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  The bustling town had grown silent as they walked its narrow streets. They skipped the temptation to visit one of the smoky pubs still open along their route and hiked to the waterfront.

  The commercial dock was dark and quiet as they stepped across its diesel-soaked timbers. Approaching the Macedonia’s berth, both men tensed, then stopped in their tracks. In front of them, the black harbor waters lapped gently against an empty dock.

  The Macedonia was gone.

  21

  Heavy raindrops splattered against the window of the high corner office in the headquarters building of the Main Intelligence Directorate. A blanket of gray obscured the normally expansive vista across the Khoroshyovsky District of Moscow.

  The GRU’s foreign intelligence field director, Maxim Federov, was oblivious to the weather as he sat at his desk, silently studying a crinkled document. The spymaster was equally unmindful of a slight, bespectacled man who sat nervously in front of him. Federov looked up only when a knock rattled against his office door and a third man entered.

  Tall, with an athlete’s build and a soldier’s posture, he crossed the room with an air of confidence. His short blond hair framed a well-tanned face and striking blue eyes. Federov grimaced at the man’s beige Yves St. Laurent suit, yellow tie, and Italian loafers.

  “Viktor Mansfield, you are ten minutes late,” Federov said. “Say hello to Dr. Anton Kromer of the State Historical Museum.”

  “The unexpected rainfall was a deterrent to traffic.” Mansfield fell into a chair alongside Kromer and shook hands with the professor.

  “Rain in Moscow in July is hardly unexpected,” Federov said.

  “I hope this won’t take long.” Mansfield glanced at his watch. “I have tickets to the Bolshoi.”

  Federov gave him a cutting stare. Viktor Mansfield, a nom de guerre, was one of his best field agents. His cover long established as a wealthy Austrian playboy with a murky royal background, Mansfield had made inroads with Europe’s leading industrialists and politicians, along with a few movie starlets. He played the role well, Federov thought. Perhaps too well, judging by his expense reports.

  “Dr. Kromer has recently uncovered a historical document that has great importance to the state.”

  Federov looked to Kromer to continue.

  The pale academic cleared his throat. “I am the chief archivist for the State Historical Museum, which houses a sizable collection of artifacts from the Romanov era. We were preparing an exhibit on the works of nineteenth-century Russian artists held in the Imperial Collection and had retrieved some paintings from long-term storage in St. Petersburg. There were twenty-two paintings, some marvelous works. We were cleaning them in preparation for the exhibit when an interesting discovery was made on the back of one.”

  He opened a thin photo album and showed Mansfield several shots of a large painting, brushed in vivid colors, of mounted Cossacks.

  “Looks like an Ilya Repin,” Mansfield said.

  Kromer smiled. “Indeed it is. One of just three in the collection.”

  “What exactly was found with the painting?”

  Kromer flipped a page to reveal several photos of the back of the painting. A close-up showed a piece of parchment wedged into one corner. “A sheet of aged paper, inserted facedown, was found affixed to the painting. We thought it would be some artist’s notes or perhaps an early sketch of the painting. It turned out to be something quite different.”

  Federov held up the document. “It’s a treaty, of sorts.”

  “What kind of treaty?” Mansfield asked.

  “The Treaty of Petrograd, or so it is labeled. It’s an agreement between the Russian Empire and Great Britain.” Federov returned the fragile document to his desk. “The heart of the agreement entails a transfer of twenty percent of the oil and mineral rights of lands occupied by the Russian Empire to the British for a period of one hundred years, beginning some months after the treaty’s signature date.”

  “That’s mad,” Mansfield said. “Who would sign such a document?”

  “The Tsar himself.”

  Kromer nodded. “We have verified the signature of Tsar Nicholas II on the document.”

  “Why would he have signed away so much wealth?” Mansfield asked.

  “To protect his own,” Federov said. “It was a reflection of the times. Dr. Kromer can explain.”

  “The treaty is dated February 20, 1917. It was a desperate time for the Tsar. The Army was demoralized and unraveling after repeated battle losses to the Germans. Riots by factory workers and citizens had erupted in St. Petersburg. The Bolsheviks were beginning to stage violent protests throughout the country in the name of revolution. Sympathy for the cause existed not just among the peasants and factory workers, but also by many in the military. Nicholas knew the empire was slipping from his fingers and he looked for salvation from the Allies.”

  “The Romanovs had many relatives throughout Europe,” Mansfield said.

  “They certainly did. Both Nicholas and his wife, Alexandra, were first cousins to Britain’s King George V, as well as other European heads of state. And Nicholas had ongoing business dealings with the Allies during the war, especially for arms procurement. So the contacts were in place as the pressure closed in around him. Little did Nicholas and Alexandra know that after abdicating the crown on March fifteenth, they and their four children would be shipped off to the Urals—and assassinated a year later.”

  “What was the Tsar hoping to gain by passing off a portion of the nation’s mineral wealth?”

  “Political support,” Kromer said, “and, more critically, military assistance to the armed forces still loyal to him, which later evolved into the White Army. That, and security for a substantial sum of his own royal assets.”

  “I assume you mean gold.”

  “Aside from controlling the assets of the State, the Romanov family personally owned many of the gold mines in the Urals. It is well known that the State’s supply of gold bullion gradually disappeared during the revolutionary years. There has been much documentation about the Romanov gold in foreign hands, but little is known of the whereabouts of the family’s personal stock.”

  “The treaty states,” Federov said, “that a to-be-determined sum of royal family assets were to be transferred to the Bank of England for safekeeping until stability was restored to the Imperial Russian Empire, at which time the treaty would be voided.”

  “That didn’t work out so well,” Mansfield said. “How much did the Brits end up with?”

  Federov gave him a blank look.

  “We don’t know,” Kromer finally said. “I have a team researching the issue. There is evidence that some members of the Leib Guard escorted a shipment from St. Petersburg to Odessa shortly after the treaty date. Official records from that era are quite sporadic due to the chaos at the time. But rumors have persisted in some circles that a substantial sum of the Tsar’s gold was shipped out of Moscow banks.”

  “No records on the British end?”

  “The British banking records were heavily scrutinized by the Bolshevik government in the 1920s concerning the gold shipments made during the war for munitions purchases. But no evidence was ever uncovered of a supplemental deposit on behalf of the Romanovs. My own feeling is, the assets never made it into the hands of the British.”

  “How much are we talking here?”

  Kromer shrugged. “Without further clues, it is impossible to say. Given estimates of the Romanovs’ wealth and what was known to have ended up in the Bolsheviks’ coffers, easily one hundred and twenty-five to one hundred and fifty billion rubles, in today’s currency, were never accounted for.”

  “Two billion U.S.?” Mansfield said, accustomed to spending cash in euros and dollars.

  Kromer nodded. “It was presumably intended to be a sizable sum.”

  “Well, it is a very interesting tale
.” Mansfield sat up in his chair. “Is the GRU planning to publish a history book on the lost wealth of Imperial Russia?”

  Federov stared daggers at Mansfield. “There are just four people who have seen this document.” He tapped the treaty with a stiff finger. “The three of us in this room—and the President. I can tell you that the President is extremely concerned about the contents of this treaty. At the very least, its existence represents a potential embarrassment to the Russian Federation, not to mention the possible legal and financial claims against the government.”

  “Then why not just stuff it beneath Lenin’s tomb?” Mansfield said. “Or, better yet, put a match to it?”

  “Because it may not be the only copy.”

  “The treaty was signed by Tsar Nicholas II and British Special Envoy Sir Leigh Hunt,” Kromer said. “If one or more copies of the treaty was in Hunt’s possession, as seems likely, then for some reason they were never delivered to Whitehall.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Hunt boarded a British cruiser named Canterbury in Archangel shortly after the treaty was signed. The vessel was sunk by a German submarine less than a week later, somewhere in the Norwegian Sea. There were no survivors.”

  “Then the other treaty copies were destroyed,” Mansfield said. “End of story.”

  Federov gazed out the window at the rain falling in ever-larger drops. He continued staring at the rain while responding to Mansfield. “As I indicated, the President has taken a specific interest in the matter. He has directed the agency to find and destroy any evidence or remaining copies of the treaty—and to pursue any links to the Romanov gold that was spirited out of the country and remains unaccounted.”

  “There is a possibility that the treaty’s heavy parchment could survive cold-water immersion in a consular travel bag,” Kromer said. “And we don’t know what other communications may have been sent by Hunt.”

  Mansfield got an uneasy feeling. Federov was in an impossible situation, and now the spy chief was sharing the same fate with him. To disappoint the current Russian president would not only be career-limiting, it could also be life-limiting. Federov gave him no chance to bow out of the assignment.

  “Viktor,” Federov said, “you are an ex–Navy commando trained in underwater demolitions. You also have experience in piloting submersibles, even if lately it has been for the benefit of fat, wealthy Europeans looking at fish in the Mediterranean.” He gave him a cold smile. “You are the best-qualified man I’ve got for this assignment, and you will not fail me.”

  “I appreciate your continued faith in me,” Mansfield said with just a hint of sarcasm.

  “You will have the full support of the agency, as well as Dr. Kromer and his team, who will continue their historical research.”

  “I understand.” Mansfield sighed. “When do I start?”

  “The Arctic oceanographic ship Tavda is awaiting you in Murmansk. You have twenty-four hours to get aboard.”

  “And if there is nothing left of the British ship when we find her?”

  Federov looked out the window once more, wishing he could trade positions with Mansfield. He looked at the spy and cast a grim smile. “Then you will have enjoyed a nice sea cruise in a place only slightly less hospitable than Moscow.”

  22

  The assault team came from two small boats, deployed from a vessel that remained offshore under cover of darkness. Landing at a remote corner of the Burgas commercial dock, the eight black-clad intruders made their way to their target like a pack of alley cats on the prowl. At the ship’s gangway, the team divided into three groups. One held to the dock and manned the mooring lines while the others boarded the Macedonia.

  Captain Stenseth was up late, computing fuel reserves with the second officer on watch. Two armed men stormed the bridge and leveled compact Uzi assault rifles at the two NUMA officers. But black knit hats and facial greasepaint didn’t cover the tattooed octopus tentacle on one of the intruder’s necks.

  “What’s this all about?” Stenseth said.

  Vasko leveled his weapon at the captain’s head. “We are borrowing your ship. Attempt to interfere and you will die. Now, tell me, how many are aboard?”

  The Macedonia was carrying a complement of forty, plus the visiting archeologist. But Pitt, Giordino, and Dimitov were ashore. Stenseth was mentally dropping another head or two from the count, hoping someone might escape detection, when the Uzi erupted.

  Vasko fired a single shot, which tore through Stenseth’s right arm just above the elbow. The sleeve of his white officer’s shirt grew red as blood ran down his arm. “I want the answer—now.”

  The second officer took a step forward and dove at Vasko. But the Bulgarian detected the move and jumped aside. As the officer grabbed at his legs, Vasko fired a stream of bullets across his back, killing him instantly. Stenseth dropped to his knees to try to aid the man, but Vasko kicked him in the shoulder. “The crew count?”

  “Thirty-eight,” Stenseth said through gritted teeth. The Macedonia’s captain was pulled to his feet, shoved face-first against the bulkhead, his wrists zip-tied behind his back.

  Vasko clicked the transmitter of a small radio on his hip. “Engine room secure,” came the prompt reply.

  “Bridge secure,” Vasko said. “Give me power to the main engines.”

  “Affirmative. Five minutes.”

  Vasko signaled the shore team, who released the ship’s berthing lines and hopped aboard. Most of the Macedonia’s crew had long since retired to their cabins and the intruders let them be. But they rounded up the midnight crew and a handful of scientists who were working late.

  While waiting to get under way, Vasko opened a panel near the helm and disabled the satellite communications system and AIS transmitter, which allowed third parties to track the ship’s position. When the Macedonia’s engines rumbled to life, Vasko eased the vessel out of the harbor at a crawl, drawing no attention.

  Once at sea, he extinguished the running lights and turned north, accelerating to top speed. Stenseth was allowed to remain on the bridge. He mentally recorded the route until he became woozy from blood loss.

  After two hours, the ship slowed and turned toward the coastline. Vasko made a cryptic call over the ship’s radio and two green lights blinked a mile or so distant. He steered for the lights, which marked the narrow entrance to a small, rocky cove at the base of a high cliff.

  Inside the narrow cove, a single pier extended across the water. Under its shaded lampposts, Stenseth could make out a salvage ship that looked like the Besso and a black crew boat tied up near shore. An open barge was moored at the opposite end of the pier.

  Vasko spun the Macedonia around in the tight confines of the cove and slid it against the remaining open dock, backing its stern to the barge. A handful of workmen came out to meet the ship, several carrying assault rifles.

  The Macedonia’s crew was roused from their cabins, stripped of any phones or electronics, and escorted off the ship under armed guard. As they were marched down the dock, Stenseth saw a pair of workers rigging a tow line from the barge, which was filled with heavy wooden crates.

  The NUMA personnel were led into a warehouse and forced to stand at gunpoint. Satisfied they were secure, Vasko stepped to a main office and housing structure across the compound.

  Mankedo didn’t bother to look up from his laptop when Vasko sat across the desk from him. “Any problems?”

  “None,” Vasko said. “We crept out of Burgas without so much as a nod in our direction.”

  “You made good time. We should have her out of sight of the coastline before sunup.”

  “She runs about seventeen knots. Is the barge wired?”

  “I’ve placed a small charge in the bilge to sink her. You’ll need to manage the munitions blow.”

  “Semtex?”

  “There’s plenty left in the explosives l
ocker,” Mankedo said.

  “What’s the plan of attack?”

  Mankedo spun around his laptop, revealing a map of Sevastopol Harbor. “We’ll set the ship’s auto helm to run to a coordinate two miles due west of the harbor entrance. When the Macedonia reaches within five hundred meters of that point, it will trigger a detonation of the barge’s hull charge. We can use the same signal to initiate a timed detonation of the munitions.”

  “Twenty minutes should be enough to allow her to sink to the seafloor. What about the tow line?”

  “We could blow it separately, but the target depth is only ninety meters, well less than the length of the tow line. Once sunk, it will act as an anchor for the NUMA ship.”

  “What do you want to do with the crew?” Vasko asked.

  “Are they still aboard?”

  “They’re in the warehouse.”

  “Lock them in one of the caves for now. We’ll dispense with them later.” He closed the laptop and rose from his chair.

  “I see the Besso beat us back,” Vasko said. “The reconfiguration went well.”

  “Yes, the crew worked around the clock to change her appearance. It should be enough to pass a casual inspection. By the way, her new name is Nevena.”

  “I thought by now she’d be headed to the Mediterranean.”

  “She should be, but another project came up. Something we need to jump on just as soon as the Macedonia is on her way.”

  He opened the door to a small anteroom. A heavyset man was bent over a table inside, poring through a stack of documents. Beside him, a small bowl contained some metal tags. The man looked up with mild disturbance.

  “Ilya,” Mankedo said. “Say hello to Dr. Georgi Dimitov.”

  23

  Ana found Giordino refilling a coffee cup in the Burgas Police Department break room. Across the corridor, they could see Pitt arguing with the chief of police.

  “How’s he doing?” Ana asked.