Fire Ice (NUMA Files 3)

A defeated expression came onto the admiral's face. "Please don't toy with me. We were once comrades."

"We still are," Petrov said, handing over the envelope. "Consider this a delayed payment from your country for past services."

The admiral took the envelope and examined the contents. When he looked up, tears brimmed in his eyes.

"How did you know?"

"About Florida? Word gets around. It was not hard to find out."

"I don't know how I can repay you."

"You already have. Now I must be on my way, and you have to inform your employers of your wish to end your services here."

"Inform them? I'll leave as soon as I can change my clothes."

"That might be a good idea, considering the amount of cash you're carrying. Oh, I forgot. One thing."

The admiral froze, wondering if strings were attached after all. "What's that?"

"Don't forget to use sunscreen when you're out on the water," Petrov said.

The admiral threw his arms around Petrov and embraced him in a bone-cracking bear hug. Then he tossed his cap across the room. His jacket, with medals clattering, followed.

Petrov slipped away. He allowed himself a rare smile as he stepped through the outside door. He shook hands with the doorman, passing along another hundred-dollar bill. He was feeling generous tonight. The doorman shoved his way through the crowd to make a path for Petrov, who quickly limped through the alley and disappeared into the night.

24

THE BLACK SEA

THE CALL FROM Captain Atwood came in as the NUMA helicopter sped across the Black Sea toward the Turkish mainland. Austin had been jotting down his thoughts in a notebook when he heard the familiar voice crackle in his earphones.

"Kurt, are you there? Come in, please," Captain Atwood urged.

"Miss me already, Captain?" Austin said. "I'm truly touched."

"I'll admit things are a lot quieter here since you left, but that's not why I'm calling. I've tried to get in touch with the Sea Hunter and still can't raise her."

"When was the last time you talked to her?"

"I called last night to say you'd be on your way in the morning. Everything was okay. Then I tried again after you took off, to let them know you were in the air. No answer. We've been calling at regular intervals. I called again a few minutes ago. Still no reply."

“That's odd," Austin said, glancing down at the water-tight bucket sitting on the floor at his feet. Inside the bucket, soaking in seawater, was the silver jewelry box plucked from the Odessa Star. At Gamay's suggestion, the Argo had called the Sea Hunter and asked if a conservator could take a look at the box and its contents. The Sea Hunter's captain said the ship had finished its project in the Black Sea and was on its way to Istanbul, where he would be happy to hook up with Austin.

"It's more than odd; it's crazy. What the hell do you make of it?"

Austin went down a mental checklist of possible reasons for the ship's silence, but none of them held water. All NUMA vessels carried the latest in communications, and their systems were redundant several times over. They kept inconstant contact with other ships.

He felt as if someone were walking on his grave. "I don't know, Captain. Have you called NUMA headquarters to see if anyone there has heard from the ship?"

"Yes. They said the Sea Hunter called in yesterday, saying they had found some significant Bronze Age relics and were heading into port."

"Hold on, Captain," Austin said. He hailed the pilot over the intercom. "How far can we fly on our current fuel supply?"

"We're corning up on the Turkish mainland now. We're carrying a light load, so we can go another forty-five minutes or so before we drop out of the sky. Planning a side trip?"

"Maybe." Austin looked over at Rudi Gunn, who had been listening to the exchange with Captain Atwood. Gunn nodded slightly, like someone bidding at an auction. Do what has to be done. Austin got back to Captain Atwood and said they would try to find the Sea Hunter. Then he relayed the ship's last known position to the pilot. The chopper banked and headed off at a tangent.

Zavala sat up and his eyes snapped open. He had been plugged into a Walkman, completely absorbed in a Latin American CD. Zavala was an experienced pilot who flew by the seat of his pants like an old barnstormer. Sensing the course change, he removed his earphones and peered out the window, a quizzical expression on his face.