Odessa Sea

by Clive Cussler

  “Going my way, sailor?” came a shout from the Constellation’s spar deck.

  Pitt looked up to see Giordino, waving from the ship, and had Kennedy pull the skipjack alongside. Giordino said good-bye to his gun crew friends, climbed down a police boat’s mooring line, then hopped aboard the Lorraine.

  He was a mass of powder burns and bruises yet offered a wide grin. “I should have known you’d be out taking a leisurely cruise while the rest of us were getting our hands dirty.”

  “You know I abhor manual labor,” Pitt said. “Is the Connie going to make it?”

  “She’s got a one-way ticket to dry dock for a while, but she’ll be fine.”

  “Her crew helped save a lot of lives today.”

  “Where did you deposit the bomb?” Giordino asked. “I tried to go after you, but the tug’s helm was disabled by our final blast.”

  “Along with our bald friend, I presume?”

  Giordino smiled.

  “We found a quiet cove across the bay,” Pitt said, “as remote as possible.”

  Giordino looked to Kennedy at the helm and shook his head. “That was quite an oyster you boys hauled aboard.”

  The oysterman nodded as if it was all in a day’s work.

  The skipjack sailed into Baltimore Harbor, whose waterfront was a blaze of flashing police lights. The Lorraine maneuvered into the empty Coast Guard dock, which was surrounded by law enforcement officials. As Pitt and Giordino climbed out of the boat and helped tie it up, a pair of black limousines rolled onto the dock. A Secret Service detail sprang from the first while Vice President Sandecker and Rudi Gunn emerged from the second. The two men made their way to Pitt and Giordino.

  “Fine work, boys,” Sandecker said through teeth clenched on a cigar. “We just got word that the Army bomb squad safely defused the weapon.”

  “At thirty kilotons,” Gunn said, “that would have been quite a bang.”

  Sandecker looked at Pitt. “How did you figure out Baltimore was the target and not D.C.?”

  “It was the Black Sea,” Pitt said. “The same folks used explosives to release hydrogen sulfide gas trapped in the sea’s anoxic waters. Similar conditions exist in the Chesapeake during the summer right outside the harbor.” He pointed past Fort McHenry to the Patapsco River.

  “We still don’t know exactly who was behind it,” Gunn said. He looked at Giordino.

  “There were no survivors on the tug, I’m told.”

  “No survivors,” Giordino affirmed.

  “It was the same crew from Bulgaria, part of Mankedo’s crowd,” Pitt said. “Ana Belova of Europol is running down their financial backer. We’ll know more shortly.”

  “If they’re Ukrainian rebels, I can tell you they just barked up the wrong tree,” Sandecker said. “The President is furious—and prepared to ask Congress to release more aid and arms to the Ukrainian government.”

  “Maybe that was their goal,” Pitt said.

  “What do you mean?” Gunn asked.

  “First, there’s an attempted attack on Sevastopol using an American ship. Next, a U.S. airplane gets blown up after bringing aid to Ukraine. Finally, there’s an attack on the U.S. under the guise of the pro-Russian Ukrainian rebels. Sounds to me like someone’s trying to start a war.”

  “Or maybe just kick the Russians out of Ukraine,” Gunn said.

  “Perhaps they’re smarter than us all.” Sandecker examined his cigar. “At any rate, the President wishes to extend his personal gratitude for what you did in saving the country.” He motioned toward the limos. “He’s at Camp David right now waiting to see you.”

  “Please thank the President for me,” Pitt said, “but I can’t see him right now.”

  “You’re turning down the President? But why? What do I tell him?”

  Pitt nodded toward the Lorraine. “Tell the President I couldn’t make it because I owe a Chesapeake Bay oysterman a very large and very cold beer.”

  88

  The morning of Saturday, July 22, broke clear and sunny in Gibraltar. The summer tourists crowding the sidewalks were already searching for shade when a cab pulled up to the former Anglo-Egyptian Bank Building just after noon. Mansfield held the car door open for Martina and a stout man from the Russian Embassy in Madrid, making mental note of a pair of Army trucks parked down the street. Following the others inside the bank, he froze amidst a throng of British soldiers milling about the lobby.

  It wasn’t the soldiers that prompted him to check the holstered gun he wore beneath his jacket. It was the presence of a few too many familiar faces standing by the bank manager. Dirk, Summer, Perlmutter, Trehorne, and Hawker all stared at Mansfield as if he had just arrived late to a birthday party. Still, no words were spoken, nor were any bank guards called.

  Finlay stepped across the lobby and shook hands. “Mr. Romanov, nice to see you again.”

  The bank manager sported dark circles under his eyes and wore the same suit he had the day before, with some added wrinkles. But Mansfield noted that Finlay’s prior nervous disposition was notably absent.

  “Good morning, Mr. Finlay. May I introduce Alexander Vodokov, with the Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs.”

  The pudgy lawyer stepped forward and shook Finlay’s hand. “I represent the Russian Federation and wish to make a formal claim on a deposit held in this institution.” He presented a requisition signed by the Ambassador.

  “Do you have an account number?”

  “No. But I think you know of the deposit. It was a large sum of gold bullion placed with the Anglo-Egyptian Bank in March 1917, on behalf of Tsar Nicholas II.”

  “Protocol would dictate some proof of deposit,” Finlay said without batting an eye.

  “The funds were deposited by the Royal Navy, from the HMS Sentinel, on behalf of the Russian Imperial State, as a by-product of the Treaty of Petrograd.”

  “Do you have a copy of the treaty?” Finlay asked.

  Vodokov rifled through an attaché case and retrieved a stapled document. “This is a signed copy.”

  Finlay took the document. “If you’ll excuse me.” He stepped behind the cashier’s window to a copy machine and made two duplicate sets. He locked one in a cashier’s drawer, handed the other to an assistant, then returned to Vodokov.

  “As a representative of Barclays Bank and holder of the deposit in question, I regret to inform you that the Russian Federation’s claim for ownership has terminated.” He passed the treaty back to the diplomat.

  Mansfield stepped forward. “What are you saying?”

  “The document is quite clear, even if my Russian is not,” Finlay said. “The treaty calls for the British holding of the assets until the restoration of the Imperial Crown—or a subsequent century from the anniversary of the first Romanov’s ascension to the Crown—whichever comes first.”

  “Let me see that.” Mansfield ripped the treaty from Vodokov’s hands and skimmed through the terms.

  “You know your Russian history better than I,” Finlay said, “but Michael I was the first Russian Tsar from the House of Romanov. History shows that he was crowned to the throne on July twenty-second, 1613. I’m afraid the hundred-year mark from the treaty’s signing in 1917 has just legally passed today at noon, per the language in the document.” He eyed a wall clock. “The assets have now reverted to the British government, which has made arrangements to take possession.”

  He motioned toward the soldiers across the lobby. The men took position, forming an armed cordon leading out the front door, save for two husky men who followed Finlay into the open vault. The soldiers emerged a minute later, carrying a small but heavy wooden case they hauled out the front door. They deposited it in one of the Army trucks now parked at the curb, then returned for the next case.

  After watching the scene, the diplomat blew up. “This is an outrage!” he screamed at Finlay. “M
y government will be filing a formal protest.” He turned to Mansfield. “Why didn’t you make this known sooner?”

  “We just made the discovery late yesterday.”

  “There will be unpleasant reprisals.” He stormed out of the bank, hailed a cab, and vanished down the road.

  Mansfield smirked as he watched the diplomat depart, then approached Summer and the others.

  “Congratulations, and well done,” he said. “What is your American saying, a day late and a dollar short?”

  “About two billion dollars short, in this instance,” Summer said.

  “Apparently, we shall all go on our way empty-handed.”

  “You should go and be placed behind bars,” Hawker said.

  “Now, Major, that is not the manner of the Western victor.” He gave a slight bow. “Farewell.” He turned and sauntered out of the bank without looking back.

  Martina accompanied him out the door, shaking her head at his blasé attitude.

  “We have failed miserably,” she said. “Are you not concerned about the wrath of Moscow? Vodokov is right. There will be reprisals.”

  Mansfield shrugged as they walked past the Army trucks. “My dear comrade, you are looking at a survivor. I will simply avoid Moscow until the next intelligence crisis erupts, at which time this incident will be brushed aside.”

  “But what about the chief directorate?”

  “Kings, presidents, and chief directorates may come and go, but Viktor Mansfield shall always be on the decadent steps of the Wild West, fighting for Mother Russia.” He slipped his arm around hers. “What do you say we go have a drink somewhere?”

  The stern agent regarded him with bewilderment, then finally succumbed. “Very well.”

  Perlmutter watched the couple stroll away. “He certainly understands our mind-set. There’s little point in arresting him now.”

  “His undercover days around here will be over,” Hawker said. “I suppose that’s the important thing.”

  Dirk shook his head. “I’d still like to send him a bill for our damaged submersible.”

  Finlay approached the group with an energetic buzz. “May I show you Nelson’s Cave now?”

  Summer smiled. “Please do.”

  He led them through the huge steel door into the vault. It had been built into a natural cave, adding only a concrete floor and the frame for the vault door. The arched limestone ceiling and walls extended nearly fifty feet into the hillside.

  “This was originally called La Bóveda Cave by the Spanish,” Finlay said. “It was renamed Nelson’s Cave in 1805, when a number of dead sailors from the Battle of Trafalgar were brought here before burial. By the time the Anglo-Egyptian Bank acquired the property in 1887 and constructed the building to incorporate the cave, the Nelson name was mostly forgotten.”

  “A clever way to build a vault,” Perlmutter said.

  “They were probably saving construction costs,” Trehorne said.

  “You may be right.” Finlay rapped a knuckle against the side wall. “The limestone is at least thirty feet thick throughout, so it’s certainly a secure spot to store money.”

  “Or Russian gold?” Summer said.

  Finlay led them past several rows of safe-deposit boxes and a large cash safe to a caged area at the back. An aged iron gate had been opened, exposing a large stack of wooden crates. The two soldiers were inside retrieving another crate and squeezed past the group.

  “Romanov gold, to be precise,” Finlay said, answering Summer’s question.

  “Brought here so the Bank of England could deny possession?” Trehorne asked.

  “That’s my understanding. The gold was shipped out of Russia and transferred to the HMS Sentinel under great secrecy. The Sentinel brought it here for temporary safekeeping, pending transfer to England. But two things happened. Public protests in St. Petersburg increased, leading to the Tsar’s abdication. And the Sentinel was sunk, just days after delivering the gold. Those in the know in England generally believed the Sentinel was lost with the gold aboard. The Anglo-Egyptian Bank manager in Gibraltar and a Bank of England regional representative cut a deal to hold the gold here, pending clarification of the political situation in Russia.” He shook his head. “I’ve been told that the Bank of England representative was killed when his ship was torpedoed on the return to England.”

  Trehorne rubbed his chin. “So even the Bank of England was in the dark?”

  “Until about two weeks ago, when we notified the governor of the bank and requested they provide transfer and security.”

  “Who else knew?” Summer asked.

  “Virtually no one outside of Gibraltar. The Queen and the Prime Minister were reportedly shocked at the news. They hope, of course, to keep the gold’s existence a secret.”

  “Fat chance, in this day and age,” Dirk said. “Where’s it headed?”

  “The Army is moving it to the airport for a military flight to London. It will be stored in the government’s gold repository in downtown London, under Threadneedle Street.”

  Summer looked to Finlay. “How did you know today was the day?”

  “We had a draft copy of the treaty in our files, so we’re well aware of the termination date. You can imagine my shock when you entered the bank yesterday, followed by the Russians.”

  “A very close shave,” Trehorne said.

  “You don’t know the half of it.”

  “Because you didn’t have a signed copy of the treaty?” Perlmutter asked.

  “Exactly,” Finlay said. “We had no legal standing until today, when the Russians brought us the signed copy. Now we have proof of the treaty’s ratification. The British government can thank you for that.”

  “What of the other elements of the treaty?” Dirk said. “Will the government make a claim for the lost mineral rights?”

  “Who’s to say? It would make Great Britain the richest nation in the world if those rights were ever acknowledged. But the Russians would sooner declare war, I suppose. It will probably be swept aside in the name of diplomatic secrecy. A pity for you, actually.”

  “Why’s that?” Summer asked.

  “Otherwise, I suspect honorary knighthood from the Queen would have been in order for you all.”

  “Knighthood?” Trehorne said. “My, now, that would have been something.”

  Summer shook her head at the thought. “May we see the gold?”

  “Certainly.” Finlay led them into the cage and to one of the crates. He pried off the lid and exposed a solid bank of shiny gold bars, identical to the one Summer had found on the Canterbury. Finlay passed one around, letting each person admire it.

  “There’s also a crate or two of uncut gemstones in the mix,” Finlay said.

  Summer was the last to examine the gold and lost her grip as she handed it back to the banker. The heavy bar clinked as it struck the floor.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Finlay. It’s not every day I let a billion dollars slip through my fingers.”

  “Quite all right.” He retrieved the bar. “I can imagine your disappointment after a long and difficult hunt to locate the gold.”

  “It made for a few sleepless nights,” she said.

  As they made their way back to the lobby, she noticed Dirk was smiling. “You seem a bit happy, given the circumstances.”

  “I’m just thinking how lucky I am.”

  “Lucky? We busted our tails to find the gold—and it was sitting in a bank all along. It was, and will remain, one big fat secret. What’s so lucky about that?”

  “Because of that secret,” Dirk said with a grin, “I won’t be forced to call you Dame Summer for the rest of my life.”

  89

  Martin Hendriks watched from the window of a rented apartment as Dutch police stormed his gated residence just down the street. Had he looked carefully, he would have seen a bla
ck-haired Bulgarian woman leading the charge.

  After the failure of Vasko, he knew it would be only a matter of time before the trail led to him. But, so far, his name had been left out of the publicity surrounding the investigation. That was key.

  He left the apartment by the back door and stepped into a limo waiting in the alley. “One stop along the way,” he told his driver of many years.

  He stared out the window, ignoring the passing canals of Amsterdam and the mass of bicyclists alongside. The limo traveled east to the town of Zwolle and entered a large cemetery called Kranenburg. The driver knew exactly where to go. He circled a small pond and pulled to a stop beneath some towering red oaks.

  The change in motion jarred Hendriks to his senses. He climbed out and strode to a modest tombstone with three names carved in the marble. He sank to his knees in front of it, but for once the tears didn’t come. The pain, however, was still there, strong as ever and still refusing to ease with the passage of time.

  “It won’t be long now,” he whispered. He reached into his pocket and touched his metallic keepsake.

  After a long contemplation, he kissed the headstone and rose uneasily to his feet. He shuffled back to the car in a trance and slumped into the backseat. Not until nearly an hour later, when the limo crossed into Germany, did the grief retreat and the determination for his next action come into full focus.

  The limo drove to a little-used airfield near the town of Wesel, where his private jet waited. Hendriks shook hands with his driver and boarded the plane, which promptly took to the skies.

  The jet flew east, crossing Poland and Belarus before entering Russian airspace under prior approval. Less than an hour later, the plane touched down at Chkalovsky Airport, a military airfield northeast of Moscow. Hendriks looked out the window at an orderly row of new helicopters parked on the tarmac, fronted by a crisp regiment of Russian soldiers standing at attention.