“Neither,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s a shipwreck.”
4
A brief drizzle dampened an otherwise temperate afternoon at Istinye Harbor, just north of Istanbul. Walking slowly across the compact marina, Ana and Ralin spotted their quarry, a bright turquoise-hulled oceanographic research ship tied at the largest berth.
A short, burly man hoisting aboard a crate watched as they drew near.
“Is this the Macedonia?” Ana asked in English.
Al Giordino regarded the stranger. Her long, dark hair was pulled back in a bun, exposing a delicate face. She had high Slavic cheekbones, softened by a small nose and mouth. But her radiant blue eyes drew his attention. Giordino could see she possessed a mix of determination and vulnerability.
“You’ve come to the right place,” Giordino said.
“I’m Ana Belova, special investigator with Europol, and this is Lieutenant Petar Ralin from the Bulgarian Organized Crime Directorate. We are investigating the sinking of the Crimean Star.”
Giordino introduced himself. “Europol. Is that an offshoot of Interpol?”
“No, the European Police Office is a law enforcement agency of the European Union. Our primary focus is organized crime and counterterrorism.”
“Come on aboard. I’ll let you talk to the boss.” Giordino guided them to the Macedonia’s wardroom, where Pitt and Captain Stenseth were seated, examining a chart. Giordino made the introductions, and coffee was brought for the investigators before they all sat around a table.
“How can we be of assistance?” Pitt asked. “We already gave a full report to the Turkish Coast Guard.”
Ana felt his deep green eyes look right through her. She was surprised to feel her pulse quicken as she listened to the tall, rugged man. “Our respective agencies have concerns over the loss of the Crimean Star. What can you tell us about her sinking?”
Pitt described the events of the previous night, concluding with the rescue of the assistant engineer.
“Do you think the explosion at the stern was intentional?” Ralin asked.
“I suspect so, but I have no evidence to prove it.” Pitt gazed at the investigators. “Do you mind telling us about your interest in the sinking?”
“The answer is threefold,” Ana said. “First, we’ve learned the Crimean Star was under charter to a Russian firm called Nemco Holdings. Nemco has suspected ties to the Russian Mafia. It’s believed to be involved with smuggling arms to Africa and the Middle East. You didn’t happen to examine the ship’s holds?”
“No, our aboard time was short. Have you obtained the ship’s manifest?”
“Electronic records indicate she was carrying agricultural equipment bound for Alexandria, Egypt.”
“Any chemicals or fertilizers as part of that?” Pitt asked.
“None that were listed. But I can’t say we put full faith in the manifest, given that the ship originated from Sevastopol. Why do you ask?”
“We suspect a chemical leak may have killed the crew.”
“We’ve just come from a visit to Memorial Şişli Hospital, where the engineer was admitted,” Ralin said. “The pathologist said tests on the deceased crewmen indicated that death was caused by a concentrated exposure to hydrogen sulfide gas. He suspects a natural gas leak.”
“We detected the odor when we boarded the vessel,” Giordino said, “but we didn’t identify its origin. Natural gas seems a likely source, but the Crimean Star is a bulk freighter, not a liquefied natural gas carrier.”
“Yes, that is correct,” Ana said. “Our primary concern relates to another fact—the assistant engineer who survived.”
“How’s the young man holding up?” Pitt asked.
“Quite well. His exposure to the hydrogen sulfide was limited, presumably because he was working in the engine room. He is expected to make a full recovery. But the doctors discovered a second condition that is more disconcerting. It seems the engineer tested positive for trace levels of radioactivity.”
“Radioactivity?” Giordino asked. “Perhaps he worked on a nuclear-powered ship before crewing aboard the Crimean Star.”
“We explored that possibility, and a few others, but he has no history of working around radioactive materials or near nuclear power facilities.”
“You think it was something on the ship?” Pitt asked.
“That is our fear,” Ralin said. “We have information that the Crimean Star may have been used to smuggle radioactive materials for sale on the black market.”
Ana turned to Pitt. “Petar and I are part of a task force assigned to prevent the trafficking of weapons and nuclear materials in the Black Sea region.”
“There’s still unaccounted nuclear materials out there?” Giordino asked.
“Regrettably so,” Ana said. “The collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991 brought about a free-for-all in nuclear material smuggling for many years. Stronger controls today have reduced that considerably, but there is still an alarming black market demand—much of it related to materials that were stolen years ago. You may be surprised to learn there are still over a dozen arrests each year in the Black Sea region related to nuclear smuggling. The spread of nuclear materials remains a very dangerous risk, especially with the rise of extremism in the Middle East.”
“I suspect war-torn Ukraine hasn’t helped matters any,” Pitt said.
“You are correct. That’s what has us concerned about the Crimean Star. Europol has been searching for a container of highly enriched uranium that disappeared from the Sevastopol Institute of Nuclear Energy during the Russian invasion of Crimea. Intelligence believes it is being transported to Syria, and we suspect the Crimean Star was the carrier.”
Pitt nodded. “Which explains the assistant engineer’s radiation exposure.”
“Remote as it may be, it is a possibility we must explore. If the uranium was stored in the engine room or near his cabin, it might account for his trace readings.”
“What’s the significance of this uranium being highly enriched?” Giordino asked.
“HEU, as it is called, is uranium that has undergone isotope separation to increase its content of U-235. It is the form of uranium used in the most powerful nuclear devices, be it power plants or missiles and bombs.”
“So the question,” Pitt said, “is whether the Crimean Star was intentionally sunk for someone to acquire the HEU?”
“We’ve obviously strolled down a path of multiple assumptions,” Ralin said, “but the circumstantial evidence is compelling.”
“I think you’ve got plenty of reasons to be concerned.”
“Mr. Pitt,” Ana said, “can you tell us the purpose of your visit to the region?”
“NUMA was invited by the Bulgarian Ministry of Culture to participate in the search for a late-Ottoman-era shipwreck that sank off the Bulgarian coast in the eighteenth century.”
Ana glanced at Ralin, then turned to Pitt. “Would you consider delaying the start of your project for a day or so to lend us some assistance?”
“What did you have in mind?”
“I’d like you to find out if there is highly enriched uranium on the Crimean Star.”
“If it was ever on the ship,” Pitt said, “it may have already been removed by those who sank her.”
“A distinct possibility,” Ralin said. “We’d like to believe your arrival disrupted those plans.”
“Why not use local resources?” Pitt asked. “The Turkish Navy surely has the capability.”
“The Turkish Navy can indeed help, but not for another week,” Ana said. “Turkey is not a part of the European Union, so our authority here is less respected. If the HEU is still aboard, it won’t be for long. There are search and rescue teams still on-site, but their efforts will be called off at dusk. We’d like the ship examined as soon as possible.” Her blue eyes met Pitt’s. “Could y
ou return to the site and survey the vessel for us?”
Pitt turned to Giordino and Stenseth. “We’re already a day late. The Crimean Star site is almost on our way. And our Ottoman wreck isn’t going anywhere. I think we can delay our historical hunt a bit longer.” He turned to Ana. “Besides, we could always use a friend at Europol.”
A relieved look crossed the faces of Ana and Ralin. She reached across the table and clasped Pitt’s hand.
“You now have one.”
5
The unmanned aerial vehicle banked in a lazy arc, its long, slender wings buoyed by a stiff easterly breeze. Dual high-resolution video cameras on the fuselage scanned the earth a full mile wide along its flight path. In seconds, the onboard computers registered a small airfield dead ahead, surrounded by a patchwork of green alfalfa fields.
The drone’s operator watched the video feed on a large monitor. The cameras focused on a handful of military transport planes parked near a hangar, then zeroed in on a large black automobile. With the flick of a command, the image was magnified, revealing a Russian-made ZiL limousine, with two uniformed occupants in the backseat.
The operator activated a target sensor, superimposing a flashing red circle with crosshairs over the image of the car. A heavyset man in a blue suit standing beside the operator studied the monitor, then commanded, “Fire.”
The crosshairs turned green and a buzzing sounded from the computer.
The man in the suit turned from the operator and shouted toward the ZiL, parked a few yards away. “General, I regret to inform you that both you and the major were just vaporized by an air-launched missile.” The man’s voice held a clear note of satisfaction.
The Russian Air Force general, an older, sallow man named Zakharin, climbed out of the car and began scanning the gray overcast skies. He saw and heard nothing.
“It’s to the south, General.”
The Russian spun on his heels and squinted southward. A few seconds later, the slate-colored drone came into view, swooping to a landing on the runway and rolling to a stop alongside the limo. Fractionally longer than the car, the drone featured a sleek, twin-fuselage design that faintly resembled a catamaran with wings.
“It is nearly silent,” Zakharin remarked, stepping over to take a closer look.
“That was one of the design drivers for the Peregrine,” Martin Hendriks said. A plump-faced Dutchman with dark red hair and a crisp, authoritarian voice, Hendriks gazed at his creation with pride and resignation. His Armani suit and erect posture advertised his success, but his deep blue eyes betrayed a sad intelligence. Eyes that had once known mirth now were vacantly sober.
“The Americans’ Predator and Reaper drones are larger and more heavily armed,” Hendriks said, “but they are relatively loud and easily visible with radar. That’s fine for fighting guerrilla fighters on horseback in Afghanistan, but not so effective against a technologically advanced opponent.” He pointed to the drone’s sharply angled wings and fuselage. “Please notice the Peregrine’s profile. Its shape is designed to deflect radar signals, while its surface is coated with RF-absorbent materials. That enables her to fly nearly invisible to both ground observers and radar.”
Zakharin placed his hand on the drone’s surface, finding it rubbery. “Not unlike the surface material on our new fighter jet,” he said. “How did you make it so quiet?”
Hendriks pointed to the twin fuselage nacelles, which had large oval scoops at either end. “The Peregrine is powered by dual electric-pulse jet turbofans, which act as mini jet engines. They produce sound vibration at takeoff, but once the craft has reached operating altitude, they are virtually silent. The electric motors and onboard electronics are powered by hydrogen fuel cells, supplemented by solar panels in the wings. Once airborne, the Peregrine can stay aloft for two weeks—even longer under sunny conditions. That compares to half a day for the American drones.” Hendriks smiled. “And that’s only what we’ve achieved with this prototype. We expect further advances in energy storage and avionics to expand that range.”
The general nodded. “There is no substitute for stealth and endurance. Tell me about the armament.”
“Peregrine has a flexible weapons rack, capable of multiple air-to-surface missiles or even conventional ordnance. It was designed with NATO weaponry in mind, but is easily capable of modification. Name your desired weapon, General, and we’ll make it operational.”
“I see. Come, Martin, let us escape the wind and discuss it over a drink.”
Zakharin led Hendriks into a borrowed office in the hangar, where a bottle of Stolichnaya was waiting with two glasses. The Russian filled each glass, then toasted his guest.
Hendriks fired down half a glass and took a seat in a frayed leather chair. “So, what is your opinion of the Peregrine?” Hendriks asked, knowing the general had poorly concealed his interest.
Zakharin drained his vodka like he was drinking water and refilled both glasses. “It could be a useful tool in the aggravated regions near our border. Perhaps even Ukraine. I could foresee the Air Force fielding a small squadron. But I must caution you that our own research services are close to completing a Russian drone.”
“Your Altius drone is a fat, inferior copycat of the Americans’ Reaper vehicle.” Hendriks cracked a rare smile. “It failed its initial flight testing and is months behind schedule.”
Zakharin raised an eyebrow. “It seems you are well informed,” he said, knowing he had just lost any negotiating leverage. “Your Peregrine might indeed fill a temporary void in our reconnaissance needs. But I am aware of a business concern.”
Hendriks forced a startled look. “What could that be?”
“It is my understanding that you have recently sold your avionics company. At a price of several billion dollars, if the press is accurate.”
Hendriks stared at the linoleum floor and nodded. “Yes, I recently sold my avionics company, and I also divested my other business interests.” He unconsciously dipped a hand into his side jacket pocket, his fingers probing for a small metallic object.
“Starting a new chapter in life?”
Hendriks said nothing. Hidden in his coat pocket, his fingers pressed against the sharp metal until they trembled.
“Though you appear a bit young for retirement,” the general said, “I believe one should enjoy the spoils of their work while they can. I offer my congratulations. But my point is this. My government has procured avionics equipment from you for many years. I would not feel comfortable purchasing the Peregrine from new owners. And, of course, there is the question of the legality of obtaining this technology.”
“I own the Peregrine design personally, with royalty rights for the next three years,” Hendriks said. “A retirement gift from the company, you might say. So you would still be doing business with me.”
“And your government? The European Union will not allow the export of such an item to Russia at this time.”
“Not in this form,” Hendriks admitted. “But it is easy enough to circumvent. We piecemeal the parts to you from sources in different countries, and the final assembly can happen here. I’ll even send a team to do it for you.”
Zakharin considered the response and nodded. “Yes, that may be feasible. But I am curious to know why you are not selling the Peregrine to the NATO countries.”
Hendriks’s fingers again went to work on the object in his pocket. “Simple economics. The Americans’ product will limit my sales to NATO. I believe that I can sell more to you.”
“I can make no guarantees.”
“I am not here to ask for any. But there is one other item I hope you may consider. I would be able to offer you a personal commission of five percent on every Peregrine sold to the Russian government.”
Hendriks knew Zakharin had achieved his rank by cronyism, not skill. In the Russian hierarchy, the higher up the chain of command one traveled, the
more corruption blossomed. With no surprise, he saw Zakharin’s eyes widen in anticipation.
“What is the selling price?” Zakharin asked.
“The first lot will be twelve million euros each. Less with a quantity purchase. Your commission would be payable in your choice of currency and banking locale.”
“I will discuss it with the Procurement Directorate at once. I am positive we will be able to arrange at least a minimum purchase.” Zakharin eyed the vodka bottle for a celebratory shot.
“Excellent,” Hendriks said with little emotion. “I have an additional request, if I might. It would be a great honor to arrange for the president a demonstration similar to today’s.”
“President Vashenko?” Zakharin gazed at the ceiling. “It would be very difficult to arrange. But he does appreciate modern technology and might enjoy a viewing. Still, my influence is limited, as I am just a lowly military man.”
“I understand. Nevertheless, I would enjoy showing him the Peregrine’s capabilities.” He winked. “It might increase the quantity purchased.”
“Yes, I can see the wisdom in such a demonstration. I will do what I can.” The general looked at his watch. “Well, Martin, I hope that we have the chance to continue our friendship. I was just a captain when you began selling digital aeronautical instruments to Aeroflot many years ago. Since that time, we have had a mutually beneficial relationship.”
“Agreed,” Hendriks said, recalling that Zakharin’s vacation dacha near Sochi was at least partially funded by bribes from his company. “You know, General, I am aware of an external business opportunity that might be of interest to you.” He paused to let the Russian take the bait.
“Yes, please tell me more,” Zakharin said, before downing his third glass of vodka.
“I was recently in Paris and ran into some old colleagues. One has recently brokered a deal for the acquisition of a pair of French attack helicopters in Senegal for the president’s security force. But they were unable to acquire armament for the craft and are seeking to purchase a dozen light air-to-surface missiles. I was told your Vikhr laser-guided missiles would fit the bill quite nicely.”