Odessa Sea (Dirk Pitt 24)

Federov gave him a blank look.

“We don’t know,” Kromer finally said. “I have a team researching the issue. There is evidence that some members of the Leib Guard escorted a shipment from St. Petersburg to Odessa shortly after the treaty date. Official records from that era are quite sporadic due to the chaos at the time. But rumors have persisted in some circles that a substantial sum of the Tsar’s gold was shipped out of Moscow banks.”

“No records on the British end?”

“The British banking records were heavily scrutinized by the Bolshevik government in the 1920s concerning the gold shipments made during the war for munitions purchases. But no evidence was ever uncovered of a supplemental deposit on behalf of the Romanovs. My own feeling is, the assets never made it into the hands of the British.”

“How much are we talking here?”

Kromer shrugged. “Without further clues, it is impossible to say. Given estimates of the Romanovs’ wealth and what was known to have ended up in the Bolsheviks’ coffers, easily one hundred and twenty-five to one hundred and fifty billion rubles, in today’s currency, were never accounted for.”

“Two billion U.S.?” Mansfield said, accustomed to spending cash in euros and dollars.

Kromer nodded. “It was presumably intended to be a sizable sum.”

“Well, it is a very interesting tale

.” Mansfield sat up in his chair. “Is the GRU planning to publish a history book on the lost wealth of Imperial Russia?”

Federov stared daggers at Mansfield. “There are just four people who have seen this document.” He tapped the treaty with a stiff finger. “The three of us in this room—and the President. I can tell you that the President is extremely concerned about the contents of this treaty. At the very least, its existence represents a potential embarrassment to the Russian Federation, not to mention the possible legal and financial claims against the government.”

“Then why not just stuff it beneath Lenin’s tomb?” Mansfield said. “Or, better yet, put a match to it?”

“Because it may not be the only copy.”

“The treaty was signed by Tsar Nicholas II and British Special Envoy Sir Leigh Hunt,” Kromer said. “If one or more copies of the treaty was in Hunt’s possession, as seems likely, then for some reason they were never delivered to Whitehall.”

“Why’s that?”

“Hunt boarded a British cruiser named Canterbury in Archangel shortly after the treaty was signed. The vessel was sunk by a German submarine less than a week later, somewhere in the Norwegian Sea. There were no survivors.”

“Then the other treaty copies were destroyed,” Mansfield said. “End of story.”

Federov gazed out the window at the rain falling in ever-larger drops. He continued staring at the rain while responding to Mansfield. “As I indicated, the President has taken a specific interest in the matter. He has directed the agency to find and destroy any evidence or remaining copies of the treaty—and to pursue any links to the Romanov gold that was spirited out of the country and remains unaccounted.”

“There is a possibility that the treaty’s heavy parchment could survive cold-water immersion in a consular travel bag,” Kromer said. “And we don’t know what other communications may have been sent by Hunt.”

Mansfield got an uneasy feeling. Federov was in an impossible situation, and now the spy chief was sharing the same fate with him. To disappoint the current Russian president would not only be career-limiting, it could also be life-limiting. Federov gave him no chance to bow out of the assignment.

“Viktor,” Federov said, “you are an ex–Navy commando trained in underwater demolitions. You also have experience in piloting submersibles, even if lately it has been for the benefit of fat, wealthy Europeans looking at fish in the Mediterranean.” He gave him a cold smile. “You are the best-qualified man I’ve got for this assignment, and you will not fail me.”

“I appreciate your continued faith in me,” Mansfield said with just a hint of sarcasm.

“You will have the full support of the agency, as well as Dr. Kromer and his team, who will continue their historical research.”

“I understand.” Mansfield sighed. “When do I start?”

“The Arctic oceanographic ship Tavda is awaiting you in Murmansk. You have twenty-four hours to get aboard.”

“And if there is nothing left of the British ship when we find her?”

Federov looked out the window once more, wishing he could trade positions with Mansfield. He looked at the spy and cast a grim smile. “Then you will have enjoyed a nice sea cruise in a place only slightly less hospitable than Moscow.”

22

The assault team came from two small boats, deployed from a vessel that remained offshore under cover of darkness. Landing at a remote corner of the Burgas commercial dock, the eight black-clad intruders made their way to their target like a pack of alley cats on the prowl. At the ship’s gangway, the team divided into three groups. One held to the dock and manned the mooring lines while the others boarded the Macedonia.

Captain Stenseth was up late, computing fuel reserves with the second officer on watch. Two armed men stormed the bridge and leveled compact Uzi assault rifles at the two NUMA officers. But black knit hats and facial greasepaint didn’t cover the tattooed octopus tentacle on one of the intruder’s necks.