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  “Dear Julian. Hope this material is of help. I found a reference to your mystery ship in a summary of archival material bequeathed to the library by the estate of Lord Dodson, who served for many years in the Foreign Office. It was a manuscript containing Dodson's memoirs, but it seems to have been withdrawn by the family. There was also mention of the Odessa Star in a book called Life on the Black Sea. We have a copy here and I can FedEx it to you if you wish.”

  Perlmutter put the note down and went over to a shelf crammed to the gills with volumes of every size and description. He ran his pudgy fingers along a row of books and pulled out a small, slim volume with a leather cover handsomely embossed in gold leaf.

  “Hah!” Perlmutter exclaimed in triumph. If he could have danced, he would have done a two-step; No longer worried about his temporary lapse of memory, he scribbled a note on a piece of paper and inserted it in the fax machine. “No need to send book. Have it in my collection. Thanks.” As the message flew across the Atlantic, Perlmutter settled into a comfortable chair with a tumbler of iced hibiscus tea, a plate of crackers and white truffle paste by his side, and began to read.

  A Russian ship captain named Popov had written the book in 1936. The captain had an eye for detail and a sense of humor, and Perlmutter found himself smiling frequently as Popov related his adventures with waterspouts and storms, leaky vessels, pirates and bandits, thievish merchants, knavish bureaucrats and mutinous crews.

  The most poignant chapter was one entitled “The Little Mermaid.” Popov had been the skipper of a freighter carrying a cargo of lumber across the Black Sea. One night the lookout saw the flash of lights in the distance and heard what sounded like distant thunder, although the sky was clear. Thinking someone might be in trouble, Popov investigated.

  “When my ship arrived several minutes later; we encountered an oil slick, and a cloud of black greasy smoke, hung on the water: There was debris floating everywhere and, more horrifying, burned and mutilated bodies. Despite my entreaties, my crew refused to recover the corpses, saying they were bad luck, and dead and gone in any case. I called for Stop engines and we listened. All was silent. Then came what sounded like the cry of a seabird. I enlisted my loyal first mate and launched a boat. We made our way through the sad flotsam toward the sound. Imagine our surprise when the lamplight fell upon the golden tresses of a young girl. She was clinging to a wooden crate and, had we arrived minutes later; would have frozen to death in the frigid black water: We pulled her into the boat and cleaned the oil from her face. My mate exclaimed: 'Why, she looks like a mermaid!' My crewmen, seeing our lovely burden, put aside their rebellious emotions and ministered to the girl. When she recovered, she proved herself to be quite well-spoken. She conversed easily in French with one of our crew. She said she had been traveling with her family on a ship called the Odessa Star. Although she recalled the ship's name, she could not remember her own but thought it might be Maria. Of her life before the ship went down and the circumstances of its sinking, she could remember nothing. The tough old salts aboard my ship could not have been more tender in their regard and called her 'the little mermaid.' ”

  The captain reported the incident when he got back to port, but strangely he told the authorities nothing about the girl. His omission was explained in the epilogue.

  “Some of my dear readers may have wondered what became of the little mermaid. Now that many years have passed, I feel free to reveal the truth. When I found the girl floating barely alive on the billows, I had been married five years. In all that time, my lovely young wife had been unable to conceive a child. Upon my return to the Caucasus, we adopted Maria as our own. She was a joy to both of us before my wife died, and became a lovely young woman who, in time, married and had children of her own. Now, in my retirement, I feel that it is time to reveal to the world the precious gift the sea gave to me after years of inflicting so many hardships.”

  Perlmutter put the book down and picked up the Times review. The reviewer had been critical of the writing, but intrigued by the story of the mermaid, which he described at great length. Perlmutter guessed that some sharp-eyed Lloyd's operative had seen the reference to the Odessa Star and attached it to the claim file on the missing ship.

  The captain's account had been so fascinating Perlmutter had forgotten his snack. He remedied the situation quickly by slathering twenty dollars' worth of truffle onto a cracker. Back once more in the present, Perlmutter stared out the window as he savored the delicate earthy taste. Then he remembered Bosworth's comment about Lord Dodson. He read her note again and wondered why the Dodson family would have pulled the archives from the library.

  Despite his ungainly bulk, Perlmutter was very much a man of action. He picked up the phone and dialed a couple of acquaintances in London. Within minutes, he learned that Lord Dodson's grandson, himself a lord, was alive and living in the Cotswolds. Perlmutter got a phone number, al- though his source made him swear under pain of eating at Burger King not to reveal where he had gotten it. Perlmutter called and identified himself to the man who answered the phone.

  “This is Lord Dodson. You say you're a marine historian?” He sounded bemused but pleasant, speaking in the clipped accent of the British upper class.

  “That's correct. I came across a reference to your grandfather's memoirs while doing some research on a ship called the Odessa Sta,; The library apparently relinquished the material at the request of your family. I wonder when the material might be going back to Guildhall.”

  There was a silence on the other end. Then Dodson said, “Never! I mean, some of the material is much too personal in nature. You must understand that, Mr. Perlman.” He sounded flustered.

  “The name is Perlmutter, if you don't mind, Lord Dodson. Surely the historical material could be made separate from the personal.”

  “I'm sorry, Mr. Perlmutter,” Dodson said, getting his voice under control. “It's all part and parcel. It would do no one any good and cause a great deal of painful embarrassment if this material were made public.”

  “Forgive me for being obtuse, but I understand that he willed all the material to the library to be put in the archives.”

  “Yes, that's true. But you have to understand my grandfather. He was a man of towering rectitude.” Catching the unintentional comparison to his own character, Dodson said, “What I mean was that he was naive in many ways.”

  “He couldn't have been too naive to hold a high post in the Foreign Office.”

  Dodson laughed nervously. “You Americans can be damnably persistent. Look Mr. Perlmutter, I don't wish to be rude, but I must terminate this conversation. Thank you for your interest. Good-bye.”

  The phone went dead. Perlmutter stared at it for a moment and shook his head. Strange. Why would the old boy be so upset at an innocent query? What secret could be so painful after so many years? Well, he had done his best. He punched out the number Austin had given him. He would let others determine why the Odessa Star could upset someone more than eighty years after the ship had gone to her grave in the Black Sea.

  NUMA 3 - Fire Ice

  -23- MOSCOW, RUSSIA

  THE NIGHTCLUB WAS a short walk from Gorky Park, in a narrow alley that had once been a rat-infested flophouse for vodka-soaked human derelicts who used trash-can covers as their pillows. The drunks had been displaced by swarms of young people who looked as if they had stepped off a UFO. The crowds gathered each night out- side a blue door lit by a single lamp. The unmarked door was the entrance to a Moscow night spot so trendy it didn't even have a name.

  The enterprising young Muscovite who'd founded the club had seen the potential in bringing together Moscow's crass nouveau riche and the tackiest of Western pop culture. He'd modeled his venture on Club 54, the defunct but exclusive New York dive that had made international headlines before it drowned in a sea of tax woes and illegal drugs. The club was located in a cavernous space that had once housed a state-run sweatshop where underpaid workers toiled making ripoffs of American jeans. Cl
ubgoers who were allowed inside found frenetic dance music, stroboscopic lighting and designer drugs supplied by the Russian Mafia, which had taken over the club after the original owner died of acute lead poisoning.

  Petrov stood at the edge of the crowd, watching. The hopeful patrons wore bizarre costumes to attract the attention of the burly doorman in black leather who stood between them and drug-induced ecstasy. Petrov stared at the crowd in wonder for a moment, then shouldered his way between a young woman dressed in a translucent plastic halter and shorts and her male companion, who wore an aluminum foil bikini. The doorman glared at the approaching stranger like a bull mastiff watching a cat move in on its food dish. Petrov stopped short of the entrance and handed the doorman a folded sheet of paper.

  He read the note with small, suspicious eyes, pocketed the hundred-dollar bill inside, then called another guard to take his place. He disappeared through the blue door and returned with a stocky middle-aged man dressed in the uniform of a Soviet naval officer, complete with high-peaked cap. The officer's chest was covered with more medals than anyone could have earned in several lifetimes. The guard pointed out Petrov. The man in uniform scanned the faces, scowling. Recognition flickered in his heavy-lidded eyes and he waved Petrov inside.

  The full impact of the pulsating music almost knocked Petrov over. Out on the huge dance floor, a mass of bodies writhed as one to the monotonous rave beat from dozens of speakers that looked as if they had been used at Woodstock. He was grateful when the naval officer led him down a passageway into a storage room and closed the door so that the sound was a muffled throb.

  “I come here sometimes to get away from that racket,” the naval officer said. The commanding voice Petrov remembered had become gravelly, and there was the stale smell of vodka on the man's breath. His thick lips curled in a smile. “I thought you were dead, tovarich.”

  “It's a miracle I'm not dead, Admiral,” Petrov said, eyeing the uniform from head to toe. “Some things are worse than death.”

  The admiral's smile vanished. “You don't have to tell me how low I have fallen. I still have eyes. But no lower than someone who would amuse himself at the expense of an old comrade.”

  “I agree, but I am not here for amusement. I came to ask your help and to offer mine.”

  The admiral let out with a wet laugh. “What help can I give you? I am nothing but a clown. The human garbage that runs this place keeps me around to entertain their patrons and remind them of the bad old days. Well, they were not bad for everyone.”

  “True, my friend. Nor were they good for everyone,” Petrov said, bringing his hand up to the scar that disfigured his face.

  “In the old days, we were feared and respected.”

  “By our enemies,” Petrov said. “Yet we were despised by our government, who quickly forgot our sacrifices when they no longer needed us for their dirty work. Your once proud navy is a joke. Heroes like you are reduced to this.”

  The admiral's shoulders sagged under the gaudy epaulets. Petrov realized he had gone too far.

  “I'm sorry, Admiral.”

  The admiral pulled a pack of Marlboros from a pocket and offered one to Petrov, who declined. “Yes, I believe you are sorry. So are we all.'' He stuck a cigarette in his mouth and lit up. ”Well, enough talk about the past. What's done is done. Are you sure you don't want a whore? Not all my job is for show. I get a commission and an employee discount. Capitalism is truly a wonderful thing."

  Petrov smiled as he recalled the razor-sharp wit from the days when he and the admiral had served on secret missions together. With the changes in government, the admiral's outspoken criticisms had not been well received by the new generation of thin-skinned bureaucrats. Petrov had survived by allowing himself to sink, undetected, into the governmental morass. The admiral had attempted to stand above the fray, and his demise mirrored that of his beloved navy.

  “Later, maybe. But for now, I need information about a certain naval property.”

  The admiral's eyes narrowed behind their thick folds. “That covers a wide range.”

  Petrov said one word: “India.”

  “The submarine? Well, well. What is your interest?”

  “It's better if you don't know, Admiral.”

  “You mean there is some risk involved here? Well, that must be worth something.”

  “I'm prepared to pay for the information.” The naval officer frowned, and a sad look came into his eyes. “Listen to me. I have become no better than the prostitutes who get their customers to buy them glasses of fake champagne.” He sighed. “As for your questions, I'll do my best to answer them.”

  “Thank you, Admiral. I once saw an India-class sub at its base, but never went aboard one. I understand it was designed to carry on operations similar to mine.”

  “Integration is a swearword in the armed forces any- where in the world. Ask the Americans how much money they've wasted in duplication because the army, navy, air force and marines wanted to have their own versions of virtually the same weapons systems. It was the same with us. The Soviet navy had no desire to share its assets with anyone else, especially a group like yours, which was beyond its control.” He smiled. “Beyond anyone s control.”

  “Supposedly, the sub was designed for underwater rescue.”

  “Now there's a fairy tale! How many submarine crews were rescued by this thing? I'll tell you.” He curled his thumb and forefinger in a circle. “Zero. It certainly had the capacity to dive on a sunken sub. The India class could carry two deep submergence recovery vehicles in wells abaft the sail. They could fit onto the rescue hatch of a downed sub, but they weren't there to pull some poor sailor from the bottom of the sea. They were designed for clandestine intelligence gathering and to carry Spetsnaz.”

  “Special forces?”

  “Sure. When we did some snooping off Sweden, the subs carried armored tracked amphibious vehicles. They could crawl along the sea bottom like big bugs. It was a sweet ship, the India. Fast and very maneuverable.”

  “The public literature said two were built?”

  “That's correct. We had one in the northern fleet and another in the southern. Sometimes one would join the other for special operations.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “We lost the Cold War and they were withdrawn from service. They were scheduled for demolition.”

  “So they were scrapped?”

  The admiral grinned. “Yes, of course.”

  Petrov replied with a hike of an eyebrow.

  “On paper, anyhow,” the admiral said. “You know, everyone is worried about our nuclear bombs getting in some madman's hands. But while there's been all that talk, we've sold half our conventional weaponry, which can be as deadly under the proper circumstances. Nobody says anything about that.”

  “I'm saying something. Where did the India-class subs go?”

  “One was scrapped. The other was sold to a private buyer.”

  “Do you know his name?”

  “Of course, but what difference does it make? He represented a group that was obviously a straw for someone else. There could be many layers in between the buyer and the person who forked over the money.”

  “But you have a suspicion about who bought it?”

  “I'm pretty sure it stayed within the country. The buyer was an outfit called Volga Industries. They had an office in Moscow, but who knows where their parent companies were? Nobody really cared. They paid in cash.”

  Petrov shook his head. “How could someone so easily remove a war machine three hundred and fifty feet long?”

  “It's done all the time. All you need is some hard-up officers in the military who haven't been paid in a year. We've got lots of them living on promises. Then you have the collusion of government maggots and it's done. The worst are the former communists.”

  “Like us?”

  “Tripe! We waved the red flag, but we were never ideological. I know you didn't believe that bull. We did it because it was exciting and
somebody else was paying the bill.”

  “I'll need some names.”

  “How could I forget? The scum who were making millions selling all this war material asked if I wanted a piece. I said no, that it wasn't right to sell the people's property for personal gain. Next thing I know, I was out of the navy on my ass. Nobody would hire me. So here I am.”

  The admiral was wandering into a bitter swamp. “The names, please, Admiral.”

  “Sorry,” he said, composing himself. “The years haven't been easy. There were five principals in the deal.” He rattled off the names.

  “I know all of them,” Petrov said. “They were petty functionaries in the party who have flourished by picking the bones of the Soviet Union.”

  “What can I say, my friend? Well, is that enough? It's all I've got. The people who come here don't talk about military secrets. Anyway, it was good to see you. My employers expect me to make the rounds of the tables every few minutes. So excuse me, I must get back to work.”

  “Maybe not,” Petrov said. He reached into his suit pocket and extracted a brown envelope. “If you could make a wish, what would it be?”

  “Aside from making my wife alive again and persuading my children that it is worth their time to talk to me?” He thought about it for a moment. “I would like to move to the United States. To Florida. I would sit in the sun and talk only to those I wanted to talk to.”

  “What a coincidence,” Petrov said. “Within this envelope is a one-way plane ticket to Fort Lauderdale, leaving tomorrow, a passport and visa, and the immigration paperwork that will ensure your stay there. There is also some money to live on and the name of a gentleman who is looking for an investor to buy into his fishing company. He especially wants someone who has experience on the sea It would be a much smaller fleet than you have been used to.”

  A defeated expression came onto the admiral's face. “Please don't toy with me. We were once comrades.”

  “We still are,” Petrov said, handing over the envelope. “Consider this a delayed payment from your country for past services.”