“You think the gold is still sitting in this bank?”
“It’s possible. Bainbridge says there is some logic in the British having placed it in a private institution rather than the Bank of England. He called it ‘plausible deniability.’”
“How do we find out?”
“I just called our embassy in Madrid. They’ll have a diplomat here in the morning with a formal requisition.”
“It might be a bit embarrassing for you if it isn’t there.”
“Agreed. That’s why we’re going to pay them a visit now and find out.”
“Now?”
“There’s no time like the present.”
“We better not take a cab. How far is it?”
“Less than a kilometer. The bank is located on an oddly named street. Lime Kiln Steps.”
The former Anglo-Egyptian Bank Building was a neoclassic structure with a façade of tall doric columns and a high-pitched roof, which disguised its modest interior size. Located near the site of an eighteenth-century kiln that produced quicklime for mortar, the rear of the structure backed against a rising incline of the Rock.
Mansfield stopped in front of the building, noting the year 1888 engraved on the cornerstone. A plastic BARCLAYS sign hung over the front pediment, covering the stone-carved letters AEB.
Mansfield wore dark glasses and Martina was concealed under a hat and scarf when they stepped into the marble-floored lobby and approached an information desk. Mansfield looked past a row of cashiers’ stalls to a large stainless steel vault door. It was built right into the limestone rock.
A woman at the information desk greeted them warmly, but, before they could respond, a man in a dark suit emerged from a side office and rushed over to them. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said in a flustered voice, “but the bank is now closed.”
Mansfield motioned toward some people in line at the cashiers’ windows. “They are being helped.”
“Yes, but they entered before we closed. The door should have been locked a few minutes ago.”
Mansfield glanced at a wall clock, which read four-fifteen.
The man caught his glance. “We close early on Fridays.”
“Are you the bank manager?” Mansfield asked.
“Yes. My name is Finlay. I would be happy to help you tomorrow.”
“That would be fine. For the moment, we would just like to inquire about a gold deposit made with your bank some years ago.”
Finlay gave him a blank look.
“It was a rather large deposit, made in 1917.”
Finlay blinked rapidly, then cleared his throat. “I would be happy to look into it tomorrow. However, I will require documentation regarding the deposit.”
Mansfield had his answer and smiled graciously at the banker. “That will be fine. Shall we say noon?”
“Yes, noon or anytime after will be perfect,” Finlay said. “May I have the name?”
“Romanov.”
The banker turned ghost white but retained enough composure to escort the smiling Russian couple to the door. After watching them walk down the street, he rushed back to his office and closed the door. Circled around his desk were Hawker, Perlmutter, Trehorne, Dirk, and Summer, who had watched the encounter through the office’s smoked-glass window. Finlay nearly collapsed into his desk chair.
“What extraordinary timing.” He tapped his desk calendar, which read July 21. “Entering the bank just on the heels of your arrival.”
“I still say we should have had them arrested on the spot,” Hawker said.
Dirk looked at Finlay. “I think it’s safe to say that they’ll be back tomorrow.”
“It will make for an interesting visit, I should think.” Perlmutter’s eyes sparkled with mirth.
“There will be plenty of security on hand, I can assure you,” Finlay said. “You’ll be back tomorrow as well?”
“Absolutely,” Trehorne said.
Summer smiled. “You did promise us a tour of the Nelson Cave.”
“Yes, I did, didn’t I? Well, I thank you again for your timely visit, and I’ll look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”
The banker escorted the visitors out of the building, then paced the lobby until the last customer had left. He locked the door with a sense of relief, shut himself in his office, and retrieved a dusty bottle of brandy from the back of a cabinet. He poured himself a stiff shot.
A few minutes later, the head teller entered with a computer printout. “Here are the daily transactions, Mr. Finlay. Is there anything else?”
“No. You and the staff may close up and leave.”
As the woman turned to leave, Finlay stopped her. “Miss Oswald? There is one thing. Would you please inform the night watchman that I intend to remain on the premises all night.”
“You’re staying here? In the building?”
“Yes.” He gazed toward the vault. “I don’t believe I would obtain any sleep at home tonight, so my insomnia shall be satisfied here.”
79
As an army of FBI agents descended on Bermuda to join Ana’s Europol investigation, Homeland Security officials increased safety measures around the District of Columbia. Access to federal buildings was carefully scrutinized, while security was elevated at all nearby airports. Spot roadblocks were set up around the District and small boats patrolled the Potomac. At the National Underwater and Marine Agency headquarters, the staff assisted in the search for the atomic bomb using their marine resources database.
Pitt stepped into the fifth-floor computer center, where he found Rudi Gunn, Hiram Yaeger, and Al Giordino seated next to a half-eaten box of donuts that had fueled them since sunrise. He joined them at a curved table that faced a floor to ceiling video screen. The screen was split between a global map showing the location of NUMA research vessels and marine resources and a satellite image of an island chain that Pitt recognized as Bermuda.
Giordino slid the donut box Pitt’s way. “You’re lucky Hiram’s gone gluten-free or they’d be decimated by now.”
Pitt reached into the box. “What do you hear from Homeland Security?”
“Nothing concrete,” Gunn said. “They’re scrambling to investigate every cargo flight from Bermuda to the U.S. in the past week. They’ve reported nothing promising, but they have a lot of catching up to do.”
“What about sea transit?”
“They’ve issued alerts to the commercial port authorities and have tagged a pair of inbound container ships for inspection in New York. The Coast Guard is also initiating random searches of vessels bound for Boston, New York, Philadelphia, and the Chesapeake. Locally, the Coast Guard has established a security zone around Washington in the Potomac and Anacostia Rivers. But Homeland Security analysts seem to believe the bomb was flown out of Bermuda and may in fact have been taken back to Ukraine.”
“That may be a false hope,” Pitt said. “I spoke to Ana earlier. She and her team have grilled as many cargo workers as she could round up at the Bermuda airport. Several were witness to a truck being offloaded a week or two ago with a large covered object on its bed. No one has reported seeing a similar object being shipped out.”
“A bomb of that size would be easier to load onto a ship than a plane,” Giordino said.
“That’s what Ana believes.”
“Does she have any other leads?” Gunn asked.
“She’s trying to track down the Dutch industrialist Martin Hendriks. As soon as she briefs the FBI team that just arrived, she’s headed to Amsterdam.”
“Hendriks would seem to have the funds to support the United Armed Forces of Novorossiya—or whoever is toting the bomb around,” Gunn said.
“Agreed,” Pitt said. “I think we need to take seriously the threat by sea.”
“We’ve been working it, chief,” Yaeger said. He typed into a keyboard, which brought up a data table next to the s
atellite image of Bermuda. “The commercial port authorities in Bermuda have shared reports of all seagoing traffic in and out of the country the past week. This list shows ship name, registered owner, and reported destination.”
Pitt scanned the list. “I count six U.S.-bound ships.”
“We’re tracking them all.” Yaeger pulled up a map of the Eastern seaboard, with four red lights blinking at points in the Atlantic and two lights on the coastline. “One of the ships, a container vessel, has already docked in New York, and the second is due in today. Both will be searched by Homeland Security. A third ship has docked as well, an oil tanker that reached Charleston two days ago.”
“Probably not a prime suspect,” Pitt said.
“We checked some satellite photos of her and there was nothing suspicious on her decks, so we feel the same.”
“That leaves three ships in transit.”
“One is a cruise ship headed to Miami and the other two are freighters due to dock in the next two days. One is bound for Houston, the other Newark. We’ve passed the data to Homeland Security and inspectors will be waiting for all three.”
“Those are all manageable,” Pitt said. “The larger worry is an unregistered ship running silent or a smaller private vessel.”
“That’s what we’ve been focusing on,” Gunn said. “We’re limited to just satellite imagery on that front. Hiram has been busy collecting photos since last night.”
“The satellite coverage over Bermuda is worse than Bulgaria,” Yaeger said, “but I’ve pulled what I could. Unfortunately, there’s quite a few yachts and pleasure crafts visiting Bermuda this time of year. To make it manageable, I’ve dispensed with any craft under thirty feet.”
Yaeger instructed the computer to sort and scan the downloaded images, restricted to those taken of vessels in the waters west of Bermuda. The supercomputer quickly reviewed, matched, and collated the images, presenting Yaeger with a long list.
“There’s about forty,” he said. “No easy way around it, we need to take a look at them one by one.”
The group began poring over the images, noting size, type, and apparent destination of each craft. Many vessels were eliminated as pleasure boats incapable of transporting the bomb.
Gunn kept a running tally. “We’re down to a very large sailing boat that’s close to Boston and two luxury yachts aimed for Miami. Are there any other possibilities?”
“There’s one more on the list,” Yaeger said. “Visible westbound from Bermuda three days ago.”
He pulled up a satellite photo of a white speck off the Bermuda coastline. He zoomed in until it filled the screen. It was actually two vessels: an orange and white tug pulling a barge. Pitt noticed the tug was distinguished by an extended open rear deck. The picture was crisp enough to show its long hawser, secured to a trio of bollards on the enclosed barge, which was small and painted black.
Giordino stared at it and whistled. “That certainly has potential.”
As he had with the photos of the other vessels, Yaeger scanned the image and instructed the computer to search for additional matches near the U.S. A minute later, two more images popped onto the screen.
“The first was taken early yesterday morning—at six, local time,” Yaeger said. The tug and barge were visible somewhere in the middle of the ocean. Yaeger adjusted the scale to see their position relative to the East Coast. “She looks to be traveling northwest about a hundred miles off the coast of North Carolina.”
“Likely heading for Chesapeake Bay.” Pitt leaned forward in his chair. “Where does the most recent image place her?”
Yaeger enlarged the second photo. “Just snagged this one.” He noted the time marker. “Five-thirty this morning.”
The two vessels appeared in an inland waterway. Yaeger zoomed out, revealing a western tributary of the Chesapeake, the vessels sailing north. At the top of the image, they saw an all too familiar bend in the river.
“They’re in the Potomac,” Giordino said.
“The Coast Guard has a patrol boat on watch north of Quantico,” Gunn said. “They should pick it up as it comes closer to D.C.”
“Let them know to target it,” Pitt said. “Then alert Homeland Security to throw everything they have at it.” He studied the image. “They’re only twenty or thirty miles out by now. What do we have available at Reagan National?”
“There’s a Robinson R44 in the NUMA hangar,” Gunn said.
“Get it fueled and ready.”
“I’m not sure we have any pilots on standby.”
Pitt nodded at Giordino before replying to Gunn.
“You’re looking at ’em.”
80
Pitt and Giordino were out the door before Gunn could start punching numbers on the telephone. They raced through post-morning rush hour traffic and reached Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport, just south of the NUMA building, within minutes. Pitt sped past his home, a converted hangar on a remote section of the grounds, and headed to the private aviation terminal. A bright turquoise helicopter was already idling in front of the NUMA hangar. A waiting flight crew passed off the chopper and they were in the air minutes later, with Pitt at the controls.
He guided the Robinson R44 over the Potomac and followed the river south, scanning ahead for the tug and barge. Near Mount Vernon, they passed a pair of Coast Guard fast-response boats speeding downriver. The helicopter flew over the Mason Neck peninsula a few miles later and Pitt spotted an orange vessel. “That’s our target.”
As they approached the town of Quantico and its neighboring Marine base, they clearly saw the tug and its trailing barge. A Coast Guard patrol boat was already alongside, guiding the tug toward shore.
“Looks like they’re herding her to the Quantico public marina,” Giordino said.
Pitt circled over the vessels, then backtracked to Quantico. An empty parking lot sided the marina, and Pitt set the helicopter down. He and Giordino were standing at the dock when the tug pulled alongside. The two Coast Guard fast boats arrived seconds later, and the dock was soon teeming with armed men.
“What’s this all about?” cried the tug’s captain, who spoke with a faint British accent. A sweaty man in shorts and a T-shirt, he was marched off the vessel at gunpoint.
Pitt and Giordino climbed aboard the barge as it drifted against the dock and began hoisting open the covered holds. A Coast Guard lieutenant joined them as the first cover was removed and they peered inside.
“Sand,” Giordino said.
The remaining three holds were equally full of fine-grained sand. Pitt jumped into the first hold and probed a few feet down with the handle of a fire ax, but found nothing. He repeated the exercise in the other three holds.
“Anything?” Giordino asked.
Pitt shook his head. He climbed back onto the deck as the lieutenant pointed to the tug.
“The captain claims they’re on a government job to dump sand along the Anacostia River for shoreline refurbishment. We have orders to impound both vessels for a full inspection. We’ll pull out every last grain of sand to make sure there’s nothing hidden below.”
“Thanks, Lieutenant,” Pitt said. “I suspect that’s all you will find.”
He and Giordino stepped to the front of the barge and gazed at the tug docked ahead of them.
“Guess we can call this baby the Wild Goose,” Giordino said, leaning against one of the barge’s twin hawser bitts. “I’m thinking the bomb must have gone east from Bermuda, not west.”
“Maybe,” Pitt said, “but why would somebody haul a barge of sand halfway across the Atlantic?”
“It might have come over empty and they took the sand on somewhere in Virginia.”
Pitt gazed at Giordino, considering the idea, when the answer came to him. “No, Al. This is a different barge. They’ve been switched.”
“How do you know?”
Pitt pointed to the two bollards securing the tow line. “Because you’re sitting on the proof.”
81
Hiram Yaeger confirmed the satellite image of the tug taken the day before showed it pulling a barge with three forward hawser bitts. Detailed analysis also revealed differences in the paint and rust markings between the two barges.
The news set off a full-blown dragnet along the Potomac, with every available Coast Guard and local law enforcement boat and helicopter deployed in the search. Pitt and Giordino aided the cause, flying the Robinson as far south as the Chesapeake before backtracking up the river.
Obtaining permission to land at the Marine Corps Air Facility along the river at Quantico, Pitt brought the chopper down for refueling. As they waited for a fuel truck, they heard a loud underwater explosion from an inlet beyond the airfield. A Marine ground crewman noticed their interest.
“Just some Force Recon boys practicing underwater demolitions,” he said. “The runway’s going to smell like dead fish for the next week now.”
“We’ll make sure not to go for a dip,” Giordino said.
Pitt paced around the helicopter until the fuel truck finally arrived. “We need to expand the search area,” he said. “They could have gone to Norfolk, up the Chesapeake, or maybe even stayed in the Atlantic to hit Philadelphia or New York.”
“That’s a lot of real estate to cover—” Giordino paused to take a call from Gunn at NUMA headquarters.
Pitt oversaw the refueling as another explosion sounded from the inlet. He stepped away from the helicopter and watched a small fountain of water erupt on the far side. The upheaval reminded him of the sinking barge in the Black Sea. Suddenly, it all came together: the connection between the Bosphorus, Sevastopol, and Washington.
“Al, do you still have Rudi on the line?”
Giordino nodded and handed him the phone.
“Rudi, I need you to find out where there are anoxic zones in the waters around here, be it the Potomac, the Chesapeake, or Delaware Bay. A dead zone near a highly populated area might be the actual target.”