“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 batt
ery. 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.”