The Emperor's Revenge (The Oregon Files)

by Clive Cussler

  He swung the door open and waved them inside. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting.” He was a trim man in his fifties, wearing horn-rimmed glasses.

  “Not at all,” Linda said. “Thank you for meeting with us. We know how busy you must be.”

  “Sit, please. Of course, when I heard that you needed information, I was happy to help. The museum director and I are old friends.”

  “Then you’ll be glad to know he’s made a full recovery,” Eric said.

  “That’s good to hear. Strange what happened. Did they catch anyone?”

  Linda shook her head. “No suspects as yet. And some items were stolen, which is why we’re here.”

  “Yes, I heard about it. Such a tragedy. Have you tracked any of the pieces down?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to do. One of the items was something called the Jaffa Column. It’s a stone obelisk from Syria taken by Napoleon during his Egyptian campaign.”

  Alessi leaned back as soon as he understood the implication. “You think someone’s trying to smuggle it out of the Freeport.”

  “That’s a possibility,” Eric said. “The Maltese police are following leads on the island in case it’s being stored somewhere here. Smuggling is the other option.”

  “The problem is its size,” Linda said. “The column weighs thirty tons. It’s unlikely they would have attempted to fly it off the island. Besides, we checked into that prospect and no cargo planes large enough to carry it have taken off in the last three days, which is the last time anyone saw it.”

  “Well, I’m afraid it may be long gone by now,” Alessi said. “We’ve had eight ships leave in that time. Almost all of them were as big as those.” He pointed at the gigantic ships framed in the window overlooking the harbor. Each of them was large enough to carry more than five thousand containers.

  “I know that we’re sailing into the wind here, Mr. Alessi,” Linda said. “But we need to follow any possible leads. The museum is desperate to recover what could be a cornerstone of their collection.”

  “I’m happy to give you a list of the ships that have already sailed and the ones that are scheduled to leave in the next two weeks, but you’ll have to contact each of the lines yourselves to request an inspection of their cargo. Of course, any containers that originated in Malta we will check before they leave.”

  He printed out the list and handed it to Linda. The ships were listed, along with the name of their operators, the number of containers off-loaded and loaded at the port, and the arrival and departure dates. Before Linda had a chance to scan the complete tally, Eric pointed at one odd item.

  “The Narwhal loaded only one container?” he asked Alessi.

  “Oh, yes. That was a strange one. We don’t often get small feeder vessels. As I said, the giant containerships are what normally dock here, and they’re getting bigger by the day. This one off-loaded thirty-five containers and loaded a single one for the trip out.”

  “Did the container originate here?”

  Alessi checked his computer. “As a matter of fact, it did. According to my records, it was carrying machine parts.”

  “Was it inspected?”

  “Yes. Two days ago.”

  Linda didn’t put much stock in that. Dockworkers could always be bribed for the right price.

  The printout said the Narwhal sailed last night. No destination was listed.

  “Do you know where the Narwhal was headed?” Eric asked, reading Linda’s mind.

  Alessi shrugged as he looked at his screen. “They claimed they were bound for Marseilles, but that could easily be changed en route, which they likely would do if you think they came for stolen cargo. They could even off-load it to another ship at sea. We would have no way to know.”

  Suddenly, a strange look crossed his face.

  “What is it?” Linda said.

  “Well, you said you were looking into anything odd, and I did hear something strange recently.”

  “About the Narwhal?”

  “Yes. Two days ago, a couple of men were plucked from the sea by a fishing trawler in the middle of a storm east of Spain. One of the men has recovered enough to talk about what happened to him, but he was thought to be crazed by the ordeal.”

  Eric leaned forward. “What did he say?”

  “He said that he was a sailor on the Narwhal and that it blew up and sank. He and his friend jumped overboard and were lucky to find a floating container to climb aboard until they were rescued.”

  “But you said the Narwhal was here. It left last night.”

  “That’s exactly why they thought this man was raving mad. He told this fantastical story that the ship had been replaced with a replica that sailed right by him. Does that make any sense to you?”

  Linda stood abruptly and Eric followed suit. “We’ll look into all the possibilities, of course, Mr. Alessi,” she said. “We thank you for your time.”

  When they were out of earshot, Eric said, “You think that’s the one?”

  “I wouldn’t bet against it. Whoever stole the column wouldn’t want to take the chance that it would get lost among a thousand other containers. They’d want to know exactly where it was.”

  “Or they’d even want to control the ship itself. If the Narwhal is the one with the column on board, they already have an eight-hour head start. They could be more than a hundred miles away from Malta by now.”

  “Then we better get back to the Oregon and begin our search. We’ll just have to hope they haven’t already dumped it overboard.”

  The only problem was where to start looking.

  TWENTY-NINE

  VLADIVOSTOK

  A polished black limousine pulled up to the luxurious Villa Arte Hotel at eight o’clock at night, ready to take Juan, Gretchen, Eddie, and Linc to the Primorskiy Kray Naval Base. Admiral Zakharin thought it would be best to show them the facilities in the evening when fewer sailors would be around to ask questions about the guests. Juan agreed that the timing was prudent.

  His phone rang as they were getting ready to leave the lobby. It was Max. Juan told the rest of them to get in the limo and he’d be out in a minute.

  “I hope you’re bringing me back some pirozhkis,” Max said. He had fallen in love with the meat pies when he’d visited the city during the Oregon’s refit. “Is that little place still there? What was it called?”

  “Vostok,” Juan said. “We stopped there on the way from the airport. I got you two fish and two mushroom.”

  “Only four?”

  “I got more, but we ate the rest. I had to fight Linc to save the last ones from him. What’s the news on the Narwhal?” Max had emailed him about Linda’s investigation a few hours ago.

  “We’re fairly confident it’s the ship we’re looking for. The owners of the shipping line, two brothers named Dijkstra, were killed in a plane crash on Gibraltar just a few days ago.”

  “You know how I love coincidences.”

  “About as much as I love my ex-wives’ divorce lawyers.”

  “How’s the search going?”

  “Thanks to the bank debacle in France last night, the CIA made our request top priority. They retasked a satellite just like we asked and scanned a hundred-and-fifty-mile radius around Malta for any ships fitting the Narwhal’s description. Jackpot.”

  “You found it?”

  “Steaming northwest at twelve knots. Looks like they’re heading toward Barcelona. They’ve been in the main shipping lanes for a while, then veered away about an hour ago. Maybe hoping to dump the cargo once they’re sure no one will see them. We’re on a pursuit course now. Should be in sight within the hour.”

  “Nice work.”

  “The port interview was Linda’s idea. I’m just steering the ship.”

  “When you catch up, keep them under surveillance until they reach port. We’ll have Spanish
customs confiscate the container, provided they haven’t ditched it already. I’m sure Interpol will give us a chance to examine the column as thanks for finding it.”

  They could easily stop the Narwhal and seize the container themselves, but high-seas piracy was frowned upon by the maritime authorities. And if it turned out the column wasn’t aboard, they’d be in even deeper trouble.

  Gretchen was waving to Juan.

  “Max, I gotta go. I’ll give you a call when we’ve got info on the Achilles.”

  “And I’ll text you when we have visual contact with the Narwhal.”

  Juan hung up and got in the limo, adjusting his suit and tie as he sat. The others had already assumed their roles. Eddie was dressed in a two-thousand-dollar Armani suit and held his phone with one hand as his thumb idly slid across the screen. Linc, wearing a gray T-shirt under a plain black jacket, sat across from him, staring stoically backward. Gretchen, in a white silk blouse, tailored slacks, and black heels, jotted notes on a pad, giving the appearance of being Eddie’s dutiful assistant.

  Twenty minutes later, they were waved through the gates of the Primorskiy Kray Naval Base. Two guided missile cruisers were tied up at the docks, next to three immense sheds sheltering dry docks. One of them was open, revealing the huge gantry cranes that were sturdy enough to carry whole ship sections.

  The limo came to a stop in front of a Soviet-era office building, notable for its heavy use of concrete and for thorough lack of charm. Two armed sailors and a lieutenant met them at the door. The sailors frisked them and searched their cases, finding no weapons. The only thing that gave them pause was Juan’s artificial leg, but, after a brief inspection, they let him pass.

  The lieutenant led them through halls that brought back memories for Juan. He could almost hear Yuri Borodin’s booming voice echoing off the cinder block walls and linoleum floor. The late base commander, who had died in a prison rescue attempt by the Oregon crew, had been a friend of Juan’s.

  They were escorted into the office of Admiral Zakharin, who stood and greeted them warmly, hugging Juan before the introductions and a round of handshaking, while his underlings left. To commemorate the meeting, the admiral poured shots of Stolichnaya Gold vodka for all of them, as was the custom.

  The generously rotund admiral toasted the group in a deep basso while Juan translated into English for his guest from Hong Kong. “As my old boss and dear late friend Yuri Borodin told me: One man said to the stranger, ‘I have the most delicious bread but no friend to eat it with.’ And the stranger said, ‘I have the finest wine but no friend to drink it with.’ And, with that, they were no longer strangers. So let us drink to making new friends. To our meeting!”

  They downed the vodka and sat on the same nineteenth-century furniture that had been here when Borodin was the commander. Like a good bodyguard, Linc remained standing.

  “Thank you for meeting us on such short notice, Admiral,” Juan said.

  Zakharin grinned. “For an old friend who proposes to bring me even more business, how could I say no? Now, before I give you a tour of our facilities, what kind of ship do you want us to modify?”

  “Yachts are what we’re interested in,” Juan said as he rose and poured two more vodkas for him and the admiral. “Have you ever refitted a mega-yacht before?”

  Zakharin tossed back the vodka with Juan and said, “Of course! You know we can handle any ship up to three hundred meters in length. And we have the latest technology at our disposal from all over the world.”

  “I’m sure you do. For example, what did you put on a yacht called the Achilles?”

  The admiral flinched, then stared at him for a moment.

  “So you did do work on it?” Juan said.

  “You know I can’t share confidential information about our clients. I’m sure you, of all people, would appreciate that.”

  “I do, but we suspect the owner of the Achilles, Maxim Antonovich, has stolen our money and, understandably, we’d like it back.”

  “That is not my concern,” Zakharin said, standing. “It’s time for you to leave.”

  “Actually, it is your concern,” Juan said. He had opened his combat leg and drew his .45 ACP Colt Defender, as well as a small vial of clear liquid, which he opened and gave to Eddie.

  “I wouldn’t call for help,” Juan said. “That vial contains the second half of a binary toxin.”

  Zakharin was nonplussed for a moment, then looked down at his vodka glass in dawning comprehension.

  “You poisoned me?”

  “Not really. Not yet. The two halves of the binary poison only work in combination. If my friend here sprays you with the liquid in that vial, it will trigger a massive cardiac seizure. Your aides will rush in and think, quite understandably, given your less-than-healthy lifestyle, that you’ve suffered a sudden heart attack. And we will walk out of here without any suspicion cast upon us.”

  Zakharin gawked at him, while Gretchen went over to his file cabinet and began rifling through the contents.

  “But if you cooperate with us,” Juan continued, “the binary half that you just drank will pass out of your system in twenty-four hours without ill effect.”

  The admiral sank into his chair.

  Gretchen pulled a file from the cabinet. “I found something about the Achilles.”

  “What is it?” Juan asked.

  “Payments related to the refit. But they’re all coded entries, acronyms, and abbreviations. They don’t make much sense without the detailed accounting ledger.”

  “No engineering specs?”

  “Doesn’t look like it.”

  Juan sighed and looked at Zakharin.

  “What do you want to know?” the admiral whimpered.

  “Unfortunately, I wouldn’t believe a word you told me,” Juan said. “See, I know you were instrumental in getting my old friend Yuri Borodin sent to that Siberian prison. You’d tell me a bunch of lies and send me on my way.”

  “So what should I do? Do you have truth serum as well?”

  “No. I need you to sit right here and be quiet until we get back. These two gentlemen will keep you company.”

  Juan walked over to the secret door hidden in the wall. The latch was exactly where it had been when he’d last used it. It popped open, and he motioned to Gretchen. “After you.” She disappeared into the opening.

  “Where are you going?” Zakharin demanded.

  “You can either find out when I get back,” Juan said, “or you’ll never know.”

  He looked pointedly at the vial in Eddie’s hand and then followed Gretchen into the dimly lit corridor.

  THIRTY

  Golov was conducting a routine inspection of the Achilles’s engine room when the call came down that the Narwhal had been spotted. The yacht had raced ahead of the cargo ship so that Golov could pick out an isolated spot to sink it. The nearly thousand-foot depth in this part of the Mediterranean meant the Narwhal and the Jaffa Column it was carrying would never be found.

  He was in no hurry to get to the bridge. He stopped at the galley to grab a snack of rolled blinis, the best he’d ever tasted. Then he checked on the assault team preparing its equipment for the upcoming raid in a few days. He was pleased to see that everything was progressing as planned.

  Mitkin’s betrayal in Gibraltar and his subsequent punishment had been a rude awakening for the crew who had agreed to join him in Operation Dynamo. Just as Stalin had done, Golov had purged a third of Antonovich’s original crew after presenting them with the plan that he and Ivana had put together. Despite the rich rewards that were promised, some of the crew had balked, as he knew they would. They’d be allowed to leave, no harm done, as long as they vowed to remain silent.

  Of course, that had been a lie to keep them from rebelling. The dissenters were rounded up, killed, and thrown overboard, vanishing into the ocean as Mitkin had. Cu
rious family and friends were told that the crew members had resigned and taken jobs on other yachts. There had been some follow-up inquiries, but by the time any authorities could get involved, the operation would be over and the rest of them would disperse.

  Mr. Antonovich protested about the deaths, but Golov assured him that there was no other choice. Since that day, Antonovich hadn’t left his plush cabin, and he got daily updates from Golov on the situation.

  The remaining crew, and the new crew he’d had to recruit, were in all the way. With the number of crimes they could be convicted of for aiding and abetting, there was no going back. From the squad of mercenaries that Sirkal had handpicked down to the yacht’s cook, all of them knew what was at stake. If Dynamo went according to plan, they’d each be set with a fortune that they otherwise wouldn’t have been able to acquire in a hundred lifetimes. The payday was worth whatever risk presented itself. And if some of them didn’t make it out alive, even more would be available for the survivors.

  Thirty billion euros, distributed proportionally to the crew—thirty-five billion U.S. dollars, at the current exchange rate—that was the amount Ivana estimated that they’d swindle from the European banks, in the end. It was a sum that dwarfed any known heist. Four million dollars in gold from an armored car robbery? A hundred million euros in diamonds stolen from a Belgian vault? Those thefts seemed laughably petty compared to the ambitious scheme they were undertaking.

  “Status,” Golov barked, and took a seat in his chair, which had a commanding three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view through the three-inch-thick polycarbonate windows surrounding him.

  His faithful XO, Dmitri Kravchuk, who’d served with him in the Ukrainian Navy, pointed toward the bow. “We have confirmation it’s the false Narwhal, Captain. Twenty miles off the port bow.”