Akronsef loved the Rossiya nearly as much as the frozen sea that surrounded her. He walked outside the warm cabin and greeted members of his seventy-person crew, admiring the ship’s bright red superstructure.
The boat’s design never ceased to amaze him. Icebreakers had improved dramatically since the first nuclear icebreaker Lenin began to patrol these same waters over 30 years ago. Powered by twin pressurized-water nuclear fission reactors, the Rossiya’s generators produced over 75,000 horsepower, more than enough to churn the frozen sea with its massive screw and propel the 500-foot vessel through the open sea at twenty knots, through ice at three knots. Its twenty-inch-thick, cast-iron bow and seven-foot-steel ’ice-knife’ casing could slice through the average eleven feet of Arctic ice like so much warm butter.
Once the Rossiya departed from Murmansk, it navigated past the crowded shipping lanes that led in and out of the major port, and headed northwest toward the North Pole. They would not rendezvous with the Norwegian cruise ship until tomorrow, when they reached the ice packs. Akronsef returned to the bridge, scanned the gauges and blinking lights on the control panels. Satisfied with the status of the ship, he turned to his first officer. “You have the helm, Teodor Alexandrovich.”
“Getting there is easy,” Ulianov informed Molotok over the encrypted telephone line from the Mil Mi-8 helicopter. “We’ll be there after the Americans but probably before the GRU. It’s moving the diamonds that will be difficult.”
“Waterboer will meet us wherever we tell them to. Use the Pushkin. It’s coming back from Zemlya Franca Iosifa, isn’t it? No one will see it,” stated Molotok, referring to the aging Delta-III class Russian navy submarine the Volki had purchased as scrap through one of their contacts less than one year ago and kept hidden well north of the Arctic Circle.
“The Americans and British are preparing for naval war games in the GIUK gap,” replied Ulianov, referring to the Greenland-Iceland-United Kingdom gap through which all naval traffic from Russia’s Northern ports must pass on its way to the North Atlantic. “It will be guarded even more than usual. There is no chance for the Pushkin to get through. It’s too noisy. Nyet. Wherever the drop-off is, it has to be away from there.”
“Why not deliver the diamonds directly to Waterboer in England?”
“How?”
“What’s the range of the jets we’re stealing during their war games?”
“Ochen harasho, Molotok! That’s brilliant. And it fits into the Pushkin strategy. We’ll have them rendezvous with the Pushkin and fly directly to Waterboer in England. Their range isn’t sufficient from Iceland, but the jets in the NATO exercise will refuel in mid-air along the way. It will be a challenge for them to transport the diamonds. We’re still not sure how large the stockpile is, but I’ll figure something out.” Although Ulianov’s master wasn’t a military man and drank too much, Molotok did have sporadic flashes of tactical insight.
“I’ll contact the South African bloodsucker and find out where the pilots should meet his people.”
“Only a few more hours, Molotok.”
“The most dangerous ones.”
49 DON
Acquasanta, Sicily
Eight miles north of Palermo
1:04 P.M.
Rafaele Mazzara generally relished the roiling noise and dust of Palermo’s business center. But on sweltering days like today, he welcomed the opportunity to leave his painstakingly restored office in the Banco Napolitana Lucchese and venture to the seaside, where soft breezes from the Tyrrhenian Sea cooled the coastline. The gentle wind pushed away the smog and dust. It left the heavy sunshine free to pound down from a cloudless azure sky.
Mazzara’s metallic navy blue BMW 328 growled along the winding roads of the Sicilian countryside to the main entrance of the five-star Villa Igea Grand Hotel. The chauffeur walked to the rear passenger door, held it open for his boss.
As Mazzara walked up the massive stone steps into the ornate lobby, he spotted the men who pretended not to watch him. Two were positioned at the top of the hotel steps, others in the lobby and gardens of oleander and jasmine. Mazzara did not need directions to find the man who had summoned him. He was clearly indicated by a quartet of men standing around a lone table under the lazy shade of a large African palm. Despite the heat, Mazzara shivered as he saw the man at their center.
“Don Arcangelo,” he said quietly, not wanting to attract attention. He smiled from fear, not delight.
A square-shouldered man with coarse skin, a pronounced aquiline nose, and unforgiving eyes stared at Mazzara. Mazzara felt himself being appraised as if for the first time by the man who controlled most of the agriculture, real estate, construction, and gambling in southern Italy and Sicily, not to mention drugs, prostitution, and immigrant slavery. Mazzara perspired uncomfortably.
“There is no need to whisper, dottore.” Don Arcangelo smiled. “We are among friends here.” He motioned toward the gardens with a flourish, then to a chair. “Please, dottore. Sit down.” He swiveled toward a waiter who wisely stood several yards away. “Alfredo! Bring some Regaleali for the dottore. And cold, eh?” He wagged an index finger, then turned to Mazzara. “Thank you for coming, Rafaele.”
Mazzara bowed his head slightly, his smile frozen. “It is my pleasure, Don Arcangelo.”
“How are things progressing? Is your new office to your taste?”
“Si, si. Grazie, grazie, Don Arcangelo.” He squeezed his fingers into a pinch. “Absolutely stunning. You are too kind, Don Arcangelo.”
The don shrugged. “Friends must help each other, no?”
“Certo, certo, Don Arcangelo.” Of course.
“But now that we are on the topic of friends helping one another, please tell me where we stand.”
Mazzara reached for his attaché case nervously. A hairy hand shot out from behind him and immobilized his wrist. He winced at the excruciating pain.
“Enzo!” Arcangelo shouted. “Pazzo! What are you doing? Are you crazy? Don’t you know who this is?” The hand immediately loosed its grip. “This is il dottore Mazzara. The director of the Banco Napolitana Lucchese. Eh?” He waved his hand gracefully as if conducting a subtle orchestra piece. “Piano, piano.” Arcangelo nodded apologetically at Mazzara. “Please forgive him. He gets carried away sometimes.”
Mazzara caught his breath and massaged his hand. “Loyalty is important, Don Arcangelo. I am pleased that you are so well protected.”
Arcangelo smiled.
“All I wanted to do was to show you the figures here.” He pointed to the attaché case.
He waved him off. “No, no Rafaele. It is too nice an afternoon to spoil with charts. I trust you. Just tell me.”
“As you wish, Don Arcangelo.” He stopped while the waiter set a chilled glass of Regaleali on the table. Water beaded on the wine glass. Mazzara sipped a tiny amount. “Excellent. Thank you.”
Arcangelo bowed his head.
“Things are going very well. Exactly as you planned. The money from each of your transactions was deposited into each account in the exact amount and at the exact time specified in each of the government restoration contracts. Only one more deposit remains to be made. That will occur next week.”
“Perfecto. As always, your attention to detail is admirable.”
Mazzara beamed. “Grazie, Don Arcangelo.”
“Tell me, Rafaele. You are nervous. What is troubling you?”
“I... Please forgive me, Don Arcangelo.” He swallowed hard. “But you could have asked me this over the telephone. I...”
The don smiled. “You are an intelligent man. Don’t worry. There is nothing wrong.” Relief washed through Mazzara. Arcangelo could feel it. He enjoyed playing with men’s minds in this way. Kindness created loyalty, but fear kept people from abandoning it. The ability to shift from kindness to fear and back was at the center of his power. “I needed to see you in person because I have a request.”
“Of course, Don Arcangelo. Anything.”
“I’m
a little nervous about Orlando Leonida. Our mayor started small. By putting a few of my men in jail, here and there. For small offenses at first. Then for larger things. That is normal. I have to give him some victories, after all, to make him and the government look good. Frankly, he’s doing me a service. Prison is a necessary education for my men. Like university for you professionals. There are things you simply cannot learn on the outside.” He winked. “But lately, Leonida hasn’t taken any action. Niente. I was amazed he didn’t move to stop a small transaction we made last week, one I practically handed to his informer on a silver platter.” He shook his head.
“Something isn’t right. I think Leonida is planning something big. I don’t know what it is, but this nose,” he pointed to it, “never lies.”
“What do you want me to do, Don Arcangelo? Comanda me.”
“I want you to move the accounts from Palermo to Banco Napolitana Lucchese headquarters in Rome.”
“Are you certain, Don Arcangelo?” His blood froze as soon as the words had left his mouth. It did not do to question the don.
Luckily for Mazzara, the don was in one of his pleasant moods. He nodded. “Yes. Immediately.”
“As Don Arcangelo wishes. I will do it immediately.” Mazzara got to his feet. The don waved him back down.
“Rafaele. What kind of a Sicilian are you? Finish your wine. Enjoy the afternoon. Look at this glorious sunshine.” He spread his arms. “You can do it later today. Let us talk about more enjoyable things. How are your lovely wife and children?”
50 OPERATION
Claire Sailing
Barents Sea
421 miles Northeast of Murmansk
6:32 A.M.
Despite the Arctic temperatures, Commander Ramey was sweating profusely. He wiped his brow and looked beyond the Claire Sailing’s darkened bow at the running lights of the Russian icebreaker. “All stop,” he ordered.
Krebski reversed the screw, immobilized the ship. “All stop, sir.”
“Very well.” Ramey turned to Carlton and Erika. “It’s a little past dawn. We’ll stop here and let the Rossiya come to us. Otherwise our heading away from Murmansk will attract attention.”
Later in the day, the two Russian navy patrol boats carrying Major Gerasimov’s GRU advance team—the Kirov and the Omsk—sliced through the glacial water of the Barents Sea toward the Rossiya at fifty knots.
“Skorie, skorie!” Faster, faster.
“This is as fast as we can push them, Major!” The lieutenant at the helm of the lead patrol boat Kirov informed his CO, major Gerasimov. “They’ll overheat if we try to go any faster.”
Gerasimov recalculated their ETA a fourth time. Three hundred nautical miles. Another six hours. The Americans will be there in three. Hopefully the diamonds and the Americans will survive until we get there. Again he thought of contacting Akronsef, the Rossiya’s captain, and again he nixed the idea. There was no telling what the man’s reaction would be to Americans boarding a Russian nuclear icebreaker. And Yagoda had been crystal clear: no harm must come to the Americans.
That evening on the Claire Sailing, Carlton woke from a short nap. It was eerily quiet. He walked through the meatlocker-cold hallway and poured two cups of coffee from the galley, then walked up to Pink’s stateroom. He knocked and entered. Pink was snoring deeply, slumped over his desk. Carlton shook his shoulder.
Pink jerked up, startled. “What? What is it? What?”
“Time to make the call.”
Pink glanced at his watch. “Right.”
“Here,” said Carlton, handing him a cup of coffee.
“Thanks.” He took a sip. “Aaah. Nectar of the gods.” He pressed a random key on his laptop, woke it from sleep mode, and entered his password.
7-4-76.
“Encryption and voice filters are on. For what good that’ll do. Calling the Company computers is one thing, but speaking with Forbes— that’s way more simple for NSA to track down.”
An electronic fuzz sounded over the speaker, soon replaced by the sound of a ringer on the other end.
“Randall Forbes.”
“Mr. Forbes. Pat Carlton and Tom Pink,” announced Carlton, relishing the shock he was certain jolted through Forbes’ body.
“Pat Car—You’re alive? Where are you?”
“Never mind. Just please listen caref—”
“You’re encrypted, but you’re not secure.”
“We realize that, sir,” Pink replied.
“Then what are you—”
“Just please listen,” Carlton announced. “I’ll speak for myself because I can’t speak for Pink here. But it was your idea to send us on this suicide mission, not mine. And now that I’m here, thinking that we found what we’re looking for, we’ve got no way out. None. We’re up shit creek without a paddle. Do you understand?”
There was a slight pause. “What do you have in mind?”
“I’ll leave that to you. The Russians are sending a team out to meet us, so I think it would be appropriate to have some good old American flag-waving going on to show the Russian team that we’re not expendable. Anyway, you obviously have a terrific imagination. I’m certain you’ll think of something. Pink told me that you’re a man of your word. Do we have your word?”
“You do.”
“Are you triangulating our coordinates?”
“I am.”
“Good.” Carlton terminated the connection.
“That was a little harsh, don’t you think?” Pink asked.
“Actually, I don’t think it was harsh enough.”
“Yes.”
“Sir, it’s Colonel Lin at NSA.” The man spoke normally, as though he was speaking to his military superior. Behind him hung a sign that read: ‘DON’T SPILL THE BEANS, PARDNER, THE STAKES ARE TOO HIGH. NO CLASSIFIED TALK.’
“Yes.”
“Sir, we just intercepted a communication between Carlton and Forbes at CIA.”
Fress shot out of his seat. “He’s alive? Where is he?”
“We’ll be getting exact satellite coordin—”
“Approximately, Lin.”
“Barents Sea. Around Murmansk. Again, the signal came through a maritime communications satellite.”
“He’s on a ship?” But the ship was destroyed.
“Affirmative, sir.”
Carlton’s not that stupid. He’s got to know his communications are compromised. ”Could he be running the line through other lines to throw us off?”
“Negative, sir. It would be transparent to us.”
“Get me the coordinates as soon as you get them.”
“Mr. Slythe is in conference. Who may I say is cal—”
“Eta Molotok. Must talk immediately!” Molotok roared. His accent was nearly impossible to understand, even if the vodka had not caused him to slur his words so much.
“One moment, sir.”
Silence. Then a jovial voice. “Molotok. How are things going over there?” Sniff.
“We think we have diamonds. Where we can deliver in England with military jets?”
Slythe reflected for a moment. “Aberdeen. In Scotland. We have a deal with an airport there. Many of our transports that can’t get into London go into Aberdeen.”
“Da. Aberdeen. Be prepared. We arrive there in next day.”
“How will we—” Slythe was speaking into a dead line.
That night, Captain Akronsef climbed the steel staircase to the elevated control room and removed his fur-lined parka. “What’s on the scope, Teodor Alexandrovich? Any contacts?” He inquired of his first officer.
“A U.S.-registry cargo ship from New York bound for Murmansk, Capitan. The Claire Sailing. Gennady Iosevitch contacted her while you were outside. She’s coming in close for the night. The captain said he’d feel safer braving the Arctic night near us. Those Americans! So afraid of the ice. They are anchored four kilometers from us. Nothing like Russian hospitality, eh? Also the patrol boat Alexandr Nevsky six-two kilometers to the Southeast, out o
f Murmansk. Another two, the Kirov and the Omsk, 2-4-8 kilometers, same course and heading.” The first officer shrugged. “All general patrolling duties, it appears.”
“Very well. Is all secure?”
“Da, Capitan.”
“It is night. Drop the anchors,” Akronsef ordered.
At the press of a red button on the electronic console, both of the vessel’s massive anchors simultaneously fell away from the hawesoles on either side of the red bow and crashed into the glacial water. The Rossiya was near the southern limit of the winter ice pack. The cruise ship would not arrive until the next day. Breaking a passage through the ice fields toward the North Pole at this hour in this season would be a waste of time. The ice would close up before the cruise ship’s arrival seven hours later.
“Anchors are down, Capitan. The ship is secure.”
“Very well, Teodor Alexandrovich. You have the helm.”
Erika shivered as much from fear as from the Arctic cold. The three miles between the Claire Sailing and the Rossiya did not seem like much on the radar scope in the warm confines of the cargo ship, but from her point of view on the ten-foot launch it seemed farther than the moon. Especially because the launch moved so slowly through the frigid waters in the dark. Seven of them were on board. Captain Ramey remained aboard the Claire. The four other crew members of the nearly fully automated cargo vessel—all ex-Navy - volunteered to join Carlton, Erika, and Pink. Erika had fought her way onto the team despite Carlton’s concern for her safety. He piped down after she had jabbed him hard in the stomach. Each person aboard was enveloped in a black aluminized parka with matching pants and a fur-lined cap. Engineer Chen carried a backpack containing gas tanks and an acetylene torch. First Officer Krebski’s backpack contained a flexible neck camera. Not wanting to risk the ire of any Rossiya crew member and knowing the Russian GRU was sending a team to the Rossiya, none were armed.
Patrick Carlton 01 - The Diamond Conspiracy Page 33
