The Emperor's Revenge (The Oregon Files)

by Clive Cussler

  “I’m so glad you made it back in one piece.” She inspected his bandaged nose and fingers, which Sirkal taped up after snapping them back into place.

  “O’Connor didn’t,” Golov said. “And neither did Monroe and Jablonski. Even worse, the Russians will now get their hands on everything Napoleon stole from Moscow.”

  There was nonstop television coverage about the bizarre and violent discovery of “Napoleon’s treasure,” as all the news outlets were now calling it. Reports of the trove’s immensity were coming to light in slow drips as the investigators and bomb removal experts inspected the uncovered vault, but it was already being compared to King Tut’s tomb in intrinsic and historical value. The consensus was that although the treasure had been found in Lithuania, the government there would ultimately return the items to Russia, either by virtue of a lawsuit or as a goodwill gesture.

  The thought of the Russians celebrating their good luck turned Golov’s stomach. But soon they would forget all about that when they were blamed for one of the world’s greatest man-made disasters.

  Ivana nodded. “The news from Vilnius has been on every network. They found five bodies in the cathedral, including our guys, Kulpa, and the two policemen.”

  “No mention of anyone else?”

  “They did mention a shoot-out at the river. They’ve sent divers into the water, looking for bodies. No one is attempting to recover the van or its contents yet. Do you think there’s anything in Lithuania that can lead back to us?”

  “No, there’s no record of Monroe or Jablonski being in Antonovich’s employ, and they won’t find O’Connor for a long time. At least we were able to destroy Polichev’s work. Even if they recover the trunk now, it’ll take them weeks or months to properly dry and separate the papers. Depending on the extent of the water damage, they may never find out what’s in them.”

  “By then, we’ll be home free,” Ivana said.

  “Except we weren’t able to eliminate the Oregon crew. I saw O’Connor hit one of them, but not their captain.”

  “You think they’re still a threat?”

  “I don’t think their captain is the type who gives up when he’s been smacked in the face. He’ll come back at us even harder now. That’s why I’m moving up our time line.”

  “To when?”

  “The weather should be favorable for the next few days,” Golov said. “I’ll check to see when Sirkal can be ready. Which leads back to my original question. How are your plans coming?”

  She nodded at her computer setup. “The banking code is all ready to go, thanks to Alexei Polichev. So is the circuit breaker virus.”

  Golov’s chest expanded with pride at his daughter’s ingenuity. Her latest masterpiece was a virus that would close all of the transformer circuit breakers designed by Antonovich and Dijkstra’s joint venture. These were the critical components of the grid’s industrial-sized substations. The vulnerability she’d be exploiting was actually built into the system to allow for centralized management of the power grid. When the breakers were closed and locked, there would be no way to keep a power surge from frying the entire grid. All it would take would be a single event to cause a cascading failure.

  “After I activate the banking virus,” Ivana continued, “it will take about five minutes to transmit and verify the receipt of thirty billion euros in the accounts we’ve set up in the Caymans, Panama, Singapore, and the Seychelles. Once the transfer is complete, I’ll upload my other virus to the power grid and I’ll shut down the circuit breakers. Then it’s up to you to give the electrical system its push over the edge. After that, there will be no way to track the funds.”

  “And Antonovich?”

  “He understands his part. He still thinks he’ll live through this.”

  “He will,” Golov said. “For a little while.”

  Once the transfers were complete and Europe was in chaos, the Achilles would make its way to Brazil, where it would be sunk in sight of the coast and plenty of witnesses, seemingly with all hands on board. Any remnants of their trail would go cold in a fiery cataclysm.

  And if the Oregon made its way into their path, so much the better. They would blow it out of the water as well.

  Ivana smiled at him.

  “What?”

  “I thought of one benefit of your trip to Vilnius.”

  Golov frowned at her. “Which is?”

  “With O’Connor dead, we have another seven and a half billion euros to split between us and Sirkal.”

  Golov returned her smile and shook his head at the naïveté she still hung on to in spite of her brilliance. Her took her hands in his and said, “My dear, we were never going to give that money to him.”

  She furrowed her brow and said, “And Sirkal?”

  Golov shook his head. “Did you really think I was going to share thirty billion euros with anyone but you?”

  FIFTY-SIX

  THE NORTH SEA

  It wasn’t often that the entire crew of the Oregon assembled on deck, but no one was going to miss Mike Trono’s funeral. The notoriously vicious weather this area off the coast of Norway was known for had given way to a cloudless sky, allowing the ship to maintain its position on the placid sea. The peaks flanking a fjord in the distance lent the ceremony a majesty that complemented its solemn mood.

  Before speaking, Juan took a moment to look at his people one by one. He caught the eye of some of them. Others couldn’t look at him for fear of breaking down. Some wore dark suits and dresses—even Murph had foregone his normal T-shirt for a formal suit and tie borrowed from Eric Stone. Many of the military veterans, including Linc, Linda, Eric, and MacD, were in their dress uniforms. Gretchen, who didn’t know Mike the way the rest of them did, respectfully stood in the back. Few of the eyes were dry, and every face choked back emotions at losing one of their own.

  Mike’s body lay inside a metal casket atop a platform draped with an American flag. The death certificate and necessary permit for transporting his remains into Oslo had been created by Kevin Nixon in the Magic Shop.

  Because they knew how dangerous this job was, every crew member had filed a last will and testament with the Corporation. Mike’s directive had been for Juan to notify his mother, father, and sister in Vermont, where they would arrange a memorial service. The conversation with his family had been just as heart-wrenching as Juan had anticipated. Mike’s final wish was for the Oregon crew to commit his body to the sea.

  This wasn’t the first time that a member of the crew had been killed in action, but that didn’t make the occasion any easier to endure. In Mike’s sealed letter to Juan, he asked that remarks during his burial be brief. He’d rather the crew spend their time drinking and laughing as they remembered him. Juan did his best to grant that request.

  “We’ve lost a great friend and co-worker in Michael James Trono,” he said, “but, more than that, we’ve lost a part of our family. Mike died the way he lived, putting his life on the line to ensure our success without ever thinking of himself. He was a man of action and honor, and he made the world a better place just by being in it.”

  Juan cleared his throat and went on. “Mike wanted us to send him off with a celebration of his life. Sharing a drink. Sharing some laughs. Sharing war stories. And we’ll do all of that when we can. But he also would have wanted us to finish our mission first. There was no place Mike would rather be than on this ship and with this crew and he will be here as long as we remember him.”

  Juan stepped aside for Julia Huxley, who worked hard to keep her voice steady as she read a prayer. Then Juan commanded, “Firing party, present arms!” Linc, Linda, and MacD stepped forward, weapons at the ready. The pallbearers tilted the platform holding the casket, sending it into the sea during a three-gun salute. There was no bugle on board, so Max started a playback of Taps over the Oregon’s external speakers. They stood rigid for the mournful dirge, whi
le two of the pallbearers folded the flag and handed it to Juan. He would send it to Mike’s parents along with their son’s other effects.

  Still in his suit, he went down to the conference room, where his senior staff gathered along with Gretchen.

  “I’m sorry we have to get right back into this,” he said, “but I don’t think we have much time to act. Gretchen, before the funeral you told me that you got a tip about Antonovich’s upcoming whereabouts.”

  “Yes, Interpol has been in contact with the two sons of Lars and Oskar Dijkstra, the brothers killed in the Gibraltar plane crash. We’ve been investigating it as a possible act of terrorism, and their family has given their full cooperation. They told us that their fathers had been scheduled to attend a private opening of the new European Continental Control Hub outside of Maastricht, the Netherlands, in a few days.”

  Juan sat forward. “Is that related to the electrical grid?”

  “Yes. Bliksem Raster, the Dijkstra-Antonovich joint venture, was responsible for a good portion of the control architecture. It came online last week, and the CEOs are scheduled to get a private tour of the facility.”

  “When?”

  “It was supposed to be day after tomorrow at four p.m.”

  “I’ll bet Antonovich asked to move it up, didn’t he?”

  Gretchen nodded. “He asked to shift it to tomorrow at the same time.”

  “They’re pushing their time line forward because they’re jumpy about what happened in Vilnius. The question is, what’s their endgame?”

  “Eric and I have an idea about that,” Murph said.

  “The Control Hub was designed to manage all of the European grid’s transformer stations from one central location,” Eric said. “It would be the perfect spot to attack the power system.”

  “You think they’re trying to take down the continent’s whole electrical grid?” Juan asked.

  “We’re already past the ten days that was warned about in the message ShadowFoe left at Credit Condamine for us,” Murph said, “and there hasn’t been a financial meltdown, so the banks have breathed a sigh of relief, right? Well, what if that threat was empty? Maybe they never planned to take down the banking system. We suspect that the bank security code was compromised as a result of the Credit Condamine heist, so what if their plan all along was to hack into the banks for money?”

  Gretchen shook her head. “But we’ve been monitoring the banks very carefully since then. There have been no large discrepancies in trading or deposits.”

  Eric raised a finger. “They’d know you’d be watching. But what would happen if the trades were transacted right before a major power outage?”

  Her face clouded at the implications of the question. “The banks would be scrambling just to get the system back online. Any extended disruption would cause a financial meltdown. Tracking any bogus trades would be a low priority until we got everything up and running again. In fact, it might be impossible to trace them even after the system was functional again.”

  “I think ShadowFoe knows that,” Murph said. “They could get away with billions.”

  Juan asked, “What does the transformer station at Zingst have to do with this?”

  Eric answered, “The destruction of the Frankfurt transformer station has minimized the ways power can be redistributed. Suddenly, losing the Zingst station would be catastrophic.”

  “We’re talking a continent-wide blackout,” Murph said. “Transportation would grind to a halt. Gas pumps wouldn’t work. Airports would shut down. Computers and communication networks would be inoperable. No phones. No Internet. The economy would go into a free fall.”

  “How long would it take to get the power back up if most of Europe’s transformers went off-line?” Juan asked.

  “Three months, if we’re lucky.”

  “Three months?”

  “When we say the transformers would melt down,” Eric said, “we mean that literally. They would be totally destroyed. And industrial-sized transformers aren’t exactly available at the local hardware store. They’d have to be built from scratch, transported, and installed after the damaged ones were ripped out.”

  Murph added, “Without power, how do factories in Europe make new ones? They’d have to come from overseas, which would take even longer.”

  “It would be complete anarchy,” Juan said with grim understanding. “Millions could be starving within weeks without food shipments.”

  “I have to warn my superiors at Interpol,” Gretchen said. “Get them to stop the tour.”

  “You can try. But based on what evidence? This is all a hunch, though it’s one I happen to believe.”

  “Then postpone it at least.”

  “Give it a shot,” Juan said. “But I’m not putting my eggs all in that basket. Billionaires are hard to say no to.”

  “You want to stop them ourselves.”

  “I’m not going to sit on my hands while Antonovich and Golov bring Europe to its knees. If there are two prongs to their attack on the electrical grid—the Control Hub and the transformer station—then we have to take on both prongs. Eddie, take Linc and Murph to the Netherlands and meet with the relatives of the Dijkstras. I want you on that tour with them in case ShadowFoe tries anything.”

  “Sure,” Eddie said, “but how do we convince them to take us along?”

  “I’m going to send them the video of the Achilles destroying the Narwhal. That should be enough to give them doubts about their fathers’ business partner.”

  “Where will I be?” Gretchen asked.

  “With me right here on the Oregon,” he said. “I don’t think a coastal transformer station was chosen randomly. I bet Golov is going to use Antonovich’s yacht to destroy it and I want you there with the full force of Interpol when we capture the Achilles.”

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  MAASTRICHT, THE NETHERLANDS

  At nine a.m. the next morning, Eddie, Linc, and Murph checked in at the reception desk of Dijkstra Industries, headquartered in a stately Gothic stone building in the center of town. As they were escorted to the CEO’s office, Eddie noticed that the Dijkstras had spared no expense on the antiques lining the halls. It was decorated like an elegant royal palace and, as far as Eddie knew, it might have been one.

  The CEO’s office was even more ornately furnished. A reed-thin man in his late twenties leaned on the desk, talking on his phone. He waved them in with two fingers. The three of them stood as they waited for his call to finish. After a few more words in Dutch, the man hung up the phone.

  “Gustaaf Dijkstra,” he said in a regal tone as he stood and shook their hands. “Oskar Dijkstra was my father. You are Edward Seng, Franklin Lincoln, and Mark Murphy, is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir,” Eddie said. “We’re very sorry for your loss.”

  “Yes, it’s been difficult for all of us. My cousin Niels is sorry he couldn’t be here, but he’s in Singapore negotiating a large shipping contract. He threw himself back into work after the funeral of my uncle Lars.” Gustaaf paused to shake his head slowly. “So, you think Maxim Antonovich had my father killed?”

  “We don’t have any conclusive evidence that he was responsible,” Murph said, “but we’re sure his people did it.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “According to the forensic team analyzing the wreckage,” Linc said, “there’s evidence that the plane’s wing was heated from the outside before it caught fire. A high-powered laser would leave that exact signature.”

  Gustaaf frowned. “I thought the crash was suspicious, but a laser?”

  “You saw the video we sent of the Achilles,” Eddie said. “I’m guessing we wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t. Antonovich’s yacht brought down your father’s plane with the same laser that was used in the video of the Narwhal’s sinking.”

  “I don’t know where you got that vid
eo, but all I saw were missiles exploding in midair. I couldn’t tell why.”

  “Then why are you helping us?” asked Linc.

  “Because I very clearly saw the Achilles destroy the Narwhal. I have no idea why Antonovich would want to kill my father and sink one of our ships. Ownership of the joint venture remains fifty-fifty even with my father’s and uncle’s deaths, so assassination makes no sense for Antonovich. However, I do know that I don’t trust him.”

  “But you trust us?”

  “As your chairman suggested, I called the Kuwaiti emir, who is a friend of our family. He was very impressed with the job your company did for him and recommended your services very highly. If he trusts you, I trust you. And if Antonovich is behind my father’s death, he might be coming after me and Niels next. I’m not about to sit back and wait for that to happen.”

  There was a knock at the office door and a young woman entered, carrying a roll of blueprints.

  “Thank you, Yvonne,” Gustaaf said, taking the plans from her. “Please close the door behind you on the way out.”

  He spread the papers on his desk and invited the rest of them closer.

  “As you requested, these are the floor plans of the European Continental Control Hub. It’s a high-security facility, with fingerprint and retinal scan access pads at all the doors. No one gets in if they’re not in the system.”

  “Unless you’re on a tour,” Murph corrected.

  “Yes. The tour will show off the main features of the Control Hub. If you’re suspicious that Antonovich and this ShadowFoe hacker intend to hack the electrical grid, they’d have to do it from the command center.”

  The command center, located at the heart of the facility, was a large room containing over three dozen monitoring stations and a wall-sized screen mapping out the entire European grid.

  “Are you sure we can’t get this tour canceled or postponed?” Eddie asked.

  As their Chairman had guessed, the warnings fell on deaf ears. The European electrical authorities weren’t going to tick off one of their biggest suppliers on the basis of rumors and hearsay.