The Emperor's Revenge (The Oregon Files)

by Clive Cussler

  Thanks to the unique capabilities of Antonovich’s Achilles, the Dijkstras were no longer a threat.

  Antonovich had become increasingly paranoid as his wealth grew, and the Achilles was designed to be his unassailable bastion from which he could conduct all his business. As soon as the main construction of the superyacht was completed in an Italian shipyard, it sailed to the Primorskiy Kray Naval Base in Vladivostok. Among elite circles, it was known that, for the right price, the admiral in command would use the naval shipyard’s resources to modify ships with new propulsion and weapons systems under the guise of building spy vessels for the Russian fleet. Antonovich opened his wallet and spared no expense on the project to refit his luxury catamaran.

  The diesel engines were replaced with high-output turbines linked to a new propulsion system based on the Russian Shkval torpedo, which used a rocket to propel it through the water. The torpedo could reach velocities of 200 mph underwater because the nose emitted a string of bubbles and the torpedo flew through them.

  Although it wasn’t rocket-propelled, the Achilles itself used this technique to achieve straight-line speeds never before seen in a 400-foot-long vessel. Along the length of both catamaran pods were rings below the waterline that pumped out bubbles to surround the hull with air. Instead of mounting the propellers on the stern of the yacht where they would be fouled by the bubbles, they were placed on the front of each catamaran like the engines on a prop-driven airplane, pulling the Achilles to fantastical speeds.

  To complement the ability to outpace any warship on the water, the Achilles was equipped with some of the most advanced weapons on the planet, courtesy of a newly revitalized Russian military-industrial complex that was rapidly devising new arms to keep up with the Chinese and Americans.

  Defense of the vessel was paramount. To counter underwater threats, the Achilles could deploy mini-torpedoes designed to intercept incoming torpedoes fired from submarines and surface ships. To bring down aircraft and missiles, the yacht had something few other ships could boast: a high-energy laser.

  Less costly to fire than million-dollar anti-aircraft missiles, and more accurate than Gatling guns, the 30,000-kilowatt solid-state laser had the power equivalent of six welding lasers used by the automobile industry. It could be fired in a lower-energy state to dazzle homing electronics or in a high-energy state to overheat warheads and fuel tanks of drones, missiles, and airplanes—just like it had when it caused the Dijkstras’ private jet to explode during landing at Gibraltar.

  No one would have suspected the Achilles’s role in the crash since the laser looked exactly like a telescope and was only visible for a short time while the protective white clamshell dome covering it was opened. Contrary to movie convention, no beam would have been visible during the essentially silent operation of the device.

  Golov appreciated the defensive capabilities that rendered the Achilles virtually invulnerable to attack, but as a former navy captain, his preference was its offensive weaponry.

  The onboard hangar held a Russian Ka-226 utility helicopter. Instead of a tail rotor, the chopper had twin rotors mounted one on top of the other that spun in opposite directions to provide stability. The rear fuselage consisted of a detachable pod that could be swapped in minutes. Normally, it held a passenger compartment for ferrying Antonovich when he needed to attend meetings on land. Another pod could be bolted on that carried four Switchblade anti-ship missiles.

  But the Achilles’s deadliest weapon rose from doors concealed in the roof of the yacht so that it had a two-hundred-and-seventy-degree firing arc. Although it had a barrel like many warship cannons, this was no ordinary gun. It was a railgun.

  Rather than using a chemical reaction to fire a shell with a high-explosive warhead, the railgun propelled its rounds electromagnetically, allowing it to shoot projectiles at incredible speeds, more than twice as fast as the round fired by an Abrams tank. The hypersonic rounds packed so much energy that an explosive warhead was unnecessary. The impact of its heavy tungsten shell at more than six thousand miles an hour could shatter the most heavily armored hull and cause steel to vaporize.

  Ever since he took command of the Achilles, Golov had been eager to test out the railgun’s firepower. The attack on the Dijkstra freighter Narwhal had given him that opportunity.

  The Narwhal had been sent to Malta to pick up the stolen Jaffa Column. Golov had a duplicate freighter painted to look just like it and take the Narwhal’s place when it picked up the massive stone obelisk, but he had to get rid of the original ship for the plan to work. The railgun provided the ideal solution and had performed perfectly. It took just seven rounds to send the Narwhal to the bottom.

  Golov was sure his ultimate plan would work. But with the diary put back in play by whoever had rescued Erion Kula, he had more work to do.

  “My dear,” he said to Ivana as they walked, “let’s go meet our host.”

  From the sun-dappled deck, Golov spotted the man from the Maltese Oceanic Museum, which was hosting both the gala tomorrow night and the auction the day after that. He wore a crisp beige suit and mirrored sunglasses and gave them a smart wave when he saw them.

  The Achilles was docked in Valletta’s Grand Harbour, with postcard-perfect views all around them and nearly as many high-end yachts as they’d seen in Monte Carlo. The sandy-colored capital city abutting the port was built like a fortress because it was one, with high limestone walls bordering nearly every shore. Situated at the strategic center of the Mediterranean, the island had been attacked dozens of times over the centuries, from the Greeks and Romans of antiquity to the Nazi bombers of World War II, though the battlements were now used by tourists as photo ops rather than for any defensive purpose.

  Golov and Ivana walked down the gangplank and shook hands with Spadaro.

  “Captain Sergey Golov and Ivana Semova, I presume,” Spadaro said in English. “My name is Emvin Spadaro. How wonderful to meet you. Welcome to Malta. We hope you find it as beautiful as we do.” Ivana went by her long-passed mother’s surname so that she and her father wouldn’t raise any questions about their relationship.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Spadaro,” Golov said. “You will be showing us the sights?”

  “It will be my pleasure. After we see the museum, I’ve arranged for a private tour of some of the locations visited by Napoleon himself during the French invasion of Malta. I think you will enjoy it. Will Mr. Antonovich be joining us today?”

  “I’m afraid not. We will be his representatives on this outing.”

  “Before I forget,” Spadaro said, reaching into his jacket and removing an envelope that he handed to Golov, “here are your tickets to the gala tomorrow night. Black tie, of course.”

  “We’re looking forward to it.”

  They got into his Mercedes.

  “The museum is only a five-minute ride away,” Spadaro said as he pulled away. “As you probably saw in the news, we had a tragic situation at the museum yesterday, but I’m happy to say it’s been resolved. A crane was used in an attack on the museum, damaging a corner of the façade. Some gunfire was also involved, and, sadly, we lost our curator, William Kensington, but the perpetrators have been caught. Our director decided that William would want us to go on with the gala and auction as planned, so there has been no change to the schedule.”

  Ivana and Golov exchanged glances.

  “Yes, we did hear about that,” Golov said. “Were any of the auction lots stolen?”

  “Oh, no,” Spadaro replied quickly. “No. All of the pieces are safely stored in our warehouse, which was not affected.”

  “We’d like to see the warehouse as well,” Ivana said.

  “Absolutely. It’s on the way, not far from the museum. I will tell you, however, that we will not be able to go inside, for security reasons.”

  “The artifacts are kept there?”

  “Yes. It is climate-controll
ed and guarded around the clock by the best security system on the island. In addition, we have numerous guards on staff to make sure the items will be safe until the auction. But rest assured, you will be able to see the items to bid on in a fantastic new way that I’m excited to show you.”

  As promised, they arrived at the warehouse after a short drive through the ancient city’s winding streets. The modern steel construction stood out against the backdrop of classic stone buildings around it. Golov wondered if it had been converted from a shipping warehouse after the new container port had been built on the southeast side of the island. That’s where the Narwhal’s double would be docking tomorrow to pick up the Jaffa Column.

  They stopped next to a gate manned by two armed guards. An imposing chain-link fence topped with razor wire surrounded the building.

  Another Mercedes pulled up to the gate.

  “Oh, what luck!” Spadaro said cheerily. “That’s Arturo Talavera, our museum director. Perhaps I can have him say hello before he goes in.”

  Spadaro honked his horn and waved as he got out. Golov and Ivana followed him. The door on the other Mercedes opened and a portly gentleman with graying hair shuffled toward them with an outstretched hand.

  Spadaro introduced them and said, “They will be our guests tomorrow night, representing Maxim Antonovich.”

  Talavera’s eyes lit up at the mention of the billionaire’s name. “We are hoping Mr. Antonovich finds some of the pieces intriguing. I wish I could show them to you now, but I have urgent business to attend to in the warehouse.”

  “Nothing unfortunate, I hope,” Golov said with a smile.

  “No, no. Of course, with the unfortunate incident yesterday and the passing of our curator, my responsibilities have doubled, so I have some last-minute items to take care of before the auction. We have over five hundred pieces to sell, and buyers are descending on the island from all over the world, so you can imagine how much there is to do.”

  “I saw how full the harbor is with yachts.”

  Talavera nodded. “The airport is just as packed with private jets. Mr. Antonovich will certainly have some competition when it comes to the bidding. Well, I must be off. I look forward to speaking with you more tomorrow night.”

  As they walked back to the car with Spadaro, Talavera sped through the gate and parked next to a door with a keypad on it. He inserted a card into the slot and entered when the door buzzed.

  “I hope you are impressed with how we are safeguarding your future purchases,” Spadaro said as they drove off.

  “Very impressed,” Golov replied.

  He leaned over and softly spoke Russian into Ivana’s ear. “We’re not waiting until the auction.”

  “When, then?”

  “During the gala.”

  After watching Talavera, Golov now had a plan to assure they were the ones who would get Napoleon’s Diary.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Juan ducked his head as he stepped out of the helicopter and then turned to help Gretchen exit. The slit of her black, floor-length gown fell to one side, revealing a toned leg, the one that hadn’t been injured. During the past day and a half, her wound had healed enough for her to walk with a barely noticeable limp, but Julia Huxley had insisted she loan Gretchen flat shoes instead of the four-inch heels that would have been more appropriate for such an elegant dress.

  When they were out of the chopper’s rotor wash, Juan straightened his tuxedo and waved at Gomez, who took off and headed back to the Oregon, which was stationed twenty miles off the coast in international waters. Normally, her decrepit condition was an asset when coming into a port because Third World bureaucrats were often lazy or easily bribed, but Juan didn’t want to risk a ship inspection by Malta’s by-the-book harbormaster.

  With Erion Kula and his family safely evacuated to Corfu and the waiting arms of Interpol, the Oregon had made good time to Malta. After analyzing Kula’s information, they concluded that he really was Whyvern and had been framed by ShadowFoe. Their only lead, however, was the hacker’s intense interest in acquiring Napoleon’s Diary and the treasure it would supposedly reveal. The link to the European electrical grid was still a mystery.

  After a check at airport customs, Juan and Gretchen got into a BMW driven by Mike Trono, who had arrived earlier in the morning with MacD by boat to smuggle in the needed gear. The guys had spent the day casing the layout of the auction house and warehouse.

  “Well, don’t you two look spiffy,” Trono said. “It’s amazing what Kevin can whip up in the Magic Shop.”

  “Julia loaned me the gown,” Gretchen said, omitting that Kevin Nixon had to adjust it to her more athletic frame. Juan always had his tux on hand for occasions like this.

  Juan chuckled. “When she heard we were going to a fancy party, she nearly shot you up with a sedative so she could come in your place.” He could see glimpses of the harbor as it sparkled in the setting sun. “Where’s MacD?”

  “Securing alternate transportation in case we need it,” Trono said. “He didn’t think he’d have a problem.”

  “Good. Hopefully, the police will never know we’re here, but better safe than sorry. Earpieces?”

  Trono handed a small box over his shoulder. Juan opened it and gave one of the miniature transceivers to Gretchen, who fitted it deep in her ear canal. Juan inserted his own and said, “Does everyone read me?”

  “Ah can hear you just fine,” MacD replied in Juan’s ear. “I’m done borrowing mah ride for the next couple of days. It’s not stealing if Ah plan to give it back, right?”

  “They won’t miss it?”

  “Ah left a nice note,” MacD joked.

  The tiny transmitters had a range of only a couple of miles, so the Oregon wasn’t able to listen in, but the four of them would be able to communicate with one another while they were in the city.

  “You want me to wait outside the party?” Trono asked.

  Juan nodded. “Within a couple of blocks of the museum. We’ll let you know when we’re ready to leave. MacD, stay out of sight unless we need you.”

  “Roger that,” MacD said.

  “And the auction tomorrow?” Trono asked.

  “We can assume whoever overbids on the diary is the one ShadowFoe is connected to or might even be ShadowFoe herself,” Gretchen said. “We’ll follow them afterward to see where they go.”

  “We’ll be there to drive up the bidding,” Juan added. “Tonight, I want to get a sense of who else will be attending the auction. Should be an easy in-and-out recon mission.” Through various contacts, the CIA had made him and Gretchen last-minute additions to the guest list under the pseudonyms they’d used during their final mission in Russia: Gabriel and Naomi Jackson.

  Trono drove them to the entrance of the museum, where a red carpet flanked by two stone lions led inside. A corner of the museum’s façade looked as if it had been knocked out with a sledgehammer—the result of an attack the day before involving a crane and some gunfire, according to the news—but the museum had insisted on going forward with the gala and auction anyway since the main hall didn’t suffer any damage. Despite the attackers supposedly being caught, the security had been noticeably beefed up, with heavily armed teams of guards at every corner of the outdoor plaza.

  As Juan and Gretchen walked the carpet, he noticed a tightening of her lips as she climbed the museum’s front stairs.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  She smiled. “Never better. Let’s get some champagne.”

  They each took a glass from the server at the entrance and strolled through the glitterati who had assembled for this unique occasion. Policemen guarded the front and rear of the hall, while numerous security staff in suits observed the guests. Juan thought he recognized a few billionaires and celebrities among the crowd, but he wasn’t really up on the latest pop culture. Murph and Eric would have been slobbering over some of
the starlets in attendance.

  The grand central atrium of the Maltese Oceanic Museum served as the venue for the gala. Endowed in the last few years by a Maltese shipping mogul, the museum housed one of the world’s finest collections of nautical artifacts and memorabilia. Marble columns supported a domed ceiling painted with famous sea battles. Juan recognized the British and French ships of the line at Trafalgar, the British and German dreadnoughts at Jutland, and the American and Japanese carriers at Midway as just a few of them.

  Waiters in tuxedoes circulated around with trays of caviar and white truffles, and a chamber orchestra played classical music of Napoleon’s era at the far end of the room. The most important pieces from the auction were displayed in kiosks set up throughout the hall.

  When they stopped at the first item, marked as Lot XXXI, Juan looked for a moment at the stone tablet covered with ancient Egyptian art. He couldn’t quite figure out what was odd about the scene depicting a tall green man seeming to levitate prone bodies while white-robed priests watched from the background. It wasn’t until he moved sideways and saw the metal edge of the image that he realized what he was looking at.

  “A hologram,” a voice from behind them said. They turned to see the museum director, Arturo Talavera. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.”

  Juan and Gretchen introduced themselves as owners of a New York–based hedge fund, billionaires looking for ways to spend their newfound wealth.

  “Beautiful piece,” Gretchen said. “But why are we looking at a hologram instead of the real item?”

  “It was a condition of the sale,” Talavera replied. “Besides, it really is the safest way to display the items. Most of them are fragile and we want to minimize any unnecessary transportation and handling for prospective buyers such as yourselves. As you can see, the high-definition, 3-D display is almost indistinguishable from the original.”