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  “This is news that was worth waiting for.” He couldn’t stop smiling. “I trust that you will be able to return to the wreck site for additional dives?”

  “Certainly. We’re stuck in Balchik for the moment, and awaiting some parts for the submersible, but we should be able to return to the wreck site at full strength soon enough and perform a detailed investigation. Plus, there is a delicate matter associated with the wreck that we’ll need to address with the local authorities.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A mystery, of sorts.” Pitt reached into his pocket and handed Dimitov a set of dog tags he had carefully removed from the submerged airman’s body. “On the wreck, we discovered the body of a man in a military flight suit with a parachute. The anoxic waters at that depth have left him quite well preserved. Judging by the suit, I’d say he’s been there forty or fifty years.”

  Dimitov’s joviality vanished as he grasped the tags.

  Anna shook her head. “I thought you said the shipwreck dated from the eighteenth century.”

  “It does. Sank in 1770, if we have the right wreck.”

  “Our flyboy likely bailed out of an airplane and drowned,” Giordino said. “As he sank to the depths, he may have been pushed along by a deep current until his parachute snagged on the wreck.”

  “It’s quite macabre,” Dimitov said as he carefully studied the metal identification tags. “He’s Russian, a sergeant by the name of Alexander Krayevski. His unit is listed as the Fifty-seventh Bomber Division. And his blood type is O positive.”

  “That info should get him a formal burial,” Pitt said.

  “I believe so. I know an amateur historian near Burgas who would be very interested in this discovery.”

  “Perhaps he could tell us about what happened to his airplane,” Ana said, “and help make burial arrangements.”

  “Yes, quite possibly.”

  Pitt turned to Stenseth. “Well, Captain, I guess our next destination has been determined, once we obtain our walking papers from Balchik.”

  Stenseth gave an affirming nod. “Burgas it is.”

  19

  The grim faces that greeted Martin Hendriks foretold bad news.

  “I wasn’t expecting a visit,” Valentin Mankedo said, “but it is good of you to come on short notice.” He ushered the Dutch industrialist and Vasko into the office of his marine salvage yard thirty miles north of Burgas.

  “I was traveling when I received your text and decided a personal visit might be in order,” Hendriks said. “Your message was a bit cryptic, but it seemed to indicate the worst. Tell me what happened.”

  “We have lost the highly enriched uranium,” Mankedo said.

  Hendriks said nothing, but his ruddy face flushed.

  “Europol and the Bulgarian police took an interest in the Crimean Star accident, working off an American research ship in the area,” Mankedo said. “I believe they had suspicions about her cargo, which may have been leaked by your Ukrainian supplier.”

  “It is unrealistic to expect fidelity when you are dealing with thieves.” Hendriks shook his head. “I understood that you initially recovered the uranium?”

  “We did. But the American ship came across our recovery operation shortly before its conclusion. Ilya was able to retrieve the HEU and left the site, but they realized we had recovered it.” He felt no need to mention Vasko attacking the Macedonia’s submersible.

  “So how did they acquire it?”

  Mankedo nodded at his cousin to take the rap.

  “The American ship followed us,” Vasko said, “but we lost them near the Bosphorus. We sailed to Burgas, where we were awaiting instructions on the rendezvous with the Iranians. As we were preparing to leave port, we were boarded by a law enforcement team. We killed two of them, and I lost three of my men. In the engagement, the HEU was spirited off the ship.”

  “I see. Not only did you lose the HEU, you potentially exposed us all.”

  An icy silence filled the air. “All has not been compromised,” Mankedo said. “Our dead were anonymous contract workers from Ukraine, and the Besso escaped custody.”

  “The authorities surely know her name and appearance. They will find her and track her to you.”

  “I am making arrangements to remedy that . . . and hope to move the vessel out of the Black Sea shortly. I am confident in our safety, and in your secrecy. There will be less attention in fact since they recovered the stolen HEU.”

  Hendriks leaned back in his chair and stared at the ground. “I recently had a meeting with Colonel Markovich in Kiev. He has indicated that the Russians are amplifying their presence in eastern Ukraine, while Europe and the United States watch idly. The national Army is demoralized and in disarray. The only effective counterforce has been Colonel Markovich’s band of irregulars.”

  He turned his gaze to Mankedo. “As you know, I have contributed to their cause. In the process, I have paid you considerable sums to smuggle weapons and supplies to Markovich’s forces. They are facing a critical turning point. The Iranian missiles would have permitted a strike back at Crimea in a bold fashion that would have raised the cost of Russia’s intervention.” He scowled. “That opportunity is now lost.”

  “Is there no way to acquire the missiles in another manner?” Mankedo asked.

  “They are not for sale. The HEU was the only barter the Iranians would consider. Believe me, I pursued all avenues.”

  “The operation was not without its risks,” Mankedo said. “It was in fact carried out exactly to plan. We couldn’t have foreseen the intrusion by the Americans nor the apparent foreknowledge of Europol, which I am convinced originated in Ukraine.”

  Hendriks nodded and receded into his thoughts. His right hand unconsciously dipped into his coat pocket and his fingers located the reassuring shard of metal. “It is important that we act,” he said in halting words. His eyes regained their sharpness and he gazed out the office door. “I noticed you have in the compound a large number of crates marked ‘munitions.’”

  “They are mostly ancient mines and artillery shells we recovered a few months ago.” Mankedo shook his head. “They came from a Russian World War II munitions ship that sank near Sochi. The brass shell casings have salvage value, when commodity prices are at the proper level.”

  “How much do you have?”

  “About twenty tons,” Vasko said.

  “Do they still retain their explosive capability?”

  “They are still quite dangerous,” Mankedo said. “The shells, in particular, show only light corrosion, due to the depth of the shipwreck. But they are of little use as weapons, considering their age and caliber.”

  “But their explosive content has worth.” Hendriks looked at a painting on the wall, an amateurish seascape of gulls gliding above a curled breaker. “Your attack on the Crimean Star,” he said. “Tell me again how the crew was incapacitated.”

  “Much of the waters of the Black Sea are devoid of oxygen,” Mankedo said. “Near the coastline, this begins at a depth of around fifty meters. Farther from shore, the oxygen-deprived waters occur at one hundred meters and deeper. Eons ago, the Black Sea was like a swamp. The algae consumed all the oxygen in the water, which in turn killed all the living organisms, then the algae itself. Over time, the dead organisms chemically converted to hydrogen sulfide, which remains locked in the depths. It is relatively harmless to swim through but turns into a deadly gas when it reaches the surface.”

  “So you set off an underwater explosion ahead of the ship and the rising gas killed the crew?”

  Mankedo nodded. “We discovered the phenomenon while salvaging a freighter off of Romania. We were blasting the wreck to get at its cargo. One of our dive boats was anchored directly above it. The explosion released a gas bubble that enveloped the boat. The entire dive crew died. I lost four good men, and learned that the Black Sea can b
e deadlier than we know.”

  “If you can make a small blast,” Hendriks said, “then why not a large one?”

  “I suppose there’s no limit on the size of the hydrogen sulfide cloud you could create, given a sufficient explosion and the appropriate location. What did you have in mind?”

  “I want to annihilate Sevastopol.”

  It was Mankedo’s turn to fall silent. “That would be mass murder,” he finally said.

  “I’m not interested in striking the city. I’m interested in striking the Russian fleet’s port facility.”

  Mankedo eyed the Dutchman. He had known him less than three years yet had seen a drastic change in his personality. The billionaire had transformed from a buoyant, arrogant man to a brooding and wrathful lost soul.

  “I will pay you three times the market value for your munitions, plus five million euros for the attempt.”

  “That is a generous proposal,” Mankedo said, “but it is not such a simple act. For the Crimean Star, we dropped a small explosive in her direct path and she sailed into the ensuing cloud. Targeting a fixed point on land is not controllable.”

  Vasko sat up straight. “I worked the commercial docks there one summer as a youth. The prevailing winds are westerly. Providing there are no unusual weather patterns or heavy rains, you might target an explosion offshore that would drift over the port.”

  “There is still the difficulty of approach,” Mankedo said. “The Russian Navy is not known for its welcoming behavior.”

  “It depends on the depths and corresponding anoxic level,” Vasko said. “We might not need to get that close.”

  Mankedo considered the payoff. “Let’s take a look at the port entrances. I believe I have a nautical chart of Sevastopol in storage.”

  After he stood and left the room, Hendriks turned to Vasko. “Your accent. You are not Bulgarian. Are you from Ukraine?”

  “Yes. I was raised in Petrovske, a town near Luhansk. I hear it was destroyed during the Crimean invasion.”

  “Your family?”

  “My father drank himself to death years ago. My mother and sister fled to Kiev when the artillery shells began to fall. They are living there with cousins, the last I heard.”

  “How do you feel about Russia today?”

  Vasko stared him in the eyes. “I will help you kill as many Russians as you desire.”

  Mankedo returned with a chart, which he unfurled across the desk. The three men huddled around it, studying the narrow harbor of Sevastopol that cut into the western coast of the Crimean Peninsula.

  “The Russian fleet is based here.” Vasko pointed to the northern side of the harbor. He dragged his finger due west, past the harbor entrance. “A mile or so out, the depth is about one hundred and twenty meters. Deep enough to reach a strong anoxic zone. The question would be, how much explosive is enough to set it off?”

  “Twenty tons ought to be enough to send a message,” Hendriks said.

  “I am no scientist,” Mankedo said, “but from what we’ve experienced, I would have to believe that would release an extremely powerful cloud of gas.” He gave Hendriks a hard look. “An act such as this would draw a great deal of attention.”

  “You get me a towboat and barge filled with explosives and I will pilot it myself,” Hendriks said in a low tone.

  “There is no need for such heroics,” Mankedo said. “We can set an unmanned boat on a course with either timed or remote charges to make the attack.”

  Vasko nodded. “We can place a small explosive on the barge that will cause it to sink when it reaches a GPS-coded location, with a second timed charge to detonate the munitions at the designated depth. We will need a tow vessel capable of making the trek—one that would be untraceable to us.”

  “A Russian-flagged vessel might be best,” Hendriks said.

  “We might be able to acquire something out of Sochi,” Mankedo said.

  “That will take too long,” Hendriks said. “I wish to strike soon. What about Turkey? Or a foreign ship?”

  “A foreign ship, you say?” Vasko gave Mankedo a hard, knowing look. “I think I know just the vessel.”

  20

  It was late the next day when Ana received the word from the Bulgarian authorities that she was waiting to hear. Climbing the steps to the Macedonia’s bridge, she found Pitt and Giordino and relayed the news. “Bulgarian Army scientists have confirmed that the canister contains twenty-two kilos of weapons-grade highly enriched uranium.”

  “So it was the real deal,” Pitt said.

  “Enough to construct a sophisticated nuclear weapon, I’m told. It matches the material stolen from the Sevastopol Institute of Nuclear Energy in 2014.”

  “Congratulations on its recovery,” Giordino said. “Do you know where the stuff was headed?”

  “We suspect it was originally bound for a weapons dealer in Syria. But we’re still behind the curve in identifying its more recent owners. It seems our bald friend managed to elude the police yesterday.”

  “What about his two associates?” Pitt asked.

  Ana shook her head. “Neither was carrying any identification. Forensics has come up empty in matching anything in the Bulgarian databases. One was carrying Ukrainian coins in his pocket, so we suspect they were foreign workers operating under the radar.”

  “That still leaves the Besso,” Giordino said.

  “A more hopeful source,” Ana said. “The ship is registered in Malta to a shell company, but the Burgas harbormaster reports she has been a familiar sight in these waters. With some canvassing of the nearby port towns, we should be able to track her down.”

  Captain Stenseth stepped over and joined the conversation. “If you really want to find her, just stay aboard the Macedonia a few more days,” he said with a laugh. “We can’t seem to avoid her.”

  “I appreciate your hospitality, but I’m happier with solid ground under my feet. Are you still intending to sail to Burgas?”

  “Just as soon as we’re cleared to depart.”

  “I’ll pay a visit to the Balchik police chief and make sure that takes place right away.”

  The NUMA ship was on the move within the hour and reached the port of Burgas just after sundown. Giordino joined Pitt and Ana on the bridge as the Macedonia nudged into an open berth and cast its mooring lines.

  Giordino frowned. “I’m told our submersible parts won’t be delivered until morning.”

  “Guess that means we have the night off,” Pitt said.

  “Why don’t you two come with me to visit Petar?” Ana said. “He’d be happy to see you.”

  “He could probably use some cheering up,” Pitt said.

  The three made their way down the gangway, where they encountered Dimitov exiting the ship.

  “Where are you off to, Professor?” Pitt asked.

  “I’m going to call on my associate and see what we can find about your mysterious aviator. The ship isn’t leaving soon, is it?”

  “We’ll be here at least until midday tomorrow,” Pitt said. “We won’t leave without you.”

  Pitt hailed a taxi to the MBAL Burgas Hospital a mile away, where Ralin had a private room on the third floor. Ana peeked into his room and found him fast asleep. Letting him rest, the trio hiked a short way to a café for dinner, where they dined on grilled Black Sea turbot.

  When they returned to his room, Ralin was groggy but awake. At the sight of Ana, his face lit up.

  “I heard about Lieutenant Dukova,” he said, “but they told me nothing about you.”

  “I feared the worst about you,” Ana said, sitting on the edge of his bed. “How do you feel?”

  “Mostly just tired from the medication they keep pumping into me.”

  Pitt eyed his heavily bandaged left leg. “How soon before you can dance again?”

  “The doctors tell me I shou
ld make a complete recovery, but I can expect a few weeks of therapy. My femur got nicked up, but I’m bolted back together, with a leg full of titanium.”

  Ana squeezed his hand. “I am so glad you are all right.”

  “What happened on the salvage ship after I went for a swim?” he asked.

  Ana relayed her escape from the salvage ship with the HEU and her fortunate encounter with the NUMA men.

  He looked to Pitt and Giordino. “You two seem to have a nose for rescue.”

  “Trouble smells us out all too often,” Pitt joked.

  “Did the ship get away?”

  “Unfortunately,” Ana said.

  “We’ll find her sooner or later.”

  “We’re searching,” Ana said. “Now, tell us what happened to you after you fell in the moon pool.”

  “There’s not much to tell. I swam to the surface and clung to a mooring ball until a passing fishing boat spotted me. Good thing they found me when they did. The doctors say I wouldn’t have lasted much longer.”

  An overweight nurse with slate gray eyes entered the room holding an intravenous bag and gave the visitors a petulant gaze. “It’s a bit late for visitors.”

  “We’ll leave you to your care,” Pitt said to Ralin. Then he turned to Ana. “Are you going to return to the ship with us?”

  Ana caught a fond look in Ralin’s eyes and pointed to a stuffed chair in the corner of the room. “I think I’ll stay with Petar tonight. I have to travel to Sofia in the morning to make my reports, so I’ll just leave from here.”

  The NUMA men said their good-byes, promising to check on both agents the next time they were ashore. Exiting the hospital just after midnight, they found no taxis, so opted to walk back to the ship.

  “They make a nice couple,” Giordino said.

  “It would seem they’re on the verge of figuring that out.”

  “I hope they don’t become targets for the gang that stole the HEU.”

  “Someone won’t be happy,” Pitt said, “but they’re probably smart enough not to pick a fight with Europol.”