“Actually, yes.” Ana slid her chair close to her computer. “We issued a regional alert to all seaports, border stations, airports, and rail stations. That’s how we found the boat in Turkey.”
She tapped at her keyboard and produced a grainy video feed of a gated roadway. “I just received this today. Take a look.”
The video, a short clip from a security camera, showed a truck approach a gatehouse, stop briefly, then pass through. The video, taken at night, was short on clarity and detail. Ana played it again, this time stopping at individual frames.
“It’s difficult to see the driver until the truck passes.” She halted the video once more, catching the fuzzy image of a stocky driver with no hair.
“That’s him,” Giordino said.
“And that’s our truck.” Pitt pointed to the tarp-covered object on the flatbed. “Where was this taken?”
“The entrance to Stara Zagora Airport, a small facility about a hundred miles west of Burgas. It was taken the same day we were there. Or that night, I should say. The guard gate was unmanned at that time, but at least somebody reviewed the video later.”
“So they’ve already flown it out of the country,” Pitt said.
“Most likely.”
The door to her office opened and Petar Ralin rolled in in a wheelchair, a stack of files on his lap.
“We didn’t expect to see you back to work so soon,” Giordino said.
“Ana thought I’d get better care under her watch,” he said, which caused her to blush. “And I thought I better keep an eye on her dangerous wanderings.”
“Of which there have been a few,” Pitt agreed with a laugh. “How’s the leg coming along?”
“I should be out of the chair and on crutches in another day or two.”
“I think he’s secretly capable of walking now, but just likes me to push him around,” Ana said.
Ralin smiled. “No argument there.” He rolled forward and passed the files to Ana. “Stara Zagora Airport came through for us.”
“I just showed Dirk and Al the video.” Ana explained the discovery of the Russian bomber.
“This may be a key lead,” Ralin said. “They sent a list of flight traffic for the evening, which is pretty light. The airport serves primarily commuter traffic and private planes, with little nighttime activity. There were four small plane landings and one large jet arrival before midnight. The jet arrived at eight-thirty and departed at five after nine. The airport provided its tail number, and we identified it as an Antonov An-124 transport plane, operated by a commercial charter company out of Ukraine.”
“Little surprise that they would have transported the bomb to Ukraine,” Ana said.
“Actually, they didn’t,” Ralin said. “I had to check a dozen airport databases, but I found that the plane next landed at Lisbon’s Portela Airport around midnight. The aircraft then showed up at Bermuda’s L.F. Wade International Airport, before returning to Kiev the following evening.”
“You said the transport is owned by a charter company,” Pitt said. “Do you know who chartered the plane?”
“Yes, although it took a number of threatening calls to Ukraine to find out. The company claimed they didn’t have a flight plan for the charter but did finally identify the customer as one Peregrine Surveillance Corporation.”
“A shell company?” Ana asked.
“No, a small holding company and subsidiary of a Dutch firm called Arnhem Flight Systems.”
“Don’t they make commercial aircraft instruments?” Pitt said.
“That’s right,” Ralin said. “They’re a diversified aviation company known primarily for their avionics. Privately held by an industrialist named Martin Hendriks. Or they were. Hendriks recently cashed out, selling the company to Airbus.”
“So someone at Airbus chartered the plane?” Ana asked.
“No, it was Hendriks. He still owns Peregrine. So he, or an employee of Peregrine, chartered the plane.”
“He doesn’t sound like the type who would be involved with Mankedo,” Ana said.
Ralin shrugged. “Hard to say. He’s an extremely private person. Public press about him is almost nonexistent. I did, however, find that his company has had numerous business dealings with Moscow over the years, so he would appear to be pro-Russian. His Peregrine company was in the news recently when one of his aviation drones helped rescue some shipwrecked sailors off of Ukraine.”
“We need to know more about this Hendriks and if he has any facilities near Lisbon,” Ana said. “I’ll call the Europol office there and have them check the airport as well.”
“A good idea,” Ralin said, “but I don’t suspect anything will pan out there.”
“Why’s that?”
“The Antonov transport was on the ground in Lisbon for less than an hour. They could have offloaded the weapon, but most likely stopped to refuel before heading across the Atlantic. At the end of the day, Bermuda’s where you really want to be.”
“But what’s in Bermuda?”
Ralin smiled. “For starters, a multimillion-dollar oceanfront mansion owned by one Martin Hendriks.”
69
The NUMA research ship Iberia wallowed in ten-foot seas as it battled a slow-moving summer storm that crept across the Mediterranean. Since leaving Sardinia, the ship had sailed into the teeth of it, sending her crew searching for their seasick pills.
Seated at the back of the bridge, Summer clutched a cup of coffee to keep it from sliding across the computer table. Dirk sat beside her, studying a blurry sonar image on a workstation monitor.
“It’s a shipwreck, all right.” He tapped a dark oblong object on the screen. “Whether it’s our shipwreck, is difficult to say.”
“The wave action is just too severe on the towfish,” Summer said. “It’s bouncing around like a rubber ball and scrambling the sonar images.”
“The dimensions, fuzzy as they appear, look pretty close to the Sentinel.”
“Should we check it out or keep surveying?”
Dirk turned to Myers, who stood near the helm. “Captain, how’s the weather forecast looking?”
“The worst of the storm has passed. The seas should ease a bit over the next six hours and lie down within twenty-four. The extended forecast shows clear.”
Dirk turned to his sister. “Sonar records will still be sloppy for a while. It’s the best target we’ve had in three days of surveying. I say we prep for a dive and try to catch a soft spot in the surf to deploy.”
Summer grabbed at her coffee cup, which was sliding across the table again. “It’ll be calmer underwater. Let’s do it.”
An hour later, a yellow and turquoise submersible dangled over the stern, pitching with the movement of the ship. The seas had moderated slightly but were still risky for deployment. Dirk and Summer waited inside the vessel, eyeing the surrounding seas. After a sequence of heavy swells, the waves took a brief respite.
“Launch, launch, launch,” Dirk radioed.
The submersible was lowered and quickly set free. Dirk flooded the ballast tanks and the submersible dropped beneath the turbulent surface. Twelve hundred feet later, a rocky gray seafloor loomed up through the viewport. Dirk engaged the thrusters and they propelled across the featureless landscape.
They found the wreck a few minutes later, a dark ship listing heavily on the seabed. As they approached from the stern, Dirk tapped his sister on the arm and pointed out the viewport. “I see a pair of guns above the stern deck.”
The evidence greatly narrowed their prospects from the hundreds of merchant ships that littered the bottom of the Mediterranean.
Summer consulted a record of the ship in her lap. “The Sentinel carried nine four-inch guns: three forward, two aft, and two on each beam. Let’s see what’s forward.”
Dirk elevated the submersible above the wreck and hovered ove
r the aft guns before making his way forward. The corroded topside structure matched the layout in Summer’s photo. Cruising past the wheelhouse, the submersible hovered over a trio of guns on the forward deck.
“There’s your three forward guns,” Dirk said. “I’d say we have a match.”
Summer nodded. “It must be the Sentinel. The trick will be to investigate her interior at this depth. Dr. Trehorne sent plans for a similar ship of the class. He felt there were three likely places where a cargo of gold might be stored.”
She pulled out the profile diagram of a British scout cruiser. “There’s a forward hold just ahead of the guns, and two additional holds beneath the stern deck.”
Dirk studied the diagram. “Access points will be the issue. Let’s see what we can find forward.”
He guided the submersible toward the bow, passing over the deck and a forward hatch cover that appeared corroded in place. He proceeded beyond the prow, swung around, and returned at deck level.
Summer pointed out the viewport. “Take us down along the starboard hull.”
Dirk descended the submersible over the side rail. A dozen yards back from the bow, a gaping oval hole presented itself just above the seafloor.
“The naval reports say she sank after striking a mine,” she said.
“The reports didn’t lie. Looks to be the open barn door to exactly where we want to go.” He guided the submersible to the opening, then set the submersible onto the floor and powered off the thrusters.
Summer took over from there, activating a small cabled ROV affixed to a front rack. As she drove the vehicle into the hole, Summer focused on a video monitor that showed a live feed from the device.
The camera showed a jumbled mass of steel beams and plates that had collapsed in all directions, impeding any movement.
Dirk checked the diagram. “The hold looks to be another ten or fifteen feet aft.”
“I’m not sure I can go another ten inches.”
She reversed course and butted the ROV against an anchor chain. She followed the chain up until she found a gap beneath the overhead deck. She threaded the vehicle aft, past another maze of jagged metal.
She took a deep breath. “I’ll get us aft, but I’m not sure about getting back out.”
“I’m sure we’ve got a pair of scissors around here somewhere,” Dirk said, knowing the ROV and its cable could be jettisoned if it became snagged inside the wreck.
Summer eased the ROV over a crumpled bulkhead and into a large open bay on the other side.
“That has to be the hold,” Dirk said, straining to make out details on the monitor.
Summer smiled as she circled the ROV around the hold and descended to its base. The vehicle’s lights revealed two large mounds on the deck, the remnants of once crated and stacked cargo. Summer brought the ROV alongside the first mound and let its thrusters blow away the silt. The water cleared to reveal an irregular mass of metal, with several tube-shaped pieces sticking out from the pile.
“They’re rifles,” Dirk said. “The wooden stocks have long since disintegrated, along with the crates they were stored in. Some of the barrels have rusted together, as has the congealed mass containing the bolt and trigger mechanisms.”
Summer saw it now and nodded. She guided the ROV to the second mound and cleared away its silt, revealing a similar mass. She scoured the rest of the bay without results. “I think that’s all that’s here.”
“I agree. Probably best to bring her home.”
Summer retraced the ROV’s path, extricating it from the wreck with considerable effort and returning it to the submersible’s cradle.
“Nicely done,” Dirk said. He checked the battery reserves. “I don’t think we have the juice to get into the stern holds. I suggest we surface and swap batteries.”
“Okay by me.” Summer appeared visibly stressed from operating the ROV in such tight quarters. She remained silent as Dirk purged the ballast tanks and the submersible began a slow ascent.
“Given up hope?” he asked.
“I don’t think the gold is here.”
“We haven’t checked the stern holds yet.”
“I know. It’s just a feeling. That, and the fact the ship is carrying a load of weapons. Doesn’t really make sense if the Sentinel was on its way back to England with the gold.”
“True, but the ship might have been diverted to meet the Pelikan with the weapons already aboard.”
Summer stared into the darkness beyond the reach of the submersible’s lights. “You’re right. We’ll reboot and take another dive. You don’t suppose the Russians are collecting the gold off the Pelikan as we speak?”
“Not a chance.”
Dirk’s suspicion was borne out an hour later after they were hoisted aboard the Iberia. The seas had eased and the weather cleared, making visible on the horizon an approaching gray salvage ship that flew the flag of Greece.
70
Mansfield stared at the NUMA ship through a pair of binoculars, focusing on a work crew hovering about its submersible.
“Does it look like they are pulling up any cargo?” the captain asked.
“Difficult to say.” Mansfield lowered the glasses. “A submersible wouldn’t be the most efficient carrier.”
“How long have they been working the site?”
“Not long,” Mansfield said. “They left Sardinia four days ago. The last satellite image showed them surveying near here two days ago.”
“There must be something of interest if they are still poking around. The sonar image looks good for the British warship.”
“I’d like to see for myself. Please have the ship’s submersible prepared. I will take her down after dark.”
The captain stepped across the bridge and gazed at a ceiling-mounted fathometer. “Depth here is four hundred meters.”
“Too deep for another ride on your underwater scooter,” Mansfield said. “That’s why I’ll need your submersible.”
“The depth is beyond the capability of our submersible. It is only rated to three hundred meters.”
“What?” Mansfield stared at the captain. “You are a salvage ship. You carry a submersible that can’t dive a thousand feet?”
“We are an eavesdropping ship,” the captain said. “Our deployments are typically close to shore, in shallow water. We don’t have the need, or expertise, for deepwater operations.”
“What about an ROV?”
“Yes, I believe that is close to its depth limit. It can be deployed immediately.”
Mansfield glared at the captain, then resumed his study of the NUMA ship. “It will have to wait. They’re preparing their next dive.”
He watched as Dirk and Summer climbed inside the submersible for a second dive. The seas were much calmer as they were lowered over the stern and submerged without incident. Mansfield remained on the Russian ship’s bridge, studying his adversary and pacing. With some consternation, he watched some crewmen lower an object off the Iberia’s opposite deck, mistaking an oceanographic water sample for a recovery basket.
It was nearly dusk when the submersible reappeared and was brought aboard the research ship. Mansfield watched again as Dirk and Summer exited the sub, eyeing the Russian ship before climbing to the Iberia’s bridge.
“I need two of your best men,” Mansfield said to the captain.
He sighed. “What for?”
“Transport and cover.”
“After your fiasco in Greece?”
Mansfield shook his head. “I want to make a solo visit aboard their ship tonight. Since your underwater equipment is useless, I need to inspect their submersible and deck operations to find out exactly what they are up to.”
“No. I won’t have any more of my men killed.”
“It is an oceanographic vessel. They would not be armed like those on the salvage ship.�
�
“And exactly how do you know that?”
As the two men argued, a deck officer interrupted them. “Captain, I think you need to take a look off the port beam.”
Midway between the two vessels, a pair of dark cylindrical spires rose from the sea. The objects grew in height, then showed themselves affixed to a wide black base that sprouted side fins as it continued rising. The men stared in shock as the object took the shape of a large submarine. The full profile of a Los Angeles–class attack sub showed itself and sat stationary between the two surface ships.
The radio aboard the ship blared a greeting. “Vessel bearing Greek colors, this is the USS Newport News. What can we do for you today?”
The Russian captain shook his head at Mansfield. “Care to ask him for a lift?”
71
Summer gazed out the bridge of the Iberia and smiled. “Rudi didn’t mess around, did he?”
Dirk nodded. “After our ordeal in London, he promised us a shadow. Guess he’s still got some pull in the Navy.”
“Do you think Mansfield is on that ship?”
“It’s possible. Captain Myers researched the vessel and found it’s been seen all throughout the Mediterranean, flying flags of different countries. A home port in Russia is probably a good bet.”
“Thank goodness for the Newport News. Of course, at this point, the Russians can have the wreck.”
A crewman approached from belowdecks. “You have a call from a Mr. Perlmutter via satellite. There’s a speakerphone in the conference room.”
Summer looked at Dirk. “Julien’s not one for high technology.”
They followed the crewman to the main deck and into the conference room, which was little more than an empty cabin with a small table in the center. Dirk and Summer sat down and spoke into the speakerphone.
“Julien, are you there?” Summer asked.
“Yes, I’m calling from Charles’s residence.” Perlmutter’s voice boomed. “How goes the search for the Sentinel?”
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