After he hung up, Austin walked out onto the deck and drew a deep breath of river air into his lungs. The exercise cleared his head, and he began to think about the drama that had played out on the Black Sea decades ago. With the passage of time, the people who had struggled for their lives had no more substance than the lights glowing like fireflies along the Maryland shore. Yet the long-ago echoes of their voices were still being heard more than eighty years later.
According to Zavala's report, the empress and her daughters were traveling on the Odessa Star with some of the royal treasure when the ship was attacked and sunk. Razov probably had the treasure now. Austin was uncertain why a man who already had more money than Croesus would go through so much trouble to dive for treasure. Greed knows no bounds, he concluded.
More important was the fact that the Grand Duchess Maria had escaped. Lord Dodson was worried about political turmoil if and when the news got out. Austin frowned at the tacit approval of the British Crown in the sordid tale. The story might embarrass some families, but all those involved were long dead. Mendacity by those in high office was no longer the scandal it once had been. Austin was more concerned about how the story connected to Ataman and the supposed plot against the United States.
Austin glanced at his watch. He hadn't realized the late- ness of the hour or how worn-out he was. He crawled up to his bedroom in the turret of the old Victorian boathouse, crashed into bed and was asleep within minutes.
AUSTIN WAS UP at dawn, dressed in T-shirt, shorts and baseball cap, put a pot of Jamaican coffee on to brew and went downstairs to where his twenty-three-foot Mass Aero racing scull was stored under the house. He was lifting the forty-pound scull off its rack in preparation for a morning row on the Potomac, when he heard the telephone ring. Irritated at having his routine interrupted, he sprinted up the stairs to the main level and snatched the phone from its cradle.
“We've got it,” Yaeger said, his voice scratchy from weariness. “That is to say, Max and I almost got it.”
“Should I be happy or sad?”
“Maybe both,” Yaeger said. “I had Max working on the file all night. She did a hell of a job. Click on your computer, and I'll show you what I've got.”
Austin did as he was told and called up the e-mail and the attachment Yaeger had forwarded. The image that came up showed a document with several lines of Russian written in graceful script, the words bounded by fancy scrollwork.
“What is it?”
“It's a menu,” Yaeger said. “The first one is the appetizer, Beluga caviar. The rest is a list of courses for something like a Russian banquet. Perlmutter would love it. Sounds quite tasty after this morning's snack of sugar-glazed doughnuts and weak coffee.”
“I'll buy you a full-course breakfast later, but are you saying that after all we went through to get this stuff, the best we can come up with is caviar?”
“Yes and no. The menu is really a set of files encrypted with steganography. It means 'covered writing.' It's a way of hiding messages in pictures. Uses a special software. Man, whoever set up security is real good. Even Max hit the wall on this one. I wrote a new program that unravels the puzzle. Watch.”
A gray dialog box appeared. “What is that?”
“It's asking for the password.”
“What about the password we used to get into the ship's computer?”
“Troika was only good so far as it went. It got me to this point. Now I need another one.”
Austin groaned. “So we're right back to where we started.”
“Yes and no. I've got Max running through possible words or combinations. She'll come up with an answer... but it could be days.”
“We may not have days,” Austin said. “Then I've got another idea that may help you. The files indicate that there is a master control somewhere other than on your mystery ship. Find that, and we can find your password.”
Austin's head was swimming, as it did after any conversation with Yaeger. “Let me think about it. I'll get back to you.”
Austin went back downstairs and shoved his racing scull into the water. Easing into the narrow craft, he warmed up for ten minutes under quarter pressure, gradually working his rate to twenty-eight strokes a minute, his eyes glued to the dial of the StrokeCoach over his toes. The strokes merged with an unbroken rhythm that sent the light shell scudding smoothly over the river's misty surface like flowing quicksilver.
Austin rowed without gloves so he could feel the river with each dip of the oars. He wanted to sweat out the white-hot anger he felt over the Sea Hunter so that the heat would not consume him. He slipped into a meditative state and felt his rage ebb, although it didn't go away entirely. After rowing for a time, he turned in a wide circle and headed back. Before long, the scull was gliding up to the ramp of the boathouse. He threw his sweaty clothes in a hamper, took a long shower and shaved, and dressed in a tan sports jacket, navy blue polo shirt and light slacks.
A sound sleep and an energetic row had given him perspective. He brushed aside the distractions that had been pulling his mind apart in a hundred different directions and concentrated on the prime force behind all he had experienced. Razov. He had to find Razov. Everything else would flow from there. He picked up the phone and called Rudi Gunn, who had never shaken his old navy habits and was in his office before most commuters had poured their first cup of coffee.
“Kurt, I was about to call you. Admiral Sandecker told me about your successful mission. Congratulations to you and Paul.”
“Thanks, Rudi. Unfortunately, our job isn't over. Razov is the key to all this. I was wondering if you'd heard anything about his whereabouts.”
“That's what I wanted to tell you. The Mad Russian has come up for air. He and his super yacht are expected momentarily in Boston.”
“How'd you pick that up, through intelligence or satellites?”
"Neither one, actually. I saw it in the business section of the Washington Post. I'll read it to you:
Russian mining tycoon Mikhail Razov will arrive in Boston today to announce the opening of an international trade center. Razov, who is also a prominent political figure in his country, will host a reception for government officials and other guests tonight aboard his yacht, said to be one of the largest privately owned vessels in the world. The stop-off is part of a tour of major East Coast ports."
“Thoughtful of him to save us time and energy,” Austin said.
“It doesn't fit with what I have heard about the gentleman. Wonder what he's really up to?”
“Why don't I go aboard and ask him?”
“You're serious?”
“Of course. It might do some good for him to know that we're onto him. Maybe we can shake the trees and see what falls out.”
“Just as long as you're not standing under them.”
Austin thought of Yaeger's suggestion about finding the master control center. A man like Razov would never let anything get far from his control. And his yacht was both his home and the headquarters of his worldwide corporation.
“We can't let an opportunity like this go by. I want to get aboard that yacht.”
“We could fix you up with some NUMA credentials.”
“That would be like waving a red flag in front of a bull. I have another idea. I'll get back to you.”
Austin hung up and dug in his wallet for a business card. Then he dialed the New York number on it.
“Unbelievable Mysteries,” the receptionist said.
He asked if Kaela Dorn had returned from assignments. “I believe so. May I say who's calling?”
Austin gave his name and braced for a breath of icy air. He was surprised at the warmth in Kaela's voice. “Good morning, Mr. Austin. You certainly get up early in the day.”
“The early bird catches the worm, I've been told.”
“Never did like worms,” Kaela said. “What can I do for you?”
“First of all, tell me why you're being so friendly.”
“Why shouldn't I be? You sa
ved my life. Even better, you got me transportation back to Istanbul on Captain Kemal's boat.”
“Which wasn't exactly the QE2, as I recall.”
“Doesn't matter. On the way back, the captain told me about a wreck he knew of and took me there. It was big and old, and my guess is that it was originally measured in cubits.”
“Noah's ark?”
“Who knows? Who cares? We got the story, plus bonuses. So thanks again, and I mean it with all sincerity when I say, what can I do for you, even though you still owe me a dinner.”
“How about Boston baked beans?”
“I was thinking more of rack of lamb at the Four Seasons.”
“Anything you say. But I need your help first. There's a trade reception tonight aboard a yacht in Boston Harbor, and I need some press credentials.”
“Is there a story here?”
“Eventually. But not now.”
“Okay, but under one condition. I'm going with you. Before you say no, think about it.”
Austin thought about Kaela's sultry beauty for a millisecond. “It's a deal. I'll catch a shuttle to Logan Airport.” He suggested a meeting time and place.
After they hung up, Austin sat back in his chair and stared into space, a distant expression in the coral-blue eyes. Finding Razov's central control system might be the breakthrough he and NUMA needed, but there was another reason he wanted to get aboard the yacht. Boris.
NUMA 3 - Fire Ice
-31- BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS
KAELA DORN WAITED at Commonwealth Pier overlooking Boston Harbor and watched the parade of limousines drop off a steady stream of VIPs who quickly lined up to be transported to Razov's yacht. She stood near a line of television vans whose satellite dishes and antennae sprouted from their roofs like alien vegetative growths. She was scanning the crowd when the tall stranger approached from behind and greeted her. Hardly glancing in his direction, Kaela replied with a polite hello. She regretted it a second later when he said in a wheedling nasal voice: “Excuse me, but haven't we met before?”
She turned her full attention toward the man, thinking that he looked like a husky version of - what was that singer's name?
“No,” she said with a mixture of amusement and scorn. "Never?”
“I thought you'd forgiven me for missing our dinner date in Istanbul.” The voice had dropped several octaves.
Kaela gave him a hard look, especially the broad shoulders. “Good Lord! I didn't recognize you.”
“They don't call me the Man of a Thousand Faces for nothing,” Austin said, with a devilish smile, He spread his arms wide, “Is this what the well-dressed tabloid TV journalist wears?”
Austin wore black slacks, matching T-shirt and sports jacket and seventies-era Ray-Ban sunglasses, even though it was night, and scuffed New Balance running shoes, He wore a gold neck chain, and his silvery-gray hair was hidden under a dark brown wig.
“You look like a Hollywood undertaker,” Kaela said, “I especially like the wild hairpiece.” She squinted. “What did you do to your face?”
“Putty. A necessary evil in the age of face recognition technology.”
Kaela raised an eyebrow, suddenly remembering the name. “The only one they're likely to match you with is Roy Orbison.”
“I'll remember that in case someone wants my autograph. Now that I've passed inspection, how are you?”
“I'm fine, Kurt. It's good to see you again.”
“I'm hoping after business hours we can pick up where we left off.”
“I'd like that,” she said, with a flirtatious tilt of her head. “I'd like that very much.”
Kaela wore a taupe pantsuit whose silky folds emphasized the curves of her body. Austin found himself being drawn in again by her exotic looks. With great effort, he put a lid on his amorous thoughts. For now, anyway.
“Then it's a date. Cocktails at the Ritz Bar.” He looked around at the milling crowds of men and women dressed for the black-tie affair. “Ready to crash the party?”
Kaela hung a plastic laminated ill card around his neck. “From now on, you're Hank Simpson, our sound man. It should be easy to fake, Dundee's job was mostly hauling equipment around and holding a mike boom. I'll help you set up. Mickey is going to meet us at the press boat. Just grab those cases and play dumb.”
“Dumb I can do,” Austin said. Snatching up the heavy metal suitcases as if they were feathers, he followed Kaela to a section of the pier where a PRESS sign had been nailed onto a piling. An open launch was coming in to pick up the next load of journalists.
The short, stocky figure of Mickey Lombardo came trotting over with a steadi-cam on his shoulder. “I got some great shots of the Kennedys.” He recognized Austin despite his disguise. “Hey, it's our guardian angel,” he said, with a grin. “Good to see you again, pal.”
Austin held his finger up to his lips and glanced around.
“Oh, yeah, I forgot,” Lombardo said, lowering his voice to a stage whisper. “By the way, I like your taste in clothes.” Like Austin, Mickey himself was dressed almost all in black.
“If anybody asks, tell them we're the Blues Brothers,” Austin suggested.
“Hate to interrupt your reunion, boys, but our ride is here,” Kaela said.
Austin picked up the sound-equipment cases and loaded them into the launch. The seats in the boat were set up in rows like a bus. Kaela sat between her two crewmen. Within minutes, the boat was filled with a diverse group made up of print journalists uncomfortable in their rented tuxes and blow-dried TV anchorpersons, each with an entourage of fawning assistants. The launch swung away from the pier and sped across the harbor, its place taken by another shuttle.
The arrival of Razov's yacht had attracted press coverage from allover the East Coast. The general public had learned for the first time of Razov's wealth and political ambitions, and his intention to open a billion-dollar trade center in Boston. But it was the physical manifestation of that incredible wealth, his huge and luxurious yacht, that invited the most interest.
The Kazachestvo was the biggest thing to hit Boston since the Tall Ships. Circling TV helicopters followed her entrance into the harbor and beamed aerial pictures around the world. An escort of fire-fighting boats sent fountains of water arcing into the sky. Hundreds of pleasure craft nudged closer, only to be shooed away by the Coast Guard patrols.
When the yacht dropped anchor, it was greeted by boatloads of politicians, bureaucrats and businesspeople. But only the most important and influential guests were invited to the gala reception in the evening.
The Ataman ship was allowed to anchor between Logan Airport and the Boston waterfront, so guests arriving by plane could be shuttled to the party. The yacht blazed from one end to the other with colored lights that lit up the harbor. To celebrate the gala event, the local congressional delegation had persuaded the Navy Department to move the frigate U.S.S. Constitution, “Old lronsides,” from her home at the Charlestown Navy Yard for a rare nighttime harbor excursion.
The old fighting ship normally left her pier only once a year, when she was turned around so that her sides weathered evenly. The annual turnaround cruise was done with the help of tugboats. But in recent years, after an extensive overhaul that had restored some of the original 1794 construction design, the ship had been taken for short cruises under sail for special occasions. Austin overheard one of the TV people say the frigate was scheduled to do a sail-by under its own power. A detachment of Marines and a gun crew were on board to fire off a cannon salute.
As the launch drew closer, Austin turned his attention to the yacht. It was as Gamay's photos showed, with a sharp V-shaped bow, concave stem and streamlined superstructure. He recognized the FastShip design that would allow Razov to move his headquarters and home anywhere there was water within days. The launch took its place in line behind several others, corning alongside the ship to a door on the side of the hull. Crewmen leaned from the opening and helped passengers out of the shuttle boats. The guests were passed
on to official greeters, who barely glanced at their press credentials and sent them toward a stairway. Austin noted with perverse amusement that the TV anchors looked as if they had stood in front of a fan after the trip in the open boat.
With Kaela leading, Austin and Lombardo lugged their equipment to the main deck, which resembled a high-class block party. The press representatives passed through a gauntlet of young men and women, all dressed maroon blazers, who looked as if they had been hired through central casting. They were handed press kits, novelty key chains in the shape of Russian wolfhounds and magnets with the Ataman logo on them. Thus loaded down, they were guided to a roped-off section in the fantail.
A handsome young man whose blazer had a crest on it, indicating rank, welcomed them to the reception. He said interviews were being set up in the media center with the governor and the mayor. Mr. Razov would be giving no interviews, but would make a statement shortly. Knowing that free food and drink are the most persuasive bribes for favorable publicity, he directed them to the salon.
While the other press people stampeded toward the open bar, Austin and his crew set up their equipment near a rank of microphones and floodlights. When their work was finished, he took Kaela by her slim arm. "Shall we join the other muckety-mucks?”
“In a minute,” she said. She guided him to the rail, where there was a view of the Boston skyline, the Customs House and the Prudential and Hancock towers. Her soft features were set in a grave expression. “Before we go in, I want to ask you something. You were determined to get on board this boat. Does Razov have anything to do with the Black Sea sub base or those thugs who attacked us?”