Damage Control

by Amy J. Fetzer

  In launch range, he thought. Big-time. Mitch threw down the headset, then reached for the phone, dialing Gerardo. While he waited for the pickup, he walked closer to the screen, tapping it to focus the satellite imagery. Arctic water distorts sonar and transmission signals, repeated in his mind, and he thought of the sonar Dragon One was certain the Chechens were after. Mitch admitted they were right. But even as he heard the Gunny say she’d put him through, he realized it was entirely possible that Mills’s kidnappers were trying to pinpoint where that sub was last. Moscow really didn’t want this getting out—enough to drop a bomb and kill about ten thousand Chechens.

  “Sir,” he said to the general. “I think its time we paid a visit to Leavenworth.”

  “Perhaps you should come to my office, Major. There’s been a development.”

  “On my way, sir.” He hung up and headed for the elevator, then darted back for the cane and his cell phone. “David, if that sub was nuke powered, then there’d be radiation, heat, something.”

  The kid frowned at him. “But the report said reactor trouble. I doubt it would be giving off anything to register thermal in that water.”

  “Try. News reports came from FSB, a twisted truth is a given, buddy. If it wasn’t the reactor, then it would still be running and show a hot spot.” A minor one if it was deep under the ice cap. He stepped into the elevator.

  David turned back to the screen and before the doors closed, Mitch caught, “If it is, there’s your reason for global warming.”

  ELEVEN

  Aboard the Icebreaker Northern Lion

  Noble lay still on the bed, fighting the groggy edge lingering from the drugs. Days were lost to him. He’d seen no faces till he woke inside a crate, for God’s sake. Buried alive, he thought at first, and was thankful the bunk above him was folded back into the wall and lashed. He glanced around, lying still. He’d slept with no idea of how long. There were no clocks in the cabin. The engines still rumbled and he felt the speed of the giant ship pushing through the water.

  Destiny unknown, he thought, throwing the covers back. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bunk. The air was frigid and he rubbed his arms, pulling the blanket from the bed and wrapping himself in it. The room wasn’t large, but without windows and one way out, adequate for a prisoner. He tried the door first, then walked to the small lavatory, grateful for the single comfort. He splashed water on his face, rubbing his chin and wishing for a blade, but knew there would be none. He investigated just the same and found cold-weather clothing in the drawers. For you, Dr. Sheppard was written on a slip of paper. He considered refusing anything from these people, but his own ripeness had other ideas. He showered in lukewarm water and was shaking violently by the time he pulled on the heavy cable knit sweater and a second layer of socks. He rubbed his hands, thinking of his family and friends and what they must be feeling now. Olivia must be going mad, he thought, then warned himself not to dwell on what he could not change. He was still alive and surviving was his only goal. He searched the cabin again, finding more toiletries, but little else.

  Wrapped in the blanket, he sat in the only chair before a small collapsible desk. The man with the blue eyes wanted the diary translation enough to kill that poor young bellman. The moment was forever etched in his mind: the two men dragging the boy in the hotel room and killing him so quickly he didn’t scream. He’d obeyed from then on, not that they gave him an opportunity with all the drugs since. The hour or so before coming aboard was only the second time he wasn’t in a pickled stupor. He wasn’t educated on ships, yet thought it was an icebreaker, and considering he’d heard a little Norwegian, maybe ported out of Iceland or Norway? It didn’t matter. Trapped at sea was the invisible fence. The water temperature alone would kill before you could fight it.

  The door lock rattled. A young man entered with a tray, setting it on the desk without sparing a glance. “The commander wishes you to eat and wants to know if you need a doctor.”

  He didn’t speak and only shook his head. The crewman left, but not before Noble noticed the embroidery on his dark gray shirt. A silver trident. Beneath it was Russian, and translated, he thought it meant People’s Justice. His hand bore the same mark though much smaller. Neptune’s trident was not an uncommon symbol for the sea. He looked at the tray, drawing back the linen. To say he was surprised was mild. Steam rose from the lobster tail, beside it a steak as thick as his thumb. Ply me with pleasures, he thought, so he’d re-create the diary. He’d understood that from the moment the blue-eyed man realized it was gone. He had to be useful or he’d be dead.

  He cut the steak and ate, confident that Sebastian would not fail him. Nor would Olivia and General McGill. NSA did not go to such great lengths to hide the diary and dig to have some renegade Russian female infiltrate. He’d only glimpsed the decks to know he was aboard an icebreaker stacked with gear and all covered with tarps. An expedition, she’d said. But to where? For what? Logic said they were searching for Ice Harvest, and his uncertainty gave him little hope. The ship’s log, if they understood it, would point them right to the dig.

  He felt measurably restored as he pushed the plate back, wishing for something to read, and considered napping again when the door abruptly opened. He tensed when he saw the woman. Lizveta Nevolin. Gregor’s daughter. There was nothing gentle about this beauty, he thought, noticing the bundle under her arm. She looked decidedly different than when he was first brought onboard. Her blond hair was loose and falling over one shoulder. Her dark blue slacks and turtleneck belonged at a ski lodge in the Alps. But Noble understood instantly. Soften her appearance to soften him.

  He’d known the girl’s father a few years ago and only through Internet conversation. Gregor was passionate about the legend and they’d shared theories before the NSA had recruited him, but when his correspondence stopped, he’d searched, and only then, learned he captained submarines for Russia’s Nordic fleet. His death was a tragedy, and Moscow had blamed Gregor for the explosion that destroyed the submarine and all seventy-three lives. Or so he’d read in Pravda. A scapegoat, perhaps? His daughter didn’t grieve quietly, vigorously defending her father and his crew in the press. She gained a gathering of outraged Russians. Then abruptly Lizveta Nevolin disappeared from the news and went into seclusion. Some speculated she’d been permanently silenced. The party deemed her harmless and grief stricken.

  Not a wise choice obviously, he thought, and his gaze followed her as she inspected the cabin. He considered himself an observer by nature. Living in New Orleans near Bourbon was always a treat for people watching, especially from his balcony above his shop. The reason behind a person’s behavior didn’t often present itself, and he watched her inspect the room. She tried for grace and failed, her moves too rigid, methodical. Yet he had the feeling this was the Dr. Jekyll to the Ms. Hyde he’d met above deck. He’d accept her threats as truth, and let himself be lulled to learn what the blazes she was going to do that was worse than murder.

  She finally looked at him, clutching a small computer notebook and a familiar linen bundle. “How are you feeling, Doctor Sheppard?”

  “Captive.”

  She gave him a polite smile. “I have brought this for you.” She laid her stack on the bed, then unwrapped the Aramina log.

  “A thief returning the booty. How generous.” Being lulled had its limits, he thought, then noticed the long knife sheathed at her hip.

  “Doctor, I’d hoped we could work together and share our knowledge. I think you’ll be interested in the pieces my father had found.”

  “What do you want from me, Lizveta?”

  Her gaze sharpened on him. She didn’t like him using her given name. “To repeat the translation, of course.”

  “If you know of the monk’s journal, then you certainly understand that’s impossible.” A lie. He’d read it so many times he knew it in reverse. “It’s hundreds of pages and not a single word in it is worth taking lives.”

  “I have lost people as well.�
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  He made a sound that was just not rude enough. “Your people killed a nineteen-year-old bellman, for God’s sake. Please don’t imagine I give a damn.”

  She pawed the rope of hair spread down her chest. “But you did care about my father. He liked you, Noble. I read your correspondence. I have followed you and your work since his death.”

  He frowned, and assumed she’d gone through her father’s estate, yet following him? He’d have spotted it, and he wondered where she was going with this.

  “After he died, I found his papers on the Irish legend. He had told me the story a few times, but I had already chosen to carry on his research.” Her heavy accented English was textbook precise and monotone. “I went to Ireland and visited the castle ruins.” She met his gaze. “The excavation was under way and I saw the archaeologist unearth the diary from the altar stone.”

  He would have liked to have seen that and tried not to let it show.

  “When the discovery did not appear in the news, I understood it had value for its contents.” She shrugged lightly, then sat primly on the foot of the bed, her hands folded on her lap. “A few inquiries, and I knew the eras coincided. I envy that you have read it.” She paused, staring as if he were transparent. “My father’s notes are here,” she finally said, touching the notebook computer beside her. “As well as scans of his personal collection. I think you’ll be interested in a letter found in a family Bible that not only mentions the legend, but its origins in Manchuria.”

  He tried to school his features. Other than the monk’s story, the tomb was the only reference to the changeling relic. He knew he didn’t hide his surprise when she said, “A Russian in China is not a problem nor was learning of the excavation there,” she smiled thinly, “perhaps eighteen months ago.”

  That will irritate Olivia, he thought, trying to keep her involved. “What did you learn?”

  “That Emperor Jin was desperate to free himself of its yoke and gave his most hunted prize to the Irish woman with the Viking father.”

  Noble wouldn’t confirm or deny. Olivia was in China last he knew, proving just that, but the monk’s words agreed with Nevolin’s. “Interesting that you followed that path.”

  She eyed him. “You study the legend same as I do and my father did.”

  “I do, but the diary is only one man’s reflection of a story.” You are simply racking up the lies, he thought. In his own archaic way, the monk had been decidedly accurate in his interpretation.

  “My father had spent many summers searching for it. I never understood his passion for the legend. He was murdered before he could share it.” She stared, unblinking. “I seek the gift the emperor gave her.”

  Something inside him went still as glass, and he frowned.

  “The jade stone.”

  Good God, he thought. She or her father deciphered the legend enough to know the relic was jade. However, only the diary mentions it being cut in half.

  “The meaning behind this?” She gestured to the log lying on the mattress. “The captain of the Aramina guided by the stars. How strange that I found an entry that points, I believe, to Brønlundfjord.” She opened the log and lifted a ribbon where she’d marked her place, bent over and pointed. “Come, read this, Doctor.”

  He didn’t. He knew what it said or he wouldn’t have bought it.

  She glanced at him, arching a thin brow. “I know who cares about you. My men have been to your bookshop and your daughter’s house.”

  Noble felt his gut wrench at the threat and he clenched his fist. “I’m a kidnapped American, the FBI is with her, looking for you and waiting for a ransom demand.”

  “One that will not come. How long will they remain with her?”

  “Point made.” She stepped near and his skin crawled. He wasn’t in a position to antagonize her, but did not doubt the capability of NSA or the FBI. Or, thank God, Sebastian and his friends.

  “I know of your partner, Doctor Corrigan. We believe she has the diary now.”

  “It doesn’t matter, it’s gone. Move on, Lizveta.” Giving her even a shred of information was dangerous. The diary would not lead her to the jade stone. Only Ice Harvest could.

  She stood and walked the small circumference, then stopped with her back to the lavatory door. She folded her arms, her feet spread, and he thought, there is the viper he met above decks. She shrugged, but it was not a casual move. “No matter. I do not need it, Doctor. I have you now.”

  “That’s not your good fortune, Lizveta.”

  Her name made her tense, and she grew more agitated, almost hyper as she pushed away from the bulkhead and paced for short steps. “There is only one remarkable entry, Doctor. The Aramina’s captain says he has seen a ship trapped in the ice. Is this true?”

  “Your man stole it before I could read it.” Though he was surprised she’d translated the Portuguese, he wasn’t going to lead her to Ice Harvest. Yet as she stepped near enough that he smelled her flowery perfume, he knew she would not suffer his stalling.

  “Know that if you do not cooperate in every way, I will simply find those you love and kill them.”

  “This is how you honor your father’s memory, Lizveta? With threats?”

  She slapped him viciously. The sting exploded through his cheek and made his eyes water. He turned his head and met her gaze. He’d sworn his duty, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t re-create a lie. He’d given her enough of them to start. “I will do whatever you want.”

  She let out a breath that didn’t seem to calm the rage in her eyes. She stared, her fists white knuckled, then suddenly she was inches from him. Noble leaned away, but she grabbed his hand and with surprising force, flattened it on the desk. Before he realized what was happening, she drew a knife and brought it down on his hand. Pain rocketed up his arm as a segment of his little finger rolled off the desk to the floor. He screamed unrestrained, and clutched his hand to his chest, trying to stop the bleeding. The woman crossed to the lavatory and tossed him a white towel.

  “Are you mad? I can’t use my hand now, woman!”

  “Do not deny me again, Doctor Sheppard. Complete the diary or you will lose more.” Nevolin walked to the door and paused only to collect his fingertip in a handkerchief. She met his gaze. “It is your only purpose here. You have eight hours.”

  The door closed and Noble slumped in the chair, applying pressure. He swore foully. The woman was savage in her grief, he thought, and three years had stripped compassion from her. He read it in those black eyes. She would kill before admitting defeat. He adjusted the towel, his arm throbbing. He had to keep her from learning of Ice Harvest and he was only guessing that she hadn’t searched the Aramina’s star coordinates on a current map. He recognized the uneasy feeling slipping up his spine. Lizveta Nevolin possessed the exact location of Ice Harvest and didn’t realize it yet. God forbid when she did, he thought, looking down at the bloody bundle in his lap.

  After a few minutes, the bleeding stopped, but the pain was excruciating, and when he thought he’d pass out, a young man entered the cabin. Without speaking, he dressed the wound, injected a drug to numb it, then collected his first-aid bag and left Noble alone. But the depraved smile on the young man’s face was enough to make him turn to the laptop and start it up.

  Find me, Sebastian. Whatever her purpose, it’s twisted.

  Ice Harvest

  2400 hours

  Sebastian couldn’t sleep, and the endless daylight had little to do with it. The longer Noble was with Nevolin, the more the scales tipped against him. Safia had a lock on the Northern Lion since Svalbard, and he kept wondering about the sonar and why Nevolin needed it desperately enough to kidnap Mills. But his biggest concern was that the Lion was heading south, toward them.

  He tipped the cutting board and slid the diced onions into the pan, then shook it gently. It took him about two minutes in the mess hall to realize that sound traveled inside the dome. Other than the sizzle in the pan, the only sound was the chug of the equipm
ent sucking melting ice through a tube. Everyone was sleeping except for him and the duty watch.

  He cracked a couple eggs into a bowl, whisked, then added it to batter. A moment later, the griddle puffed with pancakes. He glanced up at a noise and saw a figure moving in the dark. A second later, Olivia was showered in light. A surprise, since she’d worked like a madwoman today to keep up with the approaching winter deadline.

  “Evenin’. I thought you’d be comatose.” She was inside the dig for twelve hours with few breaks.

  “I’m just a little sore.” She waved it off, tightened the belt of a really thick robe, and shuffled closer. “Nothing some good drugs can’t handle.” She moved nearer, a little sluggish, her boots unlaced and the rest of her wrapped in layers of fleece and flannel.

  “You look cold.”

  “I am. I only get this way at night and that’s because sleeping in my thermal suit isn’t recommended.”

  The thick shirt and slacks she wore under her clothes, he realized.

  She took a seat on the steel counter a few feet away and looked from the pans to him. “I’m still shocked you like to cook that much.” She studied him for a moment. “Your mother taught you, didn’t she?” He nodded. “She was a great cook.”

  He stacked pancakes on a plate, then slipped it into a warming oven. “A couple of her specialties are on the Craw Daddy menu.”

  “Let me guess, Gracie’s Damn Hot Shrimp, conch fritters, and…cinnamon glazed beignets.”

  He grinned, oddly pleased she remembered. “On the money, honey. I like to think she’d be happy it was open again.”

  “She would. Gracie loved feeding people.”