Odessa Sea Page 22

  Mankedo shook his head. “A false lead that sent the searchers too far north.”

  “I guess we have the Americans to thank,” Vasko said.

  The salvage operator in Mankedo took over and he turned his attention to the operation to retrieve the old bomber’s payload. A remotely operated vehicle was sent to video the wreck site and from there he developed a plan for extraction.

  Mankedo personally led the first dive team to the site, carrying an assortment of torches, cutting tools, and small explosives to gain access to the fuselage. Topside, Vasko assembled a sling and harness lift system to use with the stern A-frame.

  When Mankedo returned to the ship from his dive, he was all smiles. “A nice fat baby ready for delivery,” he said, then gave Vasko measurements for the lift system. “Side access is wide open. A block pulley should work to pull it out.”

  Vasko led the next dive team to the plane, taking the cabled sling and harness and a framed pulley. Working more deliberately than usual on a salvage job, he secured the lone weapon in the bomb bay with the harness. Then he used the pulley affixed to the fuselage frame to slide it horizontally from the bay. Once it was clear of the plane, he activated the ship’s cable and raised the weapon slowly to the surface.

  Vasko swam alongside the behemoth until nearly reaching the surface, then returned to the ship. Standing in a dripping wetsuit beside Mankedo, he watched as the bomb was hoisted from the sea and set on a wooden deck rack.

  Dimitov approached and looked at the weapon with astonishment. “It appears nearly new. Hardly any corrosion.”

  “A gift of the anoxic seas,” Mankedo said. “If it has remained watertight, then it should still be able to go bang.”

  The thought made them all a bit nervous and they studied the weapon with reverence. Vasko directed some crewmen to secure the device and cover it with a tarp.

  “I’m not sure that keeping it aboard the Besso is the safest move.”

  “True,” Mankedo said. “The weather is lifting, and I want to get the ship to the Mediterranean as soon as possible. We’ll drop it at the facility and see if our Dutch friend has an interest.”

  “There’s no question he’ll have an interest. The question will be whether he has the money.”

  Mankedo smiled. “Exactly.”

  49

  Viktor Mansfield sat in the passenger seat of the silver Audi rereading the blue binder he had recovered from the tour boat.

  To his right, Martina nervously tapped the steering wheel with her long manicured fingernails. “We should have taken another car,” she said.

  Mansfield gazed out the windshield, past the church parking lot, to the concrete and glass National Archives building two blocks down the street. “No, we’re safely out of view. Besides, there was no time to change cars. I need the data on the British ship before the Pitts or their cronies find it.”

  They waited another hour before Ivan appeared with a folder under his arm. He glanced around to ensure he wasn’t being followed, then made a beeline for the Audi and climbed into the backseat.

  “Any suspicions?” Martina asked.

  “None.” His deep, clipped voice revealed his Muscovite roots. “There were no questions about my data request. There may have been a different research librarian than before.”

  “What were you able to find?” Mansfield asked.

  Ivan passed him the folder, which contained a handful of photocopied papers. “Very little on the HMS Sentinel, I’m afraid. They had some build specifications and sea trial data, which I grabbed, along with a brief history. She apparently sank off Italy after striking a mine in March of 1917. The librarian said the Portsmouth Naval Museum might possess a greater operational history of the ship.”

  “What about the risk insurance?” Mansfield asked.

  “That’s what took some time. The original War Risks Insurance Office records were absorbed into the Ministry of Transport in 1919. I checked the data and found one payment in 1917 from Russia.”

  He pointed to a page in the folder and Mansfield held it up. It was a statement of accounts for the full year 1917. Amid a long list of payments for merchant ships and cargoes lost at the hands of the German naval forces was a large credit posted from the Imperial Russian Treasury. The notation listed an April payment of two hundred thousand pounds drawn from an account in Ottawa.

  Mansfield shook his head. “That was for an earlier shipment of arms valued at twenty million pounds.”

  “Look on the next page,” Ivan said.

  The following page held a short list of uncredited receivables. An additional entry was shown for the Imperial Russian Treasury in the amount of one hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds.

  “It says a pending shipment to Liverpool,” Ivan said. “But it was never paid.”

  “From the submarine mentioned in the other file?” Martina asked.

  “Yes, it must be the Pelikan,” Mansfield said. “My Moscow historian indicated it was lost in the Aegean in late February 1917. They evidently made it that far with the gold.”

  “But the British government didn’t collect the insurance premium. They must not have received the gold.”

  Mansfield noted the payment amount and whistled. “The Tsar paid one hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds to insure the shipment.”

  “That sounds like a healthy amount in 1917,” Ivan said.

  Mansfield thought back to his meeting with Bainbridge. The banker said the earlier gold shipments were insured by a one percent premium on the shipment value. If the same formula held for this shipment, it would place the value of the gold aboard the Pelikan, at today’s prices, at more than two billion pounds. “There were no other indications that the premium was paid?”

  “No,” Ivan said. “If you look at the other documents, you’ll see it was carried in their records for several years and ultimately written off as an uncollectible in 1925.”

  Martina started the car and backed out of the church lot. “Is that the answer you were looking for?”

  “It’s a data point. Not the concrete evidence I would prefer, but it provides strong inference.”

  “What about the Americans?” she asked. “Are you satisfied they can cause no further trouble with what they know?”

  “I am satisfied there is no signed copy of the treaty in England to worry about. As for the Americans, they can be a persistent bunch, so we must act to preserve what is ours.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  He gave her an assured smile. “Tell me, Martina. Have you ever been to Greece?”

  50

  The Macedonia crept into Burgas Harbor just after dusk, the waters calm and glowing from the lights of the waterfront shops. The NUMA vessel’s lone crewman expertly piloted the ship alongside an open berth, where Giordino and a handful of dockworkers secured it to the wharf. Ana watched from nearby with a police escort, noting the speckled damage to the ship’s exterior.

  “Ready to go aboard?” Giordino asked her.

  “Yes, of course.”

  He led her onto the Macedonia and up to the bridge, where they found Pitt shutting down the engines. His face was furrowed with exhaustion, but his eyes sparkled at the sight of the two visitors.

  Giordino grinned. “How’s our zombie captain holding up?”

  “Ready to sleep like Rip Van Winkle.” He lightly stomped his feet, cursing the pain in his knees that seemed to strike with more frequency as the years rolled by.

  “How long were you at the wheel?” Ana asked.

  Pitt eyed a bridge chronometer. “About twenty hours. Nearly drained the galley’s supply of coffee and peanut butter and jelly.”

  “Rudi has a backup skeleton crew en route from the States that should arrive tomorrow,” Giordino said. “And Ana has arranged round-the-clock security from our friends at the Burgas Police Department.”
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  “Glad to hear. I wasn’t looking forward to standing watch tonight.”

  “We better get you off your feet,” Ana said. “Is there a place we can sit?”

  They relocated to the wardroom, where they found comfortable chairs around a conference table.

  “Al told me about your ordeal with the Russian warship,” Ana said. “I still don’t know how you could have survived such an attack.”

  Pitt patted the top of the table. “The Macedonia’s a pretty responsive old gal when she wants to be. The question is, who would instigate such an attack on Sevastopol—and why?”

  “I can’t answer the why, but we may have a lead on the who,” she said. “Forensics came through for us on one of the two men killed on the docks here. He was a Ukrainian national from Mykolaiv. A police interview with his family indicates he took a job just a few months ago with a salvage company near Burgas. We canvassed the area and found only one salvage operation of any size. Thracia Salvage is located on a remote section of the coast between Burgas and Varna.”

  “What do you know about them?” Pitt asked.

  “They’ve been around almost thirty years, run by a man named Valentin Mankedo. He may be an ex–Romanian Navy diver. Apparently, the company works throughout the Black Sea, though it isn’t particularly well known in Burgas. Local authorities report that in recent years, expensive cars and boats have been seen near his yard.”

  “That doesn’t sound like the lifestyle of any salvage operators I know,” Pitt said.

  “Although it appears he’s involved in something more financially rewarding,” Ana said, “the regional police have no record of any illicit activity.”

  “So we don’t have a lot to go on,” Giordino said.

  “Except for this.” Ana pulled a photo from her purse and laid it on the table. It was a grainy overhead shot of a ship and boat docked in a narrow cove.

  “Satellite photo?” Pitt asked.

  “From NATO, taken about six months ago. It’s a blowup of an image of the coastal area that includes the Thracia salvage facility. It is a bit fuzzy, but we believe the ship is—”

  “The Besso,” Pitt said.

  Giordino nodded. “That crane configuration is what we saw at the site of the Crimean Star.”

  “Authorities in the nearby town of Obzor confirm sightings of the Besso. She’s registered in Cypress to an entity that may be a front for Thracia Salvage.”

  “Is the Besso there now?” Pitt asked.

  “No. I have the yard under surveillance and she’s not there. I’m afraid we don’t know her whereabouts.”

  “Why don’t you shake down this Mankedo character?” Giordino asked.

  “I obtained a warrant this afternoon to pick him up for questioning. I also have approval to search his salvage yard.” She looked to Pitt. “We don’t have any evidence they were responsible for the Macedonia’s hijacking. But like you, my suspicions are high. I’m going in with a small team first thing in the morning. I thought you might want to be there.”

  Pitt glanced around the empty wardroom, wondering about the crew’s fate. A deep resolve overshadowed the fatigue that marked his face. He gave Ana a firm nod.

  “You thought right.”

  51

  Some one hundred and twenty miles to the southeast, the Besso received radio permission from the Turkish Control Station at the Türkeli lighthouse to enter the Bosphorus Strait. Only she was no longer the salvage vessel Besso but the oil supply ship Nevena. Renamed, repainted, reconfigured, and littered with a stack of drill pipe on her deck for good measure, she bore little resemblance to her former self.

  Joining the other southbound traffic that was permitted entry from noon to midnight, the Nevena churned past the Türkeli light and entered the narrow passage. Two hours and sixteen miles later, the ship crept past the Golden Horn. Georgi Dimitov buttoned up his jacket as he stood on the bow, watching the lights of Istanbul twinkle by on both Asian and European shorelines. The city lights gradually faded as the ship entered the Sea of Marmara a short time later and the Nevena increased speed.

  The archeologist made his way to the bridge, where the helmsman breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Difficult passage?” Dimitov asked.

  “It’s always a challenge, but especially at night. I don’t know how the big tankers manage it. There are tight turns, strong currents, and endless traffic to contend with.”

  “A pilot is not required aboard?”

  “Only for Turkish ships. We have a Cypriot registry.”

  Dimitov stepped from the window and studied a digital map of the sea ahead on a monitor.

  The helmsman read his mind. “Chios Island?”

  “Yes.”

  “About eighteen hours, if we sailed direct.”

  Dimitov nodded and stared out the forward window. Although there was nothing but blackness ahead of the ship, all he could see was gold.

  52

  The battery-powered drone flitted above the salvage yard like an overgrown butterfly. Nearly invisible in the dawn light, the device flew high enough that the whine from its four rotors could barely be heard. Crisscrossing over the facility, the drone eventually flew past the entrance and down the road a hundred meters, then landed behind a large hedge.

  Ana glanced from the video monitor to the device itself as it landed a few feet away.

  The drone’s operator, a cadet with the Bulgarian National Police Service, retrieved the device and began packing it in a case. “See everything that you needed to?” he asked her.

  “Yes, as much as we could with the minimal light.”

  Pitt and Giordino eyed the drone before it disappeared into its case. “If those things can deliver a pizza,” Giordino said, “I might have to invest in one.”

  Ana ignored the comment and joined five other heavily armed agents who stood by the hood of her car, examining satellite photos of the Thracia Salvage Company’s compound.

  “The photos were taken some time ago,” she said, “but the drone view looks little different. The large salvage vessel is gone, but two other vessels are still at the dock, a workboat and a passenger craft.” She nodded to two men to her left. “Mikel and Anton, you’ll secure the dock in case anyone decides to leave by boat. The rest of us will cover the main compound building, which appears to contain on-site residences and offices. Any questions?”

  “Do we approach on foot or in our vehicles?” one of the policemen asked.

  “We’ll leave our cars at the front gate and enter on foot. The drone shows that the street gate and a heavier, second gate farther in are both open.” She pointed to one of the photos. “There’s a long walled corridor after the second gate that we must pass through to enter the compound. It opens up near the dock. From there, we’ll have to backtrack to the main building. It’s the only entry point, aside from the narrow cut from the sea, so let’s move through it quickly. Remember, the suspects are likely armed and apt to resist.”

  As the teams broke to prepare the raid, Pitt approached Ana. “Al and I spotted a small boat just down the road. Spare us a weapon and we’ll cover the sea approach.”

  Ana considered the offer and decided it would keep Pitt and Giordino out of harm’s way. They really shouldn’t even be there, but she owed them the opportunity to discover the fate of the Macedonia’s crew. “All right. One weapon, for defensive use only.” She handed Pitt her SIG Sauer handgun. “No entering the facility until we have it secured.”

  “We’ll just hang out beyond the shore, sailing a sea of discontent,” Giordino said.

  As Ana and her team slipped into tactical vests and checked their weapons, Pitt and Giordino strode down the road to a pebble-strewn beach. They headed to a small wooden skiff lying hull up on the gravel. They flipped the boat over and found a mast, sail, and oars wedged under its three bench seats.

  “I wo
uldn’t sail her to Fiji,” Pitt said, “but she looks like she can make it around the breakwater.”

  They dragged the boat to the water’s edge and pushed it through the small breakers and climbed aboard. Giordino raised the mast and rigged the single lateen sail. Pitt tied off the boom, took a seat at the tiller, and turned the boat leeward. The sail rippled tight from the offshore breeze, and the small boat jumped ahead through the waves.

  Pitt tacked to the north, aiming for a short-walled breakwater. As they sailed past it, they gazed into the narrow sea entrance of the salvage yard. As the gray dawn washed over the shoreline, Pitt could appreciate the site’s seclusion. To the north and west of the complex, steep rocky cliffs provided a natural barrier. A high rock wall ran along the southern barrier, melding into the breakwater.

  Pitt dropped the sail and allowed the boat to drift toward the narrow opening between the seawall and a mound of high rocks. Giordino shipped the oars and rowed into the entrance. The boat came to a sudden halt with a scraping metallic sound.

  “Run aground?” Pitt asked, although they were in the center of the slender channel.

  “No, a chain.” Leaning over the bow, he could see a submerged chain curtain, its top strand stretched just beneath the surface. The barricade extended from the side boulders to the seawall.

  “Guess they like their privacy.” Pitt nodded to a video camera on a pole amid the rocky border.

  From the barrier, they had a clear view of the compound. On their right a long warehouse faced the water, while a two-story brick building stood at the far end of the cove. Both appeared to have been built into the cliffside, and both looked more than a century old. Between the structures, open paved grounds were dotted with crates and equipment. Ahead and to their left was a thin wooden dock and the two boats Ana had seen with the drone. Left of the dock was another wall, creating a high corridor with the seawall as the facility’s lone shore entry.