The Emperor's Revenge (The Oregon Files)

by Clive Cussler

  “All you know is the name of a ship that can be easily altered. And I don’t think you’ll be able to share the information if Moscow decides to send you to the same Siberian prison that the previous base commander went to.”

  Zakharin slumped back in his chair, knowing he’d been beaten. He nodded at Eddie’s vial. “Can you at least put that away?”

  “This?” Juan said, taking the vial from Eddie. He approached the admiral, who cringed back in his chair. Juan raised it over Zakharin, then tipped the contents into his own mouth.

  Zakharin let out a gasp.

  “What?” Juan said in feigned confusion. “It’s just water.”

  The admiral gaped. “You tricked me?”

  “Although I’m sure the Russian security services would love to get their hands on a binary poison, none exist, as far as I know.” He looked around at Eddie, Linc, and Gretchen. “You guys ever heard of one?”

  They all shrugged and shook their heads, much to their amusement and Zakharin’s chagrin.

  “Come on,” Juan said, urging the admiral to his feet. “I’m sure you want to escort us safely off the base personally. Remember, while the binary poison might not work, my gun still does.”

  —

  As expected from the weaselly admiral, he didn’t put up any resistance to letting them go peacefully. Just in case, though, Juan had Tiny get the wheels up on the plane and fly out of Russian airspace as soon as they were aboard.

  The first person he called, once they were in the air, was Langston Overholt at the CIA. Juan told him about the Achilles’s sinking of the Narwhal and the attack on the Oregon.

  “Max said he got it all recorded. Apparently, it’s a bit fuzzy because of the distances involved, but it was definitely the Achilles.”

  “Can you see the ship’s name in the video?” Overholt asked.

  “At fifteen miles? I doubt it.”

  “Then we can’t do anything.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “See it from my perspective, Juan. You want me to inform Europe’s navies that Maxim Antonovich, one of the richest men in Russia, sank a Dutch cargo vessel in the middle of the Mediterranean with a railgun hidden on his luxury yacht? They’d laugh so hard, they’d drool their wine on their shirts.”

  “What about the video?”

  “With special effects these days? Easily doctored. You know that. And we can’t exactly explain where the video came from, can we?”

  “What about an inspection of some kind?”

  “To look for what? Weapons that pop up out of the decks? They’d have to tear the ship apart to find them. They’d risk being made fools of and angering one of the richest men in the world. Imagine if Germany called me up and told me that Paul Allen’s Octopus sank a fishing trawler with a phaser. I’d want incontrovertible proof before I even considered asking to take a look at the yacht. The investigation alone could take months before we moved on it.”

  Juan fumed. “So we do nothing? Antonovich gets away with murder, not to mention taking our money?”

  He looked at the photo of Antonovich that Murph had found on the Internet. The billionaire hadn’t been seen in public for years, so it wasn’t a recent picture. He was in his sixties, with a bit of a stomach, salt-and-pepper hair, and a crescent-shaped port-wine stain on his left cheek. According to the CIA, his patronage and loyalty to the Kremlin had come under suspicion recently, leading to his reclusive and paranoid behavior.

  Now he was funding a more sinister operation. Perhaps he got frustrated with his progress in changing Russia and was on to other ambitions. Whatever was going on, Juan was sure of one thing. Antonovich and his people were behind it.

  “I do nothing,” Overholt said. “You keep going. Personally, I think you’re right that something bigger is going on here. It’s bad enough that Antonovich seems to have built his anti-Oregon and assembled his own crew of mercenaries that can take on the same types of missions that you can. Now we’ve found out that there was an attack on an electrical substation outside Frankfurt last night, so there just might be a connection between the bank heist and the European electrical grid, like you thought. I’ll send you the details. And we’ll keep sifting for evidence about the threat to the financial system, including the latest bank failure in France. We haven’t received any ransom demands as of yet, so unless we crack the virus that was installed at Credit Condamine, we don’t have much to go on. What’s your next step?”

  Juan thought about it and texted a question to Max. Then, without waiting for a reply, he answered his old mentor.

  “Well, with the Achilles vanished and the Jaffa Column at the bottom of the Med, it looks like we’re fresh out of leads right now. There’s no way to complete Napoleon’s message without it.”

  Overholt cleared his throat. “It’s not like you to give up so easily.”

  Juan’s phone buzzed and he glanced at Max’s response.

  ~800 feet

  Close to the limit but manageable.

  “I said we’re out of leads right now. That should change in the next couple of days.”

  “Why?”

  Juan texted back Start prepping Nomad, then answered Overholt.

  “Because we’re going to dive on the wreck of the Narwhal and raise the column.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  MELILLA, MOROCCO

  Instead of going to France as they’d originally planned, Golov thought it would be wise to use the more out-of-the-way Moroccan port to pick up Ivana, Sirkal, and O’Connor after their missions. Within minutes of arrival, the Achilles was back at sea and headed toward the Strait of Gibraltar.

  While Ivana got to work on diagnosing the software malfunction, Sirkal and O’Connor debriefed Golov in his quarters about the Frankfurt operation. The office adjoining his cabin was as lavishly appointed as the rest of the yacht, with the finest woods and marble from around the world. The top-notch furnishings made the cramped yet comfortable accommodations aboard the frigate he’d commanded seem like the interior of a garbage scow. Still, a small part of him missed the naval camaraderie and sense of purpose.

  Of course, he realized those feelings had all been a phantom the moment his ship and career were stolen away from him by the Russians. The luxury that now surrounded him didn’t just symbolize wealth. They were the trappings of power. And he intended to take some for himself.

  “From what I saw on the news,” Golov said, sitting in his leather chair behind his imposing mahogany desk, “I understand that the mission was a success.”

  “The whole transformer substation was blazing away by the time the Polizei arrived,” O’Connor said as he munched on an apple and lounged on the sofa. “The papers said it took the fire department two days to put it out.”

  “It’s completely out of commission?” Golov asked.

  Sirkal, who stood ramrod straight during the report, nodded. “A total loss. They’ll have to replace all of the equipment. It could take months.”

  “What about the power redistribution?”

  “According to our sources, the power outages were limited to the Frankfurt region. But that’s only because of quick work to shunt the electricity to other major substations. The remaining transformers can handle the load, but only barely. The adjustments required balancing power across the twenty-four countries connected to the grid. Any further transformer outages and they’d have to shut down some of the power plants to compensate.”

  Golov smiled. “Perfect.”

  For Operation Dynamo to work, central Europe’s power plants had to be operating at full capacity. The power grid, also known as the Continental Europe Synchronous Area, formed the largest interconnected electric system in the world, supplying over seven hundred gigawatts of electricity on a daily basis from nuclear, coal, gas, solar, and wind power plants. High-tension lines crossed borders freely so that power could be distri
buted efficiently to where it was needed most. But with the key Frankfurt substation destroyed, the grid now had little protection if there was a power surge in the system. All it would take to overload the grid would be a push in the right direction and Dynamo was designed to do just that.

  When that happened, the blackout would span the entire continent, from the Atlantic coast to the Ukrainian border, and from the North Sea to the Mediterranean. Over four hundred million people would be plunged into darkness. Transport would grind to a standstill, as petrol station pumps no longer operated, city traffic lights were extinguished, airports shut down, and rail switching operations went off-line. Banks would be unable to make any transactions and businesses would be paralyzed, causing an economic crisis. The euro would plummet in value instantly. And the best part was that Golov would make sure the Russian government took the fall for all of it, paying them back for invading his homeland and taking his ship from him.

  He had always liked the symmetry of the plan. Napoleon’s invasion of Russia was the beginning of his downfall, as the European powers rose against him, and now the treasure he was forced to leave behind was the catalyst for Dynamo. From the grave, the French emperor would finally get his revenge on the continent that exiled him not once, but twice.

  “Excellent work,” Golov said with a gleam in his eye. “I will have to let Mr. Antonovich know about our progress. Get your men prepared for the final phase of Dynamo. I want them to be drilled and ready in four days.”

  “They will be,” Sirkal said confidently.

  “For their cut of thirty billion euros, I’d hope so,” O’Connor said with a laugh, but neither Sirkal nor Golov joined in. He continued. “What? You think they’re doing this for free?”

  “You know they’re never going to see that money,” Sirkal said. It just wasn’t possible. Too many potential witnesses after the fact.

  O’Connor smirked. “Right, but they don’t know that.”

  Golov stared at him for a moment, then said, “Dismissed.” Some naval habits died hard.

  They left Golov to contemplate doing away with the crew that had performed so well. He didn’t take the prospect lightly, but he felt no loyalty or responsibility to the men and women that he’d inherited or hired. They were motivated by money, just as he was, and likely would do the same if their roles were reversed. Once Golov had left behind his sense of duty and acquired a taste for wealth, there had been no turning back. He was willing to do whatever it took to accomplish his goals.

  He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting when there was a light rap on the door and Ivana entered.

  She cocked her head at him. “Anything wrong, Papa?”

  He shook himself out of his dark reverie. “No, dear, come in.”

  She came and sat on the desk, patting his arm like the concerned daughter she was. “Are you sure you’re all right? You look like you need some sleep.”

  “I’ll be fine. There’ll be plenty of time to sleep when this is over. Did you find out what went wrong with the weapons systems?”

  “Yes, and I was not happy when I found it. The Russians left a little present in our code.”

  “A present?”

  “A disarming code. It was triggered by radio signal. That’s why all the weapons went down without warning. The other ship must have broadcast it. Don’t worry, I’ve stripped it out of the operating system, and I’ll make sure there are no more surprises like that.”

  Golov leaned back and looked at the ceiling in thought. “How did the crew of that fake tramp steamer know . . .” He snapped his head around. “Zakharin told them.”

  Ivana pursed her lips. “That’s one possible explanation.”

  “Then the question is whether he’s partnering with them somehow, perhaps paid off . . .”

  “Or he was blackmailed or forced into it.”

  He smiled. Just like her mother, she could complete his sentences for him.

  “I think we need to talk to him.”

  “Already checked. His personal transport filed a flight plan for Barcelona this morning. Apparently, he has a villa on the Costa Brava.”

  He didn’t need to ask how she knew all that. Her skill at finding information about people was unparalleled.

  Golov calculated how much of a detour it would take to go to northern Spain. With an adjustment in cruising speed, they’d have plenty of time.

  He called up to the bridge. “New course. Set a heading for Barcelona, three-quarters speed.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  Almost immediately, he felt the yacht turning.

  “It’s time we find out who we’re up against and take the offensive.”

  “I may have a little more info about that.” She took out her phone and showed him a photo. He recognized the building in the background as the Credit Condamine bank in Monaco. Five people stood in front of it. Three of them he’d never seen before, two younger men and a tiny woman with her hair cut in a shaggy silver bob.

  But he was very familiar with the other two. He’d just met them a couple of nights ago at the Malta museum gala.

  “I’m guessing their real names aren’t Naomi and Gabriel Jackson,” he said.

  “And they’re not billionaires from New York. This photo is from a security camera the day after our bank heist. She’s an Interpol agent named Gretchen Wagner. The rest of the people with her, including the man calling himself Gabriel Jackson, presented themselves as insurance investigators. I doubt that’s true, either.”

  “Then who are they?”

  Ivana shrugged. “I can’t find anything about them. Which, actually, says a lot about them. Not many organizations could hide that kind of information from me.”

  “All the more reason to chat with Admiral Zakharin. I think this will provide a good training exercise for Sirkal’s men.” Golov stood. “And speaking of a chat, it’s time I went to see Mr. Antonovich.”

  Ivana escorted him to the door. “Is he still requesting that the air filters in his room be changed three times a day?”

  “Four.”

  Ivana rolled her eyes and kissed Golov on the cheek before she turned and walked off in the other direction.

  Golov took the stairs down to Antonovich’s palatial suite and nodded to the personal guard who was stationed outside the door. He knocked and entered without waiting for a response.

  He found Maxim Antonovich seated at his desk, wearing only a pair of silk shorts and black socks. His bristly hair, transformed in the last six months from salt-and-pepper to completely gray, sprouted in all directions, and his distended belly scraped against the front edge of the desk as he scribbled away on a notepad. He didn’t look up when Golov entered.

  “My air filters haven’t been changed in two hours,” he grumbled. “I can taste the buildup of dust.”

  Golov couldn’t help but chuckle at the man’s eccentricities. “I’ll make sure it’s taken care of, Mr. Antonovich.”

  He walked over to the expansive windows that displayed a superb view of the ocean. During port visits, the windows, which were impregnated with LCD panels, would darken so that no one could see in while still providing a dim view out. Through the bulletproof glass, the sun glistened off the placid seas stretching to the horizon in front of the Achilles.

  “What do you want?” Antonovich said, still writing furiously.

  “I thought you’d like to know that our operation in Frankfurt was a success, which means we will need you to join our team for a land excursion in a few days.”

  Antonovich stopped writing and looked at Golov. The port-wine stain on his cheek was dotted with stubble. His face looked more drawn and tired than Golov had ever seen it. Maybe that’s what Ivana saw in his own face.

  “Do you really think this will work?” the billionaire asked.

  “I know it will. As long as you perform your part of the
mission, that is. What are you writing?”

  “My memoirs. Not that anyone will ever see them. I wrote a new last will and testament earlier this morning, but I assume that will be fruitless as well. My cousins will squabble over the corpse of my businesses until they’re scraps and sold off piecemeal.”

  Golov nodded silently.

  “Did you find out who forced your retreat yesterday?” Antonovich asked with mild amusement.

  “We’re in the act of finding out.”

  “I had this yacht designed to take on anything on the high seas and you were beaten by a rusty cargo ship?”

  Golov scowled at Antonovich. He must have been watching the battle.

  “Believe me, if we run into them again, the results will be different.”

  “We’ll see,” Antonovich said. “And what’s going to happen to the Achilles when this is all over?”

  “I’m afraid she won’t survive the operation, beauty that she is.”

  Golov thought he could spot the glistening of tears in Antonovich’s eyes. The billionaire had no children, and his ex-wife claimed a huge chunk of his wealth long ago. The Achilles was his baby.

  “No one has asked about me?”

  “Oh, we’ve had inquiries from various business partners, but your accountant is handling those requests. He’s quite good at your signature.”

  Golov walked over to the door to leave.

  “And if I cooperate with your plan, you’ll let me go?” Antonovich asked plaintively.

  “Of course,” Golov said with a smile. “That’s the deal.”

  He closed and locked the door behind him, leaving the guard at his post outside.

  It really wasn’t the deal. Maxim Antonovich, his former patron and now prisoner, would face the same fate as the rest of the crew. No witnesses.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  The damage to the Oregon was not as serious as originally feared and repairs were made in record time to get the missile launchers and engines back in operational order. The holes in the ship were patched up with metal sheeting, which didn’t look out of place on the hull’s dilapidated façade. A more thorough overhaul would have to wait, but Juan was confident in Max’s assessment that the ship was ready to sail again, only twenty-four hours after it had arrived in Naples. By the next evening, the Oregon neared the site of the Narwhal’s sinking west of Sicily.