“Yes, yes, of course.” Zakharin rose to his feet, his eyes blurry. “I will let you know about the Peregrine.”
“Thank you, General.”
Zakharin returned to his limo and was driven off the airfield. Hendriks approached his technical assistant, who was packing up the Peregrine’s portable control station.
“Are you going to leave the Peregrine here with the Russians?” he asked Hendriks.
“So they can copy us blind? No. They’ve seen all I want them to see. Have it broken down, placed in the truck, and returned to the factory at once.”
“Yes, sir. I will take care of it.”
Hendriks stepped across the tarmac to a waiting private jet.
The jet’s pilot greeted him as he climbed aboard. “We’re cleared for takeoff to Amsterdam at your convenience, sir.”
Hendriks dropped into a leather seat. “Proceed with our flight plan to Amsterdam. But once we clear Russian airspace, divert us to Kiev. I need to make a stop there before we return home.”
Minutes later, the jet roared into the damp sky, leaving the Russian airfield near Moscow hidden beneath dark clouds. Hendriks stared out the window with a dull sense of relief. It was the first glimmer of satisfaction he had known in more than three years.
6
The Macedonia cleared the Bosphorus Strait ahead of a gray dawn and retraced its path toward the site of the freighter’s sinking. A passing Turkish Coast Guard frigate reported the search and rescue efforts had been abandoned the prior evening and no additional survivors had been found.
The lights of another vessel appeared before them, stationary in their path.
“Somebody’s still on the site,” Captain Stenseth said, reaching for his binoculars.
Ana and Ralin stood with Pitt on the bridge. They all gazed at the twinkling lights that cut the morning gloom.
“Another Coast Guard vessel?” Ana asked.
Stenseth deferred judgment until they drew close enough to see it was some sort of work ship or salvage vessel that teemed with cranes. A tattered white, green, and red flag of Bulgaria fluttered from the bridge mast. The transom conspicuously lacked a ship’s name.
“Could they be an insurance investigator?” Ana asked.
“Possible,” Pitt said, “though it’s not likely they would be here already.”
“Then they have no authority to be here,” Ralin said. “May I borrow your ship’s radio?”
Stenseth handed him the transmitter, and the police agent hailed the unidentified ship. “This is Inspector Petar Ralin of the Bulgarian National Police aboard the NUMA ship Macedonia. Please identify yourself and state your business at this location.”
A minute later, a grumbly voice blared through the bridge speaker. “This is a private salvage vessel. We are engaged in excavations on the shipwreck Kerch. Please stand clear.”
“You are near the coordinates of a shipwreck under police authority,” Ralin said. “Identify yourself and move off-site.”
This time, there was no response.
Pitt glanced at a nautical chart. “He’s right, on one score. There is a wreck marked less than a quarter mile from where the Crimean Star sank.” On the helm’s navigation screen, the freighter’s position was marked by a red X. Pitt turned to Stenseth. “We’re still a bit short of the mark.”
“Are they on the Crimean Star’s coordinates?” Ana asked.
“Near to it,” Stenseth said. “Looks like they are a bit to the west . . . and moving off in that direction.”
In the faint early light, Pitt could make out numerous large cranes on the ship as it eased away. The salvage vessel slowed and held its position several hundred meters away, exactly over the position of the marked wreck.
Pitt sat at a side computer terminal and typed in the wreck’s name, Kerch. “She was a destroyer of the Russian Imperial Navy, built in 1916.” He pulled up a photo of the ship. “It says she sank during an engagement with Ottoman naval forces off the Bosphorus Strait in February 1917.”
“Do you think they are actually working on that wreck and not the Crimean Star?” Ralin asked.