sequence of heavy swells, the waves took a brief respite.

“Launch, launch, launch,” Dirk radioed.

The submersible was lowered and quickly set free. Dirk flooded the ballast tanks and the submersible dropped beneath the turbulent surface. Twelve hundred feet later, a rocky gray seafloor loomed up through the viewport. Dirk engaged the thrusters and they propelled across the featureless landscape.

They found the wreck a few minutes later, a dark ship listing heavily on the seabed. As they approached from the stern, Dirk tapped his sister on the arm and pointed out the viewport. “I see a pair of guns above the stern deck.”

The evidence greatly narrowed their prospects from the hundreds of merchant ships that littered the bottom of the Mediterranean.

Summer consulted a record of the ship in her lap. “The Sentinel carried nine four-inch guns: three forward, two aft, and two on each beam. Let’s see what’s forward.”

Dirk elevated the submersible above the wreck and hovered over the aft guns before making his way forward. The corroded topside structure matched the layout in Summer’s photo. Cruising past the wheelhouse, the submersible hovered over a trio of guns on the forward deck.

“There’s your three forward guns,” Dirk said. “I’d say we have a match.”

Summer nodded. “It must be the Sentinel. The trick will be to investigate her interior at this depth. Dr. Trehorne sent plans for a similar ship of the class. He felt there were three likely places where a cargo of gold might be stored.”

She pulled out the profile diagram of a British scout cruiser. “There’s a forward hold just ahead of the guns, and two additional holds beneath the stern deck.”

Dirk studied the diagram. “Access points will be the issue. Let’s see what we can find forward.”

He guided the submersible toward the bow, passing over the deck and a forward hatch cover that appeared corroded in place. He proceeded beyond the prow, swung around, and returned at deck level.

Summer pointed out the viewport. “Take us down along the starboard hull.”

Dirk descended the submersible over the side rail. A dozen yards back from the bow, a gaping oval hole presented itself just above the seafloor.

“The naval reports say she sank after striking a mine,” she said.

“The reports didn’t lie. Looks to be the open barn door to exactly where we want to go.” He guided the submersible to the opening, then set the submersible onto the floor and powered off the thrusters.

Summer took over from there, activating a small cabled ROV affixed to a front rack. As she drove the vehicle into the hole, Summer focused on a video monitor that showed a live feed from the device.

The camera showed a jumbled mass of steel beams and plates that had collapsed in all directions, impeding any movement.

Dirk checked the diagram. “The hold looks to be another ten or fifteen feet aft.”

“I’m not sure I can go another ten inches.”

She reversed course and butted the ROV against an anchor chain. She followed the chain up until she found a gap beneath the overhead deck. She threaded the vehicle aft, past another maze of jagged metal.

She took a deep breath. “I’ll get us aft, but I’m not sure about getting back out.”

“I’m sure we’ve got a pair of scissors around here somewhere,” Dirk said, knowing the ROV and its cable could be jettisoned if it became snagged inside the wreck.

Summer eased the ROV over a crumpled bulkhead and into a large open bay on the other side.

“That has to be the hold,” Dirk said, straining to make out details on the monitor.

Summer smiled as she circled the ROV around the hold and descended to its base. The vehicle’s lights revealed two large mounds on the deck, the remnants of once crated and stacked cargo. Summer brought the ROV alongside the first mound and let its thrusters blow away the silt. The water cleared to reveal an irregular mass of metal, with several tube-shaped pieces sticking out from the pile.

“They’re rifles,” Dirk said. “The wooden stocks have long since disintegrated, along with the crates they were stored in. Some of the barrels have rusted together, as has the congealed mass containing the bolt and trigger mechanisms.”

Summer saw it now and nodded. She guided the ROV to the second mound and cleared away its silt, revealing a similar mass. She scoured the rest of the bay without results. “I think that’s all that’s here.”

“I agree. Probably best to bring her home.”

Summer retraced the ROV’s path, extricating it from the wreck with considerable effort and returning it to the submersible’s cradle.

“Nicely done,” Dirk said. He checked the battery reserves. “I don’t think we have the juice to get into the stern holds. I suggest we surface and swap batteries.”

“Okay by me.” Summer appeared visibly stressed from operating the ROV in such tight quarters. She remained silent as Dirk purged the ballast tanks and the submersible began a slow ascent.

“Given up hope?” he asked.

“I don’t think the gold is here.”

“We haven’t checked the stern holds yet.”

“I know. It’s just a feeling. That, and the fact the ship is carrying a load of weapons. Doesn’t really make sense if the Sentinel was on its way back to England with the gold.”

“True, but the ship might have been diverted to meet the Pelikan with the weapons already aboard.”

Summer stared into the darkness beyond the reach of the submersible’s lights. “You’re right. We’ll reboot and take another dive. You don’t suppose the Russians are collecting the gold off the Pelikan as we speak?”

“Not a chance.”

Dirk’s suspicion was borne out an hour later after they were hoisted aboard the Iberia. The seas had eased and the weather cleared, making visible on the horizon an approaching gray salvage ship that flew the flag of Greece.

70

Mansfield stared at the NUMA ship through a pair of binoculars, focusing on a work crew hovering about its submersible.

“Does it look like they are pulling up any cargo?” the captain asked.

“Difficult to say.” Mansfield lowered the glasses. “A submersible wouldn’t be the most efficient carrier.”

“How long have they been working the site?”

“Not long,” Mansfield said. “They left Sardinia four days ago. The last satellite image showed them surveying near here two days ago.”

“There must be something of interest if they are still poking around. The sonar image looks good for the British warship.”

“I’d like to see for myself. Please have the ship’s submersible prepared. I will take her down after dark.”

The captain stepped across the bridge and gazed at a ceiling-mounted fathometer. “Depth here is four hundred meters.”

“Too deep for another ride on your underwater scooter,” Mansfield said. “That’s why I’ll need your submersible.”

“The depth is beyond the capability of our submersible. It is only rated to three hundred meters.”

“What?” Mansfield stared at the captain. “You are a salvage ship. You carry a submersible that can’t dive a thousand feet?”

“We are an eavesdropping ship,” the captain said. “Our deployments are typically close to shore, in shallow water. We don’t have the need, or expertise, for deepwater operations.”

“What about an ROV?”

“Yes, I believe that is close to its depth limit. It can be deployed immediately.”

Mansfield glared at the captain, then resumed his study of the NUMA ship. “It will have to wait. They’re preparing their next dive.”

He watched as Dirk and Summer climbed inside the submersible for a second dive. The seas were much calmer as they were lowered over the stern and submerged without incident. Mansfield remained on the Russian ship’s bridge, studying his adversary and pacing. With some consternation, he watched some crewmen lower an object off the Iberia’s opposite deck, mistaking an oceanographic water sample for a recovery basket.

It was nearly dusk when the submersible reappeared and was brought aboard the research ship. Mansfield watched again as Dirk and Summer exited the sub, eyeing the Russian ship before climbing to the Iberia’s bridge.

“I need two of your best men,” Mansfield said to the captain.

He sighed. “What for?”

“Transport and cover.”

“After your fiasco in Greece?”

Mansfield shook his head. “I want to make a solo visit aboard their ship tonight. Since your underwater equipment is useless, I need to inspect their submersible and deck operations to find out exactly what they are up to.”

“No. I won’t have any more of my men killed.”

“It is an oceanographic vessel. They would not be armed like those on the salvage ship.”

“And exactly how do you know that?”

As the two men argued, a deck officer interrupted them. “Captain, I think you need to take a look off the port beam.”

Midway between the two vessels, a pair of dark cylindrical spires rose from the sea. The objects grew in height, then showed themselves affixed to a wide black base that sprouted side fins as it continued rising. The men stared in shock as the object took the shape of a large submarine. The full profile of a Los Angeles — class attack sub showed itself and sat stationary between the two surface ships.

The radio aboard the ship blared a greeting. “Vessel bearing Greek colors, this is the USS Newport News. What can we do for you today?”

The Russian captain shook his head at Mansfield. “Care to ask him for a lift?”

71

Summer gazed out the bridge of the Iberia and smiled. “Rudi didn’t mess around, did he?”

Dirk nodded. “After our ordeal in London, he promised us a shadow. Guess he’s still got some pull in the Navy.”

“Do you think Mansfield is on that ship?”

“It’s possible. Captain Myers researched the vessel and found it’s been seen all throughout the Mediterranean, flying flags of different countries. A home port in Russia is probably a good bet.”

“Thank goodness for the Newport News. Of course, at this point, the Russians can have the wreck.”

A crewman approached from belowdecks. “You have a call from a Mr. Perlmutter via satellite. There’s a speakerphone in the conference room.”

Summer looked at Dirk. “Julien’s not one for high technology.”

They followed the crewman to the main deck and into the conference room, which was little more than an empty cabin with a small table in the center. Dirk and Summer sat down and spoke into the speakerphone.

“Julien, are you there?” Summer asked.

“Yes, I’m calling from Charles’s residence.” Perlmutter’s voice boomed. “How goes the search for the Sentinel?”

“Good and bad,” Summer said. “We found the wreck last night. She’s in good shape, lying intact in twelve hundred feet of water. We spent the day investigating her. We were able to access the forward hold and one of the stern holds, but we’ve seen no sign of the gold.”

“It hasn’t been salvaged, has it?”

“No, she doesn’t appear to have been disturbed. Her cargo appears to be rifles, not gold.”

“We thought as much,” Perlmutter said.

“Do you know something we don’t?” Dirk asked.

“Charles and I have spent the past few days digging through the Archives and we located an intriguing nugget today. Tell them, Charles.”

Trehorne’s voice joined the call. “We searched for everything related to the Sentinel, although a few of the ship’s documents were missing. Fascinating vessel, actually, with an interesting wartime record. Did you locate any evidence of her sinking?”

“Yes,” Dirk said. “She has a large breach near the waterline off the starboard bow. It would appear consistent with damage from striking a mine.”

“Indeed. If you took any video recordings, I would love to see them. As I was saying, we examined the ship, crew, and squadron data — and finally stumbled upon something curious in the fleet records. During World War I, the Royal Navy regularly ran guns across the Mediterranean to General Allenby in Egypt in support of the Arab Revolt. We found note of a shipment of Lee — Enfield rifles delivered by steamer from England to Gibraltar, then sent on to Alexandria. Only the shipment never made it.”

“Let me guess,” Dirk said. “The guns were transported aboard the Sentinel.”

“Precisely correct.”

“So the Sentinel didn’t rendezvous with the Pelikan and take on the Romanov gold?” Summer asked.

“That’s the key question,” Trehorne said. “The time line proved problematic at first glance, but Julian and I have a hypothesis. You see, the Sentinel was supposed to meet the Pelikan on February twenty-seventh near Chios. We found evidence which indicates the Sentinel was in Gibraltar on March second, taking on the shipment of rifles. The cruiser’s top speed was twenty-five knots, so that would have been a challenging feat, given the distance between the two.”

Summer rubbed her eyes. “So the gold remained on the Pelikan?”

“We don’t think so. What we believe happened, my dear, is that the Sentinel and the Pelikan had their rendezvous a day or two earlier. If we go back to the original letter from Hunt to Admiral Ballard, he requested the Sentinel be at the meeting point by February twenty-seventh. It turns out the Sentinel was in Athens the week before. As she was already in the vicinity, we believe she arrived on-site ahead of that date, and the Pelikan was early as well. That would have allowed plenty of time for the Sentinel to take the gold on board and arrive in Gibraltar by March second.”

“We found no orders rescinding the rendezvous instructions,” Perlmutter said, “so there’s no evidence that the Sentinel was pulled away before Pelikan’s arrival.”

“If that was the case,” Summer said, “what became of the gold?”

There was a long pause. “We don’t know,” Perlmutter said, “but the answer would seem to lie in Gibraltar. Charles has some contacts there, along with a strong suspicion. We intend to fly down and do some sniffing about. If you’re finished with the Sentinel, why don’t you forget about the Pelikan for the moment and meet us there?”

“Absolutely.” Summer perked up. “I’ve had a bad feeling about the Sentinel since we got here.”

The group made plans to meet and said their good-byes. After the call ended, Dirk shook his head with a grimace.

“What’s wrong?” Summer said. “You don’t think it’s there?”

“I don’t know if it is or it isn’t. But I do know that Rudi’s never going to trust us with a travel budget ever again.”

Five hundred meters across the sea, a Russian communications specialist aboard the spy ship stopped recording the satellite call as the connection went dead.

Within the hour, Mansfield had listened to the conversation several times. He had to admit that the spy ship had finally proved its worth. Using a secure satellite line, he called Martina, who was still in Cagliari.

“Success?” she asked.

“No. We’ll be back in port tomorrow. I need you to get us on a flight to Gibraltar as soon as possible.”

“It will be done,” she said in her usual efficient manner. “Is the gold there?”

“It can be nowhere else.”

72

The raid on Hendriks’s Bermuda estate went nothing like the assault on Mankedo’s salvage yard. Ana made sure of it.

A dozen Bermuda police officers covered the main entrance while a second SWAT team of equal size approached from the beachfront. Though Ana initially had doubts about the Bermudans’ experience and training, she was soon impressed by their zeal and planning. As a British Overseas Territory, Bermuda officially recognized Europol, and the local law enforcement authorities had provided all due cooperation.

Surveillance of the property during the prior twenty-four hours had revealed no activity other than the comings and goings of the gardeners. Hendriks’s private jet had been seen at the airport recently but vanished about the time the surveillance began, which made Ana wonder if he had been tipped off by a local. No matter now, she thought. A 1950s-era atomic bomb wouldn’t likely fit on a private jet.

At six a.m. sharp, she led a Bermuda police lieutenant to a pedestrian door along the residence’s closed gated drive. Ignoring the video cameras that sprouted from the top of the walls like kudzu, the lieutenant wedged a crowbar beneath the latch and pried open the door. He radioed the beach team, then signaled to his surrounding force to proceed.

Ana was already through the door when the lieutenant followed with his armed men. They fanned out along the drive and jogged to the imposing residence. Ana and the lieutenant approached the front door with half the men and tried the handle. It was unlocked. Ana and the men readied their weapons, then burst in.

From the kitchen, a dark-skinned woman in a tattered robe screamed at the sudden intrusion of armed men. She raised her arms to the sky and rocked back on her heels as Ana and the lieutenant approached.

“Where’s Hendriks?” the policeman asked.

“Mr. Hendriks not here,” she said. “He leave two days ago. No one here but me.” Like many Bermudans, she spoke with a slight Caribbean accent.

“What’s your name?” Ana asked.

“I am Rose, Mr. Hendriks’s housekeeper. Mr. Hendriks not here.”

Two armed policemen, who had approached from the beach, appeared from the rear of the house. “All clear in back,” one said.

The lieutenant nodded. “All right. Help search the house.”

As the men left, Ana pulled the housekeeper aside. “Rose, can you tell me who was here with Mr. Hendriks?”

“Some employees from his company. Two older men were here also. Doctors, I think. They all stayed in the guest quarters.”

“Medical doctors?”

Rose shrugged. “I heard Mr. Hendriks address just one as ‘Doctor.’”

“What were they doing here?”

“They worked in the garage laboratory. All secret. I’m not allowed to go in there.”

“The building at the side of the residence?” Ana asked.

Rose nodded.

“How long where they there?”

“About two weeks. They all leave in a hurry a few days ago, including Mr. Hendriks.”

“Where did he go?”

“I don’t know. Probably to his home in Amsterdam. He doesn’t come to Bermuda so much anymore without his family.”

The police lieutenant reappeared with his men. “The house and grounds appear empty, Agent Belova. I’m afraid you might be chasing a false lead.”

“The garage,” she said. “I want to see the garage.”

They made their way to the freestanding building. As they approached a side entry, they could see it was a large structure, its size concealed by thick foliage. A padlock secured the entrance, and the lieutenant called for a bolt cutter from a support vehicle. He snipped the padlock free, shoved open the door, and they stepped inside.

The research lab was still furnished, with computer terminals, test equipment, and lab benches filling the bay. While the lieutenant admired the test drone hanging from the ceiling, Ana focused on a more ordinary vehicle. Just inside the main door sat a weathered flatbed truck. She noted the black and white Bulgarian license plate affixed to the rear bumper.

“Lieutenant,” she called. “They were here. This is the truck that was transported from Bulgaria.”

The Bermudan stepped over and gazed at the empty truck.

“The weapon is gone now, if it was indeed here,” Ana said. “Probably flown out with Hendriks and his crew.”

“Maybe we can still confirm its presence.” He waved over an officer carrying a wand that was wired to an electronic box. “Geiger counter,” the lieutenant said. “If they swapped out any parts, there may be radioactive debris.”

Ana nodded. “Check every square centimeter. Then I want passenger lists and details on every aircraft flown out of here in the past week.”

“We’ll get right on it.”

As the lieutenant issued orders to his subordinates, Ana paced the lab, a thousand questions running through her mind. Could the Russian bomb still be functional? How big is it — and how powerful? And, most important, where did they take it?

She stepped past a lab table filled with old radio tubes and examined a large whiteboard. A series of mathematical formulas were visible where the dry marker hadn’t been cleanly erased. But she ignored the writing and focused on a small map fastened to the corner. It showed a section of a large waterway that ran north and south, with several tributaries on either side. The labels were in English, but she didn’t recognize the names. None, that is, except for a city on one of the western tributaries with a star next to it.

Washington, D.C.

73

Pitt was feeling a touch of jet lag when he stepped into his office at the NUMA headquarters, a towering glass structure on the banks of the Potomac. He’d been at his desk less than a minute when Rudi Gunn entered with two cups of coffee.

“Welcome back to the fray.” He passed a cup to Pitt.

“Thanks, I could use a jump start.”

“You’ve got about five minutes to enjoy it, then we need to head downtown.”

Pitt glanced at his calendar. “I didn’t think I had any meetings today.”

“The Vice President tends to be in a hurry when he wants something,” Gunn said. “His secretary just called. He wants to see us in his office in thirty minutes.”

“Why the urgent social call?”

“He wants to know about the Russian bomber.”

“Hallelujah,” Pitt said. “I figured we’d have to kick and scream to get anyone’s attention about it.”

“Apparently, someone else has succeeded on that front.”

They downed their coffee, and a waiting car drove them across the Arlington Memorial Bridge to 17th Street, then north to the Eisenhower Executive Office Building. The Vice President’s expansive office was on the second level. While prior occupants had used it as a ceremonial office, Sandecker preferred its relative isolation, shunning his official office in the West Wing.

After clearing multiple layers of security, Pitt and Gunn entered the mahogany-floored office to find its owner pacing the floor like an angry bull.

A diminutive man with fiery red hair and a temper to match, Admiral James Sandecker was nobody’s fool. His bearded face brightened at the arrival of Pitt and Gunn. Sandecker had been the founding father of NUMA and Pitt and Gunn had been among his first hires at the new federal agency. During their years working together, the men had formed a close bond that hadn’t waned when Sandecker was drafted to the vice presidency after the incumbent died in office.

“Good to see you, Admiral,” Pitt said, dispensing with his current official title.

“Come on in and grab a seat.” Sandecker ushered them to a large conference table where several men in suits were already seated. Pitt recognized the director of Homeland Security, a man named Jimenez, at the head of the table, flanked by several other security officials. Sandecker made the introductions as Pitt and Gunn grabbed a pair of empty chairs.

Jimenez wasted no time getting to the point. “We understand you have knowledge of a rogue weapon of mass destruction in the Black Sea region.”

“We have circumstantial evidence,” Pitt said, “that an early atomic bomb was recently salvaged from a Russian bomber that crashed in the sea off Bulgaria. Data from the plane’s tail number seems to confirm its cargo.”

He nodded at Gunn, who plugged a laptop computer into a tabletop video projector. A photo of a large silver plane appeared on a white wall at the end of the table.

“Dirk just retrieved the serial number from the sunken craft,” Gunn said. “Aircraft number 223002 is a Tupolev Tu-4, like the one pictured here. It’s a Russian heavy bomber built after World War II from the design of our own B-29 Superfortress. Our particular plane is a Tu-4A, which was a modified version capable of carrying a nuclear weapon. The plane was assigned to the Fifty-seventh Bomber Division and based near Odessa. It was on a routine training mission over the Black Sea on the night of April fourteenth, 1955, when it flew into a storm and was never seen again.”

Gunn flashed up a contemporary Bulgarian newspaper clipping. “The Russians engaged in an extensive search for the plane in secret, but the efforts caught the attention of a few journalists along the Bulgarian coastline. The locals didn’t know, of course, that the plane was carrying an atomic weapon. Based on the accounts we found, the Russians focused their search near the city of Varna, about thirty miles north of where Dirk found the wreckage.”

“Its cargo bay was empty when you found it?” Jimenez asked.

“That’s correct,” Pitt said. “The bomb bay was configured to carry a single weapon, and the plane showed signs of recent salvage efforts.”

Gunn presented another photo, this one a black and white image of a large bomb perched on a rack.

“Based on the plane, date, and the rack configuration, we believe this Tu-4 was carrying an RDS-5 atomic bomb,” Gunn said. “This was an early Soviet nuclear weapon that yielded a destructive power of thirty kilotons of TNT. It predates the Russians’ more deadly hydrogen bombs, and is peanuts by modern nuclear standards, but it still packs twice the power of the bomb dropped on Hiroshima.”

One of the FBI agents cleared his throat. “You’re telling me the Russians lost an atomic bomb sixty years ago and gave up trying to find it?”

Gunn nodded. “It was hardly the only one. There are in fact dozens of lost or unaccounted nuclear weapons from the Cold War era. Most, like the one carried on our Tu-4, were lost at sea.”

“One of our own lost A-bombs was discovered just a couple of years ago by some sport divers,” Pitt said. “A Mark 15 bomb that was jettisoned by a B-47 near Savannah in 1958.”

“Would this Russian RDS-5 bomb still be functional?” Jimenez asked.

“Scientists I’ve spoken to believe so,” Gunn said. “There’s a good chance the bomb casing would remain watertight. If not, then only the electronic components would be damaged and they could be reconfigured with modern technology. There would be only a slight degradation in the radioactive components.”

“The Savannah bomb was recovered intact and in good condition,” Pitt said, “and that was resting in oxygenated, highly saline water. Our Russian bomb in the Black Sea was exposed to a much less corrosive environment.”

“Any idea where the weapon is now?” Sandecker asked.

“We, and Europol, believe it was salvaged by Valentin Mankedo, a Bulgarian black market dealer,” Pitt said. “There’s reason to believe it was flown to either Lisbon or Bermuda on a chartered transport.”

“I understand Europol believes this Mankedo has had dealings in the past with Ukrainian anti-government rebels, to acquire stolen nuclear materials,” Jimenez said.

“I was a witness to his efforts to hijack a shipment of stolen highly enriched uranium that came out of Crimea.” Pitt noticed an unease from the men around the table. “Is there an imminent threat?”

“Four days ago, an Air Force C-5 transport was blown up on the tarmac of a Ukrainian air base near Kiev,” Sandecker said. “The plane was on a stopover delivering civilian aid that the administration recently authorized in support of the Ukrainian government. Three airmen were killed in the blast, but there were few leads to the responsible party. Then, yesterday, the U.S. Embassy in Kiev received a package addressed to the President.” Sandecker opened a folder and held up a photo of a charred piece of gray metal.

“From the C-5?” Pitt asked.

“It’s been sent to the FBI lab for analysis but is believed to be from the wreckage. Included with the souvenir was a letter written in Russian.”

Sandecker shuffled through some additional papers and located a translated copy.

“‘Dear Mr. President,’ it begins. ‘Take this as a first warning for your intrusion into our lands. Aid to the illicit government in Kiev must cease immediately. If there is not a public pronouncement that the U.S. will immediately halt all financial and political support to the administration in Kiev, then death will come to America and the Star-Spangled Banner will no longer wave over your historic capital.’ It’s signed by the United Armed Forces of Novorossiya.”

“Which rebel group is that?” Gunn asked.

“It’s something of a confederation of all the pro-Russian military groups operating in eastern Ukraine,” Jimenez said. “Some in the region have come to calling the area Novorossiya, or New Russia. It’s a rather clever way of making it difficult to pin responsibility on one group.”

“That’s a rather bold act, given their Russian sponsorship,” Gunn said.

“The Russians themselves have issued a strong denial of involvement and have even taken the unusual step of absolving blame on any of the separatist groups. They’re calling it a setup.”

“Any possibility they are right?” Sandecker asked.

“We don’t buy the motive, if that was the case,” Jimenez said. “We suspect a marginalized separatist group acting out of hand with the Russians is the responsible party.”

“And you think the same people have acquired the Russian A-bomb from Mankedo?” Pitt said.

“We don’t have enough information to make a definitive link, but one could certainly connect the dots,” Jimenez said. “The timing of this threat with your discovery of the bomber has more than a few people nervous.”

“What’s the President’s reaction?” Gunn asked.

“He went through a lot of heartburn with Congress to obtain aid for the Ukrainian government,” Sandecker said. “He’s not prepared to walk away from the pledge of support he gave them to preserve their democracy.” He stared at Jimenez. “At the same time, he expects Homeland Security to do its job here to neutralize any real or perceived threats.”

“We’ve got resources on it,” Jimenez said. “We’ll get investigatory teams off to Lisbon, Bermuda, and Bulgaria right away.”

As Jimenez spoke, Pitt received a text message from Ana. He held up his hand. “You can forget about Lisbon, Mr. Secretary. Europol just raided a residence in Bermuda, where evidence was found that the bomb was recently there. It’s believed the weapon was subject to a possible refurbishment, as radioactive components were discovered.”

“Where is it now?” Sandecker said. “What is their target?”

Pitt shook his head. “They don’t know for sure,” he said, gazing at Jimenez. “But they think it could be Washington.”

74

Summer looked out the airplane window at the blue waters of the Mediterranean rushing close by as the Airbus A320 descended. She wondered if the pilot was ditching at sea, as the waves looked close enough to touch. A runway finally appeared and the airplane touched down an instant later, taking full advantage of Gibraltar International Airport’s mile-long runway that began at the sea and ended at the sea.

As the plane taxied to the terminal, she caught a glimpse of the Rock of Gibraltar. The towering mountain represented the northern half of the Pillars of Hercules, the ancient entrance to the Mediterranean Sea.

Dirk leaned over from the seat next to her and pointed at the sheer face of the Rock. “I always assumed the Rock faced south, toward Africa. Its steep face actually looks east.”

“Yes. Gibraltar’s port and residential areas are concentrated to the west,” Summer said. “The guidebook says the Spanish city of Tarifa, a few miles to the west, actually extends closer to Morocco.”

They exited the plane and were surprised to find Perlmutter and Trehorne waiting for them in the terminal.

“You didn’t need to meet us,” Summer said, happy to see the two historians.

“The country’s only three miles long,” Perlmutter said. “We can practically walk to the hotel.”

Dirk and Summer gathered their luggage, and the foursome squeezed into a cab for the ride into central Gibraltar. Perlmutter held the cab while they checked into a modest hotel. Returning to the cab a few minutes later, Dirk asked, “Where to now?”

“A friend of mine, an old schoolmate, is a major with the Royal Gibraltar Regiment,” Trehorne said. “He’s something of an expert on the wartime fortifications here and indicated he has full access to the World War I records. But I’m afraid we must backtrack to the airport to go see him.”

Perlmutter grinned. “That should take all of five minutes.”

It was closer to ten when they passed through the gates of Devil’s Tower Camp, a small base southeast of the airport runway that housed Gibraltar’s military forces. They found the base information center and were escorted to the office of Major Cecil Hawker. A droopy-eyed man with a light mustache, he warmly greeted Trehorne beneath a portrait of the Queen. He welcomed the others and offered them tea at a corner table that overlooked the parade field.

“I was delighted to hear from you, Charles,” he said, “and quite intrigued by your treasure hunt.”

“We’re not sure where the trail will lead,” Trehorne said, “but, at the moment, it’s making its way through Gibraltar. As you are the regiment historian, I know there is no one better qualified to examine the history here.”

“That’s just a side duty,” Hawker said, “but it does afford me access to all of Gibraltar’s state archives. I’ve spent some time examining the relevant time period, and also consulted with friends in the Royal Navy. Unfortunately, much of the naval records from that era, as well as a significant piece of the regiment’s history, were lost or destroyed during the civilian evacuation of Gibraltar in World War II.”

“Did you find any evidence of the Sentinel’s presence in Gibraltar in 1917?” Perlmutter asked.

“Not in the naval records. But I did find a curious document in the regiment’s files.” Hawker opened a desk drawer, pulled out a letter, and handed it to Trehorne.

He skimmed the document. “It’s a note to the commandant of the regiment, a request for a security detail to transfer a ship’s cargo to AEB Nelson for temporary storage. It’s signed by a Captain L. Marsh, HMS Sentinel.”

“What’s the date, Charles?” Perlmutter asked.

Trehorne examined the header, then looked up with raised brows. “March second, 1917.”

The room fell silent until Summer whispered, “That’s after the scheduled rendezvous with the Pelikan.”

“The same day they took on the shipment of Lee — Enfield rifles,” Perlmutter said. “Unloaded one cargo and took on another, perhaps?”

“The letter indicated the storage was only temporary,” Dirk said. “Was there any indication of its subsequent movement?”

“None that I could find,” Hawker said.

“With chaos in St. Petersburg and the abdication of Nicholas in the works, the treaty may have been deemed void and the gold returned to the provisional government,” Perlmutter said.

“Perhaps,” Dirk said, “but Mansfield’s actions suggest the Russians have no record of its return. Major Hawker, what do you make of this AEB Nelson storage reference?”

Hawker’s eyes lit up. “I was quite excited by the reference. You see, the Rock of Gibraltar is a rather fascinating mount. Aside from dozens of natural caves, the Rock is riddled with over thirty miles of tunnels built over the centuries. Some date to the 1700s, but most were built in the last century to supplement the local fortifications. I must profess to being something of a tunnel rat myself, and the reference to Nelson scratched at my memory. I pulled some of the early tunnel plans and, sure enough, there was a tunnel line named Nelson built in the 1880s, when some of the first big artillery guns were hoisted up the Rock. But I couldn’t find any references to a storage area or bunker named Nelson or the letters AEB, although they could indicate an auxiliary excavation boring.”

“What’s the status of the tunnel today?” Dirk asked.

“The Nelson tunnel and its surrounding arteries were closed off in 1920 due to a cave-in. It has been an abandoned area ever since, closed to access due to its perceived danger.”

“Could we get in for a look?” Summer asked.

“The Gibraltar tunnels are administered by the Ministry of Defence.” He gave Summer a wink. “Which means you came to the right place.”

Summer noticed that Hawker had a large chart above his desk depicting the tunnels inside the Rock.

He pointed to an area on the north side of the mount. “I’ve studied the neighboring passages and believe the Nelson area can be reached, if there have been no additional cave-ins.” He looked up and smiled. “But you will need a military guide.”

“Can you take us in?” she asked.

“Meet me at Princess Anne’s Battery at eight o’clock sharp tomorrow and we’ll see what we can find.” He looked at the sandals on Summer’s feet. “I would strongly advise wearing sturdy footwear.”

She smiled. “I’ll wear snow boots, if I have to.”

She had a spring in her step as they returned to their waiting cab. “Do you think there’s a chance it’s still there?” she asked the others.

“Only one way to find out,” Perlmutter said. “You remember what we found in Cuba.”

As they exited the base, their taxi drove past a sedan parked outside the entrance that immediately started its engine. In the passenger seat, Viktor Mansfield sat with a small parabolic listening device in his lap. He yanked off its earphones as Martina began following the cab.

“Anything?” she asked.

“No, not a thing.” He tossed the gadget to the floorboard.

“This is not London, I’m afraid,” she said. “We have few resources here.”

He shook his head. “Then there’s nothing to be done but follow them.”

75

A half-moon cast a shimmering glow on the calm water, providing more than a mile of visibility. For secrecy’s sake, Ilya Vasko would have much preferred a downpour, but the clear night would make his job easier.

From the aft deck of a blue tugboat named the Lauren Belle, he watched as an overloaded container ship passed on its way to Baltimore with a cargo of German autos. With the Lauren Belle anchored near the shoreline of Cape Charles, Virginia, Vasko took keen interest in the ships entering the nearby mouth of the Chesapeake Bay. Through binoculars, he studied each approaching vessel, gauging its size and, most important, if it was towing a barge.

It had been only a few hours since he had touched down in Hendriks’s private jet at Newport News International Airport across the bay. The Dutchman had proved proficient once more, arranging a leased tug and barge that awaited him at the waterfront. Even the boat’s four-man Ukrainian crew seemed a hardened mix of trustworthy mercenaries.

Three freighters and thirty minutes later, Vasko saw what he was waiting for. A large oceangoing tug with an extended stern deck rounded the cape from the Atlantic. Under the moonlight and the vessel’s running lights, he could see she had an orange hull and a white superstructure. She was also pulling a small barge. The icing on the cake was a powerful blue light that shone above the wheelhouse.

Vasko lowered his glasses and turned to a crewman pacing the deck. “That’s our boat. Give her a signal.”

The crewman activated a spotlight on the rail and aimed it toward the incoming ship, flashing its beam several times. The blue light on the approaching vessel blinked in acknowledgment and the big tug slowed and eased alongside the Lauren Belle. The ocean tug passed down a leader line to Vasko’s crew, who looped it around a hydraulic capstan.

Given an All clear sign a few minutes later, Vasko’s men activated the capstan, reeling in the leader line and the orange tug’s tow cable to its trailing barge. As they transferred the line, a heavy wooden crate was also passed down and placed behind the Lauren Belle’s wheelhouse.

The barge had been nearly a hundred meters behind the ocean tug, but Vasko drew it within twenty meters of the Lauren Belle. He then called up for the boat to proceed with the transfer. The orange tug pulled ahead to a second barge just upstream that Vasko had affixed to an anchored float. The ocean tug completed the swap, retrieving the tow line from the float and securing the barge to its stern.

With no fanfare, the orange vessel pulled ahead, towing the replacement barge. Under the night sky, the two barges appeared identical. Vasko watched the tug and its new cargo move up the bay and disappear into the distance, then turned to his crewmen. “Pull the barge up to the stern.”

They activated the capstan, pulling up the barge like a toy on a string. When the bow of the barge kissed the Lauren Belle’s stern, Vasko slipped over the rail and jumped aboard. Like the barge he had just traded, the blunt vessel held four covered holds. Vasko skipped the first three and moved to the one at the stern and unclasped its cover. He raised the lid and shined an LED flashlight inside. The interior was empty.

He climbed down a rusty steel ladder into the hold and searched more carefully. In the two stern corners he found what he was seeking: a pair of small packages in brown paper like the one from the farmhouse in Ukraine. He left them in place and located a small satchel beneath the ladder that held a simple radio transmitter.

Vasko took the satchel, climbed out, and resealed the hold cover, then moved to the first hold. He checked that no ships were approaching, raised the lid, and climbed inside. At the bottom of its ladder, he turned and faced the RDS-5 bomb.

The atomic weapon rested on a heavy wooden pallet, secured to the deck by canvas straps. During its refurbishment, the bomb had been painted a nonreflective black, which lent it a more ominous appearance. Vasko scanned the weapon with his light until he found the control box, which rose from the curved skin ahead of the tail assembly. He unscrewed its top-sealing glass panel, which gave access to a small bank of dials and LED displays. The readouts were all dark. He found a small, nondescript toggle positioned at the bottom. Holding his breath, he reached in and flicked the switch.

The panel came alive with flashing lights and digital readouts. He waited a moment for the electronics to settle, then checked one of the displays. Confirming it showed the number 25, he sealed the glass plate. Just like that, the bomb was activated. Now all he had to do was complete the delivery.

He sealed the hold cover, returned to the tug, and ordered the crew to get under way. As smoke billowed from the funnel and the Lauren Belle pulled ahead, Vasko stared at the lethal black barge, contemplating the many ways to spend ten million dollars.

76

The morning sun was already heating the stone pavers around Princess Anne’s Battery when Summer, Dirk, Perlmutter, and Trehorne piled out of a cab. A winding road had taken them high up on the north side of the Rock. An open emplacement of guns stood on a bluff, overlooking the airport and the coast of Spain.

Hawker waited for them with a duffel bag strapped over his shoulder. “Good morning,” he said. “Glad to see you found the place without any trouble.”

Summer scanned the coastline. “It’s a beautiful vantage point.”

“Yes, and an important location in the historical defense of Gibraltar. Cannon were first brought up here in 1732 during the Great Siege of Gibraltar, when Spain and France tried to kick us out. British forces held out for over three years before the siege was eventually lifted.”

“Crossing the flats over that isthmus with Spain would have been suicidal under aim of a sharp gunnery crew,” Trehorne said.

“Most certainly. The site here was manned all the way up to the 1980s.” Hawker pointed to one of four World War II — era five-inch guns emplaced around them. “The batteries were linked by tunnels, dating back decades. We can gain entry behind that Mark I gun over there.”

He led them across a parking lot, where a handful of tourists were eyeing the view near a gray sedan that had just entered. Hawker stepped past the gun emplacement to a steel door embedded in the rock. He produced a brass ring of skeleton keys and shoved one into the ancient lock. The mechanism turned freely and he pulled open the thick door, revealing an unlit tunnel that spewed cool air.

“A back door entrance, if you will.” He opened his duffel bag and distributed a supply of flashlights and hard hats. “I can state with authority that it’s no fun scraping your head on a limestone chandelier.” He donned the last helmet.

The dark tunnel was wide and high enough for them to walk through upright, except for Dirk and Summer. They passed an empty side room, which Hawker explained was once used as an ammunition magazine for the battery. From there, the tunnel narrowed, brushing the sides of Perlmutter’s wide frame.

As they descended farther into the Rock, the interior became cool and damp. Summer felt the clammy air and inhaled the musty smell, and she could almost hear the echoes from the past.

“Please stay close,” Hawker said, “I don’t want to lose anybody.”

The passage grew tighter, and Hawker hesitated when they reached a cross tunnel. The one to their right had a chain barrier with a small placard that said NO ENTRY.

Hawker stepped over the barrier. “This should take us to Nelson.”

As the others followed, their hard hats often scraped against the low ceiling. Hawker pointed to some cut marks above them. “These were all hand-excavated with hammer and chisel, and just a small amount of explosives, in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. They’re an offshoot of the Great Siege tunnels. The Nelson branch should be just ahead.”

Dirk turned to his sister. “A long way to be carting some gold.”

“Made all the safer on account of it,” she said.

They threaded their way through a serpentine section of tunnel and reached a small clearing. Hawker stopped in front of a rusty iron gate embedded into the rock and shined his light through the bars. Just beyond, a nearly vertical shaft descended into blackness.

Hawker faced the others with a wary grin. “This is it. The records indicate there was a cave-in during the original excavations. The shaft was cleared away in the 1880s to create a storage bay, possibly for powder reserves. Apparently, there was another collapse years later, then it was sealed off.”

“Was it named for Admiral Nelson?” Dirk asked.

“The Battle of Trafalgar was fought nearby in 1805. Lord Nelson was killed during the engagement and his ship, HMS Victory, towed to Gibraltar for repairs. Several of the Victory’s crew are buried in Trafalgar Cemetery back in town. The tunnel was, no doubt, named in his honor.”

Hawker tried his supply of skeleton keys, but none turned the mechanism. After several failed attempts to open the lock, Perlmutter asked him to step aside. Using his mass, the historian raised a foot and stomped against the latch with the weight of his heel. The gate flung open with barely a protest.

The big man peered over the precipice and shook his head. “I’m afraid you’ll have to take it from here.”

Hawker crawled to the edge and shined his light into the depths.

“Looks to be about twenty feet to the bottom.” He opened his duffel and retrieved a static nylon climbing rope. “If fifty feet doesn’t do the trick, then we’ve got bigger problems.” He tied one end around the gate’s stanchion. “Anyone care to join me in the descent?”

Dirk and Summer stepped forward, but Perlmutter and Trehorne shook their heads.

“You may need a couple of old mules up here to pull you out,” Trehorne said. “Julien and I will stand by at the ready.”

Hawker slipped the rope between his legs and pulled the loose end from his right hip, then crossed it over his left shoulder, gripping it behind his back. Secured by the Dulfersitz rappelling technique, he stepped over the edge and lowered himself down the shaft, using the friction from the rope as a brake. He was gone from view less than a minute before he shouted up, “All clear.”

Summer descended next, clipping her flashlight to her belt and duplicating the rope configuration. She let herself down slowly, pushing off on the shaft’s smooth limestone walls. After ten feet, the narrow enclosure expanded into an open cavern where the ceiling had given way during excavations below. Hawker’s light guided her to the floor and she slid down the remaining distance, landing on her feet.

“Well done,” he said. “I think it’s closer to a twenty-five-foot drop, actually.”

He helped her release the rope and called up to Dirk.

“It would be a lot less nerve-racking if someone had left the lights on,” she said.

A few seconds later, Dirk dropped to her side. They swung their flashlights around the cavern, highlighting piles of crumbled rock and a small passageway to their right.

Dirk aimed his light at the opening. “Your honors, Major.”

“My pleasure.” Hawker hunched down and scurried through the tunnel, Summer fast on his heels. After a short distance, the trio entered a square room about twenty feet across. But the room was completely empty, save for an upright wooden rack in the corner. Summer walked the perimeter and examined the floor and walls for any indication a Russian treasure had once been stored there but found nothing.

As Hawker examined the rack, he noticed a faint smell of gunpowder. “Looks like a musket rack. I’ll bet the room was used to store small arms and perhaps some gunpowder.”

“But not gold,” Summer said.

“It would seem not.”

She heard an echo of Perlmutter’s voice and ducked back to the entry cavern. “Julien?” she called.

“Summer, what have you found?” his voice bellowed in a curt tone.

“Nothing, I’m afraid.”

“The gold. It wasn’t there?”

“No, it doesn’t appear as if it ever was. We’ll be up shortly.”

She turned to rejoin Dirk and Hawker, then hesitated. Something wasn’t quite right. She swung her flashlight around the cavern, then realized what it was.

The rope was missing.

“Julien!” she shouted. “Where’s our rope?”

Her question was met by silence.

77

As Perlmutter and Trehorne waited for the team below, a crisp voice from behind them nearly startled them over the shaft’s edge.

“Please raise your hands and step back to the wall,” Mansfield said in a firm but polite way.

The two historians turned to find Mansfield and Martina standing a few feet away, pistols leveled at their chests. The men backed away from the shaft and stood against the rock wall.

Mansfield clicked on a penlight, stepped to the edge, and peered down. The distant voices of Dirk, Summer, and Hawker echoed from below. He knelt, pulled up the rope, and tossed it to Martina. Without a word, she pulled out a folding knife and began cutting it into shorter lengths.

“A nice hiding spot,” Mansfield said, turning from the shaft to the men. “Did you meet with success?”

When neither spoke, Mansfield pointed his weapon at Perlmutter. “You, come to the ledge. Please ask your friends what they have found.”

“Listen here—”

Mansfield jammed the pistol into the side of Perlmutter’s neck. “Save it for your friends,” he whispered.

Perlmutter did as he was told, obtaining Summer’s report. Then Mansfield forced him onto his knees beside Trehorne while Martina tied their wrists and elbows behind their backs with sections of the climbing rope.

“Tie the big one’s feet, then take the other one away,” Mansfield said.

Martina bound Perlmutter’s ankles, retrieved her gun, and pulled Trehorne to his feet. Taking his flashlight, she marched him into the tunnel and around the first bend.

As Summer shouted from below, Mansfield stepped over to Perlmutter, stuck a foot on his shoulder, and shoved him onto his back. “You’re a historian, aren’t you? Why don’t you tell me about the Romanov shipment?”

Perlmutter shook his head. “I don’t succumb to criminal extortion.”

Mansfield nodded, then picked up a length of rope and tied it around Perlmutter’s head and over his mouth.

The Russian rose to his feet, clutching another piece of rope. “I’m going to visit your friend. Don’t go anywhere.”

He walked a short distance around the bend to where Martina waited with Trehorne. She held a guidebook and a folded sheet of paper in one hand and her pistol in the other.

“I searched him and found these.” She passed the items to Mansfield.

He scanned the book’s title. “A Pocket Guide to the Caves and Tunnels of Gibraltar. Very handy.” He tossed it to the ground.

He unfolded the paper and studied it under his penlight. It was a copy of the letter from the Sentinel’s captain requesting security for its cargo. “A bit more interesting. So, the Sentinel did in fact obtain the Pelikan’s cargo and brought it to Gibraltar. But it was never shipped on to England, was it?” He waved his gun under Trehorne’s chin.

“No evidence that we could find,” Trehorne said.

“And this tunnel. This is AEB Nelson?”

Trehorne nodded.

“Who’s your Army friend?”

“Major Cecil Hawker of the Royal Gibraltar Regiment. An expert on Gibraltar’s tunnels.”

“But not on Gibraltar’s gold,” Mansfield said. “So if not here, then where?”

Trehorne shook his head.

From the frustrated look in Trehorne’s eyes, Mansfield believed he was telling the truth. The Russian passed a length of rope to Martina. “Tie his feet, please.”

He then raised his pistol and pointed it toward Trehorne’s left eye. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

The gunshot echoed through the tunnel like a cannon blast. Perlmutter flinched at the sound and opened his eyes a few seconds later to see Mansfield standing before him.

The Russian removed Perlmutter’s gag, then raised his pistol. “Your friend wasn’t very talkative. Now, tell me what you are doing here.”

Perlmutter swallowed hard. “This is Nelson’s tunnel.” He tilted his head toward the open shaft, then summarized the research that had led them there.

“Where would the gold be, if not here?” Mansfield asked.

Perlmutter shook his head. “I haven’t a clue. Perhaps it was returned to Russia.”

Mansfield retied the rope gag. “You and your friend are smart fellows. Good-bye.” He strode off through the tunnel, his small light beam quickly fading to black.

From the depths of the shaft, Summer called up in alarm. Perlmutter inched his way in the darkness, carefully approaching the edge and peering over. Flashlights illumined the steep walls below. He could see his friends were duly trapped.

While edging across the ground, Perlmutter had felt the sensation of dragging a tail. After tying him up, Martina had left some excess rope attached to his feet. He tucked in his knees, rolled to one side, and felt a length of rope about six feet long extending from his ankles. She had tied them with a secure knot, then added several loops that were bound more casually. If he could work loose the outer bindings, there might be enough rope to do some good.

Perlmutter crawled away from the opening and felt around for a small rock. Instead, he found the edge of the gate. Jamming his feet against the edge, he pulled up on his legs, trying to catch the rope and its outer knot. He did it all by feel, as visibility in the tunnel was like working with a bag over his head. Over the next uncounted minutes, he repeated the move a dozen, maybe a hundred times, until his legs ached and his breath came in gasps. He finally felt a loose coil on top of his feet — and realized he’d done it. Kicking the rope away, he slithered back to the edge of the shaft. The big man pivoted his body and extended his legs — and the loose rope — over the edge, while anchored on firm ground by his immense mass.

In the cavern below, Summer felt a shower of grit from above. She shined her light upward and saw Perlmutter’s portly calves and feet dangling over the side with a ten-foot length of rope swaying from his ankles.

“Julien!” she shouted.

He kicked his legs, which made the rope sway.

Hawker came over and looked up the shaft. “It’s too far out of reach, I’m afraid.”

“We might get to it if we can step up from our end,” Dirk said. “Major, can you give me a hand with that gun rack?”

He led Hawker into the store room. They pulled the musket rack from the wall and carried it to the base of the shaft.

Dirk shined his light at the dangling rope, trying to gauge its distance. “I might be able to reach it from the top of this thing.”

“If you don’t break your neck in the process,” Hawker said, testing the fragile rack.

They centered the rack under the rope, and Dirk climbed atop its narrow crown as Hawker held it secure. Summer reached up and held Dirk’s legs as he stood atop it, fighting for balance. He reached up, but the rope was still a foot or two out of reach.

“Hold that rack tight, Major,” he said, then shouted upward. “Brace yourself, Julien. I’m coming your way.”

He bent his knees and sprang off the rack, leaping for the end of the rope. Clasping it with an outstretched hand, he swung forward, then grabbed hold with his other hand.

The sudden tug pulled Perlmutter toward the edge and the big man struggled to hold position. He grunted in pain as Dirk pulled himself hand over hand until getting his legs around the rope, then shinnied to the top.

Dirk nearly slipped as he got himself over the edge. He rolled onto his back to catch his breath. “Maybe you and I should join the circus?” he said to Perlmutter between breaths.

Hearing a muffled reply, Dirk pulled his flashlight from a back pocket and played its beam over the bound man. Starting with the gag, he quickly untied the assorted bindings.

Perlmutter rubbed his ankles. “You about snapped my legs off.”

“Sorry, I had to jump for it. Where’s Trehorne?” Dirk shined his light about the area.

Perlmutter shook his head. “You heard the gunshot?”

“Yes,” Dirk whispered. “Let’s get the others up.”

He quickly spliced the ropes together and retied one end to the gate, then tossed it over the side. When Summer confirmed she had looped it around herself, the two men helped pull her up.

Hawker was hoisted up a minute later. “What the devil went on up here?” he asked.

“Our Russian friends paid us a visit,” Perlmutter said. “Afraid they got the jump on Charles and me.”

“Mansfield? Here in Gibraltar?” Summer asked.

“Yes, and the woman, too. They took Charles away…” He waved an arm at the tunnel passage and stepped in that direction. Moving warily, he led the trio around the bend, then hesitated at a snorting noise. “Quick, the light!”

Summer passed him her flashlight and he shined it ahead. There was Trehorne, hog-tied on the ground but with no sign of blood.

“Charles?” Perlmutter said.

Trehorne’s eyes popped open and he blinked rapidly. “I must have slumbered off. Can you please take that blasted light out of my eyes?”

Perlmutter and Summer ran over and untied him.

“We thought they shot you,” Hawker said, helping him to his feet.

“I feared as much, for a moment.” Trehorne rubbed his head. “The fool fired his gun right next to my ear. I can’t believe they tracked us in here.” He gave the others an apologetic look. “I’m afraid they took the Sentinel’s cargo letter. I had a copy in my pocket.”

“They won’t get out of the country with it,” Hawker promised.

“The letter doesn’t matter. They know everything we do now.”

“And, so far, that hasn’t earned us any great benefit,” Perlmutter said, rubbing his wrists.

“True,” Trehorne said, gazing down the dark tunnel. “What bothers me is what they know about the gold — that we don’t.”

78

Hawker found them at an outdoor Spanish café next to their hotel, licking their wounds with afternoon tapas and drinks. Perlmutter and Trehorne were on their third Scotch, while Dirk and Summer felt too defeated to move past a single sangria. Summer tried to lose herself in Trehorne’s Gibraltar guidebook, which she had picked up in the tunnel.

“Some encouraging news,” Hawker said, pulling up a chair. “The Royal Gibraltar Police are now on the hunt for the two Russians. The airport and the commercial ship docks are on alert and every major hotel will be canvassed by evening. Gibraltar is not an easy place to hide. We’ll find them.”

“Good of you to help, Major,” Perlmutter said, “but there’s little point in apprehending them now.”

“After they assaulted you and Charles and tried to leave us all for dead?”

“Julien’s right,” Trehorne said. “It was an unpleasant tussle, but, at the end of the day, no harm was done.” He stared at his half-empty glass, disillusionment in his eyes. “We came to Gibraltar to find the gold and beat them to it. It would seem there is no gold to be found.”

“Still, it doesn’t make sense,” Dirk said. “There’s no evidence it was shipped to England or returned to the Russians.”

“All we have to go on is Captain Marsh’s letter from the Sentinel.” Perlmutter looked at his Scotch. “We followed its lead, and there was nothing to show for it.”

“But what if we looked in the wrong place?” Summer lowered the guidebook to reveal a hopeful smile.

“What are you getting at?” Trehorne asked.

“There’s a chapter in your book about historic caves of Gibraltar. It mentions one called La Bóveda — which was also known as Nelson’s Cave, for a time, in the nineteenth century.”

“Nelson’s Cave, you say?” Perlmutter regained his booming voice.

“Yes. The only problem is, the book says the cave was sealed up in 1888.”

Hawker stared at the ground, searching his memory. “La Bóveda. That’s Spanish for The Vault. There must have been a church on the site, at one point. I’ve heard the name, but I can’t recall the location.”

“The book says it was formerly accessed at Number 12, Lime Kiln Steps.”

“That’s just a few blocks from here.” Hawker turned pale. “Oh, my. Number 12, Lime Kiln Steps. Oh, my.” He reached over and took a healthy slug of Trehorne’s Scotch.

“What’s come over you, Cecil?” Trehorne asked.

“It all makes perfect sense. It’s my blunder, I’m afraid. My blunder.” He set down the glass with a quivering hand and stared, wide-eyed, at the group. Shaking his head, he muttered, “Where else would they have put it?”

Martina sat on the second-story balcony of their rental flat, seeming to sun herself but in fact scrutinizing the pedestrian traffic on the street below. When she heard Mansfield complete a telephone conversation in the adjacent living room, she stepped inside and closed the balcony door. “Did you arrange for a boat to get us out of Gibraltar?”

“Why, no.” He gave her a bemused look.

“It is not safe. We should leave tonight.”

“Leave?” He laughed. “Just as we struck gold?”

“What are you saying?”

“The letter you took from the British historian.” He waved Trehorne’s copy. “It has the answer after all.”

“But we were at the Nelson Tunnel. They said it was empty. Did they lie to us?”

“No. The fools were pursuing the wrong clue. On a lark, I phoned your London banking friend to see if he had any contacts in Gibraltar. I read Bainbridge the letter and he said the answer was obvious.”

“What was obvious?”

“The storage. It was made at AEB Nelson. He didn’t know the Nelson reference but said the AEB could only be one place. The Anglo-Egyptian Bank.”

“Only a banker would know that. What is this bank?”

“It was a private British bank established in 1864 in Alexandria to fund trade with Egypt. It acted as the primary bank to the British authorities throughout the Mediterranean. A branch office was opened in Gibraltar in 1888.”

“It must be long gone by now.”

“Actually, no. The bank was acquired by Barclays in the 1920s and is still operating. The Gibraltar branch is even in the same location.”

“You think the gold is still sitting in this bank?”

“It’s possible. Bainbridge says there is some logic in the British having placed it in a private institution rather than the Bank of England. He called it ‘plausible deniability.’”

“How do we find out?”

“I just called our embassy in Madrid. They’ll have a diplomat here in the morning with a formal requisition.”

“It might be a bit embarrassing for you if it isn’t there.”

“Agreed. That’s why we’re going to pay them a visit now and find out.”

“Now?”

“There’s no time like the present.”

“We better not take a cab. How far is it?”

“Less than a kilometer. The bank is located on an oddly named street. Lime Kiln Steps.”

The former Anglo-Egyptian Bank Building was a neoclassic structure with a façade of tall doric columns and a high-pitched roof, which disguised its modest interior size. Located near the site of an eighteenth-century kiln that produced quicklime for mortar, the rear of the structure backed against a rising incline of the Rock.

Mansfield stopped in front of the building, noting the year 1888 engraved on the cornerstone. A plastic BARCLAYS sign hung over the front pediment, covering the stone-carved letters AEB.

Mansfield wore dark glasses and Martina was concealed under a hat and scarf when they stepped into the marble-floored lobby and approached an information desk. Mansfield looked past a row of cashiers’ stalls to a large stainless steel vault door. It was built right into the limestone rock.

A woman at the information desk greeted them warmly, but, before they could respond, a man in a dark suit emerged from a side office and rushed over to them. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said in a flustered voice, “but the bank is now closed.”

Mansfield motioned toward some people in line at the cashiers’ windows. “They are being helped.”

“Yes, but they entered before we closed. The door should have been locked a few minutes ago.”

Mansfield glanced at a wall clock, which read four-fifteen.

The man caught his glance. “We close early on Fridays.”

“Are you the bank manager?” Mansfield asked.

“Yes. My name is Finlay. I would be happy to help you tomorrow.”

“That would be fine. For the moment, we would just like to inquire about a gold deposit made with your bank some years ago.”

Finlay gave him a blank look.

“It was a rather large deposit, made in 1917.”

Finlay blinked rapidly, then cleared his throat. “I would be happy to look into it tomorrow. However, I will require documentation regarding the deposit.”

Mansfield had his answer and smiled graciously at the banker. “That will be fine. Shall we say noon?”

“Yes, noon or anytime after will be perfect,” Finlay said. “May I have the name?”

“Romanov.”

The banker turned ghost white but retained enough composure to escort the smiling Russian couple to the door. After watching them walk down the street, he rushed back to his office and closed the door. Circled around his desk were Hawker, Perlmutter, Trehorne, Dirk, and Summer, who had watched the encounter through the office’s smoked-glass window. Finlay nearly collapsed into his desk chair.

“What extraordinary timing.” He tapped his desk calendar, which read July 21. “Entering the bank just on the heels of your arrival.”

“I still say we should have had them arrested on the spot,” Hawker said.

Dirk looked at Finlay. “I think it’s safe to say that they’ll be back tomorrow.”

“It will make for an interesting visit, I should think.” Perlmutter’s eyes sparkled with mirth.

“There will be plenty of security on hand, I can assure you,” Finlay said. “You’ll be back tomorrow as well?”

“Absolutely,” Trehorne said.

Summer smiled. “You did promise us a tour of the Nelson Cave.”

“Yes, I did, didn’t I? Well, I thank you again for your timely visit, and I’ll look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”

The banker escorted the visitors out of the building, then paced the lobby until the last customer had left. He locked the door with a sense of relief, shut himself in his office, and retrieved a dusty bottle of brandy from the back of a cabinet. He poured himself a stiff shot.

A few minutes later, the head teller entered with a computer printout. “Here are the daily transactions, Mr. Finlay. Is there anything else?”

“No. You and the staff may close up and leave.”

As the woman turned to leave, Finlay stopped her. “Miss Oswald? There is one thing. Would you please inform the night watchman that I intend to remain on the premises all night.”

“You’re staying here? In the building?”

“Yes.” He gazed toward the vault. “I don’t believe I would obtain any sleep at home tonight, so my insomnia shall be satisfied here.”

79

As an army of FBI agents descended on Bermuda to join Ana’s Europol investigation, Homeland Security officials increased safety measures around the District of Columbia. Access to federal buildings was carefully scrutinized, while security was elevated at all nearby airports. Spot roadblocks were set up around the District and small boats patrolled the Potomac. At the National Underwater and Marine Agency headquarters, the staff assisted in the search for the atomic bomb using their marine resources database.

Pitt stepped into the fifth-floor computer center, where he found Rudi Gunn, Hiram Yaeger, and Al Giordino seated next to a half-eaten box of donuts that had fueled them since sunrise. He joined them at a curved table that faced a floor to ceiling video screen. The screen was split between a global map showing the location of NUMA research vessels and marine resources and a satellite image of an island chain that Pitt recognized as Bermuda.

Giordino slid the donut box Pitt’s way. “You’re lucky Hiram’s gone gluten-free or they’d be decimated by now.”

Pitt reached into the box. “What do you hear from Homeland Security?”

“Nothing concrete,” Gunn said. “They’re scrambling to investigate every cargo flight from Bermuda to the U.S. in the past week. They’ve reported nothing promising, but they have a lot of catching up to do.”

“What about sea transit?”

“They’ve issued alerts to the commercial port authorities and have tagged a pair of inbound container ships for inspection in New York. The Coast Guard is also initiating random searches of vessels bound for Boston, New York, Philadelphia, and the Chesapeake. Locally, the Coast Guard has established a security zone around Washington in the Potomac and Anacostia Rivers. But Homeland Security analysts seem to believe the bomb was flown out of Bermuda and may in fact have been taken back to Ukraine.”

“That may be a false hope,” Pitt said. “I spoke to Ana earlier. She and her team have grilled as many cargo workers as she could round up at the Bermuda airport. Several were witness to a truck being offloaded a week or two ago with a large covered object on its bed. No one has reported seeing a similar object being shipped out.”

“A bomb of that size would be easier to load onto a ship than a plane,” Giordino said.

“That’s what Ana believes.”

“Does she have any other leads?” Gunn asked.

“She’s trying to track down the Dutch industrialist Martin Hendriks. As soon as she briefs the FBI team that just arrived, she’s headed to Amsterdam.”

“Hendriks would seem to have the funds to support the United Armed Forces of Novorossiya — or whoever is toting the bomb around,” Gunn said.

“Agreed,” Pitt said. “I think we need to take seriously the threat by sea.”

“We’ve been working it, chief,” Yaeger said. He typed into a keyboard, which brought up a data table next to the satellite image of Bermuda. “The commercial port authorities in Bermuda have shared reports of all seagoing traffic in and out of the country the past week. This list shows ship name, registered owner, and reported destination.”

Pitt scanned the list. “I count six U.S.-bound ships.”

“We’re tracking them all.” Yaeger pulled up a map of the Eastern seaboard, with four red lights blinking at points in the Atlantic and two lights on the coastline. “One of the ships, a container vessel, has already docked in New York, and the second is due in today. Both will be searched by Homeland Security. A third ship has docked as well, an oil tanker that reached Charleston two days ago.”

“Probably not a prime suspect,” Pitt said.

“We checked some satellite photos of her and there was nothing suspicious on her decks, so we feel the same.”

“That leaves three ships in transit.”

“One is a cruise ship headed to Miami and the other two are freighters due to dock in the next two days. One is bound for Houston, the other Newark. We’ve passed the data to Homeland Security and inspectors will be waiting for all three.”

“Those are all manageable,” Pitt said. “The larger worry is an unregistered ship running silent or a smaller private vessel.”

“That’s what we’ve been focusing on,” Gunn said. “We’re limited to just satellite imagery on that front. Hiram has been busy collecting photos since last night.”

“The satellite coverage over Bermuda is worse than Bulgaria,” Yaeger said, “but I’ve pulled what I could. Unfortunately, there’s quite a few yachts and pleasure crafts visiting Bermuda this time of year. To make it manageable, I’ve dispensed with any craft under thirty feet.”

Yaeger instructed the computer to sort and scan the downloaded images, restricted to those taken of vessels in the waters west of Bermuda. The supercomputer quickly reviewed, matched, and collated the images, presenting Yaeger with a long list.

“There’s about forty,” he said. “No easy way around it, we need to take a look at them one by one.”

The group began poring over the images, noting size, type, and apparent destination of each craft. Many vessels were eliminated as pleasure boats incapable of transporting the bomb.

Gunn kept a running tally. “We’re down to a very large sailing boat that’s close to Boston and two luxury yachts aimed for Miami. Are there any other possibilities?”

“There’s one more on the list,” Yaeger said. “Visible westbound from Bermuda three days ago.”

He pulled up a satellite photo of a white speck off the Bermuda coastline. He zoomed in until it filled the screen. It was actually two vessels: an orange and white tug pulling a barge. Pitt noticed the tug was distinguished by an extended open rear deck. The picture was crisp enough to show its long hawser, secured to a trio of bollards on the enclosed barge, which was small and painted black.

Giordino stared at it and whistled. “That certainly has potential.”

As he had with the photos of the other vessels, Yaeger scanned the image and instructed the computer to search for additional matches near the U.S. A minute later, two more images popped onto the screen.

“The first was taken early yesterday morning — at six, local time,” Yaeger said. The tug and barge were visible somewhere in the middle of the ocean. Yaeger adjusted the scale to see their position relative to the East Coast. “She looks to be traveling northwest about a hundred miles off the coast of North Carolina.”

“Likely heading for Chesapeake Bay.” Pitt leaned forward in his chair. “Where does the most recent image place her?”

Yaeger enlarged the second photo. “Just snagged this one.” He noted the time marker. “Five-thirty this morning.”

The two vessels appeared in an inland waterway. Yaeger zoomed out, revealing a western tributary of the Chesapeake, the vessels sailing north. At the top of the image, they saw an all too familiar bend in the river.

“They’re in the Potomac,” Giordino said.

“The Coast Guard has a patrol boat on watch north of Quantico,” Gunn said. “They should pick it up as it comes closer to D.C.”

“Let them know to target it,” Pitt said. “Then alert Homeland Security to throw everything they have at it.” He studied the image. “They’re only twenty or thirty miles out by now. What do we have available at Reagan National?”

“There’s a Robinson R44 in the NUMA hangar,” Gunn said.

“Get it fueled and ready.”

“I’m not sure we have any pilots on standby.”

Pitt nodded at Giordino before replying to Gunn.

“You’re looking at ’em.”

80

Pitt and Giordino were out the door before Gunn could start punching numbers on the telephone. They raced through post-morning rush hour traffic and reached Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport, just south of the NUMA building, within minutes. Pitt sped past his home, a converted hangar on a remote section of the grounds, and headed to the private aviation terminal. A bright turquoise helicopter was already idling in front of the NUMA hangar. A waiting flight crew passed off the chopper and they were in the air minutes later, with Pitt at the controls.

He guided the Robinson R44 over the Potomac and followed the river south, scanning ahead for the tug and barge. Near Mount Vernon, they passed a pair of Coast Guard fast-response boats speeding downriver. The helicopter flew over the Mason Neck peninsula a few miles later and Pitt spotted an orange vessel. “That’s our target.”

As they approached the town of Quantico and its neighboring Marine base, they clearly saw the tug and its trailing barge. A Coast Guard patrol boat was already alongside, guiding the tug toward shore.

“Looks like they’re herding her to the Quantico public marina,” Giordino said.

Pitt circled over the vessels, then backtracked to Quantico. An empty parking lot sided the marina, and Pitt set the helicopter down. He and Giordino were standing at the dock when the tug pulled alongside. The two Coast Guard fast boats arrived seconds later, and the dock was soon teeming with armed men.

“What’s this all about?” cried the tug’s captain, who spoke with a faint British accent. A sweaty man in shorts and a T-shirt, he was marched off the vessel at gunpoint.

Pitt and Giordino climbed aboard the barge as it drifted against the dock and began hoisting open the covered holds. A Coast Guard lieutenant joined them as the first cover was removed and they peered inside.

“Sand,” Giordino said.

The remaining three holds were equally full of fine-grained sand. Pitt jumped into the first hold and probed a few feet down with the handle of a fire ax, but found nothing. He repeated the exercise in the other three holds.

“Anything?” Giordino asked.

Pitt shook his head. He climbed back onto the deck as the lieutenant pointed to the tug.

“The captain claims they’re on a government job to dump sand along the Anacostia River for shoreline refurbishment. We have orders to impound both vessels for a full inspection. We’ll pull out every last grain of sand to make sure there’s nothing hidden below.”

“Thanks, Lieutenant,” Pitt said. “I suspect that’s all you will find.”

He and Giordino stepped to the front of the barge and gazed at the tug docked ahead of them.

“Guess we can call this baby the Wild Goose,” Giordino said, leaning against one of the barge’s twin hawser bitts. “I’m thinking the bomb must have gone east from Bermuda, not west.”

“Maybe,” Pitt said, “but why would somebody haul a barge of sand halfway across the Atlantic?”

“It might have come over empty and they took the sand on somewhere in Virginia.”

Pitt gazed at Giordino, considering the idea, when the answer came to him. “No, Al. This is a different barge. They’ve been switched.”

“How do you know?”

Pitt pointed to the two bollards securing the tow line. “Because you’re sitting on the proof.”

81

Hiram Yaeger confirmed the satellite image of the tug taken the day before showed it pulling a barge with three forward hawser bitts. Detailed analysis also revealed differences in the paint and rust markings between the two barges.

The news set off a full-blown dragnet along the Potomac, with every available Coast Guard and local law enforcement boat and helicopter deployed in the search. Pitt and Giordino aided the cause, flying the Robinson as far south as the Chesapeake before backtracking up the river.

Obtaining permission to land at the Marine Corps Air Facility along the river at Quantico, Pitt brought the chopper down for refueling. As they waited for a fuel truck, they heard a loud underwater explosion from an inlet beyond the airfield. A Marine ground crewman noticed their interest.

“Just some Force Recon boys practicing underwater demolitions,” he said. “The runway’s going to smell like dead fish for the next week now.”

“We’ll make sure not to go for a dip,” Giordino said.

Pitt paced around the helicopter until the fuel truck finally arrived. “We need to expand the search area,” he said. “They could have gone to Norfolk, up the Chesapeake, or maybe even stayed in the Atlantic to hit Philadelphia or New York.”

“That’s a lot of real estate to cover—” Giordino paused to take a call from Gunn at NUMA headquarters.

Pitt oversaw the refueling as another explosion sounded from the inlet. He stepped away from the helicopter and watched a small fountain of water erupt on the far side. The upheaval reminded him of the sinking barge in the Black Sea. Suddenly, it all came together: the connection between the Bosphorus, Sevastopol, and Washington.

“Al, do you still have Rudi on the line?”

Giordino nodded and handed him the phone.

“Rudi, I need you to find out where there are anoxic zones in the waters around here, be it the Potomac, the Chesapeake, or Delaware Bay. A dead zone near a highly populated area might be the actual target.”

“I’ll get Hiram right on it. What’s the draw of a dead zone?”

“Hydrogen sulfide gas.”

“Sure, anoxic waters are loaded with hydrogen sulfide. We’ve surveyed subsurface concentrations of the stuff off the Mississippi River delta and the Oregon coast… and in the Chesapeake.”

“That’s the key, Rudi. The crew of the Crimean Star were killed by hydrogen sulfide gas and Mankedo was attempting to release a cloud of it outside Sevastopol.”

“Create a cloud of hydrogen sulfide? Yes, it could kill thousands.”

“Think what an atomic bomb set off in a concentrated dead zone could do.”

Gunn fell silent at the thought.

“Find us the anoxic zones, Rudi,” Pitt said, “and I’ll find us that barge.”

Pitt and Giordino were back in the air when Gunn responded minutes later, with a call patched through to the helicopter’s radio.

“Hiram just laid in a regional map of known dead zones, based on past water samplings combined with current data points. As you know, large portions of the Chesapeake Bay become oxygen-deprived in the summer months when nitrogen and phosphorous pollutants combine with warm water temperatures to create algae blooms. Unfortunately, the timing is perfect, as we are approaching the peak season.”

“Where are the key hot spots?” Pitt asked.

“It might be easier to define what’s not,” Gunn said. “A major seam runs nearly the length of the Chesapeake, beginning near the mouth of the Potomac and stretching up to Annapolis. It’s centered on the western side of the bay. There are some additional pockets farther north we’ll identify once Hiram finishes loading the data.”

Pitt was already banking the helicopter to the east, crossing over Waldorf, Maryland, on a path to the Chesapeake Bay.

“Washington doesn’t rate?” Giordino asked.

“While I would think twice about swimming in the Anacostia River,” Gunn said, “both it and the Potomac have historically shown minimally active dead zones.”

“We’ll shoot for Annapolis,” Pitt said.

They soon reached the Chesapeake and Pitt banked the Robinson to the north. They cruised above the western side of the ten-mile-wide bay, performing flybys over several commercial vessels and a large sailboat Pitt recognized as a skipjack. The Severn River inlet loomed to their left and Pitt followed the waterway west, curling around Annapolis and its surrounding creeks. Aside from a few rusty dredge barges filled with mud, nothing resembled the black tow barge.

As Pitt looped back to the Chesapeake, Gunn called again. “We found several more anoxic zones farther north.”

“Any near population centers?” Pitt asked.

“The Patapsco River is loaded with them.”

“Baltimore?”

“Yes, just outside the Inner Harbor.” Gunn paused for a moment. “Winds in Baltimore are currently out of the southeast at around ten knots. If your theory is right and they set it off in the Patapsco, they could kick up a cloud of hydrogen sulfide that would drift right over the city.”

“There’s three million people there,” Giordino said.

“The gas would be exponentially more lethal than the bomb itself,” Gunn said.

“It fits the threat,” Pitt said. “Rudi, do you remember the letter to the President from the Ukrainian rebel group?”

“Yes. Didn’t it say they were going to hit Washington?”

“No. They said they would strike our historic capital. And they said the Star-Spangled Banner will no longer wave. Direct lyrics from our national anthem.”

“Of course,” Gunn said. “Fort McHenry. Francis Scott Key. He wrote the original poem from Baltimore.”

“Not only that, but if I’m not mistaken, Baltimore was an early, temporary capital for the Continental Congress before New York and Washington, D.C.”

“I’ll alert the Baltimore Coast Guard station at once.”

“We’ll be there in a flash. Pitt out.”

Pitt nudged the cyclic control forward to squeeze more speed out of the Robinson as he angled back north up the Chesapeake. The entrance to the Patapsco River appeared on the horizon less than ten miles away.

“I sure hope you’re wrong about all that,” Giordino said.

“So do I,” Pitt said. “So do I.”

But five minutes later, upon reaching the approach to the Patapsco River, they spotted a small black barge under tow to Baltimore.

82

“Wagner’s Point is three miles ahead.” The Lauren Belle’s helmsman pointed out the pilothouse window to a landmass just beyond the Francis Scott Key Bridge.

Vasko glanced at the approaching highway bridge, then turned his attention to a nautical chart of Chesapeake Bay. Provided by Hendriks, it marked in purple highlights the bay’s low-oxygen zones. They were already sailing over such a zone, but their target was a southern tributary of the Patapsco River past the Key Bridge. It not only had a history of high anoxic rates during the summer but the site had the added advantage of being within sight of Baltimore’s Inner Harbor.

He stepped across the small pilothouse and showed the chart to the helmsman. “Take us just off the tip of the Point. We’ll cut and sink the barge there. What’s our top speed without a tow?”

“She’ll do close to fifteen knots.”

“There’s a charter plane waiting for us across the bay at a place called Smith’s Field. Get us there as fast as possible, once we cut the barge loose.”

“Will do.” A thumping noise vibrated through the bridge, and he pointed out an open rear door. “Looks like you’ve got a visitor.”

Vasko turned to see a turquoise helicopter hovering over the barge.

“Where’s the crate that was passed aboard?” he asked.

“Right behind you.”

Vasko kicked away some jackets to find the crate at the rear of the bridge. He unlatched the container to reveal four AK-47 rifles and some gas masks on a top shelf. He moved those aside in favor of a rocket-propelled grenade launcher that was fastened above a row of projectiles. He removed the launcher and loaded one of the rounds.

Five hundred feet above the barge, the NUMA helicopter accelerated forward.

“We better alert Rudi to get Homeland Security on them now.” Pitt was satisfied they had the right barge, affirmed by its three forward bollards. As they skimmed above the tow line, Giordino gave him a warning.

“Man on the deck with a weapon.”

Pitt had seen him as well. It was Vasko, raising a heavy weapon to his shoulder. Pitt pitched the Robinson’s nose down, to force more speed, while rolling sharply to the right.

Vasko had little time to aim at the fast-moving chopper, so he simply pointed and shot. The RPG burst from the launcher just as Pitt flung the helicopter nearly onto its side.

The projectile whistled past the Robinson’s fuselage, coming within a whisker of missing the helicopter altogether. But by the thinnest of margins, the RPG tagged the spinning tail rotor — and detonated.

The blast demolished the tail assembly and sent a shower of shrapnel into the underside fuselage and engine compartment. The wounded helicopter shot past the tug before the mortal blow began to take effect. Inside the cockpit, smoke from the damaged engine filled the air. Pitt could feel the Robinson begin to spin from the loss of the tail rotor. He reached for the collective stick and cut the throttle.

The seemingly counterintuitive move disengaged the engine from the main rotor, eliminating the torque-producing spin. It also created a state of autorotation, where the freewheeling main rotor slowed the helicopter’s descent. With some forward momentum, Pitt could descend in a semicontrolled glide. But he had only a few seconds before they touched down.

“Wet landing,” he called out, knowing the shoreline was more than a half mile away.

“Watch out for a large vessel ahead.” Giordino choked out the words.

The cockpit was filled with a thick blue haze. The two men could barely see each other, let alone anything in their path. Pitt had his face pressed to the side window, watching the water draw near, then glanced forward. The image of a large black mass was faintly visible, but they wouldn’t make it far enough to fear a collision.

Out the side window, Pitt watched the helicopter drop altitude until they were fifty feet off the water. Then he pulled back on the cyclic control to raise the nose, flaring their speed. At just ten feet, he goosed the throttle for a burst of lift, then killed the power.

The Robinson struck the bay with a hard jolt. Landing flat, the helicopter held afloat for just a second as smoke poured from the engine. The chopper then plunged beneath the surface, its main rotor slapping the bay. Two of the blades splintered on impact, spinning across the water.

Amid a thrashing of white water and air bubbles, the Robinson sank to the bottom of the bay, disclosing no sign of its occupants.

83

“I guess there’s no avoiding a swim,” Giordino said as water swirled up to his knees.

Pitt unbuckled his seat belt. “We’ll have to wait till she floods to get the doors open.”

Though they had descended without power, Pitt had made a textbook emergency landing, without injury. Their only problem was they had landed in water.

While the Robinson was completely submerged, the cockpit was only partially flooded. The two men calmly waited for the water inside to rise above the doorframes. The helicopter was twenty feet deep and sinking fast. They took a last breath from the remaining air pocket, shoved open their side doors, and stroked toward daylight.

They broke the surface, gulping for air, and were orienting themselves for a swim to shore when a pair of ropes splashed into the water beside them.

“Grab hold and we’ll pull you aboard,” a man yelled.

Pitt turned and saw a massive black-hulled sailing ship moving down the bay. He reached for the nearest rope and was yanked to the vessel’s curved wooden hull. Cannon protruded from a white ribbon of gun ports a level beneath its main deck. Pitt recognized the ship with surprise. She was the USS Constellation, a pre — Civil War sloop and long-standing museum ship based in Baltimore Harbor.

Hauling himself up the rope, Pitt reached the side rail and hopped onto her deck. A small group of middle-aged men gripped the other end of the rope while another team pulled Giordino aboard.

“Thanks for the line.” Pitt shook off the water. “I didn’t expect to see the Connie out, stretching her legs.”

A keen-eyed man in a yellow Hawaiian shirt approached. “She just came out of dry dock. We’re making a test run to prove she’s seaworthy. We hope to sail her to New York and Boston later this summer.” He reached out a hand. “My name’s Wayne Valero. I head up the Constellation’s volunteer sailing crew.”

Pitt introduced himself as Giordino climbed aboard and joined them.

“You boys were pretty lucky,” Valero said, eyeing them inquisitively. “One of my men said you were shot down.”

Pitt pointed over the rail at the tug and barge passing in the opposite direction. “Would you believe that barge is headed to Baltimore with a bomb aboard?”

“I’d believe it from two men who just swam out of a burning NUMA helicopter,” Valero said.

“We could use your help to stop them.”

Valero puffed out his chest. “That’s what the Constellation was built for. Tell us what we can do.”

Under Pitt’s direction, the old warship made a sweeping turn to port. The veteran crew of sailors expertly worked the sails and rigging, turning the ship around and onto a northwesterly heading up the Patapsco River. With the sails on all three masts billowing, the ship moved briskly. Pitt could see they would soon overtake the tug and barge.

As the city of Baltimore appeared off the ship’s prow, he approached Valero. “The Connie’s guns — are they operational?”

Valero pointed to the stern. “There’s a twenty-pound Parrott gun on the aft spar deck that’s fired in demonstration all the time. We’ve got quite a bit of powder stored below, leftover from the Fourth of July celebrations.”

“How about shot?”

Valero thought a moment. “The Parrott’s a rifled gun, so it fires a shell. There’s a display case on the gun deck with a couple of samples for a twenty-pounder.”

He led Pitt and Giordino down a level to the gun deck, where rows of eight-inch cannon lined the gun ports. They approached a wall display covered in an acrylic sheet that contained weapons and shot that would have been used aboard the Constellation after her launch in 1854.

Giordino grabbed the acrylic covering and, with a heave, tore it from the wall. “My apologies to the museum,” he said to Valero, “but if we don’t stop these guys, there may not be any future visitors to the ship.”

“I’ll take the heat,” Valero said. “You’ll want to grab the two shells on the lower left. The ten-pound round shot can also be used in a pinch. I’ll get the powder and primer and meet you topsides.”

Giordino nodded toward Valero as he disappeared across the deck. “Lucky we found a guy who’s with us.”

“Does seem like a kindred spirit,” Pitt said, prying a pair of cutlasses from the display.

They hauled the swords and ammunition up to the spar deck and the Parrott gun at the aft rail. In 1860, Captain Robert Parker Parrott had designed his first rifled cannon, and copies in multiple calibers were used extensively by both armies during the Civil War. Known more for their accuracy than their durability, Parrott guns like that aboard the Constellation could fire a nineteen-pound shell over two miles.

Valero arrived at the gun with a limber chest full of black powder bags, then called to some of the volunteers. “Vinson, Gwinn, Campbell, Yates — come over and help man this gun. I’ll take the helm.”

“We’ll fire from the port rail,” Pitt said. “Have your men keep their heads down. They have weapons.”

“No worries. I’ll bring her right alongside.” Valero stepped to the helm, ahead of the mizzenmast.

Pitt and Giordino, with the help of the volunteers, rolled the Parrott gun to an opening along the port rail. Pitt placed a two-pound aluminum cartridge of powder into the muzzle, and one of the men shoved it to the breech with a ramrod.

Giordino pointed to the armament lying on the deck. “What’s your choice?”

“Let’s start with a solid shell.”

Giordino placed a ten-inch-long solid shell in the muzzle, and it was rammed down to the powder. The crew shoved the gun’s carriage to the rail and secured it with ropes. Pitt jammed a friction primer into a vent on the cannon’s breech, puncturing the powder bag. He tied off the end of the primer to a thin lanyard and stepped away from the carriage with the other men.

The tug was barely a hundred yards ahead, with Valero making straight for her. The tug seemed to notice the Constellation’s approach and veered to port.

“They’re trying to elude us in the shallows,” Giordino said.

The Constellation heeled to port in pursuit.

“Apparently, we have a captain lacking in fear,” Pitt said.

The Constellation closed on the tug. When it was less than twenty yards off, the ship swung slightly to starboard to bring the loaded cannon to bear. Pitt stood behind the gun and waited until the tug’s pilothouse came into view, then pulled the lanyard.

The Parrott gun erupted with a boom and a belch of smoke, launching its projectile at point-blank range. The blunt-nosed shell blew through the tug’s wheelhouse, shattering the helm in a shower of wood splinters and severing the pilot’s left arm.

Standing behind the carnage just outside the bridge, Vasko responded in kind. He reloaded the RPG launcher and fired a grenade into the ship. The armor-piercing round penetrated the orlop deck before detonating low in the ship, rupturing its hull planking and flooding the bilge. The tug’s three uninjured crewmen retrieved the AK-47s and began spraying the Constellation with fire.

“Keep low and reload,” Pitt shouted. The volunteers pulled the Parrott gun back and swabbed its barrel with water.

The wooden warship had pulled ahead of the tug, exposing the men on the aft deck to the opposing fire. Bullets chewed up the side rail and deck as the gun crew hurried to reload the cannon.

“This one’s a canister round,” Giordino said as the next shell was rammed down.

As the cannon was shoved forward, one of the gun crew fell to the deck, exclaiming, “I’m hit.” Pitt angled the weapon toward the tug’s aft deck and fired again. The canister shell was packed with lead balls that dispersed at firing like a giant shotgun. The Constellation was too close to the tug for the blast to cover a wide area, but the concentrated fire struck one of the gunmen, killing him instantly.

Aboard the tug, Vasko reloaded and fired another RPG, this one better aimed. The projectile whizzed just over Pitt’s head and struck the mizzenmast a dozen yards away. The entire vessel shook, and splinters and shrapnel peppered the gun crew. The blast ignited the mizzen, sending flames skyward as canvas and rigging began to burn.

Pitt tried to rally the gun crew for another shot as cries from the wounded mingled with the yells of men trying to put out the fires.

“Last of the ammo,” Giordino said. He held up a twelve-pound solid shot that was made for a smaller, smoothbore gun.

Pitt glared at the tug. “Let ’em have it.”

The cannon was pushed out and aimed astern, as the Constellation had moved well past the tug. Pitt aimed for a man firing an assault weapon on the tug’s aft deck. As he pulled the lanyard, the ship jarred to a halt with a grinding sound from below. The gun fired astray and the men around it were knocked off their feet.

“We’ve run aground!” a crewman shouted. “Watch out for the mizzenmast!”

The jolt from the sudden stop sent a crack through the damaged mast. The massive timber splintered a few feet above the deck and careened over to port. Rigging snapped and the burning sail collapsed as the mast sank to the side until kissing the port rail. Canvas and rope dangled into the water as the yardarms poked beneath the surface. Flames coursed in a new, upward direction.

Amid the chaos, Pitt heard a cry that the captain was down. At the base of the mizzenmast he found an injured Valero sprawled on the deck, a pair of volunteers tending to him. He had taken a near hit from the RPG, and Pitt could see it didn’t look good.

The ship’s leader gazed up at Pitt through glassy eyes. “How did the Connie do?”

“She was splendid.”

“Stop them,” he said, then his eyes fluttered closed.

“I will,” Pitt said. “And I’ll never forget what you’ve done.”

He turned to the rail and was surprised to see the tug approaching. The first shot from the Parrott gun had wrecked the tug’s steering gear and hydraulics. The uncontrolled rudder had shifted back to center, and the vessel eased to its former heading.

Pitt caught a glimpse of Vasko in the shattered pilothouse, spinning the broken ship’s wheel to no avail. Advancing parallel to the Constellation, the tug sailed beneath the fallen mizzenmast — and directly into the lower yardarm. The yardarm snapped at the waterline, but as the tug drove forward, the remaining timber burrowed into its deck and wedged against the wheelhouse. The tug shoved against the yardarm but fought the full weight of the grounded ship. With the barge dragging from behind, the tug churned to a halt.

Pitt saw a pair of ropes dangling from the upper yardarm by the rail — and recognized an opportunity. He sprinted back to the gun crew. “Quick, load and fire a double shot of powder.”

He scooped up the two cutlasses he had brought from below and handed one to Giordino.

“What’s the plan?” Giordino asked.

“Follow me,” Pitt said. “We’re going to board her.”

84

Vasko looked out the shattered bridge window and cursed.

The tug had turned away from the shallows and was headed upriver toward Wagner’s Point — just where he wanted to go. He’d get one of his crewmen to manually manipulate the rudder controls below until they reached the target site, then release the barge and escape. The only problem was, the ancient ship that was sailing ahead of them.

The Constellation’s cannon had at least fallen silent, quieted by his last grenade or the multiple fires that burned aboard the wooden vessel. To make sure, Vasko stepped to the back of the wheelhouse and reloaded the RPG launcher. Rising to take aim, he was shocked to see the Constellation had run aground and was right off the tug’s bow. He lunged at the Lauren Belle’s wheel to avoid the fallen mizzenmast, but it spun freely in his hands. The tug barreled into the yardarm and ground to a halt as sheets of burning sail draped from above.

Vasko stepped out the rear of the bridge only to be met by the point-blank roar of the Parrott gun. No damage ensued this time, but a cloud of thick white smoke enveloped the tug. Then Vasko saw two apparitions emerge from the haze, a pair of men swinging onto the tug with swords clamped in their teeth.

Pitt landed first, his rope carrying him near the Lauren Belle’s stern. He dropped, took a step, and ran headlong into Vasko’s two remaining crewmen. One was kneeling to reload his rifle while the other stood, aiming at the Parrott gun crew. The standing gunman turned and swung his rifle stock, but Pitt was quicker. He ducked the blow, spun, and rammed the blade of the cutlass through the man’s torso.

The gunman staggered against him and Pitt released his grip on the hilt and pushed the dying man aside. He turned and dove onto the second gunman, attacking before he could reload his weapon.

The second gunman was bigger than Pitt and sprang up on powerful legs. He shoved his rifle into Pitt’s midsection and used it as leverage to throw him over his shoulder. Pitt tumbled to the corner of the deck, rising in time to catch a blow from the rifle’s stock to his left shoulder. Pitt countered with his right fist, catching the gunman’s cheek and dazing him. Pitt then reached down and wrestled for control of the gun.

Just behind the bridge, a similar battle took place. Giordino had landed near the wheelhouse and emerged from the smoke to find Vasko aiming another RPG at the Constellation.

He lunged forward and swung his cutlass in a powerful arc.

Vasko caught sight of him at the last second and raised the launcher in defense. The antique sword struck the steel frame of the launcher and the blade snapped at the hilt.

Vasko looked his attacker in the face, shocked to see it was Giordino.

“You again!” he swore.

“You were expecting Mary Poppins?” Giordino swung the sword’s hilt up and punched Vasko in the stomach.

Vasko grunted and swung the launcher in return, striking Giordino in the head.

Giordino dropped the hilt and grabbed hold of the launcher, turning the business end away from the Constellation and toward the rear of the tug.

The two men applied brute force against each other for control of the weapon.

“It’s no use, shorty,” Vasko taunted, holding firm on the launcher.

Giordino said nothing. He applied his strength against the bigger man until Vasko gritted his teeth and contorted his face. Giordino held like a rock, showing no sign of strain.

Realizing he was losing the battle, Vasko leaned away, dropped a hand to the pistol grip, and squeezed the trigger.

The mini rocket blasted out of the launch tube. The projectile skittered across the deck, struck the stern tow cable bitts at the center transom, and exploded with a deafening roar.

The burning exhaust had blown into Giordino’s face, temporarily blinding him.

Vasko took advantage. He kicked Giordino in the groin, then ripped the launcher away and pummeled his head.

With a vicious roundhouse blow, Giordino was knocked backward and bounced off the side rail. As he fell to the deck, he regained a fraction of his vision. He squinted aft across the deck but found it empty.

Pitt and the other gunman had vanished.

85

Pitt heard the rush of the RPG launch and squared his back to the stern. The grenade detonated barely twenty feet away. The explosive force blew him over the rail and could have killed him if not for his human shield. Still clinched with the gunman, the bigger man absorbed the shrapnel and the blast’s main concussion.

They hit the water together, and the other man’s grip went limp. Pitt let go of him, fighting a wave of pain and disorientation. His ears rang and his lungs felt purged of all air. He sensed he was drowning. He stretched his limbs and tried stroking, hoping to find the surface. A long object slid across his body and he reached for it and hung on. It was the hawser and it carried him to the surface for an instant. He barely had time to fill his lungs when the heavy cable began to descend, yanking him back under.

His senses returning, Pitt began pulling himself up the cable, slowly at first, then with more urgency. Straining hand over hand, he reached the surface once more, just a short distance from the black barge. He glanced over his shoulder. The Constellation and tug lay a hundred yards upriver. The barge was drifting free, and he was floating with it.

Outside the tug’s wheelhouse, Vasko tossed aside the grenade launcher and looked to the damaged stern. As the smoke cleared, he saw the end of the tow cable unravel from the mangled bollards and slip over the transom. The barge was free and there was nothing he could do. He watched for a moment as the barge floated toward the center of the Patapsco. It was still within the dead zone, and the water was plenty deep for his needs.

He stepped onto the bridge and felt the Lauren Belle start to move. Free of the barge, the vessel had regained enough power to battle past the Constellation’s mast and yardarm. Vasko looked past the ship, eyeing the tall buildings of Baltimore, then stepped to his weapons crate. He retrieved the satchel with the radio transmitter keyed to the barge’s explosives.

On the deck, Giordino opened his eyes to see a wall of flames. It was a burning sail, ripped away by the roof of the tug’s pilothouse as it churned past the fallen mast. An antenna above the bridge caught a section of the flaming sail and dropped a curtain of canvas over the side of the wheelhouse.

Giordino sat up and saw the Constellation slipping behind. Two of the Parrott gunners leaned over the rail, staring at the tug.

Giordino called up to the men. “Powder. Toss me some bags.”

The gunner named Yates disappeared for a moment, then returned to the rail with three of the black powder bags. He expertly tossed them across the water, the aluminum foil cylinders landing at Giordino’s side. Giordino snatched two of the bags and threw them to the base of the wheelhouse doorway. Vasko stepped through it a minute later.

In his hands, he held the radio transmitter. Aiming it toward the drifting barge, he pressed the transmit button. A second later, two muffled blasts erupted from the rear of the barge, accompanied by small puffs of gray smoke. Vasko smiled, paying no regard to a man in the water clinging to the barge’s hawser.

He turned and noticed Giordino sitting near the rail, leering at him with a sardonic grin.

“Still with us, my short friend?” Vasko said.

“Here to say good-bye.”

“It will be my pleasure.” Vasko leaned inside the bridge and dropped the transmitter into the crate, exchanging it for a loaded rifle.

As Vasko turned in the doorway, Giordino used his teeth to rip open the third bag of powder and tossed it at Vasko’s feet.

Vasko looked down in confusion as a trail of spilt powder ignited from the burning sail and sizzled toward the bundles at his feet. He didn’t have long to look.

The explosion echoed off the hull of the Constellation and covered the tug once more in a white haze.

When the smoke cleared, Giordino approached the shattered wheelhouse.

Vasko lay on the deck, his legs blown off and a look of shock in his fading eyes.

Giordino gave him an unsympathetic gaze, then uttered the last word.

“You can call me Al.”

After watching him die, Giordino stepped to the tug’s stern. He looked downriver and spotted the drifting barge, receding in the distance. A lean, dark-haired man climbed out of the water, then stood and gave him a wave from the prow of his atomic chariot.

86

Pitt was still in the water when he heard the muffled explosions from the far end of the barge. He pulled himself up the cable, rolled onto the deck, and caught his breath. As he labored to his feet, he could sense a slight list to the stern.

He made his way to the cargo holds. Each of the four compartments was covered by a light fiberglass cover. He uncoupled the first cover and found the Russian RDS-5 bomb secured to a large pallet. He regarded it for a moment, then checked the other three holds. They were all empty, save for a rusty drum and some chains in the second hold and a rising swirl of water in the fourth. Pitt guessed the barge had less than fifteen minutes afloat.

He returned to the first hold and climbed inside to examine the weapon. The RDS-5 was slightly bulbous, five feet wide and twelve feet long, tapering to a circular fin assembly. Its smooth black skin was broken by a raised panel near the tail. Pitt peered into the glass-topped panel and saw the bomb was very much alive. A myriad of LED displays glowed with numbers. Next to the panel box, a small dial protruded from the bomb’s surface — a simple depth gauge. He looked back at the panel. Two of the LED displays were marked with labels. One read CURRENT DEPTH and showed zero. The other read CHARGED DEPTH and was fixed at twenty-five feet.

A feeling of dread came over Pitt. While Giordino may have dispatched Vasko, it no longer mattered. The bomb was set to detonate at a water pressure depth of twenty-five feet. When the barge sank, the bomb would go off — simple as that. Pitt considered smashing the displays or shattering the depth gauge but feared the weapon was programmed to detonate with any outside interference.

He scrambled out of the hold and looked around. The barge was a half mile from land. With the barge having no means of propulsion, it would be impossible to get it across the current to the shallows before it sank. He scanned the river. There were numerous small pleasure boats nearby, most flocking to the burning Constellation. But they were all too small to move the heavy barge. Peering toward the bay, he spotted the skipjack he’d seen from the helicopter, tacking downwind.

The barge was listing heavily now, with water beginning to lap at the deck. Pitt gazed back at the skipjack. It was his only option.

The oyster boat had just entered the Patapsco and was sailing near the center of the river, far off the barge’s line. Pitt had to close the gap — and quickly. He ran to the second hold and muscled the empty drum up to the deck. Retrieving bits of rope and chain from below, he fashioned a harness around the drum and attached a twenty-foot leader of rope. He dragged the assembly to the upriver end of the barge and tied the leader to a starboard corner bitt. Then he lowered the drum over the side, letting it fill with water and drag horizontally behind the barge.

The makeshift drogue tugged on the inshore stern, nudging the downriver bow slightly to port. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to put the sinking barge on a more direct path with the skipjack.

Sailing up the river, a grizzled oysterman named Brian Kennedy eyed the barge, noting it was drifting free of a tug. It was clearly sinking, and he turned to take a closer look. His boat, the Lorraine, was a large skipjack, a wide-beamed and highly maneuverable class of sailboat. Designed for oyster dredging on the Chesapeake, skipjacks once sailed in abundance on the waterway. Overfishing saw their decline, and the Lorraine was one of a just handful still in use.

Oystering was out of season, but Kennedy was testing a new sail on his prized vessel. When he saw a tall man wave at him from the barge, he tacked across the river and pulled alongside. Its head end was already submerged, and waves were splashing over its low deck from all sides.

“You better jump aboard, mister, she’s about to go under.”

“I’ve got a live cargo in the first hold I need to pull out,” Pitt said. “Do you have a power dredge?”

The oysterman stared at Pitt. He was dripping wet, yet his clothes were singed and marred with blood. Water splashed around his ankles, and there was urgency in his eyes, yet he stood with a remote coolness.

“Yep, I do,” Kennedy said. “With a freshly rebuilt motor. You’d best be quick about it.”

He swung a boom across that held a large dredge basket from a cable. Pitt grabbed the dredge and hauled it into the hold as the oysterman let out cable from a power winch.

The hold already had two feet of water sloshing around its bottom, with more spilling in from the wave action. Pitt heaved the dredge into a corner and uncoupled the cable from its mount. He groped in the water at the base of the bomb and located a lift chain he’d seen earlier.

“You better get out of there now, mister!” Kennedy yelled.

The water was pouring in faster as Pitt gathered the four end pieces. Holding them above the bomb, he locked them onto the cable. “Okay, lift her!” Pitt shouted.

He barely got the words out when a cascade of water poured in from all sides of the hold. Pitt grabbed the cable and pulled himself on top of the bomb as the compartment flooded. The cable drew taut and the bomb rose off the pallet, banging against the sides of the hold as the barge began to slip away. Pitt held his breath as a torrent of water flooded over him. He felt several more vibrations from the swaying bomb smacking the metal bulkheads. Then the noise stopped and the water around him calmed.

On board the Lorraine, Kennedy watched in shock as the barge sank, taking the tall man with it. The winch motor strained and the taut cable drew the skipjack onto its side, the boom nearly touching the water. The oysterman thought the dredge had snagged on the barge and he was about to release the cable when Pitt’s head popped above the surface.

He shook the water from his eyes and looked up at Kennedy. “We got her. Bring her home.”

Kennedy held steady on the winch as the mechanism strained to lift the heavy weight. As the boat slowly righted itself, he stared agog as Pitt emerged from the water riding atop the massive black bomb.

“You’re… you’re sitting on a bomb,” he stammered. “Is it a dud?”

“No,” Pitt said with a crooked smile. “It’s atomic.”

87

The Army helicopter swooped low over Maryland’s Eastern Shore, hovered over an empty vacation cottage, and landed on its driveway. A team of military bomb disposal and nuclear weapons specialists climbed out and rushed to the backyard. The cottage overlooked a scenic cove off the Chesapeake called Huntingfield Creek, where a small dock stretched over the water. Sitting abandoned at the end of the dock was the Russian atomic bomb.

A high-power radio frequency jammer was activated next to the bomb to prevent detonation by a remotely transmitted signal. The ordnance crew then carefully examined the bomb, confirming it was activated by a depth gauge. They overrode the pressure sensor, disassembled some outer components to remove the triggering mechanism, then finally disarmed the thirty-kiloton weapon.

Halfway across the Chesapeake, Pitt stood in the bow of the Lorraine and watched in amusement as a Coast Guard boat shooed them toward Baltimore. A flurry of law enforcement boats raced around in a panic, attempting to establish a five-mile safety zone around the remote dock where Pitt had deposited the bomb.

The skipjack sailed back to the Patapsco River, where they came upon the grounded Constellation just shy of Baltimore Harbor. The old sloop of war was surrounded by a half dozen police and fireboats. Her dead and wounded had been removed, the fires extinguished, and pumps activated to relieve her flooded decks. Pitt noticed the tug, the Lauren Belle, was still alongside the ship’s port beam, a handful of police officers inspecting her every inch.

“Going my way, sailor?” came a shout from the Constellation’s spar deck.

Pitt looked up to see Giordino, waving from the ship, and had Kennedy pull the skipjack alongside. Giordino said good-bye to his gun crew friends, climbed down a police boat’s mooring line, then hopped aboard the Lorraine.

He was a mass of powder burns and bruises yet offered a wide grin. “I should have known you’d be out taking a leisurely cruise while the rest of us were getting our hands dirty.”

“You know I abhor manual labor,” Pitt said. “Is the Connie going to make it?”

“She’s got a one-way ticket to dry dock for a while, but she’ll be fine.”

“Her crew helped save a lot of lives today.”

“Where did you deposit the bomb?” Giordino asked. “I tried to go after you, but the tug’s helm was disabled by our final blast.”

“Along with our bald friend, I presume?”

Giordino smiled.

“We found a quiet cove across the bay,” Pitt said, “as remote as possible.”

Giordino looked to Kennedy at the helm and shook his head. “That was quite an oyster you boys hauled aboard.”

The oysterman nodded as if it was all in a day’s work.

The skipjack sailed into Baltimore Harbor, whose waterfront was a blaze of flashing police lights. The Lorraine maneuvered into the empty Coast Guard dock, which was surrounded by law enforcement officials. As Pitt and Giordino climbed out of the boat and helped tie it up, a pair of black limousines rolled onto the dock. A Secret Service detail sprang from the first while Vice President Sandecker and Rudi Gunn emerged from the second. The two men made their way to Pitt and Giordino.

“Fine work, boys,” Sandecker said through teeth clenched on a cigar. “We just got word that the Army bomb squad safely defused the weapon.”

“At thirty kilotons,” Gunn said, “that would have been quite a bang.”

Sandecker looked at Pitt. “How did you figure out Baltimore was the target and not D.C.?”

“It was the Black Sea,” Pitt said. “The same folks used explosives to release hydrogen sulfide gas trapped in the sea’s anoxic waters. Similar conditions exist in the Chesapeake during the summer right outside the harbor.” He pointed past Fort McHenry to the Patapsco River.

“We still don’t know exactly who was behind it,” Gunn said. He looked at Giordino.

“There were no survivors on the tug, I’m told.”

“No survivors,” Giordino affirmed.

“It was the same crew from Bulgaria, part of Mankedo’s crowd,” Pitt said. “Ana Belova of Europol is running down their financial backer. We’ll know more shortly.”

“If they’re Ukrainian rebels, I can tell you they just barked up the wrong tree,” Sandecker said. “The President is furious — and prepared to ask Congress to release more aid and arms to the Ukrainian government.”

“Maybe that was their goal,” Pitt said.

“What do you mean?” Gunn asked.

“First, there’s an attempted attack on Sevastopol using an American ship. Next, a U.S. airplane gets blown up after bringing aid to Ukraine. Finally, there’s an attack on the U.S. under the guise of the pro-Russian Ukrainian rebels. Sounds to me like someone’s trying to start a war.”

“Or maybe just kick the Russians out of Ukraine,” Gunn said.

“Perhaps they’re smarter than us all.” Sandecker examined his cigar. “At any rate, the President wishes to extend his personal gratitude for what you did in saving the country.” He motioned toward the limos. “He’s at Camp David right now waiting to see you.”

“Please thank the President for me,” Pitt said, “but I can’t see him right now.”

“You’re turning down the President? But why? What do I tell him?”

Pitt nodded toward the Lorraine. “Tell the President I couldn’t make it because I owe a Chesapeake Bay oysterman a very large and very cold beer.”