From the ship, Austin watched the television crew stuff its gear into a cab. Kaela waved good-bye, and the cab headed away from the waterfront. He walked around the deck, taking in the view of the bridge guarding the mouth of the Golden Horn, and the sprawling Topkapi Palace built for Sultan Mehmet II in the 1400s. In the distance he could see the minarets of the Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque.
He went back to his cabin and caught up on paperwork, then showered and exchanged his shorts and sweatshirt for casual slacks and a light cotton sweater. Near dinnertime, he walked down the gangway and made his way to the street to look for a cab. A taxi pulled up beside him. It was a vintage Chevrolet, circa 1950s. There were passengers in the car, which identified it as a dolmus, meaning "stuffed" in Turkish. Unlike the regular cabs, these taxis crammed in as many passengers as they could fit.
Austin got into the backseat with two other passengers who made space between them. A heavyset man sat on a jump seat and a fifth passenger occupied the front seat next to the meter. Austin told the driver to take him to the Taksim Square. He had visited Istanbul several times on NUMA assignments and knew the city fairly well. When the cab went a roundabout route, Austin thought it was simply to accommodate the other passengers. But nobody got off. The cab started to head away from Taksim Square and, suspecting the driver was trying to jack up the fare, Austin leaned forward and asked him where he was going.
The driver stared silently ahead, but the man in the front seat turned around. He had a wide, brutish face that even a mother couldn't love. Austin's eyes lingered on the passenger's features for only a second before shifting to the gun in the man's hand.
"Silence!" the man growled. The men sitting next to Austin pulled him back by the shoulders. A long-bladed knife pointed at his right eye. The cab accelerated at neck-snapping speed, exited from the traffic stream and plunged into a dark maze of narrow cobblestone lanes.
They headed away from the waterfront, skirting Karakoy and the police squads who monitored the official red-light district. Austin glanced longingly at the restaurant lights at the top of Galata Tower. Then the taxi was moving along the Istikal Caddesi, weaving in and out of traffic, past the nightclubs, movie theaters and unregulated brothels that lined the gaudy strip. The cab spun off the main drag and climbed a hill into Bozoglu, where all the old European embassies were housed during the Ottoman Empire, and executed a series of squealing turns.
The car stayed upright despite the protesting tires, which told Austin that the driver was a professional who knew the limits of his vehicle. There had been no attempt to blindfold Austin, and he wondered if this meant he had a one-way ticket to oblivion. As the car continued to hook left and right through the urban warren, he concluded that a blindfold was unnecessary; he didn't have a clue where he was.
The fact that they hadn't killed him offered slim solace. He knew instinctively that these men would not hesitate to use the weapons they had brandished in his face. After several minutes, during which the city lights faded to a glow, the car whipped down a darkened, garbage-strewn street and into an alley not much wider than the vehicle. Austin's companions hustled him from the taxi and stood him against a brick wall while they bound his hands behind his back with duct tape. Then they pushed him through a doorway along a dim hall and into the lobby of an old office building. Grime covered the marble floor. On one wall was a brass floor directory black with the patina of age. The smell of onions and the muffled cry of a baby indicated that the office building was being used for human habitation. Probably squatters, Austin surmised.
His escorts nudged Austin into an elevator and stood behind him. They were hulking men, as big or brawnier than Austin, who had never considered himself to be a pigmy. The space was cramped, and Austin stood with his face pressed against the cold wrought iron of the ornate gate. He guessed that the elevator must date back to the time of the sultans. He tried not to think of frayed and neglected cables as the elevator slowly jerked and rattled up to the third and last floor. The elevator was more nerve-wracking than the speeding car. The elevator cracked to a stop, and one of his escorts growled in his ear.
"Out!" He stepped into a dark hallway. One man grabbed the back of Austin's shirt in a bunch, used it to steer him for- ward and brake him to an abrupt stop. A door opened, and he was maneuvered inside. There was the odor of old paper and oil from long-ago business machines. He felt pressure upon his shoulders, then the edge of a chair bumped against the back of his knees. He sat down and squinted into the darkness. A spotlight flashed on, and Austin saw sunspots as the glare hit him in the face. He blinked like a suspect being given the third degree in an old gangster movie.
A voice speaking in English came from behind the spotlight.
"Welcome, Mr. Austin. Thank you for coming." Something about the voice sounded familiar, but he couldn't place it.
"It was an invitation I couldn't resist."
A dry chuckle issued from the darkness. "The years haven't changed you, have they?"
"Do I know you?" A memory clawed at the back of Austin's mind like a cat scratching softly at the door.
"I'm hurt that you don't remember me. I wanted to thank you in person for the lovely bouquet of flowers you sent to hasten my convalescence. I believe you signed the card with the name of John Doe."
Austin was stunned. "I'll be damned!" he said, with a curious mixture of delight and foreboding. "Ivan!"
-9- THE SPOTLIGHT SNAPPED off and a portable table lamp came on, illuminating the face of a man in his forties. He had a broad forehead and high cheekbones and would have been handsome if not for the massive scar defacing his right cheek.
"Don't be alarmed, Mr. Austin," Petrov said. "I'm not the Phantom of the Opera."
Austin's mind flashed back fifteen years to the Barents Sea. He remembered the frigid waters penetrating his heated dry suit as he activated the timer on two hundred pounds of explosives. It was a miracle the Russian was still alive.
"Sorry about the booby trap, Ivan. Can't say I didn't warn you to stay clear."
"No apology necessary. Simply a misfortune of war." He paused, then said, "I've wondered something for long time. Suppose our places had been reversed. Would you have listened to a warning from me?"
After a moment's reflection, Austin said, "I might have assumed, like you, that the warning was a diversion. I'd like to think discretion would have won over valor, but I can't say for sure. It was a long time ago."
"Yes, it was a very long time ago." Petrov's lips widened in a sad smile. "Obviously, discretion did not rule over my youthful impatience. I was impetuous in those days. Don't worry; I bear you no animosity for the fruits of my own foolishness. I would have killed you long ago if I thought you were entirely to blame. As I said, c'est la guerre. In a sense you are as disfigured as I am, only you can't see the scars that cover your heart. The war made hard men out of both of us."
"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 naïve 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."