Odessa Sea (Dirk Pitt 24)

Pitt eyed a bridge chronometer. “About twenty hours. Nearly drained the galley’s supply of coffee and peanut butter and jelly.”

“Rudi has a backup skeleton crew en route from the States that should arrive tomorrow,” Giordino said. “And Ana has arranged round-the-clock security from our friends at the Burgas Police Department.”

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“Glad to hear. I wasn’t looking forward to standing watch tonight.”

“We better get you off your feet,” Ana said. “Is there a place we can sit?”

They relocated to the wardroom, where they found comfortable chairs around a conference table.

“Al told me about your ordeal with the Russian warship,” Ana said. “I still don’t know how you could have survived such an attack.”

Pitt patted the top of the table. “The Macedonia’s a pretty responsive old gal when she wants to be. The question is, who would instigate such an attack on Sevastopol—and why?”

“I can’t answer the why, but we may have a lead on the who,” she said. “Forensics came through for us on one of the two men killed on the docks here. He was a Ukrainian national from Mykolaiv. A police interview with his family indicates he took a job just a few months ago with a salvage company near Burgas. We canvassed the area and found only one salvage operation of any size. Thracia Salvage is located on a remote section of the coast between Burgas and Varna.”

“What do you know about them?” Pitt asked.

“They’ve been around almost thirty years, run by a man named Valentin Mankedo. He may be an ex–Romanian Navy diver. Apparently, the company works throughout the Black Sea, though it isn’t particularly well known in Burgas. Local authorities report that in recent years, expensive cars and boats have been seen near his yard.”

“That doesn’t sound like the lifestyle of any salvage operators I know,” Pitt said.

“Although it appears he’s involved in something more financially rewarding,” Ana said, “the regional police have no record of any illicit activity.”

“So we don’t have a lot to go on,” Giordino said.

“Except for this.” Ana pulled a photo from her purse and laid it on the table. It was a grainy overhead shot of a ship and boat docked in a narrow cove.

“Satellite photo?” Pitt asked.

“From NATO, taken about six months ago. It’s a blowup of an image of the coastal area that includes the Thracia salvage facility. It is a bit fuzzy, but we believe the ship is—”

“The Besso,” Pitt said.

Giordino nodded. “That crane configuration is what we saw at the site of the Crimean Star.”

“Authorities in the nearby town of Obzor confirm sightings of the Besso. She’s registered in Cypress to an entity that may be a front for Thracia Salvage.”

“Is the Besso there now?” Pitt asked.

“No. I have the yard under surveillance and she’s not there. I’m afraid we don’t know her whereabouts.”

“Why don’t you shake down this Mankedo character?” Giordino asked.

“I obtained a warrant this afternoon to pick him up for questioning. I also have approval to search his salvage yard.” She looked to Pitt. “We don’t have any evidence they were responsible for the Macedonia’s hijacking. But like you, my suspicions are high. I’m going in with a small team first thing in the morning. I thought you might want to be there.”

Pitt glanced around the empty wardroom, wondering about the crew’s fate. A deep resolve overshadowed the fatigue that marked his face. He gave Ana a firm nod.

“You thought right.”

51

Some one hundred and twenty miles to the southeast, the Besso received radio permission from the Turkish Control Station at the Türkeli lighthouse to enter the Bosphorus Strait. Only she was no longer the salvage vessel Besso but the oil supply ship Nevena. Renamed, repainted, reconfigured, and littered with a stack of drill pipe on her deck for good measure, she bore little resemblance to her former self.

Joining the other southbound traffic that was permitted entry from noon to midnight, the Nevena churned past the Türkeli light and entered the narrow passage. Two hours and sixteen miles later, the ship crept past the Golden Horn. Georgi Dimitov buttoned up his jacket as he stood on the bow, watching the lights of Istanbul twinkle by on both Asian and European shorelines. The city lights gradually faded as the ship entered the Sea of Marmara a short time later and the Nevena increased speed.

The archeologist made his way to the bridge, where the helmsman breathed a sigh of relief.