Odessa Sea (Dirk Pitt 24)

“I don’t know. Maybe they were trying to block the harbor and their timing was off.”

“Any sign of the Macedonia’s crew?”

“None,” Pitt said. “Going to check now.”

He set the helm on auto and exited the bridge with a handheld radio. Starting in the engine room and working his way up, he surveyed the entire ship. From open journals in the laboratories, to moldy half-eaten plates of food in the galley, he found numerous indications of a hurried crew departure.

As Pitt returned to the bridge, Giordino was flying point off the ship’s bow. The Macedonia was nearly clear of the restricted zone and the Truxton was now visible on the radarscope. His mind on the missing crew, Pitt stood at the helm and stared at the open waters before him. After a time, he turned to a chart table—and noticed a miniature wireless video camera concealed in the ceiling.

He pulled it down and saw it was actually twin cameras, one pointed at the helm and the other out the rear window. He tossed it on the table, then carefully examined the entire bridge for a clue. He checked the ship’s log first, but the most recent entry was days old, from when the Macedonia last entered port. Communications records, charts, and all other paperwork lying about the bridge were equally uninformative. But when he took a second look at the dried bloodstains on the floor, he noticed something.

It was a light swirl in a smaller stain by the bulkhead. The smudge had been created by the toe of a shoe while the blood was still liquid. Looking closer, he saw a nearly invisible message that told Pitt what he already suspected. It was a single word smeared on the floor.

Besso.

37

Mankedo and Vasko watched in disbelief as Pitt ripped the camera from the ceiling, sending the satellite-fed video link to black.

Mankedo snapped shut the laptop on which they had watched the last hour’s events and shoved it to the side of his desk. “It was nearly there, on its way to a submerged detonation. Instead, destroyed on the surface, to no effect.”

“That man!” Vasko said, his voice seething. “He was the same one on the inflatable who aided the Europol agent and took the uranium. How did he find the ship?”

“He must be the head of NUMA that Dimitov dealt with on the Macedonia. His name is Pitt. Apparently, he’s an accomplished marine engineer.”

“Why wasn’t he among the captured crew?”

“Dimitov said this Pitt and another man responsible for the submersible were ashore when the ship was taken.”

Mankedo rose from the desk and paced his office. “I fear this will bring increased police scrutiny. We must move the Besso out of the Black Sea at once. I have a secondary project in the Mediterranean and will send Dimitov to initiate things. But first I will call Hendriks. This may finish our relationship.”

“I don’t think so,” Vasko said. “He knew it was a risky project.”

“Perhaps, but we have failed him in the bold strike he desired. That will likely mean an end to future jobs with him.”

“You are wrong about that, Valentin. I have seen Hendriks and I have talked to the man. He is operating from a state of high emotion. He’s no longer the calculating business virtuoso that made millions. He is in a totally different place, and I believe he will support any grand plan that satisfies his need for aggression. The grander, the better. And we can give it to him. With the bomber.”

“The bomber,” Mankedo said softly.

“I’ve been working on it with Dimitov. He told me about the Ottoman wreck and the pilot’s body. The identification tags, as we know, confirm he was a flight engineer on the missing Tupolev bomber. It reminded me of some data we obtained from a fisherman in Balchik years ago. We purchased his snag records of underwater obstructions, hoping to find a salvageable wreck. He mentioned an odd tire assembly he pulled up in the area. It was back in the 1990s, so he may have forgotten or he didn’t know about the lost bomber.”

“It could have been from another aircraft or something else entirely.”

“Perhaps, but I checked his records. The fisherman described it as a nose wheel assembly, and his notes indicate it was found only three kilometers from the Ottoman wreck site. Dimitov and I have put together a compact search grid based on his coordinates. It’s worth a look.”

“We don’t know if the rumors about the aircraft are even true.”

“We also don’t know if they’re not. Just think about it, Valentin. We’d have something in our hands for which Hendriks would pay us dearly. If the plane is where we think it is, in relatively shallow water, we can find the truth easily enough.”

Mankedo contemplated the idea and nodded. “Yes, it may soften the blow with Hendriks. But we’ll have to work fast. I’ll allow twenty-four hours to find it before I send Dimitov and the Besso off to the Mediterranean.”

Vasko rubbed a hand across his bald head and smiled with confidence.

“Consider it done.”

38

The distant glow of lights from London greeted Dirk, Summer, and Dahlgren as they exited the terminal at Heathrow Airport. The trio squeezed into a black taxicab for the twenty-mile ride into the city. An off-duty cab tucked in behind them, while Mansfield followed several car lengths back in a plain white panel van driven by a female agent.