by C. S. Graham
“Come,” said Andrei, leaping the distance to the U-boat’s deck. “I think you’ll find this interesting.”
Jax jumped after him, then turned to hold out his hand to October.
“That’s okay,” she said, her face held oddly tight. “I think I’ll wait here.”
“What’s the matter? Claustrophobic?”
She looked down, her attention all for the task of buttoning her jacket against the sharp wind. “Not exactly. Just…take my advice and watch where you step.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’ll see.”
“What do we do now?” said Dixon, drawing the Kawasaki up beside the Range Rover.
They were parked in the shadows cast by a copse of beech at the crest of the hill. Looping the loose strap of his binoculars around the fist of one hand, Rodriguez watched the Russian and their target drop through the conning tower’s open hatch. Then he swung to focus on the girl.
She was small and slim and young, probably no more than twenty-four or-five. As he watched, she hunched her shoulders and shivered, as if she were cold—or afraid.
He had a VSSK Vychlop sniper rifle with an integrated bipod and silencer in a case on the floor of the backseat. The 12.7mm VSSK had been developed by the Russian Design Bureau at the special request of the FSB. Designed for counter-terror and high-profile anti-crime operations, it offered silent firing and superior penetration. Even at this range, he could blow her to pieces with a single shot and be long gone before anyone below figured out what had happened.
On the downside, the hit would not only leave their main target—Alexander—alive, it would also warn him.
“We watch,” said Rodriguez, shifting his gaze back to the U-boat.
“We should have blown the fucking sub when we had the chance,” said Salinger for something like the tenth time.
“It’ll blow,” said Rodriguez. “It’ll blow.”
21
Swinging through the open hatch, Jax felt the thick, dank air of the U-boat close around him. He set his jaw and slid down the aluminum ladder to land with a light thump beside what he realized too late was the grinning, mummified skull of a long-dead German submariner.
“Jesus Christ!” he yelped, hopping to one side and making a grab for the ladder to keep his balance. “What the hell is he doing still here?”
Andrei shrugged. “Moscow’s supposed to be sending over a team of anthropologists. They told us to leave the bodies alone.”
Jax studied the cadaver’s sunken body cavity, the tattered uniform, the dark, leathery flesh stretched across the cheekbones and clawlike fingers. “I could have landed on him.”
Andrei’s eyes creased with quiet amusement. “The Ensign did warn you to watch your step.”
Jax turned in a tight circle, his gaze taking in the control room’s jumble of ducts and valves, hand wheels and switches, gauges and wires. The militia had rigged up a string of electric lights that ran toward the bow, casting ghostly shadows around the tight compartment. He could hear a faint hammering coming from the bow, the vibrations reverberating down the length of the hull.
He brought his gaze back to the desiccated body sprawled at their feet. “You didn’t tell me the hull had held all these years.”
“Most of it,” said Andrei, leading the way forward. “The two aft compartments were torn apart by depth charges, which flooded the diesel and electric engines. That’s why she sank.”
Jax glanced back at the closed, watertight hatch that had sealed the control room off from the aft compartments, and felt the hairs rise along the back of his neck. “Sonofabitch,” he said softly. “They suffocated.”
Andrei nodded. “Poor bastards.”
Stepping over two more bodies, they ducked through the open round hatch in the front bulkhead and pushed toward the bow in silence. They passed the radio room and the listening room, the captain’s corner with its faded green curtain still in place, the men’s quarters with their bunks stacked four high on each side of the passageway.
Not all the bunks were empty.
“So exactly what did you bring me down here to see, Andrei? It must be good.”
Andrei ducked through another bulkhead, then stopped abruptly beside a small WC. “You Americans. Always so impatient. It’s here.”
Jax peered through the gaping door beside them. “We’re here to look at an old German toilet?”
“Not the toilet. That.”
Jax shifted his gaze to the shattered storage compartment that lay just beyond the WC and fell silent.
“How’s your German?” said Andrei.
Reaching out, Jax ran his fingers across the broken wood, where boldly stenciled letters warned ACHTUNG! GEFAHR! Danger. “A hell of a lot better than my Russian. It was like this when you found it?”
“Yes.”
“What do you think was in here?”
“That, we do not know. But it doesn’t look like it was designed to hold gold, now, does it?”
Jax hunkered down to study the floor plates, searching for some clue as to what the space might once have contained. “No,” he said. “No, it doesn’t.”
A loud metallic clang, followed by a burst of laughter and men’s voices speaking in Russian, sounded from nearby.
“What’s up there?” said Jax, pushing to his feet.
“The forward torpedo room. The militia has just started clearing it.”
Pausing at the next bulkhead, Jax peered into the rank gloom and counted four fat sausage-shaped cylinders. “Jesus. The torpedoes are still here, too?”
“Live torpedoes,” said Andrei, stepping over another mummified submariner, “and dead Germans.”
“That ought to tell us something profound,” said Jax. “I’m just not sure what.”
“Herzlich willkommen.” A militiaman lurched toward them, stumbled, and raised another round of laughter.
Jax said, “Why do I smell vodka? Somehow, I don’t think vodka and old torpedoes are a really good mix.”
Andrei gave another of his shrugs. “The militia doesn’t tend to attract the best men.”
They headed back toward the control room and climbed the ladder to the conning tower. Jax paused at the top to draw the sweet, misty air deep into his lungs.
“Find anything?” said October, scrambling up from where she’d been sitting at the edge of the dock.
“Just a broken wooden storage compartment stenciled with danger warnings.” Jax leaped the gaping three feet of choppy gray water that separated the U-boat’s deck from the wharf. “It was great in there. You should have come.”
“That’s okay,” she said, then dropped her voice to add, “Once was enough.”
Jax laughed softly, and turned as Andrei landed beside them. “So, do we get to see the salvage ship, too?”
“It contains nothing of interest.”
“I’d still like to take a look.”
Andrei glanced at his watch. “You can have five minutes.”
“I don’t get it,” said October as they turned to walk along the dilapidated docks that stretched toward the outer harbor. “Why would the Nazis store gold in a wooden compartment and label it ‘Danger’?”
“They wouldn’t,” said Andrei. “That’s the point. If that submarine had been carrying gold, it would have been under the floor plates with a reinforced steel hatch welded shut.” He tore the cellophane off a new pack of cigarettes and let the wind carry it away. “Exactly what gave your government the idea U-114 was carrying gold, anyway?”
Jax watched October catch the wrapper and shove it in her pocket. He said, “You know that kind of information is classified, Andrei.”
Andrei huffed a soft laugh. “In other words, they didn’t tell you where the information came from, did they?” He shook out a cigarette. “You know as well as I do that such a scenario makes no sense. That’s not how these things work. First, one plans an operation and secures funding. Then, one recruits the necessary personnel and material a
nd sets the date for the attack. It doesn’t happen the other way around. What does your government think these so-called terrorists have been doing? Charging everything on their American Express cards? Now the bill is coming due, so they decide to go salvage a sunken U-boat and steal its gold?”
A fine mist hovered over the heaving gray surface of the water, like smoke drifting from an invisible grass fire. Jax said, “Maybe these guys are new at this.”
“Or maybe someone in your government is being less than honest with you.”
Jax was aware of October’s gaze upon him, but all he said was, “The one undeniable fact in all this is that someone salvaged that U-boat and took something off it. There wasn’t a manifest among the U-boat’s papers?”
“If there was, we haven’t found it.”
Jax squinted at the Yalena, riding the gentle swell of the incoming tide. “What does the shipyard manager have to say about all this?”
“As little as he thinks he can get away with.” Andrei let the unlit cigarette dangle from his lips as he searched for his lighter. “At first he claimed he was as surprised as anyone to find the Yalena floating in his cove with a German submarine in tow. It wasn’t until the militia confronted him with his telephone records that he admitted Baklanov had contacted him about using his wharves.”
“Who’s Baklanov?”
“Jasha Baklanov. Captain of the Yalena.” Andrei struck his lighter, his chin jerking toward the big catamaran. “According to the militia, he was not exactly what you’d call a good, upstanding comrade.”
“Smuggling?”
“Among other things.” Andrei tucked away his lighter and flipped open the thick file he carried beneath his arm. “He was found on deck, his body practically cut in half by machine-gun fire.”
Jax tried to peer over Andrei’s shoulder, but the Russian snapped the file shut again. “Uh-uh,” he grunted. “You’re forgetting how this works. I give you something, then you give me something. It’s your turn.”
“I already told you everything I know. All we have is the interception of a careless cell phone call linking some sunken U-boat to a terrorist hit.”
“On Halloween.”
“On Halloween.”
Andrei swung around to stare back at the sub. Following his gaze, Jax saw that one of the militiamen had appeared at the conning tower. As they watched, the man dropped down onto the wharf and climbed into the passenger seat of the loaded truck. They could hear the truck’s engine laboring as it shifted gears, the sound carrying clearly across the quarter mile or so of open water. The weathered wharves and jetties of the shipyard stretched out between them, silent and deserted beneath the cold gray sky.
“Is that supposed to be a joke?” said Andrei.
“If it is, no one in Washington is laughing. They may have got the U-boat’s cargo wrong, but at this point, I’m thinking maybe—” Jax broke off as a low rumble reverberated across the cove. He saw a geyser of fire shoot out the hatch in the submarine’s upper deck, just above the bow torpedo room.
“Holy shit,” he yelled. “Get down!”
From where he crouched within the shelter of the birch grove at the top of the rise, Rodriguez swore softly under his breath. He’d set up the Vychlop with a clear line of fire. But every time he got the CIA agent lined up in his sights, the girl would move in the way, or the Russian.
He finally had a clear shot and was just squeezing the trigger when all hell broke loose in the cove below. The asshole from Langley hit the deck, and the solid bronze pointed-nose high-penetration bullet that should have blown him to smithereens smacked into the water with a splash that was lost in a shattering roar. The old U-boat heaved out of the water and turned into a fireball. Smoke roiled over the harbor, obscuring visibility.
“Fuck!” said Rodriguez, pushing to his feet. “Now? The fucking sub blows now?”
Moving quickly, he disassembled the Vychlop’s silencer and shoved it in its case. “This place is going to be crawling with militia in minutes,” he said, throwing the rifle in the backseat. “Let’s get out of here.”
22
Tobie let out a startled yelp as Jax slammed into her, knocking her off her feet. She rolled onto her stomach, her arms wrapping around her head as a second explosion ripped from one end of the U-boat’s frame to the other, obliterating it in a huge fireball. She felt a wave of searing heat wash over her. Even from this distance, the percussion was deafening.
“Jesus Christ,” said Jax, stretched out flat beside her. “You all right?”
“I think so.” Fighting to catch her breath, she turned her head to meet his gaze. “What happened?”
“One of the old torpedoes must have blown and set off the rest.”
She ducked her head again as flaming debris began to rain down around them, hissing as it hit the water.
A jagged piece of charred wood landed on Andrei’s back. He thrust it away and scrambled up to take off running back along the docks, only pausing long enough to turn and point a warning finger at Jax. “You stay here.”
Tobie sat back on her heels. She was trembling, her breath coming in fast, wheezing gasps. She knew she was hyperventilating and fought to bring her breathing under control. But it wasn’t easy.
Both the barge and the sub had simply disappeared, leaving an oily sheen on the churning, debris-filled water. Most of that section of the wharf was gone, too, the tugboat flipped on its side and almost completely submerged. Flames engulfed the shattered warehouses, filling the air with black smoke. The twisted remnants of the flatbed truck stood out stark against the flames, the two men inside black, unrecognizable silhouettes.
“My God,” she whispered.
Pushing to his feet, Jax brushed off the front of his jacket, then bent to pick up the file Andrei had dropped.
“What’s in it?” she asked as he flipped through the pages.
“The militia report.” He raised his gaze to the Yalena. The salvage ship was still pitching in the aftermath of the explosion, but she hadn’t been thrown over. “Come on,” he said. “We need to move fast.”
Tobie rose shakily to her feet. “I thought Andrei told us to stay here.”
“Since when do you ever do what you’re told?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded, sprinting down the dock after him.
“I saw the reports filed by your shrink in Wiesbaden. The one that says, ‘Has trouble with authority.’”
She leaped from the dock to the still-pitching deck of the Yalena. “The shrink in Wiesbaden was a stupid ass.”
Jax let his gaze travel around the salvage ship’s dilapidated deck. “I still don’t understand why this wasn’t part of your vision.”
“I don’t have visions. It was a remote viewing session.” Reaching out, she let her hand trail along a tattered tarp that covered the nearest lifeboat davits, and felt an odd terror seize her chest.
“What is it?” he said, watching her.
She shook her head and turned away. “Nothing. What exactly are we looking for?”
“Anything that can lead us to the bad guys. Although at this point, I’d settle for some indication as to what was really on that U-boat.”
“Are you so sure it wasn’t gold?”
“Sure? Hell no. I’m not sure of anything. But in my experience, governments tend to store gold behind things like reinforced iron plates. Not in wooden storage lockers stenciled with words like ‘Attention’ and ‘Danger.’”
A fine cold mist blew off the sea, smelling of brine and pungent smoke and bringing them the distant sound of shouting and the wail of sirens. The morning rain had washed away much of the blood from the deck. But an ugly pattern of splatters and smears were still visible on the bullet-pocked bulkhead and rigging. She said, “You think the people who hired Baklanov are the same people who did this?”
Jax went to hunker down beside the stained, splintered bulkhead. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
Opening the file, he flipped through the m
ilitia photographs of the Yalena’s dead crew. Tobie cast one glance at the eight-by-ten shots of blood-soaked, bullet-torn bodies, and turned away to stare out over the smoke-swirled waters of the cove.
He pushed to his feet. “Come on. I want to check the captain’s quarters.”
The captain’s cabin lay at the top of the ship, just beyond the blood-splattered bridge with its bullet-shattered gauges and splintered woodwork. At the hatch leading to the small cabin beyond it, Jax paused and let out a low whistle.
Tobie drew up beside him. The bunk’s mattress had been pulled askew, the drawers yanked from the desk and dumped, clothes strewn across the floor. “Did the militia do this?”
“Some of it, maybe.” He reached over to pick up a wastebasket filled with ashes. “But not this. Looks like whoever killed Baklanov and his crew burned every piece of paper they could get their hands on.”
“But…why?”
“Because if you’ve just committed mass murder, you don’t want to take the time to sort through everything just to find what you’re looking for.”
“Which was…what?”
“Presumably, anything that might lead back to our terrorists.” He handed her Andrei’s file. “Here. Your Russian is a hell of a lot better than mine. Take a look.”
Perching on the edge of the bunk frame, she flipped through page after page of forms, all filled out in a tiny, nearly illegible Cyrillic scrawl. “Jeez. You’d think they’d have typed up the report before sending it to Moscow.”
“This is Kaliningrad, remember? They still store their potatoes in earthen burrows and haul hay to market in horse-drawn carts.”
“Listen to this,” she said, pointing to a cramped paragraph on the next page. “According to the shipyard manager, this isn’t the first German U-boat the Yalena salvaged.”
Jax crouched down to look at a smashed strongbox. “I wonder if the shipyard was planning to buy it.”
“The U-boat?” She glanced up from the report. “But…why?”
“For the steel. Our terrorists might have hired Balkanov to raise the sub for its cargo; as a salvage operator, Baklanov would know that U-boats are valuable in and of themselves, for their pre-1945 steel.”
