“Why don’t you go sit with the others and keep an eye on the captain for me?”
Ana nodded, and Pitt guided her to the back of the cavern, where Stenseth and Mikel had been moved. The captain briefly opened an eye at their arrival, then drifted back to his labored breathing. Ana sat down next to him, thankful to be off her feet, and stared off into the fire.
Returning to the blaze, Pitt could see the cavern was filled by a hazy layer of smoke. The scent of burnt wood hung heavy in the air. He approached Giordino, who was dragging another timber toward the blaze. “We’ve got a problem,” Pitt said.
Giordino muscled the wood onto the flames, brushed his hands clean, and turned to Pitt. “Are we all out of marshmallows?”
“Yes. And we have a hefty dose of carbon monoxide to make up for it.”
“That might explain my pounding headache.” Giordino looked up at the small overhead opening, which was gathering most of the fire’s smoke. “Any kind of opening down here would aid the ventilation.”
Pitt eyed the massive boulder and frowned. “We need to make it happen fast.”
The two men redoubled their efforts, hauling timbers to the fire and dousing the rock with water at regular intervals. Standing close to the fire, they both experienced symptoms from the invisible carbon monoxide gas: dizziness, blurred vision, shortness of breath, and dull headaches. Willing themselves past the poisoning, they attacked the boulder for another hour.
Pitt used the Isotta Fraschini’s tire iron to chisel and pound at the rock. Small chunks split from the boulder, but the large mass remained intact. Pitt felt his strength ebb and he stopped and sat to catch his breath. He saw Giordino dragging a timber across the floor in a drunken stagger and he rose to help.
Barely able to stand, both men dragged and rolled the wood to the slowly dying fire.
“That’s the last timber.” Giordino gasped and fell to the ground, holding his hands to his aching head.
Pitt wanted to lie down and go to sleep, but he forced himself to carry the bucket to the crate of bottled water. He dug through dozens of empties before finding a full bottle. Like the timbers, it was the last one. He poured it into the bucket and staggered back to the fire. Every step seemed to magnify his dizziness, and he nearly tripped and fell onto the fiery rock.
He stopped in front of the rock and turned to Giordino. His old friend was no longer sitting upright but sprawled across the ground, his eyes closed.
Pitt turned back to the boulder and cursed. “Break, you bastard.”
With his last ounce of energy, he flung the bucket at the crown of the rock. The rusty pail clanged against the boulder, its contents spilling down the heated granite. Pitt stumbled back as a cloud of steam rose from the surface in a searing wave. He swayed on his feet, ready to collapse, as his burning eyes stared at the rock. “Come on!” he yelled, though his voice was raw and weak.
Above the crackling fire he heard something. It was a deep rumble that sounded far away. The sound grew in intensity, then fell silent. Pitt stood, still swaying, and looked up.
With a crack like a thunderbolt, the boulder gave way. Fracturing into a half dozen large chunks, the massive rock crumbled in front of him. The thundering collapse knocked him off his feet and doused the fire with a cloud of pulverized rock. The cavern grew deathly silent as the light was snuffed out and dust floated to the ground like snowflakes.
Coughing and rubbing his eyes, Pitt rolled over and pushed himself to his knees. He sat for a moment and waited for the dust to clear. Through the haze, he saw a large opening in the wall and smiled as a steady blast of fresh air blew over him.
60
The water surrounding St. David’s Island sparkled in the sunshine as the Antonov transport touched down on the single runway of L.F. Wade International Airport. The plane taxied to the cargo terminal and shut down its engines. A waiting ground crew had already filed a phony duty record with the local customs inspector and went to work offloading the Bulgarian flatbed truck, after ensuring its cargo was still concealed.
Vasko shook off a few hours of fitful sleep as he was escorted to a white pickup truck, which followed the flatbed off the airport grounds. The convoy crossed a causeway to Bermuda’s Main Island, then traveled a short distance to Tucker’s Town, a private enclave of imposing mansions where Hendriks maintained his beachfront estate.
Entering a high-walled gate, Vasko was duly impressed. After ascending a long winding drive, the vehicles arrived at a gleaming white house overlooking the ocean. The trucks drove past a fountain to a garage tucked away on the side, which matched the house with its high-gabled roof. As the trucks entered the garage, a drop-down door closed behind them and a bank of overhead lights flicked on.
Vasko could see the garage was a huge structure, much larger than it appeared from the front. It also contained a working laboratory. Rows of CAD/CAM stations stood across from stainless steel lab benches backed by racks of test equipment. Above one table hung a large drone aircraft, suspended by wires from the ceiling. Hendriks stood by a side door watching the trucks enter, accompanied by two older men. A handful of technicians in lab coats waited behind them.
Vasko jumped out of the pickup and approached Hendriks as he led his entourage toward the flatbed.
“Let’s see what you brought us,” the Dutchman said.
The two truck drivers removed the tarps, exposing a large, zeppelin-shaped atomic bomb.
Hendriks slowly walked around the platform, his eyes glued to the Cold War–era weapon. He climbed onto the truck bed and ran his fingers over its cold steel skin. Approaching the nose, he stared into a small glass sensor that was coated with dried silt. He finally climbed down, spoke quietly to the two older men, then approached Vasko.
“Fine work, Ilya,” he said without emotion. “You and Valentin have delivered something special. Come, let’s have a drink while my scientists look it over.”
He guided Vasko along a cobbled path to a veranda at the rear of the main house. He mixed them each a rum gimlet, then sat down at a shaded table overlooking the Atlantic.
“Bermuda is quite beautiful,” Vasko said. “But I was expecting a shorter flight, to Ukraine or Romania.”
Hendriks took a sip of his drink and nodded. “Ukraine was my first inclination, but I decided that security there was too unreliable. There are pro-Russian agents everywhere. When Valentin told me the weapon appeared in good condition, I chartered a long-range aircraft to give me some options. Bermuda made sense, as it is a trusting locale, and I have a special relationship with the customs officials.”
“And an impressive working facility,” Vasko said.
Hendriks waved toward the garage. “Yes, I have a research lab that I have used for some of my avionics projects. Much of my Peregrine surveillance drone was developed here. The facilities should prove useful for revitalizing the weapon.” He leaned forward. “Valentin indicated your Bulgarian salvage yard was raided by police agents.”
“Yes, we had to abandon the site.”
“And the weapon was transported to Stara Zagora Airport without detection?”
Vasko smiled. “The intruders were dealt with before we departed.”
“And Valentin?”
“He should be on our salvage vessel in the Aegean by now, searching for a submarine he believes contains treasure. I am to join him.”
They were interrupted by the arrival of one of the white-haired men, who was accompanied by a security escort. “Mr. Hendriks,” he said with a Slavic accent. “We have performed a cursory examination of the weapon. The condition appears exceptional, for its age. Aside from some water leakage and corrosion in the tail assembly, the remainder of the device has remained watertight and appears undamaged. We removed the arming mechanism and it looks pristine.”
“You are familiar with this weapon?”
“My colleague had early training expe
rience with the RDS-4 and RDS-5 bombs. They are less powerful, but also less complicated, than the later hydrogen weapons, which is what we had expected to receive.”
“I just need to know,” Hendriks asked, “is it still functional?”
“Its components are quite primitive, by modern standards. We would propose updating all of the electrical components with microchip circuitry and replacing the arming mechanism and detonator with modern electromagnetic devices. But its radioactive elements are still quite potent. And we can provide additional stabilization and monitoring capabilities as part of the refurbishment.” He gave Hendriks a firm nod. “In answer to your question, yes, we can make it both functional and more reliable.”
Hendriks maintained his look of indifference. “How long will it take you to refurbish the weapon?”
“Less than a week, assuming we can obtain the needed components here.”
“I’ll have anything you need jetted in. Thank you, Doctor. Please proceed with the effort.”
The old man nodded and shuffled back to the garage.
Hendriks watched him go, waiting until he was out of earshot. “He and his partner were two of the top Russian nuclear weapons scientists in the 1970s. They emigrated to France when the Soviet Union dissolved and took up with the French Air Force. They’ve worked for a few years on a satellite-related contract with my firm.”
“Can they be trusted?”
“Every man has his price,” Hendriks said. “I told Valentin I would pay him twenty million dollars if the weapon was usable. And so it seems.” He gave Vasko a hard stare. “I will pay you an additional ten million dollars if you will deploy it for me.”
“I’m no bomber pilot,” Vasko said.
Hendriks shook his head. “The attack will be launched from the sea. I intend to use what you’ve learned in the Black Sea.”
“For another attack on Sevastopol?”
“No, I have a different target in mind.” He described his design for deploying the vintage atomic bomb.
Vasko had an inkling that the billionaire was mentally unstable, and his plan confirmed it. He stared at his drink, then took a sip. “That’s liable to cause quite a reaction.”
Hendriks stared out at the ocean. “Yes, it is my intent. You and I are not strong enough to purge the separatists and Russians from Ukraine, but others are. If we are successful, a wrath of fury will rain down upon the invaders in response to our actions.”
“I can see that,” Vasko said with a nod, “but why not use your own men?”
“Because I see no fear in you,” Hendriks said. “My staff people are scientists and engineers. They might be able to construct weapons of death, but they don’t have the mettle to use them. I need someone who is not afraid to pull the trigger.”
“There will be great risks involved.”
“Risks that can be mitigated with a direct and simple plan of deployment. Ten million dollars, I should think, will also buy you a great deal of security.”
Vasko thought of Mankedo and the search for the submarine. Maybe he could pull off the job alone. If things went awry, he could still join Mankedo in the Aegean.
“I want half the money up front,” Vasko said. “There’s to be no mention to Valentin. And I’ll call the shots on final deployment, since my neck will be on the line.”
“Agreed,” Hendriks said. “But first I will need for you to go to Ukraine.”
Vasko didn’t relish a return flight so soon. “For what purpose?”
“For an important delivery,” Hendriks said. “And for the plan’s ultimate success.”
61
Ana awoke with a shiver, the cold stone floor sapping her body heat. The headache that had rattled her skull was back, now at exponential strength. Even opening her eyes caused a stab of pain.
But the light was different, much brighter. She looked up at a string of overhead bulbs. She heard a murmur of voices and slowly leaned up on her elbows. The movement sent a spasm of pain and a curtain of black spots before her eyes. When her vision returned, she saw a haggard group of people climbing out through a tunnel-like opening in a side rock wall. It was the crew of the Macedonia.
Ana watched as the crewmen and scientists emerged from the cavern one at a time. Her colleague Mikel lay nearby. She saw the ship’s third officer, Chavez, crawl out, but there was no sign of Pitt and Giordino. Finally, when it seemed there was nobody left, the two NUMA men exited the smoke of the smaller cavern, carrying the limp body of Captain Stenseth. The captain’s eyes were open, and he winced as they lay him beside her. Pitt and Giordino smiled at seeing she was now alert.
“Well, Sleeping Beauty has awoken,” Giordino said.
“What happened?” she asked.
“You nearly slept the big sleep,” Pitt said.
Giordino motioned a thumb toward Pitt. “His Boy Scout fire gave us all a good dose of carbon monoxide poisoning. A tanker full of aspirin would definitely be in order.”
Ana glanced at the opening in the wall, where a tumble of rocks were piled at its base.
“The fire broke the boulder?”
“Not as fast as I would have liked,” Pitt said, “but Hannibal didn’t let us down.”
She moved to a sitting position. “Is everyone okay?”
“Seems to be,” Pitt said. “I think you took the worst of it, hanging close to the fire with us.”
“Are Mankedo and his men gone?”
Before Pitt could reply, a sharp cry came from the cavern’s main entrance. “Nobody move!”
Two uniformed men carrying automatic rifles stepped into the room, their weapons held high.
“Put those guns down,” Ana yelled back, then winced. “I’m Agent Belova.”
She slowly raised her hand and pulled out an identification badge from a front pocket. The two Bulgarian police officers approached close enough to read her badge, then noted the weary appearance of everyone in the cavern. They looked at each other and lowered their guns. “Are you safe?” one of them asked.
“We are now.” Ana glanced toward Pitt. “What happened outside?”
“There’s nobody here. Where’s the rest of your team?”
Ana pointed to Mikel, who was now sitting upright in a dazed state. “That’s it.”
“Officer,” Pitt said, “we have two men here who need immediate medical attention. Everyone else could use some fresh air.”
A paramedic team waiting outside the compound was called in to treat Stenseth and Mikel. They carried the two out on stretchers and took them to the hospital in Burgas, along with a few of the Macedonia’s crew members suffering the worst effects from the carbon monoxide poisoning. Ana, Pitt, and Giordino should have been among that group, but they refused treatment, helping the remaining crew outside and taking relief in the fresh sea air.
As Ana briefed the lead relief officer, Pitt walked over to the warehouse. He noted the flatbed truck was gone. A panel of corroded aluminum rested against the wall where the truck had been parked, and he studied it with curiosity. Pitt recognized it as a cargo door from an airplane.
He returned to Ana, who was speaking with the officer about the disappearance of her colleagues and vehicles.
“You might check the lagoon.” Pitt pointed to the newly graded road and the nearby front-end loader. “Did everyone make a clean getaway?”
Ana nodded with a scowl. “We’ll search for the workboat, but it could be in three different countries by now.”
“Don’t forget the flatbed truck. It’s missing from the warehouse, and they seemed to value the object it carried.”
“Yes, that might be easier to track down.” She gave a detailed description to the officer. When he stepped to his car to call in the data, Ana approached Pitt. “Do you think they knew we were coming?”
“No, but they were prepared.”
“We’ll fi
nd them.” She looked at the Macedonia’s crew, huddling around the building. “They’ve called in some buses to transport everyone down to Burgas. Are you and Al going to stay in Bulgaria much longer?”
“I’m due back in Washington shortly, but there’s one thing I need to do first.”
“What’s that?”
Pitt gazed at the empty warehouse with a resolute look.
“I need to make one more dive in the Black Sea.”
62
A stiff breeze from the northwest rippled the waters around Cagliari as Dirk and Summer climbed out of a cramped airport taxi. While Dirk collected their bags and paid the driver, Summer looked across the boulevard at Sardinia’s capital city. A blanket of rustic brownstone buildings rose up the hillside, enveloping the old Italian port that had changed ownership more than a dozen times through the centuries.
“I don’t see our ride,” Dirk said. He was looking in the opposite direction at the bustling port, one of the largest in the Mediterranean.
“The Iberia isn’t due for another couple of hours. Let’s go find a coffee somewhere.”
They walked off their flight from London by strolling along the waterfront to a cozy sidewalk café. Though she didn’t need the jolt, Summer joined her brother in ordering an espresso, having learned on a trip to Milan that proper Italians never drink latté after noon.
“I still say we should have gone to Greece and searched for the Pelikan,” she said, dousing her espresso with sugar.
“We’ve been over this,” Dirk replied. “It came down to logistics. There are no NUMA vessels available in the Aegean for at least a week. We might have been able to charter something out of Athens, but that would have taken a few days to organize. Instead, we’ve got the Iberia available right now in Sardinia, close to where the Sentinel went down.”
“What about Mansfield?”
“We can’t control his moves. He may well be looking for a boat in Greece, too. Besides, there are no guarantees that the gold is on the Pelikan. Julian and Charles are back at the National Archives hunting for new leads on both vessels. They might find the truth before anyone else does.”
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