The Emperor's Revenge

TWENTY

When Sergey Golov left Antonovich’s cabin aboard the Achilles, he found Ivana waiting for him outside in the corridor, her fingers dancing across her tablet. She was dressed in a sleek, knee-length skirt and a silk blouse instead of the jeans and sweatshirt she preferred when she was at the computer writing code.

“How is he?” she asked without looking up.

Golov was amused. His daughter seldom asked about anyone’s health besides his. “Why should you care?” She fell into lockstep with him as they walked toward the aft deck.

“I ask purely from a business standpoint. We’ll need our employer coherent when the time comes.”

“He’s responding to the medication as the doctor expected. Nothing to worry about.”

“Good. I mean, what is he? A hundred and fifty?”

“Sixty-eight.”

“Might as well be,” she mumbled.

Golov smiled. He didn’t need to ask her if she thought her old man was over the hill for being in his late forties.

“There was an incident at the Maltese Oceanic Museum yesterday,” Ivana said. “Did you hear?”

“Yes, some kind of attack. We’ll find out more about that soon enough. What did you find out about Whyvern?”

“Not good. According to police reports, there was a gun battle at Simaku’s castle last night. The Mafia leader was killed, along with more than half his men.”

“And Erion Kula?”

“He wasn’t included in the report, so we have to assume he got away.”

“Do they know who conducted the assault?”

Ivana shook her head. “No one on the strike team was listed as a casualty, and none of them were captured. But the report does indicate that it was a highly sophisticated two-pronged attack. Apparently, they escaped by boat before the coast guard could get there.”

“So we’re not dealing with amateurs.”

“It sounds like these were top-of-the-line pros.”

Golov had mixed feelings about that. He liked to test himself by going up against the best, but he also saw the appeal of a resounding victory against an overmatched opponent.

“What did Whyvern know?”

Ivana grimaced. She didn’t like admitting the fact that Pavel Mitkin had exposed some of her computer files to the world. “Very little. But whoever took him may know about our interest in Napoleon’s Diary.”

The discovery of the diary’s potential sale a month ago, and the worry that it could lead to Napoleon’s treasure, had nearly caused Golov to put off the Dynamo operation. But the plans had been in motion for nearly a year. They might not get another chance, especially if another party acquired the diary and the Jaffa Column and used them to find the spoils of war Napoleon had hauled away from Moscow more than two hundred years before.

His main adversaries in the hunt had been two Dutch brothers named Dijkstra, the owners of a shipping and industrial conglomerate. They had already conducted an operation to steal the Jaffa Column, and they had planned to outbid anyone else for the diary. They were the only others who knew that the diary had a value far outstripping its importance as an historical relic of Napoleon’s captivity.

Thanks to the unique capabilities of Antonovich’s Achilles, the Dijkstras were no longer a threat.

Antonovich had become increasingly paranoid as his wealth grew, and the Achilles was designed to be his unassailable bastion from which he could conduct all his business. As soon as the main construction of the superyacht was completed in an Italian shipyard, it sailed to the Primorskiy Kray Naval Base in Vladivostok. Among elite circles, it was known that, for the right price, the admiral in command would use the naval shipyard’s resources to modify ships with new propulsion and weapons systems under the guise of building spy vessels for the Russian fleet. Antonovich opened his wallet and spared no expense on the project to refit his luxury catamaran.

The diesel engines were replaced with high-output turbines linked to a new propulsion system based on the Russian Shkval torpedo, which used a rocket to propel it through the water. The torpedo could reach velocities of 200 mph underwater because the nose emitted a string of bubbles and the torpedo flew through them.

Although it wasn’t rocket-propelled, the Achilles itself used this technique to achieve straight-line speeds never before seen in a 400-foot-long vessel. Along the length of both catamaran pods were rings below the waterline that pumped out bubbles to surround the hull with air. Instead of mounting the propellers on the stern of the yacht where they would be fouled by the bubbles, they were placed on the front of each catamaran like the engines on a prop-driven airplane, pulling the Achilles to fantastical speeds.

To complement the ability to outpace any warship on the water, the Achilles was equipped with some of the most advanced weapons on the planet, courtesy of a newly revitalized Russian military-industrial complex that was rapidly devising new arms to keep up with the Chinese and Americans.

Defense of the vessel was paramount. To counter underwater threats, the Achilles could deploy mini-torpedoes designed to intercept incoming torpedoes fired from submarines and surface ships. To bring down aircraft and missiles, the yacht had something few other ships could boast: a high-energy laser.

Less costly to fire than million-dollar anti-aircraft missiles, and more accurate than Gatling guns, the 30,000-kilowatt solid-state laser had the power equivalent of six welding lasers used by the automobile industry. It could be fired in a lower-energy state to dazzle homing electronics or in a high-energy state to overheat warheads and fuel tanks of drones, missiles, and airplanes — just like it had when it caused the Dijkstras’ private jet to explode during landing at Gibraltar.

No one would have suspected the Achilles’s role in the crash since the laser looked exactly like a telescope and was only visible for a short time while the protective white clamshell dome covering it was opened. Contrary to movie convention, no beam would have been visible during the essentially silent operation of the device.

Golov appreciated the defensive capabilities that rendered the Achilles virtually invulnerable to attack, but as a former navy captain, his preference was its offensive weaponry.

The onboard hangar held a Russian Ka-226 utility helicopter. Instead of a tail rotor, the chopper had twin rotors mounted one on top of the other that spun in opposite directions to provide stability. The rear fuselage consisted of a detachable pod that could be swapped in minutes. Normally, it held a passenger compartment for ferrying Antonovich when he needed to attend meetings on land. Another pod could be bolted on that carried four Switchblade anti-ship missiles.

But the Achilles’s deadliest weapon rose from doors concealed in the roof of the yacht so that it had a two-hundred-and-seventy-degree firing arc. Although it had a barrel like many warship cannons, this was no ordinary gun. It was a railgun.

Rather than using a chemical reaction to fire a shell with a high-explosive warhead, the railgun propelled its rounds electromagnetically, allowing it to shoot projectiles at incredible speeds, more than twice as fast as the round fired by an Abrams tank. The hypersonic rounds packed so much energy that an explosive warhead was unnecessary. The impact of its heavy tungsten shell at more than six thousand miles an hour could shatter the most heavily armored hull and cause steel to vaporize.

Ever since he took command of the Achilles, Golov had been eager to test out the railgun’s firepower. The attack on the Dijkstra freighter Narwhal had given him that opportunity.

The Narwhal had been sent to Malta to pick up the stolen Jaffa Column. Golov had a duplicate freighter painted to look just like it and take the Narwhal’s place when it picked up the massive stone obelisk, but he had to get rid of the original ship for the plan to work. The railgun provided the ideal solution and had performed perfectly. It took just seven rounds to send the Narwhal to the bottom.

Golov was sure his ultimate plan would work. But with the diary put back in play by whoever had rescued Erion Kula, he had more work to do.

“My dear,” he said to Ivana as they walked, “let’s go meet our host.”

From the sun-dappled deck, Golov spotted the man from the Maltese Oceanic Museum, which was hosting both the gala tomorrow night and the auction the day after that. He wore a crisp beige suit and mirrored sunglasses and gave them a smart wave when he saw them.

The Achilles was docked in Valletta’s Grand Harbour, with postcard-perfect views all around them and nearly as many high-end yachts as they’d seen in Monte Carlo. The sandy-colored capital city abutting the port was built like a fortress because it was one, with high limestone walls bordering nearly every shore. Situated at the strategic center of the Mediterranean, the island had been attacked dozens of times over the centuries, from the Greeks and Romans of antiquity to the Nazi bombers of World War II, though the battlements were now used by tourists as photo ops rather than for any defensive purpose.

Golov and Ivana walked down the gangplank and shook hands with Spadaro.

“Captain Sergey Golov and Ivana Semova, I presume,” Spadaro said in English. “My name is Emvin Spadaro. How wonderful to meet you. Welcome to Malta. We hope you find it as beautiful as we do.” Ivana went by her long-passed mother’s surname so that she and her father wouldn’t raise any questions about their relationship.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Spadaro,” Golov said. “You will be showing us the sights?”

“It will be my pleasure. After we see the museum, I’ve arranged for a private tour of some of the locations visited by Napoleon himself during the French invasion of Malta. I think you will enjoy it. Will Mr. Antonovich be joining us today?”

“I’m afraid not. We will be his representatives on this outing.”

“Before I forget,” Spadaro said, reaching into his jacket and removing an envelope that he handed to Golov, “here are your tickets to the gala tomorrow night. Black tie, of course.”

“We’re looking forward to it.”

They got into his Mercedes.

“The museum is only a five-minute ride away,” Spadaro said as he pulled away. “As you probably saw in the news, we had a tragic situation at the museum yesterday, but I’m happy to say it’s been resolved. A crane was used in an attack on the museum, damaging a corner of the façade. Some gunfire was also involved, and, sadly, we lost our curator, William Kensington, but the perpetrators have been caught. Our director decided that William would want us to go on with the gala and auction as planned, so there has been no change to the schedule.”

Ivana and Golov exchanged glances.

“Yes, we did hear about that,” Golov said. “Were any of the auction lots stolen?”

“Oh, no,” Spadaro replied quickly. “No. All of the pieces are safely stored in our warehouse, which was not affected.”

“We’d like to see the warehouse as well,” Ivana said.

“Absolutely. It’s on the way, not far from the museum. I will tell you, however, that we will not be able to go inside, for security reasons.”

“The artifacts are kept there?”

“Yes. It is climate-controlled and guarded around the clock by the best security system on the island. In addition, we have numerous guards on staff to make sure the items will be safe until the auction. But rest assured, you will be able to see the items to bid on in a fantastic new way that I’m excited to show you.”

As promised, they arrived at the warehouse after a short drive through the ancient city’s winding streets. The modern steel construction stood out against the backdrop of classic stone buildings around it. Golov wondered if it had been converted from a shipping warehouse after the new container port had been built on the southeast side of the island. That’s where the Narwhal’s double would be docking tomorrow to pick up the Jaffa Column.

They stopped next to a gate manned by two armed guards. An imposing chain-link fence topped with razor wire surrounded the building.

Another Mercedes pulled up to the gate.

“Oh, what luck!” Spadaro said cheerily. “That’s Arturo Talavera, our museum director. Perhaps I can have him say hello before he goes in.”

Spadaro honked his horn and waved as he got out. Golov and Ivana followed him. The door on the other Mercedes opened and a portly gentleman with graying hair shuffled toward them with an outstretched hand.

Spadaro introduced them and said, “They will be our guests tomorrow night, representing Maxim Antonovich.”

Talavera’s eyes lit up at the mention of the billionaire’s name. “We are hoping Mr. Antonovich finds some of the pieces intriguing. I wish I could show them to you now, but I have urgent business to attend to in the warehouse.”

“Nothing unfortunate, I hope,” Golov said with a smile.

“No, no. Of course, with the unfortunate incident yesterday and the passing of our curator, my responsibilities have doubled, so I have some last-minute items to take care of before the auction. We have over five hundred pieces to sell, and buyers are descending on the island from all over the world, so you can imagine how much there is to do.”

“I saw how full the harbor is with yachts.”

Talavera nodded. “The airport is just as packed with private jets. Mr. Antonovich will certainly have some competition when it comes to the bidding. Well, I must be off. I look forward to speaking with you more tomorrow night.”

As they walked back to the car with Spadaro, Talavera sped through the gate and parked next to a door with a keypad on it. He inserted a card into the slot and entered when the door buzzed.

“I hope you are impressed with how we are safeguarding your future purchases,” Spadaro said as they drove off.

“Very impressed,” Golov replied.

He leaned over and softly spoke Russian into Ivana’s ear. “We’re not waiting until the auction.”

“When, then?”

“During the gala.”

After watching Talavera, Golov now had a plan to assure they were the ones who would get Napoleon’s Diary.