The Emperor's Revenge (Oregon Files 11)

“I’ll be fine. There’ll be plenty of time to sleep when this is over. Did you find out what went wrong with the weapons systems?”

“Yes, and I was not happy when I found it. The Russians left a little present in our code.”

“A present?”

“A disarming code. It was triggered by radio signal. That’s why all the weapons went down without warning. The other ship must have broadcast it. Don’t worry, I’ve stripped it out of the operating system, and I’ll make sure there are no more surprises like that.”

Golov leaned back and looked at the ceiling in thought. “How did the crew of that fake tramp steamer know . . .” He snapped his head around. “Zakharin told them.”

Ivana pursed her lips. “That’s one possible explanation.”

“Then the question is whether he’s partnering with them somehow, perhaps paid off . . .”

“Or he was blackmailed or forced into it.”

He smiled. Just like her mother, she could complete his sentences for him.

“I think we need to talk to him.”

“Already checked. His personal transport filed a flight plan for Barcelona this morning. Apparently, he has a villa on the Costa Brava.”

He didn’t need to ask how she knew all that. Her skill at finding information about people was unparalleled.

Golov calculated how much of a detour it would take to go to northern Spain. With an adjustment in cruising speed, they’d have plenty of time.

He called up to the bridge. “New course. Set a heading for Barcelona, three-quarters speed.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Almost immediately, he felt the yacht turning.

“It’s time we find out who we’re up against and take the offensive.”

“I may have a little more info about that.” She took out her phone and showed him a photo. He recognized the building in the background as the Credit Condamine bank in Monaco. Five people stood in front of it. Three of them he’d never seen before, two younger men and a tiny woman with her hair cut in a shaggy silver bob.

But he was very familiar with the other two. He’d just met them a couple of nights ago at the Malta museum gala.

“I’m guessing their real names aren’t Naomi and Gabriel Jackson,” he said.

“And they’re not billionaires from New York. This photo is from a security camera the day after our bank heist. She’s an Interpol agent named Gretchen Wagner. The rest of the people with her, including the man calling himself Gabriel Jackson, presented themselves as insurance investigators. I doubt that’s true, either.”

“Then who are they?”

Ivana shrugged. “I can’t find anything about them. Which, actually, says a lot about them. Not many organizations could hide that kind of information from me.”

“All the more reason to chat with Admiral Zakharin. I think this will provide a good training exercise for Sirkal’s men.” Golov stood. “And speaking of a chat, it’s time I went to see Mr. Antonovich.”

Ivana escorted him to the door. “Is he still requesting that the air filters in his room be changed three times a day?”

“Four.”

Ivana rolled her eyes and kissed Golov on the cheek before she turned and walked off in the other direction.

Golov took the stairs down to Antonovich’s palatial suite and nodded to the personal guard who was stationed outside the door. He knocked and entered without waiting for a response.

He found Maxim Antonovich seated at his desk, wearing only a pair of silk shorts and black socks. His bristly hair, transformed in the last six months from salt-and-pepper to completely gray, sprouted in all directions, and his distended belly scraped against the front edge of the desk as he scribbled away on a notepad. He didn’t look up when Golov entered.

“My air filters haven’t been changed in two hours,” he grumbled. “I can taste the buildup of dust.”