Текст книги "Fire Ice"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

6

MOSCOW, RUSSIA

WIELDING IRON SELF-CONTROL, Viktor Petrov replaced his telephone in its cradle, tented his fingers and stared into space. After a moment lost in thought, he rose from his desk and went to the window. As he gazed out at the city, letting his eyes linger on the turnip-shaped spires of St. Basil's in the distance, his hand came up and brushed his right cheek. He hardly felt the touch of his fingers through the parchment-like scar tissue that covered the dead nerve endings in his skin. How long had it been? Fifteen years. Strange. After all that time, a single phone call brought back memories of the searing pain.

Petrov watched the crowds of pedestrians swarming in the summer heat and yearned for winter. Like many of his countrymen, he had a poignant attachment to snow. The Russian winter was harsh and unforgiving, but it had protected the country from the armies of Napoleon and Hitler. Petrov's love of snow was more prosaic, as well. Winter covered the city's flaws, hushed its noise and hid its corruption under a white blanket of purity.

He returned to his battered metal desk, the largest object in the small, drab room. At one elbow was an old-fashioned black dial telephone. At the other, a fax machine. An empty filing cabinet stood in a corner, there mainly for show. The cramped office was one of dozens of cubicles that made up the tenth-floor warren of the agricultural building, a soaring gray monument to the banality of socialist architecture. Printed in small letters on the door were the words SIBERIAN PEST CONTROL. Petrov rarely had visitors. Occasionally, a lost soul blundered into the office, only to be told that Siberian Pest Control had moved.

In spite of his spartan surroundings, Petrov exerted wide power in the Russian government. The key to his influence was the anonymity that kept him from view. He remembered the old days when Pravda had dutifully printed photos of the Soviet hierarchy reviewing the May Day parade from Lenin's tomb. Any hint that someone in the lineup was a possible successor to the reigning tyrant of the day marked the unfortunate individual for liquidation. Petrov had mastered the art of fading into the woodwork. He was the bureaucratic equivalent of a shape-shifter, a legendary being that can change form at will. He had survived three premiers and countless Politburo members with his ability to avoid definition. He hadn't allowed himself to be photographed in years. The photos clipped to his personnel files were of dead men. He resisted attempts to give him a title. In the various evolutions of his long career, he was known simply as an aide.

In keeping with his facade, Petrov enclosed his athletic physique in one of the baggy monotone suits that had long been the uniform of the Kremlin's faceless gray men. His pepper-and-salt hair was worn over the collar of his cheap shirt as if he could not afford a regular haircut. The glass in his wire-rimmed spectacles was plain and intended to give him a professorial look. Disguise had its limitations, though. He could cover his scar, but no sartorial sleight of hand could hide the lively intelligence that glinted in the slate– blue eyes, and his chiseled profile projected a ruthless determination.

The caller was an earnest young man named Aleksei, whom Petrov had personally recruited as an agent. "There is a new development in the south," he said, making no effort to hide his excitement.

The four cardinal directions had become a rough verbal shorthand in alerting Petrov to the general location of trouble in the vortex of assassinations, murders, rebellions and unrest that swirled around in the far comers of the old Soviet empire. Petrov thought he was about to hear more bad news from the Republic of Georgia.

"Go ahead," Petrov said automatically.

"An American ship violated Russian territory in the Black Sea earlier today."

"What sort of ship?" Petrov said, with barely disguised irritation. Far more weighty matters occupied his mind.

"It was a survey vessel from the National Underwater and Marine Agency."

"NUMA?" Petrov tightened his grip on the phone. "Go on," he said, trying to keep his voice level.

"Our observers identified the vessel as the Argo. I checked on the ship's permit. The vessel is only allowed to conduct operations in the open sea. Several communications were picked up between the ship and an aircraft. The pilot of the plane indicated his intention to enter Russian territory."

"Did the plane actually cross our borders?"

"We don't know, sir. There were no radar sightings."

"Well, this is not exactly an invasion, Aleksei. Is it not a matter that should be taken up with the U.S. State Department?"

"Not in this case, sir. The plane gave its positions, so we were able to chart its course. It was flying near Department Three Thirty-one when the pilot made plans to rendezvous with the ship."

Petrov's lips parted in a silent curse. "You're certain of their position?"

"Absolutely."

"Where is the NUMA ship now?"

"The coastguard's dispatched a helicopter to the scene. The ship has left Russian territorial waters and appears to be on its way to Istanbul. We're continuing to monitor radio messages.

"What about the aircraft?"

"No sign of it."

"There was a thorough visual inspection of their landing site, I assume."

"Yes, sir. The landing party reported seeing about an acre of burned grass. There were many footprints and evidence of horses."

Horses. Petrov had the feeling someone had walked on his grave.

"I want you to follow the progress of the ship. If it makes port, place it under twenty-four-hour surveillance. Alert me to any development that has to do with this vessel."

"Yes, sir. Is that all?"

"Send me the printed conversations between the pilot and ship."

"I'll do that immediately."

Petrov praised the agent for his thoroughness and hung up. The fax machine hummed a few minutes later and spat out several sheets of paper. Petrov studied the double-spaced transcript of the conversation between the Argo's captain and the man in the aircraft. His fingers stiffened as he read. the first sentence.

"Austin to Argo."

Austin. It couldn't be.

Petrov took a deep breath to steady his nerves. Austin was a common name in the United States, and NUMA was a large organization. He tried to persuade himself that it was sheer coincidence, but as he read the transcript, his lips curled into a grim smile. There was no mistaking the pilot's wisecracking tone. The irreverent reference to the director of NUMA clinched it. He was reading pure Kurt Austin. Petrov reached into the dusty file cabinet and extracted a thick folder marked NUMA, Kurt Austin. The dossier's well-worn pages told him what he already knew by heart. Austin had been born in Seattle, his father the wealthy owner of a marine salvage company. The sea had shaped his adventurous personality. He could sail as soon as he could walk, and as he grew older, he acquired a taste for racing speedboats, although in recent years he had taken up sculling on the Potomac. He lived in a converted boathouse below the Palisades in Washington, D.C., less than a mile from the Central Intelligence Agency at Langley. He enjoyed philosophy, collected dueling pistols, listened to progressive jazz….

Petrov read further, though his eyes barely registered the words. After studying for his master's in systems management at the University of Washington, Austin had attended a highly rated Seattle dive school and trained as a professional. He'd brought these skills to bear working on North Sea oil rigs, then returned to his father's salvage company before being lured into government service by a little known branch of the CIA that specialized in underwater intelligence-gathering. At the end of the Cold War, the CIA had closed down the branch and NUMA director Admiral James Sandecker had hired Austin to head up a special assignments team being assembled for oceanographic research.

Their backgrounds couldn't have been more different. Austin and Petrov. Like the American, Petrov had salt water in his veins, but his beginnings were more humble. He'd been born the only son of a poor fisherman. As a Young Pioneer, his intelligence and athletic ability were noticed by a visiting political commissar, and he was taken to Moscow and made a ward of the state. He never saw his parents or siblings again. Even worse, he didn't care to see them; the Soviet state had become his new family. He attended the finest Soviet schools, excelling in engineering, served a stint in the KGB as a submarine officer, and later moved to naval intelligence. Like Austin, Petrov had also served in a little-known ocean intelligence branch. Unlike Austin's group, which concentrated on oceanographic research, Petrov's people were authorized to carry out their duties by any means, including force.

Their paths had rust crossed after an Israeli submarine clandestinely sank an Iranian container ship carrying nuclear weapons. Petrov was ordered to retrieve the weapons at all costs: The container ship could be an embarrassment, because the weapons had been stolen from the Soviet arsenal. Meanwhile, the U.S. was performing a balancing act between its Arab allies and Israel, and Washington had worried that if Iran knew how the ship had been sunk, they would declare a holy war that would spread around the region. Austin had been made the director of an attempt to salvage the container ship and destroy the evidence.

Ships from the USSR and the U.S. had arrived over the sunken container ship at about the same time. Neither ship would give way to the other. The standoff dragged on for days. Warships from both countries hovered on the horizon. It was a tense time. Petrov was awaiting orders from Moscow when he was called to the bridge to hear a message from the American ship.

"This is the U.S. vessel Talon calling unknown Soviet salvage ship. Come in, please." The caller spoke in heavily accented Russian.

"Soviet salvage ship to Talon," Petrov replied in the American-accented English he had learned at the state schools.

"Do you mind if we speak in English?" the American said. "My Russian is a little rusty."

"No problem. I assume you called to let us know you will be moving off-site."

"No, actually I called to check on your caviar supply." Petrov smiled. "It is more than adequate, thank you. Now let me ask a question. When will your ship be departing?"

"Your command of English isn't as good as I thought. We have no intention of leaving international waters."

"Then the responsibility for any repercussions will be on your head."

"Sorry, we're not accepting repercussions."

"Then we have no alternative but to force the situation."

"Let's see if we can settle this thing amicably, tovarich," the American replied casually. "We both know what's on that wreck and what a pain it could cause our respective countries. So here's my suggestion: We pull back while you go down and retrieve your, uh, stolen property. We'll even give you a hand if you'd like. When you're finished with your salvage work, you leave and we'll dispose of the evidence. What do you say?"

"Interesting proposition."

"I think so."

"How do I know I can trust you?"

"Action speaks louder than words. I've given the order to move back a half mile."

Petrov watched the American ship lift anchor and reposition itself farther from the salvage site. Petrov judged that despite the American's lighthearted manner, he was determined to carry out his mission. The alternative to a deal was an escalation of force. Petrov was no gambler. If the American reneged, Petrov could use the armed men on his ship and the Soviet navy was on call. No matter what the outcome, however, he would not look good for letting the confrontation get out of control.

"Very well," he said. "Once we are finished with our salvage, we will leave and you may move in."

"Fair enough. What's your name, by the way? I like to know whom I'm dealing with."

The question caught Petrov off-guard. In a sense, he had no name, having been given one by the Soviet government He chuckled and said, "You may call me Ivan."

His answer was greeted by a deep laugh. "I'll bet half the guys on your ship are named Ivan. Okay, you can call me John Doe." He wished Petrov good luck in Russian and hung up.

Petrov lost no time sending divers down to the container ship. The torpedo blast hole allowed for relatively easy access to the hull, and two nuclear devices were extracted. There were a few dicey moments when currents snagged the lifting line, but they worked on rotating shifts and got the job done in less than twenty-four hours. Petrov ordered the ship to move out and signaled the Americans. The vessels passed within a few hundred yards of each other, going in opposite directions. Petrov stood on the deck and looked through binoculars at the American vessel. Through the lenses, he saw a husky man with gray hair looking back at him. At one point, the American lowered his binoculars and waved. Petrov ignored him.

Their next encounter was not as friendly. A commercial airliner from a third-world nation had been mysteriously shot down in the Persian Gulf. Paranoia was the reigning national psychosis of the Cold War, and for reasons as vague as they were far-fetched, both countries suspected the other of complicity. Again, Petrov and Austin located the plane at the same time. Petrov's ship came close to ramming the American vessel, shearing off at the last second so Austin could see the heavily armed men on deck. Austin called Petrov and warned the Russian to improve his driving or he'd get a traffic ticket. Austin stubbornly refused to move out. An international incident was avoided only when ships from the plane's home nation showed up at the site to claim the jetliner.

As the rival vessels steamed off in opposite directions, Austin radioed a good-bye message.

"So long, Ivan. 'Til we meet again."

Petrov had a short fuse in his younger days, and this arrogant American was annoying him. "You better hope that won't happen," he said with chilling directness. "Neither one of us will be happy with the outcome."

Eight months later, Petrov's prediction came true. During the Cold War, the United States pursued a daring intelligence operation. When the secret was finally unveiled years later, one writer called it Blind Man's Bluff, a dangerous game played by a few intrepid sub commanders and their crews whereby they would bring their subs within a few miles of the Soviet coast to gather intelligence. One scheme involved planting an electronic pod to listen in on underwater communications cables.

In his drab Moscow office, Petrov lit up one of the thin Havana cigars he had made on special order and puffed out a mouthful of smoke. His mind drifted back through the years, and in the purple cloud that swirled in front of him, he saw the morning mists rising off the dark, cold surface of the Barents Sea as his ship cut through the water at full speed.

He had been in Moscow trying to extract funds for new equipment from a strategically placed apparatchik who was complaining about tight purse strings. One of Petrov's assistants had called and said that a strange message had been picked up from an unknown ship close to Russian shores. The coded message was short, as if the operator were in a hurry. The Soviet cryptographers were trying to decipher the message. The only reason someone would risk sending a message would be if he were in trouble, Petrov thought, as the bureaucrat blathered on. Petrov was well aware that American subs had come into the Barents Sea. Could one of these boats be in trouble?

He broke off his meeting and caught a plane to Murmansk, where his survey ship was waiting. The vessel had supplemented its scientific gear with depth charges, guns and a trained complement of armed marines. By the time his ship was under way, the code had been broken. The message consisted of one word: Stranded. He ordered all ships and aircraft to be on the lookout for strange vessels on or under the surface.

Despite the Soviets' vigilance, however, the Talon carried out a picture-perfect rescue operation. The American ship came in during the night with a Russian-language expert on board who gave a phony identification when the ship was picked up on radar. The ID wasn't perfect, but it bought time. Another American submarine, whose propeller had been made to operate noisily, drew the Russians' attention away. The stranded submarine was in about three hundred feet of water, sitting flat on the bottom, its power out after an electrical explosion. The hundred-man crew was rescued in a matter of hours, using a special diving bell.

Petrov had finally figured out the decoy ruse and was speeding in his ship to the rescue site. The ship followed the communications cable until magnetometer readings showed a huge mass of ferrous material. It could only be the U.S. sub. A ship was rapidly moving out of the area, and Petrov recognized the Talon. Speaking in English, Petrov hailed the ship by its name and ordered it to stop.

A familiar voice responded over the radio. "Ivan, is that you?" said the man who called himself John Doe. "Nice to hear your voice again."

"Prepare to be boarded or your ship will be sunk."

A roar of laughter burst from the radio. "Hell, Ivan, I thought you Russians were better chess players than that."

"Frankly, I prefer stud poker."

"Which is obviously where you learned how to bluff. Nice try, comrade."

"This is your last warning. Aircraft will be overhead in five minutes, and your ship will be destroyed if you don't stop."

"Too little and too late. We'll be in international waters in three minutes. Our State and Defense Departments are aware of the situation. Looks like you're out of luck."

"I don't think so. We still have your submarine and its contents, Mr. Doe. Our scientists will have a field day dissecting your top-secret equipment."

"That's not going to happen, old pal."

"I think it will. The Glomar Explorer isn't the only boat that can raise a submarine." Petrov was referring to an earlier U.S. salvage of a Soviet submarine.

"I wouldn't get near that boat if I were you. It's heavily mined."

"Now who's bluffing, Mr. Doe?"

"I'm dead serious, Ivan. The sub carried two hundred pounds of HBX explosives in case something like this happened."

"Why would you care if I were killed?"

"Look, Ivan, the Cold War's not going to last forever. Someday we'll bump into each other in a bar and you'll buy me a Stolichnaya martini." His voice lost its levity. "No joke. This thing will self-destruct in about twenty minutes. I set the timer myself."

"You're lying."

"People like us don't lie to each other, old pal."

It was Ivan's turn to laugh. "You've seen too many episodes of Mission Impossible, old pal."

He clicked off the radio. There was noway the crew could have been evacuated and set charges. He didn't know about Austin's expertise. He could have waited twenty minutes to see if Austin was telling the truth, but he seethed with anger. His rage overcame his good judgment. Petrov's ship carried a one-person minisub that could be launched quickly for reconnaissance, and Petrov ordered the sub readied for a dive.

Sitting in his office years after that day, he examined the grayish-red glow of cigar ashes. How impetuous and foolish he had been as a younger man. He had jammed the bomb-shaped sub almost straight down. Within minutes, his lights had outlined the black hulk on the bottom, and he saw the pod near the cable and landed near it. The minisub's retractable metal arm had the pod in its grip-when there was a blinding flash of light and a muffled roar. Petrov felt himself flying into space. Then he blacked out.

He awoke to the antiseptic smell of a Soviet hospital. His broken and mangled leg was in traction, and the right side of his face was heavily bandaged where jagged shards of plastic or metal had torn his skin as the minisub had been blown to the surface, where it had been retrieved with him inside it. He had had to wear a hearing aid until his damaged eardrums healed. He spent four weeks in the hospital before being released to the care of a nurse at his dacha, the country home he maintained outside of Moscow.

Petrov had been sitting in the sunroom reading Tolstoy when the nurse brought him a bouquet of red, white and blue carnations. Tucked in with the flowers was a small card.

Thinking back to that day, Petrov pulled an envelope from the dossier. The card he extracted had yellowed with age, but the large block letters in English were clearly visible.

"Sorry you got nailed, Ivan. Can't say I didn't warn you. Get well soon so we can have that drink. First round's on me. John Doe."

Austin had almost ended his life and career. Now the same man was poking around where he could derail Petrov's carefully laid plans. Austin could not know how dangerous his meddling was. How precarious the situation was in Russia. Throughout his country's history, it had been afflicted with uncaring, inept, even psychopathic leaders. Petrov was one of thousands of faceless clones who did the bidding of their masters without question and kept them in power. Now his fragile nation seemed poised for another orgy of self– destruction. The furies welling up in the soul of Mother Russia would soon sweep across the country from Siberia to Saint Petersburg.

Petrov read the card again, then lifted the phone. "Yes, sir," answered a trusted assistant who occupied an office in another part of the agricultural building.

"I want a plane ready to leave for Istanbul in one hour." Petrov gave orders to call his mistress and cancel their dinner date.

"Is there any particular message you would like me to give Miss Kostikov?" the assistant asked.

Petrov pondered the question. "Yes," he said after a moment. "Tell her I must go to repay a favor to an old friend."