Approaching a companionway to the bridge, they hesitated. A body blocked the doorway, that of a young man in dark fatigues whose hair was sheared in a short buzz cut. In its frozen state of death, his face expressed a mixture of confusion and agony, his open blue eyes searching for reason. His stiff hands cradled an AK-47.
“He was fighting off somebody.” Pitt toed the deck near a handful of spent shell casings.
Giordino played a flashlight on the body. “No visible cause of death.”
They stepped over the body and into the companionway, which they climbed to the bridge on the fifth level. There they found another macabre scene. An armed man in fatigues sprawled beside a crewman near the helm. An older, bearded man, likely the captain, had collapsed near a chart table. Giordino checked for signs of life, but bulging eyes, blue skin, and contorted mouths signified a quick but painful end.
“No external wounds, just like the guy downstairs,” Giordino said.
Pitt noticed a smell of sulfur and opened a bridge window. “Possible gas leak. Why don’t you check the crew’s quarters for survivors? I’ll let the Macedonia know what we’ve found, then see about getting this floating coffin under way.”
Giordino moved down to the companionway to the living quarters beneath the bridge. Pitt relayed a report to Stenseth, then engaged the freighter’s engines and turned on a course toward Istanbul, accompanied by the Macedonia.
The freighter slowly gathered speed, plowing through an endless line of high swells as it angled south. Pitt was checking for approaching traffic when a small explosion reverberated from the stern. He turned to see a fountain of white water erupt outboard of the port flank. The freighter shuddered as red lights flashed on the helm console.
“What was that?” Giordino’s voice crackled over the handheld radio.
“Explosion on the stern.”
“Somebody trying to scuttle her?”
“Could be.”
Pitt studied a navigation monitor. The nearest land was eight miles. He altered course, hopeful he might run the ship aground if necessary. Additional red lights on the console told him they wouldn’t make it. Some papers slid off a corner workstation, confirming the growing list he felt beneath his feet.
“The ship is flooding,” he radioed to Giordino. “How are you making out?”
“Two crewmen dead in their bunks. I think there’s another suite of cabins to check in the deck below.”
Pitt detected something out of the corner of his eye. To his side, a closed-circuit video monitor displayed live feeds from the bow, stern, and engine room. He had seen some sort of movement in the engine room. Looking closer, he could just distinguish a prone figure at the rear of the image.
“Al, finish up and meet me on deck in five minutes. I’m going to check the engine room.”
The helm console was ablaze with flashing lights as the flooding crept through the freighter’s lower recesses. The bow had already begun rising toward the sky as the stern sank lower. Pitt glanced at the distant lights onshore, then ran from the bridge. He reached the main deck and descended a companionway to the engine room.
Pitt found the floor of the engine bay awash, but the power plants continued to churn with a deafening roar. Through flickering lights, he spotted a figure stretched out on a gray case behind a generator. Pitt waded over to find a young crewman in oil-stained coveralls, his feet dangling in the rising water. His face had a bluish tint as he stared at Pitt through listless eyes, then blinked.
“Hang on,” Pitt said. “I’ll get you out of here.”
He hooked an arm around the stricken man, raised him to his feet, and muscled him up the steps. Pitt glanced around for additional survivors, but the bay was empty. He struggled up the steps with his load, a journey made harder by the ship’s list. They reached a hatch door, which Pitt kicked open as a generator below them sizzled to a halt from the rising waters.
Giordino stood near the rail and rushed over to help. “This baby’s about to go under. The Macedonia is ordering us to evacuate right away.”
They were briefly blinded by a powerful searchlight from the NUMA ship that swept over the angled deck. Pitt glanced aft. Waves were washing over the stern rail. Metallic creaks and groans filled the air, along with sporadic crashes from shifting cargo. The freighter had only seconds left afloat.
Pitt and Giordino dragged the crewman across to the accommodations ladder. The freighter’s steep list had raised the stairway to a nearly horizontal angle. Giordino descended first, supporting the engineer over his shoulder as Pitt lowered the injured man by the collar. Alongside them, the freighter shuddered as it fought to stay afloat.
“We’ve got a problem,” Giordino said.
Pitt stared at the Zodiac. Partially submerged, the inflatable was standing on end in the water. As the ship settled, the lower section of the accommodations ladder had dropped underwater. The attached bow line had pulled the Zodiac down with it, leaving it bobbing upright like a cork in the water.
The freighter lurched again, its bow shooting skyward as its stern began sliding into the sea. They could simply wait a few seconds and step off into the water, but they would face the risk of being pulled under by the suction from the sinking ship. Even if they managed to swim free, there was a good chance the semiconscious engineer would drown.
“Take him and grab hold of the Zodiac,” Pitt yelled. Then he stepped off the ladder and dove into the sea.
Pitt struck the surface alongside the upright mass of the Zodiac, the cold water prickling his skin. As he kicked downward, he felt along the inflatable’s fiberglass hull. The Zodiac suddenly jerked away from him as the freighter began its final plunge. Pitt kicked hard to keep up, pulling himself along the inflatable’s surface wherever he could find a grip. In the dark water, he reached out and felt its pointed prow. Grabbing hold, he pulled himself forward while groping with his other hand for the bow line.
The rope was tightly secured in the Zodiac’s interior, so his only chance for a quick release was to free it from the ship’s ladder. He pulled himself hand over hand against the rush of water, a flurry of bubbles obscuring the minimal visibility. The growing water pressure squeezed his ears and lungs as he willed himself down the line. His outstretched hand finally banged against the platform and he grasped the cleat that held the line. The rope was pulled taut by the pressure, but he found the end and began working it loose. With a hard tug, the line broke free.
The accommodations ladder smacked his side as the Zodiac began to shoot toward the surface. Pitt nearly lost his breath but clung tightly to the line. With the freighter continuing to slide past him, he had no sense of ascending until his ears popped. A second later, he was flung above the waves by the momentum of the surfacing inflatable. He regained his bearings and swam to the side of the Zodiac. A waterlogged Al Giordino reached over the side and helped hoist him aboard. He grinned at Pitt. “I’m glad you didn’t wait to hit bottom before releasing the line.”
Pitt forced an exhausted smile. “I wanted to give you your money’s worth. How’s our friend?”
“If you understand Russian, he can tell you himself. He swallowed a bit of seawater during our thrill ride but actually seems better for it after a bit of retching.”
The crewman sat on the floor of the Zodiac, clinging to a bench seat. Though his skin was pale, his eyes appeared steady, and he breathed easily. He glanced up at Pitt and nodded.
Around them, a collection of flotsam coated the water. A motor sounded nearby and a second Zodiac from the Macedonia raced over and towed the battered inflatable back to the research ship. The freighter’s crewman was rushed to sick bay while Pitt and Giordino climbed to the bridge.
Captain Stenseth greeted them with mugs of hot coffee. “You boys cut your exit a little close there.”
Giordino savored the warm brew. “It being a nice night for a midnight swim, we opted for a
dip.”
“Only one survivor?”
“Afraid so,” Pitt said. “The other crewmen showed no signs of injury. Looks to be a possible chemical or gas leak.”
“Something to do with that blast?”
“I’m not sure,” Pitt said. “It occurred well aft of the cargo holds.”
“She didn’t look old enough to be a candidate for an insurance policy scuttling,” Giordino said. “That leaves an accident or an aborted hijacking.”
They were interrupted by a call from an approaching Turkish Coast Guard helicopter.
Stenseth turned to Chavez. “Tell them the Crimean Star has gone down and that we’re at the site of the sinking. We’ll welcome their assistance in searching for survivors.”
The thumping drone of the search and rescue chopper sounded a moment later. Pitt and Giordino stepped to the bridge wing as it surveyed the freighter’s small field of floating debris. Its bright searchlight narrowed on a pair of drifting bodies.
Giordino shook his head. “All of her crew gone but one.”
Staring at the roiling sea, Pitt nodded. “A death ship that took her secrets with her. At least for now.”
3
“Do you want the last banitsa?”
Ana Belova looked at the grease-stained bag thrust in her direction and shook her head. “No thanks. Even if I wanted a midnight snack, I prefer to keep my arteries unblocked.”
Her partner, an easygoing man named Petar Ralin, slipped a hand into the bag on the car seat between them, fished out the apple-filled pastry, and stuffed it into his mouth. The Bulgarian lawman never seemed to travel without a bag of bread or sweets, Ana thought, yet kept a lean figure despite it.
He brushed a crumb from his shirt. “Looks like the directorate’s informant is a bust. There hasn’t been a truck through this crossing in two hours.”
Ana peered out the windshield of their gray Škoda sedan at the Malko Tarnovo border station. The smallest of a handful of crossing points between Turkey and Bulgaria, the station catered to light car and tourist traffic traveling near the Black Sea coastline. The rugged woodlands of Strandzha Nature Park dominated the Bulgarian side of the border, while a sparse rural landscape spread across the Turkish territory.
Parked on Turkish soil less than fifty meters from the border, Ana watched as a young man on a motorcycle approached the checkpoint. As he cleared the crossing, she could see he carried a small pig in a crate attached to the rear fender.
“Late-night barbecue fix?” Ralin asked.
“You mean early-morning.” Ana suppressed a yawn. “I guess we’ve wasted enough time and downed enough banitsas to call it a night.”
“Hold on. There’s another vehicle coming.”
A dim spray of yellow light bounced across a hillside, morphing into a pair of headlight beams as it drew closer. The vehicle pulled to a stop at the checkpoint. It was a battered stake-bed truck with a canvas top over its cargo area. A muddy black-on-white license plate revealed its Turkish registry.
“Why don’t you make sure the border guard is awake while I check the plate number,” Ana said.
Ralin stuffed the last bite of pastry into his mouth then ambled toward the idling truck. Ana aimed binoculars at the truck and jotted down its license number. She traded the binoculars for a laptop computer and was typing in the number when she heard a sharp yell.
The truck was pulling forward, its engine revving. The border guard was stepping back into his office, having failed to examine the truck or even hold it up for Ralin’s inspection, as they had agreed. Ana was too far away to see the fold of currency that bulged in the guard’s shirt pocket.
Ralin had yelled, commanding the vehicle to stop. With his left arm outstretched like a traffic cop, he fumbled for his service weapon. Instead of stopping, the truck’s driver accelerated toward Ralin. The police agent had to dive out of the way to avoid getting flattened. The truck’s fender clipped his legs, sending him sprawling.
Ana clambered into the driver’s seat of the Škoda and cranked the ignition. Jamming the stick shift into first, she hit the gas, cursing as the truck rumbled past before she could block it. She hesitated a moment, looking to Ralin. The agent was clutching his ankle, but he turned and waved at her to proceed without him.
The Škoda’s tires squealed as she turned the wheel and floored the gas. The truck hadn’t traveled far, and she caught up to it in seconds. Watching the cargo cover ripple, she prayed the truck bed wasn’t filled with armed thugs. Instead, as the truck passed a streetlamp, she glimpsed a mound of watermelons under the cover. But the man behind the wheel was driving like no farmer.
The truck barreled down a winding hill and into the center of Malko Tarnovo, a dusty Bulgarian farm town twenty-five miles inland from the Black Sea. Beyond lay an expanse of dark, rolling hills that stretched for a dozen miles to the next village. The open terrain was not the place Ana would want to apprehend the truck’s occupants single-handedly. Pressing the accelerator, she tried to pull alongside. The truck’s driver caught the move and jerked to the side, closing the gap. Ana had to jam the brakes to avoid a parked car as the truck held to the center line. There was no way she could pass.
Ana pictured the town’s layout, recalling a main street that ran through the center of Malko Tarnovo and two parallel paved roads that stretched for about eight blocks. Initially approaching a side street, Ana braked again and turned the car left. She sped to the next block and turned right, running parallel to the main road. She gunned the engine and shifted hard, racing down the street and sending the sedan airborne with every bump.
The Škoda quickly ate up five blocks as Ana fumbled to click her seat belt as she drove. She veered right at the last side street, sending the tail of the car into a pair of trash cans as she slid through the corner. Sleepy residents peered out their windows at the streaking gray car whose engine sounded ready to explode.
As Ana approached the main street, the lights of the truck merged from her right. She was slightly ahead, but not far enough to allow a safe turn in front of it. Gauging the distance, Ana held down the gas a second more, then stomped on the brakes. As the car bucked under the antilock brakes, she nudged the steering wheel to the left.
The car pivoted slightly before making contact, the right side of its bumper slamming into the truck’s left front wheel well. The bang rattled windows up and down the street. The Škoda’s hood vanished under the mass of the truck, which skidded to the curb after its front wheel was decapitated. Under the force of the truck’s momentum, both vehicles slid forward until hopping a curb and striking a lamppost.
Acrid smoke filled the truck’s cabin as its driver tried to shake off the impact. “Josef?” he called to his partner, who lay motionless across the dashboard, unconscious or dead. The driver didn’t bother to check. He wedged his crumpled door open and fell to the street, intending to flee. He glanced at the shattered Škoda. A flattened air bag lay across the steering wheel, but no sign of a driver. He turned—and stepped into the barrel of a SIG Sauer P228 automatic pistol.
With air bag bruises on her face and breathing rapidly, Ana stood with her arms outstretched, pressing the gun into the driver’s cheek.
“On your knees. Hands on your head,” she said in a deep voice, trying to mask her own state of shock. The stunned driver readily obeyed.
Less than a minute later, Ralin and a border agent roared up in a state vehicle. Ralin hopped out of the car with a limp while drawing his gun on the truck driver. “You all right?”
Ana nodded and watched as Ralin handcuffed the driver and threw him in the back of the car.
The border agent checked on the truck’s passenger and returned shaking his head. “The other one’s dead.”
Ralin put his arm around Ana as she sagged and holstered her weapon.
“After he hit you, I just reacted.” She shook her head. “I didn’t wa
nt him to get away.”
“You succeeded.” Ralin glanced at the demolished Škoda and smiled. “But I’m not sure the department head will appreciate your sacrificing a new agency sedan for a load of watermelons.”
“Watermelons,” Ana muttered. She climbed into the back of the truck and began tossing the melons aside. Her arms were aching by the time she burrowed to the bottom of the truck bed and uncovered a trio of long wooden crates.
Ralin helped drag one of them onto the street. He found a tire jack and used it to pry open the crate. Inside was a neatly stacked row of Albanian-made AK-47 assault rifles bound for the black market. “Just as advertised,” Ralin said. “Score one for our paid informant.”
“I guess his payment will be a reduced jail term,” she said. “Not our biggest arms bust, but, hopefully, we saved a few innocent lives somewhere.”
“And gained the department enough positive publicity to replace our car.”
Within the hour, a contingent of local and state police arrived to arrest the smuggler and seize the evidence. Ana rested in the border agent’s vehicle, fighting to stay awake after the rush of the chase had passed. At dawn, tow trucks arrived to remove the wrecked vehicles.
Ralin stuck his head into the open car window. “Ana, I just received a call from headquarters in Sofia. Looks like we’re wanted in Istanbul this afternoon.”
“Can’t it wait? I could use some sleep.”
“Apparently, it’s a high-priority assignment based on some information out of Ukraine.”
“Another arms shipment?”
“I don’t think so. Seems to be something more important.”
She forced a smile. “Then I guess they’ll have to give us a new car.”
“I’m not so sure a car will help us on this assignment.”
“Why’s that? Is it an air shipment? Or a rail transfer?”