The Emperor's Revenge (The Oregon Files)

by Clive Cussler

  In the rearview mirror, he saw a police car gaining on them fast.

  O’Connor saw them, too. “The cops are coming!”

  “That’s not the police,” Golov said. “Kill them.”

  Sirkal threw the rear door open, trying to take aim at the driver. He got off three shots before the police car was able to overtake them and pull alongside as they approached the Mindaugas Bridge.

  Golov glanced over and couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw the driver.

  It was the same man who’d been at the gala in Malta. The captain of the Oregon. He was in the car with his fake wife and another man.

  The captain smiled as he yanked the police car’s steering wheel over and crashed into the side of the van.

  With the hobbled wheel, Golov couldn’t keep the van on a straight track. It veered to the right, aiming straight at the bridge’s steel railing.

  By instinct, Golov jerked the steering wheel right to avoid a collision with the railing. He realized too late that it was the wrong choice. He stood on the brakes, but the van was already on the wet grass alongside the Neris River. The wheel carved muddy ruts in the ground as the van slid toward the embankment. It flew over the edge and down the soggy slope toward the water. The van smacked, nose first, into the concrete path, bounced up, and splashed into the river.

  The air bag saved Golov’s life, but it didn’t leave him unscathed. Blood coursed down his face. His forehead had struck the wheel as the van hit the water. That was nothing compared to the agony of his three fingers, which were dislocated when he had tried to brace himself on the dashboard.

  With water swirling around his knees, he turned to see Sirkal and O’Connor in the back. O’Connor was up, but holding his head in both hands.

  A screwdriver had impaled Sirkal in the shoulder. He stood and pulled it out without a word. He pressed his hand against the wound to stanch the flow of blood. The two of them left the trunk behind and leaped through the rear of the sinking van.

  Golov jumped through the driver’s door into the river, ready to swim to the shore and use the last of his bullets to fight his way up to the bridge. With any luck, they could hijack a car there.

  Then he saw the boat moored under the bridge and he knew Providence was smiling on him. He yelled to the others and swam over to it, clenching his jaw from the intense pain of each stroke.

  Sirkal was the one to reach it first. Using his powerful, uninjured arm, he pulled himself in, then reached down and heaved O’Connor and Golov inside with him.

  Gunshots punched through the boat’s fiberglass hull. O’Connor returned fire while Sirkal pried open the dashboard so that Golov could hot-wire the ignition. His dislocated fingers screamed as he manipulated the wires with his thumb and index finger until the connection was made. With a spark, the engine roared to life.

  Sirkal sliced through the lines tying the boat to the bridge, and Golov hammered the throttle forward. He looked back in frustration at leaving Polichev’s formulas to sink in the river. The van’s rear end slid beneath the surface with barely a splash.

  He expected the police car to parallel their course along the river. Instead, the man who’d been in the car with the captain was racing down the stairs toward where the van had gone down, stripping off his jacket as he ran. The Oregon’s captain was hot on his heels.

  They must have been trying to save the contents of the submerged trunk. Surely the ink and paper would turn into a sodden mess, but if it were saved quickly, the formulas might still be legible.

  Golov slowed and spun the wheel, bringing the Sea Ray around in a U-turn.

  “What are you doing?” O’Connor yelled, incredulous. “We’ve got to get out of here!”

  Golov ignored him and jammed the throttle to its stops, determined that this operation wouldn’t be a complete failure.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  Juan chased Trono down the steps of the embankment to the river, yelling for him to wait. As Trono had seen the van sinking with the trunk that might hold the clues to what Golov was after, he pulled a length of rope and a flashlight from the police car’s supplies and raced down the stairs in an attempt to save it. Over his shoulder, he had called for Juan and Gretchen to chase the boat and come back for him later. He was so fixated on the sunken van that he didn’t notice Golov swinging the boat around downriver.

  But Juan had noticed. He leaped down the steps two at a time, but he couldn’t stop Trono from plunging into the river. An experienced diver, Trono would have no trouble swimming down to the van and attaching the rope to the trunk so they could haul it up.

  With his gun still in hand, Juan dived into the water and kicked his way down to the van. Trono was already inside the cargo space, tying the rope to the trunk’s handle. Juan grabbed his arm and motioned for him to get out of there. Confused by Juan’s presence, Trono nodded and followed him out of the van, still holding the free end of the rope.

  The roar of the Sea Ray’s engine announced that it was fast approaching. Trono’s eyes went wide with understanding that they were in danger. They both dolphin-kicked underwater all the way to the river’s bank. When they reached the concrete lip, Juan surfaced and saw the boat coming even with the bridge and slowing down. Golov was driving, and his lip curled in satisfaction when their eyes met. He had Juan just where he wanted.

  What happened next took only seconds, but, for Juan, they would always play back in his mind in slow motion.

  A red-haired man behind Golov had his pistol pointed at Juan. There was a third man in the boat, a huge Indian, but he was unarmed.

  Out of breath, Trono came up for air next to Juan, who shoved Trono aside, using the momentum to push himself in the other direction.

  As he did so, a bullet whizzed past Juan’s head. He raised his own gun from the water and fired three quick shots at the redhead. Two of Juan’s shots hit home, one in the chest and one in the temple. The redhead fell forward, firing as he dropped. Rounds plunked into the water beside Juan.

  Shots came from behind Juan and stitched a line across the boat’s hull. Golov ducked, turned the boat around, and revved it up to full throttle. He glanced back in fury as he took the Sea Ray downriver at full speed. Not only had they missed their target but Golov was now down another man.

  Juan spun around and saw Linda on the pathway nearby. With her pistol down by her side and a look of horror on her face, she turned and called up to Gretchen.

  “He’s been shot!”

  Juan started to correct her, to say it had just been a close shave, when he realized Linda wasn’t looking at him.

  Juan whipped around and saw that the water had turned crimson with Trono’s blood. Trono gasped as he tried to stay afloat with only one good arm. His left arm was rendered useless by the gunshot wound in his chest.

  Juan swam over and wrapped his arm around Trono to keep him from sinking.

  “I dropped the line,” Trono sputtered.

  “Don’t worry about that,” Juan said as he dragged Trono to the bank of the river so that Linda could grab his hand. “Hold on to him.”

  “You’re going to be okay, Mike,” Linda said.

  Juan scrambled out of the water and then pulled Trono out by his shoulders. The motion should have been agonizing, but the former pararescue jumper did little more than grunt.

  Juan lay Trono down on the concrete, and Linda put pressure on the wound.

  “We need to get him to a hospital,” she said. “I mean, right now.”

  “I know,” Juan replied. “He’s losing blood fast. We can’t wait for an ambulance. We need to get him up to the police car.”

  He was about to pick up Trono and carry him up the stairs when he saw the police car nose over the hill and skate down the slick grass. Gretchen expertly guided the car onto the concrete, stopping before it could tumble into the river. She jumped out and ran over to them.

 
“There’s a sloping cement pathway about a quarter mile from here where I can drive out,” she said. “I’ve already mapped the route to the hospital on my phone.”

  They put Trono in the backseat with his head on Linda’s lap so she could keep applying pressure. Gretchen handed Juan her phone with the map instructions on it and put the car in gear. As she accelerated along the river, Juan hit the sirens and lights before twisting around to see Trono. His face was bone-white, but he was still conscious.

  “We’ll be there in a few minutes, Mike,” Juan said. “Hang on.”

  Trono looked up at Linda, who stroked his hair with one hand while the other stayed firmly against his chest. Despite the pressure, blood continued to ooze between her fingers.

  “No hurry,” he croaked with a faint, lopsided grin. “This isn’t so bad.”

  —

  Is that all of them?” MacD asked Jablonski, the catacomb vault echoing with his words.

  He kept his pistol trained on his captive and picked up the last of twenty blocks of plastic explosives that Jablonski and his friend had scattered throughout the vast Russian treasure. The countdown timer had less than two minutes left. The rest of the blocks were piled near the entrance, their detonators removed and timers disengaged.

  “That’s it,” Jablonski said.

  “Good,” MacD said, walking toward the entrance to the chamber and motioning for Jablonski to follow him. “Because if you’re lying, Ah will not appreciate it.”

  “I guess you’ll have to take my word for it.”

  “No, Ah won’t. We’re going back to the front to turn off all the lights. If Ah see the glow of another timer in the darkness, your pants will be on fire in more ways than one.”

  When MacD got close to the entrance, his phone began to buzz insistently. It was only this close to the stairs that his phone could get a signal.

  He put up a hand to Jablonski for him to stop. He pulled the detonator out of the explosive and set it down on one of the antique cannons, keeping his eye on the timer as it continued to count down.

  The phone showed the Chairman’s number.

  “MacD here.”

  “Get out of there as soon as you can,” the Chairman said in a clipped voice, the tension in it palpable.

  “What happened?”

  “Mike’s been shot. We’re heading to the hospital. The police are going to be swarming around the church any minute now, so you need to leave.”

  MacD had never heard that amount of tension in the Chairman’s voice. It had to mean Trono was in bad shape. MacD’s grip tightened on the phone.

  “Meet Tiny at the airport,” the Chairman said. “We’ll join you there if and when we can.”

  “But I have—”

  MacD had become distracted by the Chairman’s news and didn’t notice that Jablonski had edged over to the cache of weapons beside him and put his hand on the hilt of an antique sword. He had only a fraction of a second to react to Jablonski’s lightning-quick slash. The blade barely missed chopping MacD’s arm off, but it struck the SIG Sauer he was carrying, sending the pistol skidding along the floor.

  He tumbled backward to avoid a lethal thrust aimed at his chest. He didn’t stand much of a chance in the small space of the vault without a weapon. He plucked the plastic explosive from atop the cannon, jabbing the detonator back into the block.

  The timer was down to thirty seconds and he waved it in front of him so Jablonski could see. The mercenary halted his advance but stayed balanced on the balls of his feet.

  “Drop that sword or we both die,” MacD said.

  Jablonski sneered. “You don’t have the guts, man.”

  “You’re wrong about that. What about you?”

  Fifteen seconds left.

  “After this, I’m dead anyway. So, I think I’ll call your bluff.”

  Ten seconds.

  “Fine,” MacD said. “Here you go.” He held out the block of explosives as if he were handing it over.

  Five seconds.

  Jablonski reached out to yank the detonator from the explosive, but MacD pulled the block of C-4 away at the last moment. He crammed it down the barrel of the ancient cannon, dropped to the floor, and covered his ears.

  Jablonski was standing right in front of the cannon. The thick iron barrel focused the massive detonation just like the gunpowder that used to fire its shells.

  The shock wave hurled Jablonski across the chamber. His smoking corpse came to rest atop the gilded Ivan the Great cross.

  The concussion knocked the wind from MacD’s lungs. The ringing in his ears muffled the sound of his own footsteps as he got to his feet.

  He retrieved his gun and phone. The cell’s screen had been shattered by the explosion.

  MacD staggered up the stairs, still dazed not only by the blast but also by the news of Trono’s serious injury. And now he had no way to contact the Chairman for an update until he returned to the airport.

  He eased open the cathedral’s side door to the approaching wail of police sirens. He stepped out and walked away as casually as he could past the police cars pulling up to the front of the cathedral. He tried to look like a curious tourist giving them space.

  It was only by force of will that he made himself wait two blocks before taking off at a sprint to look for a cab that could get him back to the airport.

  —

  Gretchen had her full concentration on the road as she weaved around cars in the race against time toward Vilnius University Hospital. The siren and lights were doing their job getting people out of her way as she ran every red light, but several times she had to slow down for a semi that was too slow to get out of the way, unleashing a string of curses from her as she blasted the horn for them to move.

  “We’re a mile out,” Juan said, trying to keep his voice calm. Trono’s breathing had become ragged. “How are you doing, Mike?”

  “Getting . . . cold,” he rasped. “Got a blanket?”

  “We’ll get you patched up in no time,” Linda said in her most soothing tone, but a quick glance at Juan betrayed her fear for Trono’s condition. Despite the pressure she was putting on his chest, she hadn’t been able to completely stop the flow of blood pouring from him.

  “Not sure . . . I’ll make it . . . there.”

  “Sure you will.”

  “You better, mister,” Juan said. “We need you back at work.”

  With every ounce of remaining strength, Trono lifted his arm up and extended a trembling hand to Juan, who reached over the seat and took it. It felt cold and clammy and had none of the vigor and vitality Trono was known for among the crew. He lifted his head and fixed Juan with a melancholy gaze.

  “Thank you,” Trono said, barely able to breathe out the words.

  Juan’s voice choked up. “For what?”

  “For the . . . best job I’ve ever . . . had . . .”

  Juan shook his head. “No, Mike. Thank you.”

  Trono’s head fell back and he looked up at Linda, whose eyes welled with tears.

  “Such a nice face,” Trono said. Then he hissed out one final breath and his eyes glazed over, the pupils dilated. His hand went limp in Juan’s.

  Juan gently placed Trono’s hand down on his chest. Linda, sobbing unabashedly, closed his eyes and continued to stroke his hair.

  Juan turned off the lights and siren. Gretchen was about to ask what he was doing when she looked in the rearview mirror and saw Linda crying. She bashed her hand against the wheel with a shout of pure rage.

  At this point, Juan was simply drained. His rage would come later.

  “Where do you want me to go?” Gretchen asked.

  “We need to find another car.”

  “I’ll look for an empty parking lot where we can borrow one. Then to the airport?”

  Juan nodded slowly, swallowing the
grief that threatened to overwhelm him. “Back to the Oregon. We’re taking Mike home.”

  FIFTY-FIVE

  COPENHAGEN

  It wasn’t until the next morning that Golov and Sirkal were able to rendezvous with the Achilles. They weighted O’Connor’s body with some of the expensive sensing equipment on board the Sea Ray and unceremoniously dumped it overboard in a more remote section of the Neris River before abandoning the boat. They stole a car to drive to the Lithuanian border, where they used false passports to cross into Belarus. During the entire flight from Minsk to Copenhagen on Antonovich’s private jet, Golov fumed at the near-total failure of the operation in Vilnius.

  He went straight to Ivana’s cabin when he boarded the yacht, sending Sirkal to get his arm sutured properly to replace Golov’s makeshift sewing job. When Sirkal was done, he’d revise his upcoming mission, since they were now down three men.

  “How are your plans coming?” Golov said abruptly when he opened her door and quickly closed it behind him.

  Ivana’s quarters weren’t quite as spacious as Antonovich’s suite, but they were far larger than all but the most lavish accommodations aboard a cruise ship. Most of the space was taken up by a vast array of computer equipment whose purpose Golov had no interest in understanding. Half a dozen monitors displayed software code or videos in small windows. European electropop blared from huge floor speakers. It was all connected to the yacht’s high-speed satellite Internet feed.

  Unlike the disgusting hives of hackers Golov had seen on TV shows and in movies, Ivana’s desk was tidy and clean. All of her empty protein bar wrappers and Red Bull cans had found their appropriate place in her wastebasket, and the only papers on the desk were piled in a stack as if aligned by a T square.

  She was startled by the sudden entrance. When she saw who it was, she muted the music and tossed a plastic bag away as she shoved the last couple of almonds into her mouth. She leaped to her feet and gave her father a big hug.