Fire Ice nf-3

by Clive Cussler

  "I recall hearing that the Cold War is over. I have a suggestion. Why not ask your friends to give us a lift to the bar at the Palace Hotel? We can talk about old times over a drink."

  "In time, Mr. Austin. In time. We have a matter of grave importance to discuss." Petrov's voice had gained a businesslike edge, and his eyes drilled into Austin's face. "I would like to know what you were doing at the abandoned Soviet submarine base on the Black Sea."

  "Seems I was naive to think our brief visit went unnoticed."

  "Not at all. It's a desolate part of the coast. Under normal circumstances, you could have landed a division of Marines without detection. We've kept the area under surveillance for months, but we were caught off guard. We know from intercepted radio messages that you landed some sort of air- craft and that the NUMA ship came in to pick you up. Please tell me what you were doing on Russian territory. Take your time. I'm in no hurry."

  "I'll be glad to fill you in." Austin squirmed in his chair. "It might help my memory if I weren't sitting on my wrists. How about loosening the tape?"

  Petrov thought briefly, then nodded. "I consider you a dangerous man, Mr. Austin. Please don't try anything foolish."

  Petrov gave a sharp order in Russian. Someone came up from behind. Austin felt a cold blade against his wrists and the tape was severed in a single swipe.

  "Now for your story, Mr. Austin."

  Austin massaged the circulation back into his arms. "I was on the NUMA survey ship Argo, conducting a study of wave action in the Black Sea. Three American television people were supposed to rendezvous with our ship, but they had heard about the old sub base before they sailed from Istanbul, and decided to check it out without notifying us of their change in plans. They were overdue and I went looking for them. Some men on shore murdered a Turkish fisherman who was bringing the TV people to shore, and attempted to kill them, too."

  "Tell me about these killers."

  "There were about a dozen of them, on horseback, and wearing Cossack uniforms. They even carried swords and old rifles – really old."

  "Then what happened?"

  Austin laid out a detailed narrative of the fight. Petrov listened impassively, although from his experience with Austin's resourcefulness, he was not surprised at the way the battle had ended.

  "An ultralight," Petrov said, with a chuckle. "An ingenious tactic using your flare gun."

  Austin shrugged. "I was lucky. They were using antique weapons. Otherwise my story would not have a happy Hollywood ending."

  "You couldn't have known from the air that they were using old rifles. I assume you must have landed."

  "In a manner of speaking. Old or not, those rifles made a sieve out of my plane's wings. I crash-landed on the beach."

  "What did you see besides the weapons? Every detail, please."

  "We found the body of one of the attackers behind the sand dune."

  "He was dressed like the others?"

  "That's right. Fur hat, baggy pants. I found this on one of them." He reached into his pocket and dug out the emblem he had taken from the dead Cossack's hat.

  Petrov studied the pin without expression and passed it to one of his men. "Go on," he said.

  "After I confirmed that the TV people were okay, I called my ship in. They picked us up, and we left as soon as we were able."

  "We found no evidence of a body or weapons," Petrov said. "I don't know what happened to the body. Maybe his friends came back after we left, and tidied up. We took the weapons with us."

  "That's larceny, Mr. Austin."

  "I prefer to call it spoils of war."

  Petrov dismissed Austin's reply with a wave of his hand. "No matter. What of this television crew? Did they film any of this?"

  "They were too busy running for their lives. They filmed the body, but without an explanation I doubt if they can do much with it."

  "I hope for their sake that you are right."

  "Let me ask you a question if I may, Ivan."

  "I'm the one asking the questions."

  "I'm aware of that, but it's the least you can do in return for the beautiful flowers I sent you."

  "I've already repaid your kind gesture with one of my own. I didn't kill you. But go ahead. I'll allow one question."

  "What the hell is this all about?"

  A slight smile tweaked the ends of Petrov's lips, and he picked up the cigarette pack in front of him. Extracting a cigarette with great care, he put it between his lips, lit the end and blew the smoke from his nostrils. The strong tobacco smell filled the office and drove out the musty odor.

  "What do you know about the current political situation in Russia?"

  "What I read in the papers. It's no secret that your country has big problems. Your economy is shaky, organized crime and corruption are worse than Chicago under Capone, your military is underpaid and unhappy, your health care system is a mess and you've got independence movements and civil wars nibbling around your borders. But you've got an educated and energetic workforce and abundant natural resources. If you don't keep shooting yourself in the foot, you may come out okay, but it will take time."

  "A reasonably accurate summary of a complicated scenario. Ordinarily I would say you are right, that we would muddle through. Our people are used to adversity. Thrive on it, in fact. But there are forces at work that are much more powerful than anything we have talked about."

  "What sort of forces?"

  "The worst kind. Human passions, whipped into a fiery nationalism by the winds of cynicism, dismay and hopelessness."

  "You've had nationalist movements before."

  "True, but we've managed to marginalize them, blackmail the proponents or demonize them as eccentric cranks before they could build up their cause and bring others into it. This is different. The new movement has sprung whole from the steppes of south Russia along the Black Sea where the neo-Cossacks live."

  "Cossacks? Like the crew I met the other day?"

  "That's right. The Cossacks were originally outlaws and fugitives, nomads who drifted into south Russia and the Ukraine, where they formed a loose federation. They were known for their horsemanship, a skill that helped Peter the Great defeat the Ottoman Turks. In time they evolved into a military class. Cossacks served as an elite cavalry for the tsars, who used them to terrorize revolutionaries, strikers and minority groups."

  "Then came the Bolshevik revolution, the tsar fell and the Cossacks ended up driving cabs in Paris," Austin observed.

  "Not all were so lucky. Some joined the Bolsheviks, others became staunch defenders of the last of Imperial Russia, even after the tsar and his family were assassinated. Stalin tried to neutralize or eliminate them, but he was only partially successful. To this day, the Cossacks are a warrior caste who believe that they embody the glories of a pure Mother Russia. There is a word for it. Kazachestvo. Cossackism. The idea that they are the ones chosen by a Higher Power to dominate inferior races."

  Austin was getting restless. "The Cossacks aren't the first to think they were chosen to set the rest of the world straight. History is full of groups that have come and gone, leaving a high body count behind them."

  "True. The difference is that those groups are chapters in a history book, while the Cossacks and their blind faith are very much alive." He leaned forward onto the desk and leveled his gaze at Austin. "Russia has become a violent place, and violence is the life's blood of the Cossack. There has been a great revival of Kazachestvo. Neo-Cossacks have taken over parts of Russian territory around the Black Sea. They ignore the Moscow government, knowing that it is weak and toothless. They have formed private armies and hired out as mercenaries. Their audacity has captured the loyalty of many Russians who tired quickly of capitalism and freedom. Many in parliament and the streets yearn for a reactionary nationalism that would restore the glories of Russia. There are pure Cossack units in the Russian army with their own costumes and ranks. They have declared a New Russia around the Black Sea and are expanding into other areas, se
ven million strong. That pin you found is the emblem of their movement. It shows the sun in a new dawn for Russia."

  "They're still a minority, Ivan. How much damage can I they do?"

  "The Bolsheviks were only a minority but they knew what was in the Russian heart, that the soldiers were tired of I war and the peasants wanted land."

  "The Bolsheviks had Lenin."

  "Thank you for making my point," Petrov said, with a humorless smile. "Absolutely correct. The revolution would have been nothing if not for a determined and ruthless leader who unified the country and squashed opponents under his thumb." The smile vanished. "The Cossacks have a similar leader. His name is Mikhail Razov. He is an immensely wealthy shipping and mining magnate who owns a cartel named Ataman Industries. He is dedicated to the resurrection of Great Russia. He endorses the Cossack ideals of masculinity and brute force He has said the best way to wipe out corruption is with a machine gun. He is totally paranoid, believes that the rest of the world is out to get him.”

  "Money and power are a potent formula."

  "It goes far beyond that." Petrov lit up another cigarette. Austin was surprised to see that the match hand was trembling. "He is advised by a monk named Boris, a man of great animal magnetism with a reputation for prophecy. He exerts an evil influence over Razov, encouraging his claim that he is a true descendant of the tsar, going back to Peter the Great."

  "I was under the impression that Tsar Nicholas was the last of the Romanov line."

  "There have always been questions."

  "Even so, I can say I'm the king of Spain, but that doesn't put me on his throne."

  "Razov says he has proof."

  "DNA?"

  "I doubt if he would let anyone take a blood sample."

  "You may be onto something," Austin conceded. "You have a movement, a charismatic leader guided by a messianic prophet and a hereditary line. I agree that sounds like a potent formula for revolution."

  Petrov nodded solemnly. "There is no 'maybe' about it. Russia is on the verge of a neo-Cossack revival that will sweep across the country, wiping out all the gains we have made. The tsar and his family have already been canonized by the right wing in our country. And Razov is poised to take on the tsar's sacred mantle." He smiled. "How many politicians can claim to be descended from a saint?"

  "Most of them claim to be saints. But I take your point. What's your role in this Ivan? Are you with the KGB?"

  "The KGB has been infiltrated by Razov's people. I lead a small inner group whose job is to keep watch on those who threaten Russia's stability. We report directly to the president. But I've only told you part of the story. This involves you, too, Mr. Austin. Razov considers the United States to be the head of a dark worldwide conspiracy that is largely responsible for Russia's ills. He believes America is deliberately using its power around the world to keep Russia impoverished and backward. Many in parliament share his views."

  "America has a long list of enemies. It goes with being the only superpower."

  "Add Razov's name to the roster, then. But this isn't just political – he has a personal reason as well. His fiancee was accidentally killed in the Americans' bombing of Belgrade several years ago. I understand Irini was quite beautiful, and he has never gotten over her loss. So I would urge you to take him very seriously – especially as there are signs he intends to cause great harm to your country."

  "In what way?"

  Petrov spread his hands. "We don't know. We know only that he has given his scheme a name: Operation Troika."

  "Then you've wasted your time and mine. You should use diplomatic channels to take your case to higher-ups in the American government."

  "We already have. We have told them we want them to avoid any overt moves."

  "I can't picture the White House and the Pentagon ignoring a possible threat like this, not now. They've learned the hard way to take threats seriously."

  "Yes, well, they're not pleased with our position. We have told them if they respond too clumsily, they will spoil our efforts and ensure that the threat, whatever it is, will be carried out."

  "What's the connection between this threat and the sub base?"

  "Come to your own conclusion. The sub pen was built for medium-range missile submarines that roamed the Black Sea, mostly to intimidate Turkish leaders who allowed the Americans to establish bases. It was abandoned after the Soviet government fell and lay undisturbed for years. Then Razov leased the facility from the government. His ships were seen coming and going. The Cossacks you encountered were camped nearby as guards."

  "Why the fancy costumes and old weapons?"

  "It has something to do with the symbolism of his cause. Razov chooses to equip some of his men as if they were still cavalry for the tsar. Make no mistake. He has accumulated many modem weapons from the former Soviet Union."

  "Why haven't you moved in on these guys?"

  "We were waiting and watching for the right time. Then you blundered in."

  "Sorry to spoil your stakeout. Someone was being mugged and needed help."

  "We think he intends to act against the U.S. before he assumes power."

  "I can help you find out what he has in mind."

  Petrov shook his head vigorously. "We don't need American cowboys charging in with six-guns blazing."

  "Neither do I. I'm a scientist with NUMA now."

  "You're being disingenuous. You have a reputation for bending the rules. I know about your Special Assignments Team. My office has press accounts of the NUMA team's role in the Andrea Doria conspiracy and the plot to take over the freshwater resources of the world."

  "We like to keep busy in our spare time."

  "Then keep busy with your ocean science." Austin folded his arms over his chest. "Let me see if I understand this correctly, Ivan. You want us to count fish while your madman goes on a terror spree in our country."

  "We have every intention of stopping Razov before it gets to that. Your interference may already have spoiled any chance we have of containing him. If you don't stay out, I will consider you an enemy of the Russian people and will act accordingly."

  "Thanks for the advice." Austin glanced at his watch. "I hate to break off our reunion, but I'm late for dinner with a lovely young woman. So if you're through…"

  "Yes, I'm through." Petrov barked an order in Russian. The men guarding Austin pulled him to his feet and attempted to herd him toward the door. He stood his ground and said, "Nice seeing you again, Ivan. Sorry for past encounters."

  "What's past is past. It's the future that we should both be concerned about." Petrov's hand went to his scar. "You know, Mr. Austin, you taught me a very valuable lesson."

  Which is?"

  "Know your enemy."

  Austin was hustled down the dark hallway into the rickety elevator. Minutes later, he was in the taxi. The driver kept the car more or less under Mach I. Before long, they pulled up at the exact point where he'd been kidnapped.

  "Out," said the driver.

  Austin was glad to comply. He had to jump back to keep his toes from being crushed as the car sped off in a squeal of tires. He watched the taillights vanish around a corner, then walked to the Argo's slip. Back aboard the ship, he called the hotel where Kaela was staying. When she didn't answer her room phone, he asked the desk if she'd left a message.

  "Yes, sir, there's a message from Ms. Dorn," the desk clerk said.

  "Would you read it to me, please."

  "Of course. It says, 'Waited an hour. Something more important must have come up. Went to dinner with the boys. Kaela.' "

  Austin frowned. The message said nothing about getting together at another time. He would have to mend fences in the morning. Meanwhile, he went out on the Argo's deck and paced from one end of the ship to the other, trying to remember every detail of the dialogue with Ivan. As he walked, his lips tightened in determination. Damned if he was going to ignore a threat to his country. The best way to get Austin to do something was to tell him he couldn't do
it. He went back into his cabin and punched out a number on his cell phone.

  FIVE THOUSAND MILES away, Jose "Joe" Zavala plucked the purring cell phone from the dashboard holder of his 1961 Corvette convertible and answered with a cheery hello. Zavala had been thinking how all was right with the world. He was young,.healthy and on an undemanding work project that left him plenty of free time. At his side was a lovely blond statistical analyst from the Department of Commerce. They were driving along a country road in MacLean, Virginia, on their way to a candlelight dinner at a romantic old inn. The warm air pleasantly tousled his thick black hair. After dinner it would be back to the former district library building in Arlington, where he lived, for a nightcap. Then, who knows? The possibilities were endless. This could be the start of a long relationship, long being a relative term in Zavala's world.

  When he heard the voice of his friend and colleague, Zavala's reaction was a happy one. A slight smile cracked the ends of his lips "Buona sera, Kurt, old amigo. How's your vacation?"

  "Over. So is yours, I'm sorry to say."

  Zavala's smile faded and a pained expression came onto his darkly handsome features, as Austin laid out his plans for Joe's immediate future. With a mighty sigh, he replaced the phone, looked soulfully into the dreamy and compliant blue eyes of his date and said, "I'm afraid I've got bad news. My grandmother just died."

  WHILE ZAVALA TRIED to cushion his date's disappointment with an improvised list of outrageous promises, Paul Trout's six-foot-eight figure was bent like a praying mantis over a lab counter at the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution in Massachusetts, examining mud samples from the deepest parts of the Atlantic Ocean. Although the work was potentially messy, Trout's white lab coat was spotless. He wore one of his trademark bright bow ties, and his light brown hair was parted down the middle and combed back at the temples.

  Trout grew up in Woods Hole, where his father was a Cape Cod fisherman, and he returned to his roots whenever he got the chance. He had developed friendships with many of the scientists at the world-renowned institute and often lent them his skills as a deep-ocean geologist.