Odessa Sea

88

The morning of Saturday, July 22, broke clear and sunny in Gibraltar. The summer tourists crowding the sidewalks were already searching for shade when a cab pulled up to the former Anglo-Egyptian Bank Building just after noon. Mansfield held the car door open for Martina and a stout man from the Russian Embassy in Madrid, making mental note of a pair of Army trucks parked down the street. Following the others inside the bank, he froze amidst a throng of British soldiers milling about the lobby.

It wasn’t the soldiers that prompted him to check the holstered gun he wore beneath his jacket. It was the presence of a few too many familiar faces standing by the bank manager. Dirk, Summer, Perlmutter, Trehorne, and Hawker all stared at Mansfield as if he had just arrived late to a birthday party. Still, no words were spoken, nor were any bank guards called.

Finlay stepped across the lobby and shook hands. “Mr. Romanov, nice to see you again.”

The bank manager sported dark circles under his eyes and wore the same suit he had the day before, with some added wrinkles. But Mansfield noted that Finlay’s prior nervous disposition was notably absent.

“Good morning, Mr. Finlay. May I introduce Alexander Vodokov, with the Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs.”

The pudgy lawyer stepped forward and shook Finlay’s hand. “I represent the Russian Federation and wish to make a formal claim on a deposit held in this institution.” He presented a requisition signed by the Ambassador.

“Do you have an account number?”

“No. But I think you know of the deposit. It was a large sum of gold bullion placed with the Anglo-Egyptian Bank in March 1917, on behalf of Tsar Nicholas II.”

“Protocol would dictate some proof of deposit,” Finlay said without batting an eye.

“The funds were deposited by the Royal Navy, from the HMS Sentinel, on behalf of the Russian Imperial State, as a by-product of the Treaty of Petrograd.”

“Do you have a copy of the treaty?” Finlay asked.

Vodokov rifled through an attaché case and retrieved a stapled document. “This is a signed copy.”

Finlay took the document. “If you’ll excuse me.” He stepped behind the cashier’s window to a copy machine and made two duplicate sets. He locked one in a cashier’s drawer, handed the other to an assistant, then returned to Vodokov.

“As a representative of Barclays Bank and holder of the deposit in question, I regret to inform you that the Russian Federation’s claim for ownership has terminated.” He passed the treaty back to the diplomat.

Mansfield stepped forward. “What are you saying?”

“The document is quite clear, even if my Russian is not,” Finlay said. “The treaty calls for the British holding of the assets until the restoration of the Imperial Crown — or a subsequent century from the anniversary of the first Romanov’s ascension to the Crown — whichever comes first.”

“Let me see that.” Mansfield ripped the treaty from Vodokov’s hands and skimmed through the terms.

“You know your Russian history better than I,” Finlay said, “but Michael I was the first Russian Tsar from the House of Romanov. History shows that he was crowned to the throne on July twenty-second, 1613. I’m afraid the hundred-year mark from the treaty’s signing in 1917 has just legally passed today at noon, per the language in the document.” He eyed a wall clock. “The assets have now reverted to the British government, which has made arrangements to take possession.”

He motioned toward the soldiers across the lobby. The men took position, forming an armed cordon leading out the front door, save for two husky men who followed Finlay into the open vault. The soldiers emerged a minute later, carrying a small but heavy wooden case they hauled out the front door. They deposited it in one of the Army trucks now parked at the curb, then returned for the next case.

After watching the scene, the diplomat blew up. “This is an outrage!” he screamed at Finlay. “My government will be filing a formal protest.” He turned to Mansfield. “Why didn’t you make this known sooner?”

“We just made the discovery late yesterday.”

“There will be unpleasant reprisals.” He stormed out of the bank, hailed a cab, and vanished down the road.

Mansfield smirked as he watched the diplomat depart, then approached Summer and the others.

“Congratulations, and well done,” he said. “What is your American saying, a day late and a dollar short?”

“About two billion dollars short, in this instance,” Summer said.

“Apparently, we shall all go on our way empty-handed.”

“You should go and be placed behind bars,” Hawker said.

“Now, Major, that is not the manner of the Western victor.” He gave a slight bow. “Farewell.” He turned and sauntered out of the bank without looking back.

Martina accompanied him out the door, shaking her head at his blasé attitude.

“We have failed miserably,” she said. “Are you not concerned about the wrath of Moscow? Vodokov is right. There will be reprisals.”

Mansfield shrugged as they walked past the Army trucks. “My dear comrade, you are looking at a survivor. I will simply avoid Moscow until the next intelligence crisis erupts, at which time this incident will be brushed aside.”

“But what about the chief directorate?”

“Kings, presidents, and chief directorates may come and go, but Viktor Mansfield shall always be on the decadent steps of the Wild West, fighting for Mother Russia.” He slipped his arm around hers. “What do you say we go have a drink somewhere?”

The stern agent regarded him with bewilderment, then finally succumbed. “Very well.”

Perlmutter watched the couple stroll away. “He certainly understands our mind-set. There’s little point in arresting him now.”

“His undercover days around here will be over,” Hawker said. “I suppose that’s the important thing.”

Dirk shook his head. “I’d still like to send him a bill for our damaged submersible.”

Finlay approached the group with an energetic buzz. “May I show you Nelson’s Cave now?”

Summer smiled. “Please do.”

He led them through the huge steel door into the vault. It had been built into a natural cave, adding only a concrete floor and the frame for the vault door. The arched limestone ceiling and walls extended nearly fifty feet into the hillside.

“This was originally called La Bóveda Cave by the Spanish,” Finlay said. “It was renamed Nelson’s Cave in 1805, when a number of dead sailors from the Battle of Trafalgar were brought here before burial. By the time the Anglo-Egyptian Bank acquired the property in 1887 and constructed the building to incorporate the cave, the Nelson name was mostly forgotten.”

“A clever way to build a vault,” Perlmutter said.

“They were probably saving construction costs,” Trehorne said.

“You may be right.” Finlay rapped a knuckle against the side wall. “The limestone is at least thirty feet thick throughout, so it’s certainly a secure spot to store money.”

“Or Russian gold?” Summer said.

Finlay led them past several rows of safe-deposit boxes and a large cash safe to a caged area at the back. An aged iron gate had been opened, exposing a large stack of wooden crates. The two soldiers were inside retrieving another crate and squeezed past the group.

“Romanov gold, to be precise,” Finlay said, answering Summer’s question.

“Brought here so the Bank of England could deny possession?” Trehorne asked.

“That’s my understanding. The gold was shipped out of Russia and transferred to the HMS Sentinel under great secrecy. The Sentinel brought it here for temporary safekeeping, pending transfer to England. But two things happened. Public protests in St. Petersburg increased, leading to the Tsar’s abdication. And the Sentinel was sunk, just days after delivering the gold. Those in the know in England generally believed the Sentinel was lost with the gold aboard. The Anglo-Egyptian Bank manager in Gibraltar and a Bank of England regional representative cut a deal to hold the gold here, pending clarification of the political situation in Russia.” He shook his head. “I’ve been told that the Bank of England representative was killed when his ship was torpedoed on the return to England.”

Trehorne rubbed his chin. “So even the Bank of England was in the dark?”

“Until about two weeks ago, when we notified the governor of the bank and requested they provide transfer and security.”

“Who else knew?” Summer asked.

“Virtually no one outside of Gibraltar. The Queen and the Prime Minister were reportedly shocked at the news. They hope, of course, to keep the gold’s existence a secret.”

“Fat chance, in this day and age,” Dirk said. “Where’s it headed?”

“The Army is moving it to the airport for a military flight to London. It will be stored in the government’s gold repository in downtown London, under Threadneedle Street.”

Summer looked to Finlay. “How did you know today was the day?”

“We had a draft copy of the treaty in our files, so we’re well aware of the termination date. You can imagine my shock when you entered the bank yesterday, followed by the Russians.”

“A very close shave,” Trehorne said.

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“Because you didn’t have a signed copy of the treaty?” Perlmutter asked.

“Exactly,” Finlay said. “We had no legal standing until today, when the Russians brought us the signed copy. Now we have proof of the treaty’s ratification. The British government can thank you for that.”

“What of the other elements of the treaty?” Dirk said. “Will the government make a claim for the lost mineral rights?”

“Who’s to say? It would make Great Britain the richest nation in the world if those rights were ever acknowledged. But the Russians would sooner declare war, I suppose. It will probably be swept aside in the name of diplomatic secrecy. A pity for you, actually.”

“Why’s that?” Summer asked.

“Otherwise, I suspect honorary knighthood from the Queen would have been in order for you all.”

“Knighthood?” Trehorne said. “My, now, that would have been something.”

Summer shook her head at the thought. “May we see the gold?”

“Certainly.” Finlay led them into the cage and to one of the crates. He pried off the lid and exposed a solid bank of shiny gold bars, identical to the one Summer had found on the Canterbury. Finlay passed one around, letting each person admire it.

“There’s also a crate or two of uncut gemstones in the mix,” Finlay said.

Summer was the last to examine the gold and lost her grip as she handed it back to the banker. The heavy bar clinked as it struck the floor.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Finlay. It’s not every day I let a billion dollars slip through my fingers.”

“Quite all right.” He retrieved the bar. “I can imagine your disappointment after a long and difficult hunt to locate the gold.”

“It made for a few sleepless nights,” she said.

As they made their way back to the lobby, she noticed Dirk was smiling. “You seem a bit happy, given the circumstances.”

“I’m just thinking how lucky I am.”

“Lucky? We busted our tails to find the gold — and it was sitting in a bank all along. It was, and will remain, one big fat secret. What’s so lucky about that?”

“Because of that secret,” Dirk said with a grin, “I won’t be forced to call you Dame Summer for the rest of my life.”

89

Martin Hendriks watched from the window of a rented apartment as Dutch police stormed his gated residence just down the street. Had he looked carefully, he would have seen a black-haired Bulgarian woman leading the charge.

After the failure of Vasko, he knew it would be only a matter of time before the trail led to him. But, so far, his name had been left out of the publicity surrounding the investigation. That was key.

He left the apartment by the back door and stepped into a limo waiting in the alley. “One stop along the way,” he told his driver of many years.

He stared out the window, ignoring the passing canals of Amsterdam and the mass of bicyclists alongside. The limo traveled east to the town of Zwolle and entered a large cemetery called Kranenburg. The driver knew exactly where to go. He circled a small pond and pulled to a stop beneath some towering red oaks.

The change in motion jarred Hendriks to his senses. He climbed out and strode to a modest tombstone with three names carved in the marble. He sank to his knees in front of it, but for once the tears didn’t come. The pain, however, was still there, strong as ever and still refusing to ease with the passage of time.

“It won’t be long now,” he whispered. He reached into his pocket and touched his metallic keepsake.

After a long contemplation, he kissed the headstone and rose uneasily to his feet. He shuffled back to the car in a trance and slumped into the backseat. Not until nearly an hour later, when the limo crossed into Germany, did the grief retreat and the determination for his next action come into full focus.

The limo drove to a little-used airfield near the town of Wesel, where his private jet waited. Hendriks shook hands with his driver and boarded the plane, which promptly took to the skies.

The jet flew east, crossing Poland and Belarus before entering Russian airspace under prior approval. Less than an hour later, the plane touched down at Chkalovsky Airport, a military airfield northeast of Moscow. Hendriks looked out the window at an orderly row of new helicopters parked on the tarmac, fronted by a crisp regiment of Russian soldiers standing at attention.

The jet parked by a hangar, and Hendriks was escorted to a group of officers standing on a red carpet near a dais. General Zakharin turned to welcome the Dutchman.

“Mr. Hendriks, it’s good to see you again. You have arrived just in time.”

“Thank you for inviting me, General.”

“We’re celebrating the deployment of our new class of attack helicopter, the Mi-28NM,” Zakharin said. “President Vashenko will be making an inspection, so I thought it a good opportunity to show him the Peregrine. Perhaps you can arrange a demonstration, like the one you gave me a few weeks ago?”

“I would be delighted,” Hendriks said. “If you’ll excuse me, General, I better check on the status of our drone.”

He walked to his green tractor-trailer that was parked at the edge of the tarmac. His assistant, Gerard, met him at the Peregrine’s control panel positioned nearby.

“Any troubles at the border?” Hendriks asked.

Gerard shook his head. “No issue at the border crossing or entering the air base.”

“What’s the Peregrine’s status?”

“I launched her as you instructed before dawn. She’s currently ten miles north of us.” He rapped a knuckle on the control console. “After you take it on manual for the demonstration, she’s programmed to revert to a low-altitude flight from here to the Baltic Sea.”

“Thank you, Gerard. I’ll take it from here.” He pointed toward his jet. “I would like you and the driver to board my plane at once. It will take you to Stockholm. Remain there until you hear from my attorney.”

The technician looked at his boss and nodded. “I understand. Good-bye, Mr. Hendriks.”

The jet took off moments before President Vashenko’s motorcade entered the airport and rolled to a stop next to the dais. The Russian president inspected the troops, gave a short speech, and was taken for a ride in one of the attack helicopters. After discussing the flight with his aides, the president was steered to the dais by General Zakharin, where Hendriks had repositioned the Peregrine’s console.

“Mr. President,” Zakharin said, “may I present Martin Hendriks, the developer of the Peregrine drone.”

“I have heard good things about your drone,” Vashenko said. “I understand it even saved some Russian sailors in the Black Sea. Where is your invention?”

“It is in the skies above us, Mr. President. As I demonstrated to General Zakharin, its long-range capabilities make it difficult to detect. I invite you to try to identify its location, if you can.”

Vashenko scanned the skies while listening for a motor but saw and heard nothing. Hendriks, meanwhile, used the Peregrine’s high-power camera to target the dais a few feet away. He turned the video screen to show Vashenko.

“We are standing right here.” He pointed to the screen. “If I activate the laser targeting system, which happens to work with your Vikhr antitank missiles, you can see it lock onto our position.”

He typed into a keypad and a flashing red ring appeared on the screen, encircling the image of the men.

“Very impressive,” the president said. “Tell me, from which direction is the drone flying?”

Hendriks ignored the question.

“The Peregrine is armed and ready now,” Hendriks said. “If I wanted to kill you, I would simply press these two red buttons to launch the drone’s missiles.”

As he reached down and pushed the buttons, Vashenko gave a nervous laugh. “Now, why would you want to do that?”

Zakharin pointed to the northern sky. “Is that it? What are those two puffs of smoke?”

As Vashenko turned to look, Hendriks whispered in his ear.

“Mr. President, I am about to kill you in the same manner you killed my family in the skies over Ukraine.”

Hendriks reached into his pocket and retrieved the metal object that never left his side. It was a scarred and melted cross that had once been worn around his wife’s neck. He held the cross in both hands in front of him and squeezed it tightly, then looked up and watched the twin missiles arrive.

90

A cool breeze drifted across the knoll, refreshing the wedding guests gathered around a small gazebo. Fresh flowers and streamers decorated the structure in the traditional Bulgarian wedding colors of red and white. Just beyond, the sparkling Black Sea provided an azure backdrop under a bright September sun.

The bride wore a simple white dress, which ruffled in the sea breeze. The groom was attired in a dark suit with red tie and carried a black cane. After completing their wedding vows, Ana and Petar Ralin turned and kissed in front of the gathered guests, prompting a roar of approval.

The newlyweds mingled with their families as champagne was poured and the younger members of the wedding party began dancing. As they worked their way through the crowd, Ana and Petar reached a tall couple standing near the side.

Ralin shook Pitt’s hand. “We are so happy you could join us today.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it.” He introduced his wife, Loren. A congresswoman from Colorado, she wore a violet dress that matched her eyes.

Ana gave Pitt a hug, then turned to Loren. “Petar and I wouldn’t be here today if it wasn’t for your husband.”

“You’ve all had quite an ordeal,” she said. “I’m just happy it’s led to this special day.”

“Do you have a honeymoon planned?” Pitt asked.

Ana smiled. “We’re going to Chios, in Greece, for a week.”

Ralin shook his head. “She insists on working, even on our honeymoon.”

“We’re going to try and confirm it was the Besso that sank there,” Ana said. “I’ve been in touch with your children about a Russian World War I submarine that was lost in the area and may have drawn the Besso to salvage her.”

“I’ve heard a bit about that,” Pitt said. “Mankedo may have thought he had a hoard of gold there and got tangled up with some Russian agents in the process.”

“He should have quit while he was ahead,” Ana said. “In our investigation of Martin Hendriks, we found a twenty-million-dollar transfer was made to Mankedo at a Cyprus bank, and another five million dollars to his late associate, Ilya Vasko. No one ever collected it.”

“I guess it’s now clear that Hendriks wasn’t supporting the pro-Russian rebels in Ukraine after all.”

“Just the opposite. We were slow to discover that his wife and two children had been killed on Malaysian Airlines Flight 17 when it was shot down near Donetsk in 2014. His actions were all in the name of vengeance against Russia and the rebels.”

“The man nearly started World War III,” Loren said.

“Yes, but, in a sense, he succeeded,” Ana said. “The U.S. is now providing greater support to Ukraine, and the new Russian president has withdrawn all military forces from the region. Violence is waning, and Ukraine might even regain its lost lands.”

“Ana, enough shop talk,” Ralin said. “We are here to celebrate.”

“I’m sorry, Petar, you are right. Loren and Dirk, what are your plans while here in Bulgaria?”

“We’re hoping to visit the Rila Monastery and drive the coastal road to Varna,” Loren said.

“Along the way,” Pitt added, “I plan on exploring that Ottoman shipwreck we found. After that, there’s a rusty old Italian car I’d like to see about acquiring.”

“Ana,” Loren said, “you better fill me in on where to go shopping while he’s underwater.”

Pitt took Ralin by the arm. “Come along, Petar. I’ll buy you a drink while I can still afford it,” he said with a wink. “We can toast to rich shipwrecks, vintage cars, and strong women.”

As the two men moved off toward the bar, Ana turned to Loren. “He’s a man of a different age, isn’t he?”

Loren looked over at Pitt with pride and smiled.

“Yes. But I’m glad he’s living in this one.”