Bedev’s speculation on what presently occupied Talanov’s mind was now confirmed regarding the fate of the boy’s fate.
“I’ve given this considerable thought, Pavel, and I think it’s critical you transfer over to the Varna as soon as possible. Tonight preferably. Though things are so far going to plan, I fear there exists the possibility our timetable on the boy’s demise may need to be expedited somewhat due to unforeseen circumstances. Hopefully, this will not be necessary. The ideal time, of course, still remains two or three days from now when we’re well into the Black Sea.”
“When you say unforeseen circumstances . . .”
“Just that. Unforeseen. It could be anything, Pavel; an incident as simple as an unanticipated engine breakdown—or whatever. Virtually anything that might necessitate the freighter receiving the assistance of some sort for even a minor period of time. The last thing we want is for anyone to physically see the missing boy aboard the freighter—certainly not if we’re to later maintain complete deniability in his kidnapping.”
Bedev accepted the logic. Why take unnecessary chances with so much at stake? Even though his capable man, Ivan, presently had young Jake contained and completely isolated from the crew aboard the freighter, it made more sense if Bedev was there for the duration. One never knew when decisive action might be required should untoward emergencies arise.
“I’ll inform Captain Kharov of my transfer.”
“Excellent.”
* * * *
Three hundred yards off the luxury yacht’s stern, sixteen-year-old Jake likewise pondered his eventual fate as he lay sprawled on a narrow cot inside an unused forward compartment of the Varna. Feeling constantly confused and strangely lethargic over the past few days, he’d come to recognize that something out of the norm was affecting him on several levels—and all to his extreme detriment. In some ways, his symptoms were vaguely reminiscent of a childhood experience from several years ago when he was in the grips of a high fever.
Was this what he was again experiencing?
After slowly thinking it through, he finally concluded otherwise. The sensations were similar, yet not quite the same. Which left him exactly where? he wondered. If not a fever, what then was the cause of this strange malaise that showed no sign of lessening?
He could formulate no plausible answer.
Likewise, he had no solid knowledge of his whereabouts beyond being aboard a ship of some sort; the slight sway and movement of the floor, the occasional distant background sounds and muffled voices . . . all added up to but this one conclusion. Yet it didn’t explain the intention of his two abductors. That part of the puzzle remained a continuing mystery.
At least he was no longer bound and gagged. Due to his present weakened condition, his captors apparently deemed it unnecessary. With only one door in or out of his makeshift cell—and it always locked from the other side—how much trouble could he cause them?
In his present condition, none he could imagine.
Reaching up in the darkness, he located the string hanging from the single overhead bulb and gave a slight tug to illuminate his cramped prison. He then unsteadily swung his legs over the cot’s edge, forcing himself into a sitting position. The effort to accomplish this was inexplicably tiring. Even the process of focusing his eyes seemed a minor challenge. Why should this be? It was almost as if he was under the influence of . . . what? Definitely something calculated to keep him mentally docile and borderline—
Was that it?
The sudden epiphany sent a rippling shiver through the boy, triggering a mixed sense of anger and fear. A debilitating drug! It could be nothing else! But if true, then how was it being administered to him?
What he wanted—needed!—was some form of verification that this too wasn’t all pure delusion on his part.
The source surely couldn’t be food, he slowly rationalized, for he’d been given only occasional meals since his capture—never repeated with any regularity and amounting to next to nothing. Forcing himself to concentrate, he studied his meager surroundings, seeking evidence to back up his theory. As he did so the answer became blatantly obvious. His condition must be the result of consuming the three plastic bottles of purchased drinking water brought to him each morning by the man called Ivan. They were always placed adjacent to the cot on a low table, making it easier for Jake to quench his thirst throughout the long days and nights.
He stared at the three bottles on the table. One was completely empty, innocently used up by him during the day. The other two were still full and as yet untouched.
Or were they?
He picked up these, testing the caps. It didn’t surprise him to find the seals already loosened—which only made sense if something was earlier added. Furious at being so deceived, he struggled to his feet and made his way to the functioning toilet. There he flushed their contents without hesitation and returned to his cot.
Now what?
That his parents would eventually come to his rescue, Jake had no doubt. Only the when and how of it remained to be seen. In the interim, however, he faced two separate challenges; not only must he locate an alternate source of drinking water—for there was no sink in the room—but he must also start playing his own game of deception.
Achieving both was now vital to his survival!
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
10:13 PM. The Turkish Port City Of Canakkale.
Aboard a modest yacht called Safira—a vessel hastily acquired two day’s earlier by Ted and now berthed in the city’s marina just south of the Dardanelles—a tired David gave a less-than-encouraging report to the gathered people regarding his meeting with President Deniz. When he finished, their faces reflected a collective disappointment—plus a certain degree of confusion.
“That’s discouraging, to say the least,” said Nick, apparently speaking for everyone. He glanced speculatively around the group, his worried eyes settling on Omar and Elizabeth. “If anything, Deniz’s refusal to intercept the Varna could indicate our plan may be in jeopardy?”
“Not necessarily,” answered David. “I see no reason not to proceed as arranged. With time fast running out it still remains our best chance.”
“But if Deniz is so intent on—”
“That doesn’t mean he’ll warn Talanov. Though I’m sure he suspects we’re going to attempt something on our own before the freighter gets into Russian waters, he actually went out of his way not to inquire. It was as if he simply didn’t wish to know of it. And this despite being a very direct and blunt-speaking man. If giving Talanov advanced warning was his intention, I got no hint of it from our brief conversation. If anything, my sense was he sincerely wishes us well.”
Nick lifted his hands.
“So long as we don’t involve him or his government, right?”
“Basically, yes. We’ll get no assistance from him in any form. If anyone here has second thoughts, now is the time to speak up.”
No one did—which included the elderly gentleman who David had only met thirty minutes earlier upon boarding the yacht. He was Captain Giannis, a long-time friend of Ted and owner of the Safira. Being someone who navigated his yacht many times through the Dardanelles, the Sea of Mamara—as well as the Bosphorus at its further end—his navigating expertise would be absolutely critical to implementing David’s plan.
“Okay then. Has everything we need been stored aboard?”
“All you asked for,” answered Omar. “No exceptions. How Ted managed it all in such a short period is a marvel in itself.”
Pleased, David smiled for the first time. He needed no convincing of Ted’s remarkable abilities. He asked the captain, “How long before we lift anchor?”
“The sooner the better. Moments before you arrived, I got a call from Ted. His information shows both the Corrina and the freighter are just about to enter the mouth of the Dardanelles. Not a problem, but we’ll need some catching up.”
“Then do so. Any guess when they should reach the Bosphorus?”
>
“At their present speed, I’d say they’ll cross the Mamara Sea and reached the strait by early tomorrow evening. Ted’s satellite images will confirm this more accurately once the sun comes up. By then, regardless of how heavy the ship traffic, I’ll have the Safira positioned where it needs to be close behind the freighter.”
David stood and took Elizabeth’s hand. For good or ill, his plan appeared to be falling into place. “We can review everything again in the morning,” he said. “Until then, I suggest we all get some needed sleep.”
Though physically exhausted, David questioned his own ability to achieve the necessary rest his body so craved. The core reason centered around the single key detail in his elaborate plan that still continued to plague him—this being the probable location of Jake aboard the freighter. Getting it right was central to everything! After repeated study of the most recent blueprints supplied by Ted’s bevy of computer experts, the general consensus had narrowed it down to two small compartments. One was near the bow of the ship. The second was relatively close to the bridge by the centrally located superstructure. Though either one satisfied David’s logical criteria, a nagging doubt yet lingered.
What if they were already too late to save him?
* * * *
Fifteen hours later—seven feet under the water’s surface—David and Lana closely followed the Varna on two electric-powered sea scooters as the freighter made its way into the busy mouth of the Bosphorus. Per Captain Giannis’ prediction, the ship’s massive diesel-driven propellers now finally began to slow in expectation of a complete stop, the churning turbulence it created ahead of them diminishing dramatically. This was what David and Lana were waiting for—and they both immediately eased back on their hand controls in order to maintain a safe distance. Caution was vital. The potential danger from being inadvertently sucked in and struck by the huge rotating blades was simply too extreme to contemplate. It was for this reason—among others—Lana had insisted she accompany David on this essential mission. Needless to say, it wasn’t what Omar wanted, but even he couldn’t deny that only his wife had the necessary scuba expertise to react should an emergency occur.
The heavy blades abruptly ceased all rotational movement.
David knew his opportunity was now!
After exchanging an agreeing nod with Lana, he unhooked the package attached to his weight belt, then immediately propelled forward toward the central conical hub of the blade connections. Seen up close the entire apparatus was considerably larger than when viewed from a safe distance of thirty-five feet. But no matter. It was on this cylindrical structure that his explosive device needed to be affixed, for this hub likewise encased the freighter’s primary drive and control gearing. If properly damaged, the ship would effectively become dead in the water.
As previously instructed, David carefully attached the package of C4 plastic explosive, then inserted the electronic signal device for later remote activation . . . all the while knowing there was no assurance the Varna wouldn’t re-engage the propellers at any moment. Finished, he turned and powered back to Lana just as this happened, the water again starting to seethe and roil.
He breathed a grateful sigh of relief behind his facemask.
Now the waiting game would begin. If Captain Giannis was again correct, the freighter’s passage through the always-busy Bosphorus into the open waters of the Black Sea should take approximately six hours, give or take. By then Talanov would hopefully feel the most secure, hopefully, unprepared for David’s assault.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Three Hours Earlier. Deep Within The Kremlin, Moscow.
Inside his spacious office, a pensive Vladimir Voronin sat at the head of an ornate conference table, watching in silence as all but one of the four attendees stood and departed. It had been a lengthy and somewhat unusual meeting, to be sure, those few present carefully selected by him for various reasons. As he expected they would, each had given him a specific point of view regarding the contents of the informative packet supplied by Deniz, but collectively offered no general consensus as to what should be done. That decision belonged to him alone.
At age sixty-three, Voronin looked considerably younger than his actual years with intense gray eyes and a closely trimmed head of brown hair showing no signs of thinning. A three-term elected president of the Russian Federation, he prided himself on his fit physique, an earned attribute of many athletic endeavors throughout his adulthood. Though somewhat short in stature, his confidence and charismatic appeal was not lost on his fellow countrymen, making his continuing hold on power a strong likelihood for many years to come. If some intuitively recognized the steely purpose masked behind his otherwise personable demeanor, the majority of the populous seemed not to care so long as he led Russia with a firm hand.
Now Voronin turned his head to the man who remained behind—the one man who had shared his darker secrets over the past two decades. Long recognized as the president’s favorite industrialist, Oleg Deripaska was the senior—and very definitely the richest—of Russia’s growing list of billionaire oligarchs who came into their own after the fall of the Soviet Union. Early on, Deripaska wisely chose to link his prospects to the young, former KGB agent just then beginning to rise in national politics. His selection proved fortuitous, eventually making both him and Voronin incredibly wealthy.
“You spoke little during the meeting, Oleg. Your thoughts?”
The elderly oligarch hesitated before responding. A balding, heavy-set man now well into his seventies, his sharp features were almost fox-like in appearance. But not unpleasantly so. He gestured to the stack of folders left on the conference table by the now absent attendees. It included one that he alone had been privy to read a full two days previously. “I’m more interested in what conclusions you’ve drawn from all of this,” he said, now effectively turning the question back on Voronin. “How much faith do you have in its contents?”
The president gave an uncertain shake of his head.
“Not quite as much as I’d like,” he finally admitted. “If this Prof. Manning and his high-placed advocates are correct, then I can see where our intervention and return of these treasures to Greece would definitely be a win/win situation for Russia. As a public relations move we have everything to gain and virtually nothing to lose. Even the European media would be forced to acknowledge and applaud our action—and let’s be honest, Oleg, due to various world tensions it’s been some time since my government has received any ‘good press’ from their direction. This said, there remain a few nagging questions to be resolved should I choose to move against Talanov.”
“Such as what in particular?”
“For one thing, the precise timing of it. The ideal opportunity is the moment he and the freighter traverse the Black Sea into Russian waters. There, our navy ships can accomplish the seizure with ease. However, there exists the possibility this might be one of those too-little-too-late situations.”
“How so?”
“I keep thinking back to what our retired General Arkady Perminov said twenty minutes ago when he gave his personal appraisal of Prof. Manning. Remember, he’s the only one at this table who actually dealt with the man back in Mongolia during that China incident. Also, let’s not forget Manning is convinced his son is being held prisoner by Talanov and likely to be killed once the freighter gets into open waters. If we accept the veracity of just part of the information in the folder, then we must give credence to it all. Arkady said it was his judgment Manning will likely attempt a rescue of his son much earlier than this. I’m inclined to believe him. This seems to fit his character type. Should it happen—and our military vessels are nowhere to be seen—then we can write off any immediate benefit Russia might’ve otherwise achieved in the public’s eyes. We must be perceived as playing a very prominent role in this intervention. If we aren’t, well then it’s even possible I could be accused of somehow being in collusion with Talanov all along.”
“A possibility, yes.”
Oleg apparently saw where he was going. “Then let me offer a possible solution,” he said casually. “Wouldn’t it be best if such a future trial simply never take place?” He shrugged. “It strikes me someone like our Mr. Talanov might openly resist arrest—even to the point, God forbid, of suffering a fatal wound.” He again gave an innocent and highly speculative shrug. “That would certainly negate any potential problems of the kind you fear. Additionally, consider all of Talanov’s numerous holdings inside Russia. Should you decide to intervene—and then purely for the stability of the country, of course—I would strongly recommend we carefully examine his many investments in key industries, seeing how to properly ensure their continued good management.”
“My thoughts exactly,” said Voronov. “If it comes down to this, I would be negligent in my duty not to place the security of our nation ahead of all other considerations.” He smiled as he paused thoughtfully. “Perhaps I should speak more with Arkady on this subject,” he said, then touched his intercom. “Locate General Perminov and send him back in. “
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