The Emperor's Revenge (Oregon Files 11)

Golov couldn’t help but chuckle at the man’s eccentricities. “I’ll make sure it’s taken care of, Mr. Antonovich.”

He walked over to the expansive windows that displayed a superb view of the ocean. During port visits, the windows, which were impregnated with LCD panels, would darken so that no one could see in while still providing a dim view out. Through the bulletproof glass, the sun glistened off the placid seas stretching to the horizon in front of the Achilles.

“What do you want?” Antonovich said, still writing furiously.

“I thought you’d like to know that our operation in Frankfurt was a success, which means we will need you to join our team for a land excursion in a few days.”

Antonovich stopped writing and looked at Golov. The port-wine stain on his cheek was dotted with stubble. His face looked more drawn and tired than Golov had ever seen it. Maybe that’s what Ivana saw in his own face.

“Do you really think this will work?” the billionaire asked.

“I know it will. As long as you perform your part of the mission, that is. What are you writing?”

“My memoirs. Not that anyone will ever see them. I wrote a new last will and testament earlier this morning, but I assume that will be fruitless as well. My cousins will squabble over th

e corpse of my businesses until they’re scraps and sold off piecemeal.”

Golov nodded silently.

“Did you find out who forced your retreat yesterday?” Antonovich asked with mild amusement.

“We’re in the act of finding out.”

“I had this yacht designed to take on anything on the high seas and you were beaten by a rusty cargo ship?”

Golov scowled at Antonovich. He must have been watching the battle.

“Believe me, if we run into them again, the results will be different.”

“We’ll see,” Antonovich said. “And what’s going to happen to the Achilles when this is all over?”

“I’m afraid she won’t survive the operation, beauty that she is.”

Golov thought he could spot the glistening of tears in Antonovich’s eyes. The billionaire had no children, and his ex-wife claimed a huge chunk of his wealth long ago. The Achilles was his baby.

“No one has asked about me?”

“Oh, we’ve had inquiries from various business partners, but your accountant is handling those requests. He’s quite good at your signature.”

Golov walked over to the door to leave.

“And if I cooperate with your plan, you’ll let me go?” Antonovich asked plaintively.

“Of course,” Golov said with a smile. “That’s the deal.”

He closed and locked the door behind him, leaving the guard at his post outside.

It really wasn’t the deal. Maxim Antonovich, his former patron and now prisoner, would face the same fate as the rest of the crew. No witnesses.

THIRTY-SEVEN

The damage to the Oregon was not as serious as originally feared and repairs were made in record time to get the missile launchers and engines back in operational order. The holes in the ship were patched up with metal sheeting, which didn’t look out of place on the hull’s dilapidated façade. A more thorough overhaul would have to wait, but Juan was confident in Max’s assessment that the ship was ready to sail again, only twenty-four hours after it had arrived in Naples. By the next evening, the Oregon neared the site of the Narwhal’s sinking west of Sicily.

While the technicians in the moon pool prepped the underwater vehicles for deployment, Juan sat in the conference room as Gretchen, Murph, and Eric briefed him on their analysis of the computer data she had received about the bank heist. As usual, the two eager software experts were throwing around jargon he’d never heard before.

“What’s a multipartite virus?” Juan asked.

Murph, who was dressed in a black T-shirt that read I’m just here to establish an alibi, said, “It’s really impressive work. Most computer viruses infect the system in only one way. But a multipartite, also called a hybrid virus, infects along a variety of vectors, allowing it to propagate very easily and quickly. We think that’s what ShadowFoe installed when she got access to the Credit Condamine system.”