Odessa Sea (Dirk Pitt 24)

The modern Yavuz Sultan Selim suspension bridge poked through the drizzle ahead as an aged freighter began slipping beneath it.

“Was that the second target?” Ana asked.

“Afraid so,” Pitt said.

A radio call to the Coast Guard picket confirmed their disappointment. The salvage ship had not appeared.

“Where could they have gone?” Ana asked.

“They must have turned near the mouth of the Bosphorus,” Pitt said, “perhaps for the very purpose of getting lost in the traffic and foul weather. No telling where they might have gone.”

“We can take it from here,” Ralin said. “We’ll issue alerts to all of the friendly seaports on the Black Sea. We have a rough description. There can’t be too many vessels that fit her profile. She’ll turn up somewhere.”

“I think you’re right about that,” Pitt said.

“We’re almost back to Istanbul, so we can drop you there, if you like,” Stenseth said.

“That would be fine.” Ana turned to Pitt. “We can’t thank you enough for your help. I’m confident we’ll locate the ship in short order.”

“You’ll do me a personal favor by putting them out of business,” Pitt said. “Especially after what they did to my submersible.”

Ana grinned. “The submersible ride was more excitement than I bargained for, but I think I’ve acquired a taste for the sea.”

“Then I guess we can call our foray into the deep a success. Next time you need a ride downstairs, you know where to come.”

“I’ll remember. Good-bye.”

Ana and Ralin climbed to the lower deck and waited for the Macedonia to nudge against the Istanbul commercial dock. Jumping ashore, she silently swore to herself never to set foot on a boat again.

8

Nearly a century earlier, the ten-passenger water taxi had carried diplomats from the Golden Horn of Istanbul to their summer mansions on the upper stretches of the Bosphorus Strait. Its fine mahogany hull was now covered in a thick coat of aged black paint, while its glass-enclosed passenger canopy had been reconfigured with dark-tinted windows. What little brightwork that survived was dull and oxidized. The only opulence that remained from the Italian-built beauty was hidden in the engine bay. The original twin in-line, eight-cylinder engines gleamed with loving care and still snarled as they did when new.

The antique boat charged across the outer harbor of Burgas as dusk began to settle over the Bulgarian city. Its target, the salvage vessel Besso, sat moored a half mile from shore. As the boat slowed and pulled alongside, a pair of long-haired crewmen accepted her lines and tied her fast. A stepladder was lowered to accommodate the lone passenger who stepped from the cabin.

Valentin Mankedo boarded the salvage ship with the steady sea legs of a man who had spent the better part of his days on the water. His trim but hardened frame matched the tautness in his bearded face. Stepping purposefully aboard, he ignored the tending crewmen and marched straight to the wheelhouse. He entered an open door to find a muscular, bald man scanning the harbor with binoculars. His scalp, neck, and arms were covered with tattoos.

He glanced at the intruder and set down the binoculars. “I would have come to see you in the morning.”

“We are playing with fire, Ilya Vasko,” Mankedo said, giving him a cold stare. “There can be no room for error in this operation. Now, tell me what has happened.”

“The Crimean Star was attacked successfully, as planned. All went well, except that the bridge was able to issue a brief call for help. There was nothing we could have done to prevent it.” The bald man rubbed his neck, stroking the head of an octopus tattoo that climbed up from his shoulder. “It was just a single distress call, but it was answered by an American research ship, the Macedonia, which happened to be nearby. We tracked her on the radar as she responded. We boarded the freighter but could not locate the crate. It was not on the bridge, as we had been led to believe. In no time, it seemed, the research ship appeared.”

“Our port informant in Sevastopol has not always been reliable,” Mankedo said. “Why didn’t you radio the Americans from the freighter and tell them it was a false emergency?”

“The research ship contacted the Turkish Coast Guard, and we knew they would soon arrive and investigate thoroughly.”

Mankedo stared at him through dark eyes that burned with intensity, but he said nothing.

“I took the assault crew off the freighter, affixed an external explosive to the stern, and stood off,” Vasko said. “The Macedonia sent a few men aboard and tried to make for Istanbul. The explosive charge ended the attempt. The boarders actually did us a favor, as they brought the ship into shallow waters before she sank.”

“Did they find and remove the container?”

Vasko shook his head. “They wouldn’t have known to look, nor did they have the time to remove it. They had to evacuate after the explosives detonated, as the ship sank quickly.”

“So you just monitored the site?”

“We stood off about ten miles while the search and rescue vessels arrived and scoured the area at daylight. We moved back in and stood over the Kerch site for some practice drills until it got dark and the rescue sh