Odessa Sea (Dirk Pitt 24)

“Either slipped in when I was checking the elevator or found another entrance. The woman must have tipped him off.” She watched the lights of the floors flash by. “I’m glad you were able to sneak back quietly.”

“I heard you speak up and figured it wasn’t a good thing.”

Summer gave her brother a concerned look. “He was the pilot on the Russian submersible.”

“What?”

“I’m certain of it. He’s from the Tavda. And he didn’t deny it.”

“Apparently, it’s more than gold they’re after.” His eyes fell to the blue binder that Summer clutched with an iron grip. “We need to find security.”

“The front entrance is our best bet. Where are we headed?”

The elevator doors opened. They had dropped into the building’s warehouse and loading dock. Packages of dry foodstuffs for the Archives’ restaurant were stacked near shrink-wrapped crates of books and calendars for the gift shop. They walked past orderly stacks of plastic containers of contemporary government records fresh from Parliament. They continued along an empty loading dock, framed by a large drop-down garage door. A nearby fire alarm, one of many clanging throughout the building, suddenly stopped.

Summer hesitated and grabbed Dirk’s arm. “Someone’s coming.”

Dirk heard it, too, someone running down a flight of stairs. He glanced away from the sound to his right, where an exit door stood beside the loading dock. At the opposite end of the bay, another door burst open. Martina came flying out, her eyes locking onto the twins.

Dirk was already on the move, dragging Summer to the exit door and flinging it open. The door led outside. They raced down a flight of steps to the base of the loading dock. They were at the rear of the Archives, whose blank walls stretched in either direction. A short delivery driveway extended from the dock to a narrow side lane. Otherwise, they were surrounded by open asphalt.

“Nothing like a distinct lack of cover,” Dirk muttered as he led Summer at a full run to the road. Just across the paved lane, a large open field rolled down to the banks of the Thames. The field was flanked by a pair of industrial buildings positioned a healthy sprint away. As the warehouse door banged open behind them, Dirk looked to the river.

Upriver from the bustle of central London, the Thames was relatively serene, a haven more for sport rowers than commercial boats. From their vantage, the river was empty except for a lone tugboat chugging downstream.

Dirk led Summer into the field, angling toward the nearest industrial building. They could see some teens near the water’s edge, along with a long, lean object resting on the bank.

“It’s too far.” Between gasps for air, Summer motioned to the building ahead.

But Dirk had an alternate plan. “This way. To the river.”

“Swim for it?”

Dirk just pointed to the riverbank.

With their head start, the downward sloping field gave them a hint of cover from Martina’s pistol. The Russian woman reached the top of the field as Dirk and Summer approached the riverbank.

As they drew near the water, Summer shook her head. “You can’t be serious.”

She stared at a four-man rowing scull beached on the rocks. Its owners, four teen boys who had stopped for a break, were upriver exploring the reeds.

“We don’t have to go far,” Dirk said.

He muscled the scull off the bank, hesitated a second for Summer to take a seat, then shoved it into the water and hopped aboard. The rail-thin scull would have capsized, but Summer was quick to steady it with a pair of oars. Dirk took to another set and they were quickly stroking toward the center of the river.

Pursuing them at a run, Martina reached the middle of the field. She pulled to a stop and raised her pistol. But the teen boys had noticed the boat thieves and raced along the riverbank, shouting at the two rowers. One took to hurling rocks and the others followed suit. With four witnesses directly in front of her, Martina lowered her pistol and slid it into her shoulder holster.

She stood for a moment, watching the scull cross the bow of the small tug, then turn along its opposite side.

“Martina!” Mansfield called from the road, where he stood watching the scene.

She hurried back across the field and reached him just as a silver Audi driven by Ivan screeched to a halt in front of them. Mansfield jumped into the front seat, and she climbed in back a second later.

As Ivan hit the gas, Mansfield turned to her with his blue eyes ablaze. “We need a boat.” His voice was calmer than his expression. “And we need it right now.”

43

The green vessel blew its horn at the rowers crossing its path and cut sharply to starboard to avoid slicing through the forty-foot rowing shell. It wasn’t a tugboat, Dirk could now see, but a stout fishing boat. Built in the fashion of a North Sea trawler, the steel-hulled vessel had been designed for endurance in all-weather climates.