“No, there’s no record of Monroe or Jablonski being in Antonovich’s employ, and they won’t find O’Connor for a long time. At least we were able to destroy Polichev’s work. Even if they recover the trunk now, it’ll take them weeks or months to properly dry and separate the papers. Depending on the extent of the water damage, they may never find out what’s in them.”
“By then, we’ll be home free,” Ivana said.
“Except we weren’t able to eliminate the Oregon crew. I saw O’Connor hit one of them, but not their captain.”
“You think they’re still a threat?”
“I don’t think their captain is the type who gives up when he’s been smacked in the face. He’ll come back at us even harder now. That’s why I’m moving up our time line.”
“To when?”
“The weather should be favorable for the next few days,” Golov said. “I’ll check to see when Sirkal can be ready. Which leads back to my original question. How are your plans coming?”
She nodded at her computer setup. “The banking code is all ready to go, thanks to Alexei Polichev. So is the circuit breaker virus.”
Golov’s chest expanded with pride at his daughter’s ingenuity. Her latest masterpiece was a virus that would close all of the transformer circuit breakers designed by Antonovich and Dijkstra’s joint venture. These were the critical components of the grid’s industrial-sized substations. The vulnerability she’d be exploiting was actually built into the system to allow for centralized management of the power grid. When the breakers were closed and locked, there would be no way to keep a power surge from frying the entire grid. All it would take would be a single event to cause a cascading failure.
“After I activate the banking virus,” Ivana continued, “it will take about five minutes to transmit and verify the receipt of thirty billion euros in the accounts we’ve set up in the Caymans, Panama, Singapore, and the Seychelles. Once the transfer is complete, I’ll upload my other virus to the power grid and I’ll shut down the circuit breakers. Then it’s up to you to give the electrical system its push over the edge. After that, there will be no way to track the funds.”
“And Antonovich?”
“He understands his part. He still thinks he’ll live through this.”
“He will,” Golov said. “For a little while.”
Once the transfers were complete and Europe was in chaos, the Achilles would make its way to Brazil, where it would be sunk in sight of the coast and plenty of witnesses, seemingly with all hands on board. Any remnants of their trail would go cold in a fiery cataclysm.
And if the Oregon made its way into their path, so much the better. They would blow it out of the water as well.
Ivana smiled at him.
“What?”
“I thought of one benefit of your trip to Vilnius.”
Golov frowned at her. “Which is?”
“With O’Connor dead, we have another seven and a half billion euros to split between us and Sirkal.”
Golov returned her smile and shook his head at the naïveté she still hung on to in spite of her brilliance. Her took her hands in his and said, “My dear, we were never going to give that money to him.”
She furrowed her brow and said, “And Sirkal?”
Golov shook his head. “Did you really think I was going to share thirty billion euros with anyone but you?”
FIFTY-SIX
THE NORTH SEA
It wasn’t often that the entire crew of the Oregon assembled on deck, but no one was going to miss Mike Trono’s funeral. The notoriously vicious weather this area off the coast of Norway was known for had given way to a cloudless sky, allowing the ship to maintain its position on the placid sea. The peaks flanking a fjord in the distance lent the ceremony a majesty that complemented its solemn mood.
Before speaking, Juan took a moment to look at his people one by one. He caught the eye of some of them. Others couldn’t look at him for fear of breaking down. Some wore dark suits and dresses—even Murph had foregone his normal T-shirt for a formal suit and tie borrowed from Eric Stone. Many of the military veterans, including Linc, Linda, Eric, and MacD, were in their dress uniforms. Gretchen, who didn’t know Mike the way the rest of them did, respectfully stood in the back. Few of the eyes were dry, and every face choked back emotions at losing one of their own.
Mike’s body lay inside a metal casket atop a platform draped with an American flag. The death certificate and necessary permit for transporting his remains into Oslo had been created by Kevin Nixon in the Magic Shop.
Because they knew how dangerous this job was, every crew member had filed a last will and testament with the Corporation. Mike’s directive had been for Juan to notify his mother, father, and sister in Vermont, where they would arrange a memorial service. The conversation with his family had been just as heart-wrenching as Juan had anticipated. Mike’s final wish was for the Oregon crew to commit his body to the sea.
This wasn’t the first time that a member of the crew had been killed in action, but that didn’t make the occasion any easier to endure. In Mike’s sealed letter to Juan, he asked that remarks during his burial be brief. He’d rather the crew spend their time drinking and laughing as they remembered him. Juan did his best to grant that request.