"I've heard that sunspot activity has been interrupting communications."
"We'll keep trying to establish contact, of course. The president is going fly-fishing in Montana, but I expect he'll return in a hurry if the Russian government falls."
Gunn looked worried. "If there really is a threat, don't you think we should tell the president?"
Sandecker walked over to the window and looked out over the Potomac. Afer a moment, he turned and said, "Do you know how Sid Sparkman made his fortune?"
"Sure, he made millions in mining."
"Correct. As did Razov."
"Coincidence?"
"Maybe. Maybe not. There's often a worldwide good ol' boy network in certain areas of industry. It's not out of the question that they know each other. Unless we learn that the threat is imminent - I suggest we keep this conversation to ourselves for now."
"Are you suggesting that - "
"There's a connection? I'm not prepared to go that far. Yet."
Gunn pursed his lips, a grave look in his eyes. "I hope Kurt and his team aren't getting in over their heads."
Sandecker smiled grimly, his eyes as hard as topaz. "It wouldn't be the first time."
-11- THE BLACK SEA
AUSTIN STROLLED ALONG the Bosporus past the ferry terminal and sleek tour vessels until the smell of decaying fish told his nostrils he was near the working waterfront. Raucous squadrons of gulls grew more numerous as he approached the ragtag fleet of fishing boats nuzzled up to the dock. With their paint-flaked woodwork and corroded metal, the sea-beaten rust buckets seemed to remain afloat by a miracle of levitation. Austin stopped at one exception, a solid-looking wooden boat that appeared to have under- gone heroic maintenance. The black hull and white wheelhouse gleamed with many coats of paint, and the brightwork was liberally soaked with oil.
Reaching into his pocket, Austin pulled out a folded piece of notepaper and matched the scrawled word Turgut with the name painted in white on the stem. He smiled approvingly. He liked Captain Kemal without having met him. Turgut was a renowned sixteenth-century admiral in the reign of Süleyman the Magnificent. Anyone who would name an ancient fishing vessel after such a towering naval figure displayed a sense story and humor.
The deck was deserted except for a man in a double-breasted black suit. He sat on a coil of thick rope mending a net spread across his knees.
Austin called out a greeting in Turkish. "Meraba. May I come aboard?"
The man looked up. "Meraba," he said, and beckoned Austin aboard.
Austin climbed a short gangway and stepped onto the deck. The boat was about fifty feet long, with a wide beam to provide stability as a fishing platform. His eyes swept the Turgut, taking in the extraordinary efforts that had been made to maintain a vessel that looked as if it went back to the Ottoman Empire itself. He went over to the seated man and said, "I'm looking for Captain Kemal."
"I'm Kemal," the man said. His fingers flew over the mesh without missing a loop.
The captain was a slightly built man in his fifties. His face was narrow, his olive skin burnished to a reddish glow by sun and wind. He wore a woven skullcap over dark brown hair going to gray, and he was clean-shaven except for a toothbrush mustache that seemed to be held in place by the curve of his prominent nose. The soft wail of Turkish music came from a portable radio at his feet.
"My name is Kurt Austin. I'm with the National Underwater and Marine Agency. I was on the NUMA ship Argo when we found your cousin Mehmet's body."
Kemal nodded solemnly and put the net aside. "Mehmet's funeral was this morning," he said in well-spoken English. He plucked at his sleeve to show that he was wearing his best and only suit.
"They told me on the Argo. I hope I'm not intruding by coming by so soon."
The captain shook his head and indicated a nearby waist-high stack of netting.
"Sit, please, Mr. Austin."
"You speak English very well."
"Thank you. When I was younger, I worked as a cook for the American air base near Ankara." He smiled, displaying a brilliant gold tooth. "The pay was good, I worked very hard and saved the money to buy this boat."
"I noticed you named it after a great admiral."
Kemal raised a bushy eyebrow, impressed. "Turgut was a big hero to my people."
"I know. I read a biography about him."
The captain studied Kurt with deep-set liquid brown eyes. "Thank your NUMA people for me. It would be very hard for Mehmet's family if they did not have his body to bury."
"I'll be sure to tell Captain Atwood and the Argo's crew of your appreciation. Miss Dorn mentioned your name."
The captain smiled. "The beautiful television woman came by last night. She said Mehmet's widow will be well provided for. It will not bring Mehmet back, but it is more than he could have earned in his whole life." He shook his head in wonder. "God is great."
"I called the hotel earlier, and they told me Miss Dorn had checked out."
"She has gone to Paris. She wants to hire my boat again, but must get permission from her bosses."
Austin received the news of Kaela's departure with mixed feelings. He regretted not having had the chance to get to know Kaela better, but the lovely TV reporter would have been a distraction.
"What else did Miss Dorn say?"
"She told me what happened to Mehmet. She said men on horses shot at the TV people and killed my cousin." He frowned. "They are very bad men. Mehmet never hurt anyone."
"Yes, they are. Very bad men."
"She told me how you shot at them with your little plane. How many did you kill?"
"I'm not sure. There was one body."
"Good. Do you know who these people are who killed him?"
"No, but I intend to find out."
Kemal raised his eyebrows. "You are going back to that place?”
"If I can find a boat to take me there."
"But you have the big NUMA ship."
"It wouldn't be a good idea to use a government vessel." Austin glanced around at the Turgut. "I need something that won't attract attention."
The light of understanding dawned in the dark eyes. "Something like a fishing boat maybe?"
Austin smiled. "Yes, something very much like a fishing boat."
The captain studied Austin's face, then got up and went into the wheelhouse. He reappeared with a large bottle and two chipped coffee mugs. He uncorked the bottle, poured liberal quantities into the mugs and handed one to Austin.
"To Mehmet," he said, raising his drink high in toast. They clinked the mugs and Kemal took a generous swallow, gulping the strong drink down as if it were water. Austin knew from the licorice smell that the mug held the potent Turkish firewater known as raki. Although he did not ordinarily drink alcohol before the sun appeared over the yardarm, he didn't want to be impolite. He took a tentative sip and let the fiery liquor trickle down his throat, thinking that this is what it must be like to swallow broken glass.
Kemal took another healthy swig, and to Austin's relief set his mug aside.
He affixed Austin with a leveled gaze. "Why would you want to go back there? You could be shot, too."
"That's a possibility, but it wouldn't have to happen. Last time we had no warning or weapons. This time we will."
Kemal pondered the answer. Austin was glad to see that the captain was not someone who made rash decisions. His coolness could come in handy. The Turk stared into his cup. "I feel responsible for Mehmet. I let him go with the TV people so he could make some extra money."
"No one could have predicted he would be shot."
"Of course, you are right. I fished there many times with no trouble."
"Would you ever go back?"
"Not for pay, no."
Austin was disappointed but not surprised. "I understand, Captain. It could be very dangerous, no matter how well- prepared we are."
"Fah!" Kemal spat off to his side. "I am not afraid. I said I would not go there for pay. I owe you a favor for killing that pig." He dismissed Austin's protest with a wave of his hand. "The Turgut is at your disposal," he said as grandly as if he were turning over the wheel of the QE2.
"You're not obligated to me in any way." The captain thrust his chin forward. Speaking in measured tones to make sure there was no mistaking his intentions, he said, "The men who killed my cousin are the ones who must be made to pay. I am not a stranger to these affairs. As a young man, I was a smuggler. I was never caught." He thumped the deck with his heel and flashed his fourteen-karat grin. "Twin diesels," he said proudly. "Thirty knots cruising speed. When do you wish to go?"
"I'm expecting three other people from the United States today. I have to round up some equipment as well. How about tomorrow morning?"
"The boat will be fueled up and ready at dawn."
"What about crew?" Austin said. "I don't want to place anyone in danger after what happened to Mehmet."
"Thank you. I will keep two crewmen, my most trusted. I will warn them about the danger, so they can make a choice. I know what they will say. They are cousins to Mehmet, too."
They shook hands on the deal. Austin said he would be there with the sun. He left before Kemal wanted to seal the agreement with another cup of raki. His head was spinning on the walk back to the Argo, though by the time he returned to the NUMA ship, the fresh air off the Bosporus had cleared away most of the alcoholic vapors. He went up to the bridge to see Captain Atwood, who was poring over some charts.
"How's the television star?" he asked.
"You've obviously heard about what a natural I am before the cameras," Atwood replied. "Okay, I admit it," he said, with a sheepish grin. "I had a good time filming with those crazy characters. My guess is that they'll edit out my pretty mug in favor of the lovely Miss Dorn."
"Would you blame them?"
"Hell no! Not in a hundred years. I'm surprised you didn't make a move on the lady. Losing your touch?"
"My heart belongs only to NUMA," Austin said, placing his hand on his chest. "Which brings up why I'm here. I'm going to need some help, no questions asked."
The captain cocked his head. He had known Austin a long time and never knew the man to leave business of any sort unfinished.
"We'll do what we can, as long as it doesn't involve putting the Argo or its crew in jeopardy."
"It won't. All I need is the loan of some gear." Austin summarized his wish list and asked that the equipment be delivered to the Turgut. None of it would be a problem, the captain said. While Atwood ordered up the requested gear, Austin went to his cabin and plugged in his laptop computer. He called up a commercial satellite-imaging company off the Internet and requested photos of a location on the Russian coast of the Black Sea. He examined the photos closely, but wasn't surprised when nothing unusual popped out at him. The Soviets would not be advertising their secret base.
He punched out a number on his Globalstar phone. It was still early back in the States, but he knew from his days of working with the CIA that Sam Leahy would be in his office.
"How's the weather at Langley?" Austin said, when Leahy's brass-lunged voice came on the phone.
There was a pause. "You've got the wrong number, pal. If you're looking for a goddamn weather report, call the National Underwater and Marine Agency. Hell, I hear the smart alecks at NUMA know everything there is to know."
"Almost everything, Sam. That's why I'm calling for your help."
"I knew you'd come crawling back to the Company. Great hearing from you. How have you been, you old sea dog?"
"I'm fine. They still have you tied to a desk?"
"Not for long. Retirement is in six months. Then it's running fishing charters on the Chesapeake. I could use a first mate if you ever get tired of the Washington rat race."
"Sounds tempting. Put me down for a charter at the very least. Right now I could use some information. What do you know about Soviet sub bases?"
"Broad subject. Anything in particular you'd like to know?"
"Yes. How were they physically constructed?"
"To begin with, they were big. They had to be large enough to accommodate the babies like the Typhoon, with a length of five hundred fifty-seven feet. The beam alone was seventy-five feet. Those monsters were armed with twenty nukes a piece. The Soviets wanted them protected from a nuclear attack, so they built the pens deep. They learned from the German U-boat pen construction that held up pretty well under Allied bombing. Basically, they'd blast a tunnel out of a hillside and line it with several yards of reinforced granite."