Текст книги "Fire Ice"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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"Another four-star chef."

"Not quite, but the scenery is special."

"I'm staying at the Marmara Hotel on Taksim Square."

"I know where it is, How about seven o'clock the day we dock?"

"I'll be looking forward to it," Austin saw little of Kaela the rest of the trip, She was busy with her two colleagues interviewing the captain and crew or working on background for Noah, He contacted NUMA headquarters and filed a report on the Russian incident and spent the rest of the time trying to piece the Gooney back together. The Argo made good time, and before long they were making their passage past the villages and old forts along the Bosporus.

THE TWO-HOUR PASSAGE through the Bosporus was never dull. The narrow seventeen-mile waterway is considered the world's most dangerous strait. Captain At– wood threaded the Argo around tankers, ferries and passenger boats as he made the twelve course changes necessary during the final leg of the voyage. The strong current that ran from the Black Sea to the Sea of Marmara made life even more interesting. Those on board let out a collective sigh of relief as the survey ship passed the ferry terminals and cruise-ship docks to tie alongside a pier near the Galata Bridge.

From the ship, Austin watched the television crew stuff its gear into a cab. Kaela waved good-bye, and the cab headed away from the waterfront. He walked around the deck, taking in the view of the bridge guarding the mouth of the Golden Horn, and the sprawling Topkapi Palace built for Sultan Mehmet II in the 1400s. In the distance he could see the minarets of the Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque.

He went back to his cabin and caught up on paperwork, then showered and exchanged his shorts and sweatshirt for casual slacks and a light cotton sweater. Near dinnertime, he walked down the gangway and made his way to the street to look for a cab. A taxi pulled up beside him. It was a vintage Chevrolet, circa 1950s. There were passengers in the car, which identified it as a dolmus, meaning "stuffed" in Turkish. Unlike the regular cabs, these taxis crammed in as many passengers as they could fit.

Austin got into the backseat with two other passengers who made space between them. A heavyset man sat on a jump seat and a fifth passenger occupied the front seat next to the meter. Austin told the driver to take him to the Taksim Square. He had visited Istanbul several times on NUMA assignments and knew the city fairly well. When the cab went a roundabout route, Austin thought it was simply to accommodate the other passengers. But nobody got off. The cab started to head away from Taksim Square and, suspecting the driver was trying to jack up the fare, Austin leaned forward and asked him where he was going.

The driver stared silently ahead, but the man in the front seat turned around. He had a wide, brutish face that even a mother couldn't love. Austin's eyes lingered on the passenger's features for only a second before shifting to the gun in the man's hand.

"Silence!" the man growled. The men sitting next to Austin pulled him back by the shoulders. A long-bladed knife pointed at his right eye. The cab accelerated at neck-snapping speed, exited from the traffic stream and plunged into a dark maze of narrow cobblestone lanes.

They headed away from the waterfront, skirting Karakoy and the police squads who monitored the official red-light district. Austin glanced longingly at the restaurant lights at the top of Galata Tower. Then the taxi was moving along the Istikal Caddesi, weaving in and out of traffic, past the nightclubs, movie theaters and unregulated brothels that lined the gaudy strip. The cab spun off the main drag and climbed a hill into Bozoglu, where all the old European embassies were housed during the Ottoman Empire, and executed a series of squealing turns.

The car stayed upright despite the protesting tires, which told Austin that the driver was a professional who knew the limits of his vehicle. There had been no attempt to blindfold Austin, and he wondered if this meant he had a one-way ticket to oblivion. As the car continued to hook left and right through the urban warren, he concluded that a blindfold was unnecessary; he didn't have a clue where he was.

The fact that they hadn't killed him offered slim solace. He knew instinctively that these men would not hesitate to use the weapons they had brandished in his face. After several minutes, during which the city lights faded to a glow, the car whipped down a darkened, garbage-strewn street and into an alley not much wider than the vehicle. Austin's companions hustled him from the taxi and stood him against a brick wall while they bound his hands behind his back with duct tape. Then they pushed him through a doorway along a dim hall and into the lobby of an old office building. Grime covered the marble floor. On one wall was a brass floor directory black with the patina of age. The smell of onions and the muffled cry of a baby indicated that the office building was being used for human habitation. Probably squatters, Austin surmised.

His escorts nudged Austin into an elevator and stood behind him. They were hulking men, as big or brawnier than Austin, who had never considered himself to be a pigmy. The space was cramped, and Austin stood with his face pressed against the cold wrought iron of the ornate gate. He guessed that the elevator must date back to the time of the sultans. He tried not to think of frayed and neglected cables as the elevator slowly jerked and rattled up to the third and last floor. The elevator was more nerve-wracking than the speeding car. The elevator cracked to a stop, and one of his escorts growled in his ear.

"Out!" He stepped into a dark hallway. One man grabbed the back of Austin's shirt in a bunch, used it to steer him for– ward and brake him to an abrupt stop. A door opened, and he was maneuvered inside. There was the odor of old paper and oil from long-ago business machines. He felt pressure upon his shoulders, then the edge of a chair bumped against the back of his knees. He sat down and squinted into the darkness. A spotlight flashed on, and Austin saw sunspots as the glare hit him in the face. He blinked like a suspect being given the third degree in an old gangster movie.

A voice speaking in English came from behind the spotlight.

"Welcome, Mr. Austin. Thank you for coming." Something about the voice sounded familiar, but he couldn't place it.

"It was an invitation I couldn't resist."

A dry chuckle issued from the darkness. "The years haven't changed you, have they?"

"Do I know you?" A memory clawed at the back of Austin's mind like a cat scratching softly at the door.

"I'm hurt that you don't remember me. I wanted to thank you in person for the lovely bouquet of flowers you sent to hasten my convalescence. I believe you signed the card with the name of John Doe."

Austin was stunned. "I'll be damned!" he said, with a curious mixture of delight and foreboding. "Ivan!"

9

THE SPOTLIGHT SNAPPED off and a portable table lamp came on, illuminating the face of a man in his forties. He had a broad forehead and high cheekbones and would have been handsome if not for the massive scar defacing his right cheek.

"Don't be alarmed, Mr. Austin," Petrov said. "I'm not the Phantom of the Opera."

Austin's mind flashed back fifteen years to the Barents Sea. He remembered the frigid waters penetrating his heated dry suit as he activated the timer on two hundred pounds of explosives. It was a miracle the Russian was still alive.

"Sorry about the booby trap, Ivan. Can't say I didn't warn you to stay clear."

"No apology necessary. Simply a misfortune of war." He paused, then said, "I've wondered something for long time. Suppose our places had been reversed. Would you have listened to a warning from me?"

After a moment's reflection, Austin said, "I might have assumed, like you, that the warning was a diversion. I'd like to think discretion would have won over valor, but I can't say for sure. It was a long time ago."

"Yes, it was a very long time ago." Petrov's lips widened in a sad smile. "Obviously, discretion did not rule over my youthful impatience. I was impetuous in those days. Don't worry; I bear you no animosity for the fruits of my own foolishness. I would have killed you long ago if I thought you were entirely to blame. As I said, c'est la guerre. In a sense you are as disfigured as I am, only you can't see the scars that cover your heart. The war made hard men out of both of us."

"I recall hearing that the Cold War is over. I have a suggestion. Why not ask your friends to give us a lift to the bar at the Palace Hotel? We can talk about old times over a drink."

"In time, Mr. Austin. In time. We have a matter of grave importance to discuss." Petrov's voice had gained a businesslike edge, and his eyes drilled into Austin's face. "I would like to know what you were doing at the abandoned Soviet submarine base on the Black Sea."

"Seems I was naive to think our brief visit went unnoticed."

"Not at all. It's a desolate part of the coast. Under normal circumstances, you could have landed a division of Marines without detection. We've kept the area under surveillance for months, but we were caught off guard. We know from intercepted radio messages that you landed some sort of air– craft and that the NUMA ship came in to pick you up. Please tell me what you were doing on Russian territory. Take your time. I'm in no hurry."

"I'll be glad to fill you in." Austin squirmed in his chair. "It might help my memory if I weren't sitting on my wrists. How about loosening the tape?"

Petrov thought briefly, then nodded. "I consider you a dangerous man, Mr. Austin. Please don't try anything foolish."

Petrov gave a sharp order in Russian. Someone came up from behind. Austin felt a cold blade against his wrists and the tape was severed in a single swipe.

"Now for your story, Mr. Austin."

Austin massaged the circulation back into his arms. "I was on the NUMA survey ship Argo, conducting a study of wave action in the Black Sea. Three American television people were supposed to rendezvous with our ship, but they had heard about the old sub base before they sailed from Istanbul, and decided to check it out without notifying us of their change in plans. They were overdue and I went looking for them. Some men on shore murdered a Turkish fisherman who was bringing the TV people to shore, and attempted to kill them, too."

"Tell me about these killers."

"There were about a dozen of them, on horseback, and wearing Cossack uniforms. They even carried swords and old rifles – really old."

"Then what happened?"

Austin laid out a detailed narrative of the fight. Petrov listened impassively, although from his experience with Austin's resourcefulness, he was not surprised at the way the battle had ended.

"An ultralight," Petrov said, with a chuckle. "An ingenious tactic using your flare gun."

Austin shrugged. "I was lucky. They were using antique weapons. Otherwise my story would not have a happy Hollywood ending."

"You couldn't have known from the air that they were using old rifles. I assume you must have landed."

"In a manner of speaking. Old or not, those rifles made a sieve out of my plane's wings. I crash-landed on the beach."

"What did you see besides the weapons? Every detail, please."

"We found the body of one of the attackers behind the sand dune."

"He was dressed like the others?"

"That's right. Fur hat, baggy pants. I found this on one of them." He reached into his pocket and dug out the emblem he had taken from the dead Cossack's hat.

Petrov studied the pin without expression and passed it to one of his men. "Go on," he said.

"After I confirmed that the TV people were okay, I called my ship in. They picked us up, and we left as soon as we were able."

"We found no evidence of a body or weapons," Petrov said. "I don't know what happened to the body. Maybe his friends came back after we left, and tidied up. We took the weapons with us."

"That's larceny, Mr. Austin."

"I prefer to call it spoils of war."

Petrov dismissed Austin's reply with a wave of his hand. "No matter. What of this television crew? Did they film any of this?"

"They were too busy running for their lives. They filmed the body, but without an explanation I doubt if they can do much with it."

"I hope for their sake that you are right."

"Let me ask you a question if I may, Ivan."

"I'm the one asking the questions."

"I'm aware of that, but it's the least you can do in return for the beautiful flowers I sent you."

"I've already repaid your kind gesture with one of my own. I didn't kill you. But go ahead. I'll allow one question."

"What the hell is this all about?"

A slight smile tweaked the ends of Petrov's lips, and he picked up the cigarette pack in front of him. Extracting a cigarette with great care, he put it between his lips, lit the end and blew the smoke from his nostrils. The strong tobacco smell filled the office and drove out the musty odor.

"What do you know about the current political situation in Russia?"

"What I read in the papers. It's no secret that your country has big problems. Your economy is shaky, organized crime and corruption are worse than Chicago under Capone, your military is underpaid and unhappy, your health care system is a mess and you've got independence movements and civil wars nibbling around your borders. But you've got an educated and energetic workforce and abundant natural resources. If you don't keep shooting yourself in the foot, you may come out okay, but it will take time."

"A reasonably accurate summary of a complicated scenario. Ordinarily I would say you are right, that we would muddle through. Our people are used to adversity. Thrive on it, in fact. But there are forces at work that are much more powerful than anything we have talked about."

"What sort of forces?"

"The worst kind. Human passions, whipped into a fiery nationalism by the winds of cynicism, dismay and hopelessness."

"You've had nationalist movements before."

"True, but we've managed to marginalize them, blackmail the proponents or demonize them as eccentric cranks before they could build up their cause and bring others into it. This is different. The new movement has sprung whole from the steppes of south Russia along the Black Sea where the neo-Cossacks live."

"Cossacks? Like the crew I met the other day?"

"That's right. The Cossacks were originally outlaws and fugitives, nomads who drifted into south Russia and the Ukraine, where they formed a loose federation. They were known for their horsemanship, a skill that helped Peter the Great defeat the Ottoman Turks. In time they evolved into a military class. Cossacks served as an elite cavalry for the tsars, who used them to terrorize revolutionaries, strikers and minority groups."

"Then came the Bolshevik revolution, the tsar fell and the Cossacks ended up driving cabs in Paris," Austin observed.

"Not all were so lucky. Some joined the Bolsheviks, others became staunch defenders of the last of Imperial Russia, even after the tsar and his family were assassinated. Stalin tried to neutralize or eliminate them, but he was only partially successful. To this day, the Cossacks are a warrior caste who believe that they embody the glories of a pure Mother Russia. There is a word for it. Kazachestvo. Cossackism. The idea that they are the ones chosen by a Higher Power to dominate inferior races."

Austin was getting restless. "The Cossacks aren't the first to think they were chosen to set the rest of the world straight. History is full of groups that have come and gone, leaving a high body count behind them."

"True. The difference is that those groups are chapters in a history book, while the Cossacks and their blind faith are very much alive." He leaned forward onto the desk and leveled his gaze at Austin. "Russia has become a violent place, and violence is the life's blood of the Cossack. There has been a great revival of Kazachestvo. Neo-Cossacks have taken over parts of Russian territory around the Black Sea. They ignore the Moscow government, knowing that it is weak and toothless. They have formed private armies and hired out as mercenaries. Their audacity has captured the loyalty of many Russians who tired quickly of capitalism and freedom. Many in parliament and the streets yearn for a reactionary nationalism that would restore the glories of Russia. There are pure Cossack units in the Russian army with their own costumes and ranks. They have declared a New Russia around the Black Sea and are expanding into other areas, seven million strong. That pin you found is the emblem of their movement. It shows the sun in a new dawn for Russia."

"They're still a minority, Ivan. How much damage can I they do?"

"The Bolsheviks were only a minority but they knew what was in the Russian heart, that the soldiers were tired of I war and the peasants wanted land."

"The Bolsheviks had Lenin."

"Thank you for making my point," Petrov said, with a humorless smile. "Absolutely correct. The revolution would have been nothing if not for a determined and ruthless leader who unified the country and squashed opponents under his thumb." The smile vanished. "The Cossacks have a similar leader. His name is Mikhail Razov. He is an immensely wealthy shipping and mining magnate who owns a cartel named Ataman Industries. He is dedicated to the resurrection of Great Russia. He endorses the Cossack ideals of masculinity and brute force He has said the best way to wipe out corruption is with a machine gun. He is totally paranoid, believes that the rest of the world is out to get him.”

"Money and power are a potent formula."

"It goes far beyond that." Petrov lit up another cigarette. Austin was surprised to see that the match hand was trembling. "He is advised by a monk named Boris, a man of great animal magnetism with a reputation for prophecy. He exerts an evil influence over Razov, encouraging his claim that he is a true descendant of the tsar, going back to Peter the Great."

"I was under the impression that Tsar Nicholas was the last of the Romanov line."

"There have always been questions."

"Even so, I can say I'm the king of Spain, but that doesn't put me on his throne."

"Razov says he has proof."

"DNA?"

"I doubt if he would let anyone take a blood sample."

"You may be onto something," Austin conceded. "You have a movement, a charismatic leader guided by a messianic prophet and a hereditary line. I agree that sounds like a potent formula for revolution."

Petrov nodded solemnly. "There is no 'maybe' about it. Russia is on the verge of a neo-Cossack revival that will sweep across the country, wiping out all the gains we have made. The tsar and his family have already been canonized by the right wing in our country. And Razov is poised to take on the tsar's sacred mantle." He smiled. "How many politicians can claim to be descended from a saint?"

"Most of them claim to be saints. But I take your point. What's your role in this Ivan? Are you with the KGB?"

"The KGB has been infiltrated by Razov's people. I lead a small inner group whose job is to keep watch on those who threaten Russia's stability. We report directly to the president. But I've only told you part of the story. This involves you, too, Mr. Austin. Razov considers the United States to be the head of a dark worldwide conspiracy that is largely responsible for Russia's ills. He believes America is deliberately using its power around the world to keep Russia impoverished and backward. Many in parliament share his views."

"America has a long list of enemies. It goes with being the only superpower."

"Add Razov's name to the roster, then. But this isn't just political – he has a personal reason as well. His fiancee was accidentally killed in the Americans' bombing of Belgrade several years ago. I understand Irini was quite beautiful, and he has never gotten over her loss. So I would urge you to take him very seriously – especially as there are signs he intends to cause great harm to your country."

"In what way?"

Petrov spread his hands. "We don't know. We know only that he has given his scheme a name: Operation Troika."

"Then you've wasted your time and mine. You should use diplomatic channels to take your case to higher-ups in the American government."

"We already have. We have told them we want them to avoid any overt moves."

"I can't picture the White House and the Pentagon ignoring a possible threat like this, not now. They've learned the hard way to take threats seriously."

"Yes, well, they're not pleased with our position. We have told them if they respond too clumsily, they will spoil our efforts and ensure that the threat, whatever it is, will be carried out."

"What's the connection between this threat and the sub base?"

"Come to your own conclusion. The sub pen was built for medium-range missile submarines that roamed the Black Sea, mostly to intimidate Turkish leaders who allowed the Americans to establish bases. It was abandoned after the Soviet government fell and lay undisturbed for years. Then Razov leased the facility from the government. His ships were seen coming and going. The Cossacks you encountered were camped nearby as guards."

"Why the fancy costumes and old weapons?"

"It has something to do with the symbolism of his cause. Razov chooses to equip some of his men as if they were still cavalry for the tsar. Make no mistake. He has accumulated many modem weapons from the former Soviet Union."

"Why haven't you moved in on these guys?"

"We were waiting and watching for the right time. Then you blundered in."

"Sorry to spoil your stakeout. Someone was being mugged and needed help."

"We think he intends to act against the U.S. before he assumes power."

"I can help you find out what he has in mind."

Petrov shook his head vigorously. "We don't need American cowboys charging in with six-guns blazing."

"Neither do I. I'm a scientist with NUMA now."

"You're being disingenuous. You have a reputation for bending the rules. I know about your Special Assignments Team. My office has press accounts of the NUMA team's role in the Andrea Doria conspiracy and the plot to take over the freshwater resources of the world."

"We like to keep busy in our spare time."

"Then keep busy with your ocean science." Austin folded his arms over his chest. "Let me see if I understand this correctly, Ivan. You want us to count fish while your madman goes on a terror spree in our country."

"We have every intention of stopping Razov before it gets to that. Your interference may already have spoiled any chance we have of containing him. If you don't stay out, I will consider you an enemy of the Russian people and will act accordingly."

"Thanks for the advice." Austin glanced at his watch. "I hate to break off our reunion, but I'm late for dinner with a lovely young woman. So if you're through…"

"Yes, I'm through." Petrov barked an order in Russian. The men guarding Austin pulled him to his feet and attempted to herd him toward the door. He stood his ground and said, "Nice seeing you again, Ivan. Sorry for past encounters."

"What's past is past. It's the future that we should both be concerned about." Petrov's hand went to his scar. "You know, Mr. Austin, you taught me a very valuable lesson."

Which is?"

"Know your enemy."

Austin was hustled down the dark hallway into the rickety elevator. Minutes later, he was in the taxi. The driver kept the car more or less under Mach I. Before long, they pulled up at the exact point where he'd been kidnapped.

"Out," said the driver.

Austin was glad to comply. He had to jump back to keep his toes from being crushed as the car sped off in a squeal of tires. He watched the taillights vanish around a corner, then walked to the Argo's slip. Back aboard the ship, he called the hotel where Kaela was staying. When she didn't answer her room phone, he asked the desk if she'd left a message.

"Yes, sir, there's a message from Ms. Dorn," the desk clerk said.

"Would you read it to me, please."

"Of course. It says, 'Waited an hour. Something more important must have come up. Went to dinner with the boys. Kaela.' "

Austin frowned. The message said nothing about getting together at another time. He would have to mend fences in the morning. Meanwhile, he went out on the Argo's deck and paced from one end of the ship to the other, trying to remember every detail of the dialogue with Ivan. As he walked, his lips tightened in determination. Damned if he was going to ignore a threat to his country. The best way to get Austin to do something was to tell him he couldn't do it. He went back into his cabin and punched out a number on his cell phone.

FIVE THOUSAND MILES away, Jose "Joe" Zavala plucked the purring cell phone from the dashboard holder of his 1961 Corvette convertible and answered with a cheery hello. Zavala had been thinking how all was right with the world. He was young,.healthy and on an undemanding work project that left him plenty of free time. At his side was a lovely blond statistical analyst from the Department of Commerce. They were driving along a country road in MacLean, Virginia, on their way to a candlelight dinner at a romantic old inn. The warm air pleasantly tousled his thick black hair. After dinner it would be back to the former district library building in Arlington, where he lived, for a nightcap. Then, who knows? The possibilities were endless. This could be the start of a long relationship, long being a relative term in Zavala's world.

When he heard the voice of his friend and colleague, Zavala's reaction was a happy one. A slight smile cracked the ends of his lips "Buona sera, Kurt, old amigo. How's your vacation?"

"Over. So is yours, I'm sorry to say."

Zavala's smile faded and a pained expression came onto his darkly handsome features, as Austin laid out his plans for Joe's immediate future. With a mighty sigh, he replaced the phone, looked soulfully into the dreamy and compliant blue eyes of his date and said, "I'm afraid I've got bad news. My grandmother just died."

WHILE ZAVALA TRIED to cushion his date's disappointment with an improvised list of outrageous promises, Paul Trout's six-foot-eight figure was bent like a praying mantis over a lab counter at the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution in Massachusetts, examining mud samples from the deepest parts of the Atlantic Ocean. Although the work was potentially messy, Trout's white lab coat was spotless. He wore one of his trademark bright bow ties, and his light brown hair was parted down the middle and combed back at the temples.

Trout grew up in Woods Hole, where his father was a Cape Cod fisherman, and he returned to his roots whenever he got the chance. He had developed friendships with many of the scientists at the world-renowned institute and often lent them his skills as a deep-ocean geologist.

Trout's intense concentration was broken by the sound of his name being called. Keeping his head lowered to the sample, he peered upward and saw a lab tech standing there.

"Call just came in for you, Dr. Trout," she said, handing him a phone. Trout's mind was still on the ocean bottom, and when he heard Austin's voice he assumed the head of the Special Assignments Team was at NUMA headquarters.

"Kurt, are you already back home?"

"Actually, I'm calling from Istanbul, where you'll be in twenty-four hours. I've got a job for you in the Black Sea."

Trout blinked his hazel eyes. "Istanbul. The Black Sea?" His reaction was the complete opposite of Zavala's. "I've always wanted to work there. My colleagues will be green with envy."

"How soon can you leave?"

"I'm up to my ears in mud, but I can leave for Washington immediately."

There was silence at the other end of the line as Austin pictured Trout in a pool of muck. Austin was used to Trout's Yankee eccentricities and decided he didn't want to know the details. He simply said, "Could you pass this along to Gamay?"

"Finestkind, Cap," Trout said, using an old fisherman's expression that spoke for itself. "See you tomorrow."

TWENTY FEET BELOW the surface of the water east of Marathon in the Florida Keys, Trout's wife, Gamay, was chiseling away with a dive knife at a big brain coral. She broke off a small piece and put it in a mesh bag hanging from her weight belt. Gamay had donated some of her working vacation as a marine biologist to a conservation group studying the deterioration of coral growth in the Keys. The news wasn't good. The coral was worse than the year before. The growth that had not been killed outright by the poisonous run-off from south Florida was brown and discolored, totally unlike the vibrant colors to be found in the healthy reefs of the Caribbean and Red Sea.

A sharp rapping sound filled her ears. Someone was signaling from the surface. Tucking her knife back in its sheath, Gamay increased the air in her buoyancy compensator, and with a few flips of her fins, her tightly shaped body rose from the coral. She surfaced near the chartered dive boat and blinked in the bright Florida sun. The boat's skipper, a grizzled old "conch" named Bud, after the beer he favored, was holding a ball-peen hammer he'd used to tap on the metal stern ladder.

"Harbormaster just called on the radio," Bud yelled. "Says your husband was trying to get in touch with you."

Gamay swam to the ladder, handed up her tank and weight belt, then climbed aboard. She wrung the seawater out of her dark red hair and wiped her face down with a towel. She was tall, and slim for her height, and had she cared to get down to an unhealthy weight, she would have had the figure of a fashion model. She dug the coral fragment from her bag and held it up for Bud to see.

He shook his head. "My dive business is going down the tubes if this keeps up."

The fisherman was right. It was going to take a massive commitment from everyone, from the conchs to the Congress, to bring the reefs back to life.

"Did my husband leave a message?" she asked.

"Yeah, says to get in touch with him pronto. That someone named Kurt called. Guess your vacation is over."