Fire Ice nf-3 Read online

  After they hung up, Austin sat back in his chair and stared into space, a distant expression in the coral-blue eyes. Finding Razov's central control system might be the breakthrough he and NUMA needed, but there was another reason he wanted to get aboard the yacht. Boris.

  31

  BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS

  KAELA DORN WAITED at Commonwealth Pier overlooking Boston Harbor and watched the parade of limousines drop off a steady stream of VIPs who quickly lined up to be transported to Razov's yacht. She stood near a line of television vans whose satellite dishes and antennae sprouted from their roofs like alien vegetative growths. She was scanning the crowd when the tall stranger approached from behind and greeted her. Hardly glancing in his direction, Kaela replied with a polite hello. She regretted it a second later when he said in a wheedling nasal voice: "Excuse me, but haven't we met before?"

  She turned her full attention toward the man, thinking that he looked like a husky version of – what was that singer's name?

  "No," she said with a mixture of amusement and scorn. "Never?”

  "I thought you'd forgiven me for missing our dinner date in Istanbul." The voice had dropped several octaves.

  Kaela gave him a hard look, especially the broad shoulders. "Good Lord! I didn't recognize you."

  "They don't call me the Man of a Thousand Faces for nothing," Austin said, with a devilish smile, He spread his arms wide, "Is this what the well-dressed tabloid TV journalist wears?"

  Austin wore black slacks, matching T-shirt and sports jacket and seventies-era Ray-Ban sunglasses, even though it was night, and scuffed New Balance running shoes, He wore a gold neck chain, and his silvery-gray hair was hidden under a dark brown wig.

  "You look like a Hollywood undertaker," Kaela said, "I especially like the wild hairpiece." She squinted. "What did you do to your face?"

  "Putty. A necessary evil in the age of face recognition technology."

  Kaela raised an eyebrow, suddenly remembering the name. "The only one they're likely to match you with is Roy Orbison."

  "I'll remember that in case someone wants my autograph. Now that I've passed inspection, how are you?"

  "I'm fine, Kurt. It's good to see you again."

  "I'm hoping after business hours we can pick up where we left off."

  "I'd like that," she said, with a flirtatious tilt of her head. "I'd like that very much."

  Kaela wore a taupe pantsuit whose silky folds emphasized the curves of her body. Austin found himself being drawn in again by her exotic looks. With great effort, he put a lid on his amorous thoughts. For now, anyway.

  "Then it's a date. Cocktails at the Ritz Bar." He looked around at the milling crowds of men and women dressed for the black-tie affair. "Ready to crash the party?"

  Kaela hung a plastic laminated ill card around his neck. "From now on, you're Hank Simpson, our sound man. It should be easy to fake, Dundee's job was mostly hauling equipment around and holding a mike boom. I'll help you set up. Mickey is going to meet us at the press boat. Just grab those cases and play dumb."

  "Dumb I can do," Austin said. Snatching up the heavy metal suitcases as if they were feathers, he followed Kaela to a section of the pier where a PRESS sign had been nailed onto a piling. An open launch was coming in to pick up the next load of journalists.

  The short, stocky figure of Mickey Lombardo came trotting over with a steadi-cam on his shoulder. "I got some great shots of the Kennedys." He recognized Austin despite his disguise. "Hey, it's our guardian angel," he said, with a grin. "Good to see you again, pal."

  Austin held his finger up to his lips and glanced around.

  "Oh, yeah, I forgot," Lombardo said, lowering his voice to a stage whisper. "By the way, I like your taste in clothes." Like Austin, Mickey himself was dressed almost all in black.

  "If anybody asks, tell them we're the Blues Brothers," Austin suggested.

  "Hate to interrupt your reunion, boys, but our ride is here," Kaela said.

  Austin picked up the sound-equipment cases and loaded them into the launch. The seats in the boat were set up in rows like a bus. Kaela sat between her two crewmen. Within minutes, the boat was filled with a diverse group made up of print journalists uncomfortable in their rented tuxes and blow-dried TV anchorpersons, each with an entourage of fawning assistants. The launch swung away from the pier and sped across the harbor, its place taken by another shuttle.

  The arrival of Razov's yacht had attracted press coverage from allover the East Coast. The general public had learned for the first time of Razov's wealth and political ambitions, and his intention to open a billion-dollar trade center in Boston. But it was the physical manifestation of that incredible wealth, his huge and luxurious yacht, that invited the most interest.

  The Kazachestvo was the biggest thing to hit Boston since the Tall Ships. Circling TV helicopters followed her entrance into the harbor and beamed aerial pictures around the world. An escort of fire-fighting boats sent fountains of water arcing into the sky. Hundreds of pleasure craft nudged closer, only to be shooed away by the Coast Guard patrols.

  When the yacht dropped anchor, it was greeted by boatloads of politicians, bureaucrats and businesspeople. But only the most important and influential guests were invited to the gala reception in the evening.

  The Ataman ship was allowed to anchor between Logan Airport and the Boston waterfront, so guests arriving by plane could be shuttled to the party. The yacht blazed from one end to the other with colored lights that lit up the harbor. To celebrate the gala event, the local congressional delegation had persuaded the Navy Department to move the frigate U.S.S. Constitution, "Old lronsides," from her home at the Charlestown Navy Yard for a rare nighttime harbor excursion.

  The old fighting ship normally left her pier only once a year, when she was turned around so that her sides weathered evenly. The annual turnaround cruise was done with the help of tugboats. But in recent years, after an extensive overhaul that had restored some of the original 1794 construction design, the ship had been taken for short cruises under sail for special occasions. Austin overheard one of the TV people say the frigate was scheduled to do a sail-by under its own power. A detachment of Marines and a gun crew were on board to fire off a cannon salute.

  As the launch drew closer, Austin turned his attention to the yacht. It was as Gamay's photos showed, with a sharp V-shaped bow, concave stem and streamlined superstructure. He recognized the FastShip design that would allow Razov to move his headquarters and home anywhere there was water within days. The launch took its place in line behind several others, corning alongside the ship to a door on the side of the hull. Crewmen leaned from the opening and helped passengers out of the shuttle boats. The guests were passed on to official greeters, who barely glanced at their press credentials and sent them toward a stairway. Austin noted with perverse amusement that the TV anchors looked as if they had stood in front of a fan after the trip in the open boat.

  With Kaela leading, Austin and Lombardo lugged their equipment to the main deck, which resembled a high-class block party. The press representatives passed through a gauntlet of young men and women, all dressed maroon blazers, who looked as if they had been hired through central casting. They were handed press kits, novelty key chains in the shape of Russian wolfhounds and magnets with the Ataman logo on them. Thus loaded down, they were guided to a roped-off section in the fantail.

  A handsome young man whose blazer had a crest on it, indicating rank, welcomed them to the reception. He said interviews were being set up in the media center with the governor and the mayor. Mr. Razov would be giving no interviews, but would make a statement shortly. Knowing that free food and drink are the most persuasive bribes for favorable publicity, he directed them to the salon.

  While the other press people stampeded toward the open bar, Austin and his crew set up their equipment near a rank of microphones and floodlights. When their work was finished, he took Kaela by her slim arm. "Shall we join the other muckety-mucks?”
r />   "In a minute," she said. She guided him to the rail, where there was a view of the Boston skyline, the Customs House and the Prudential and Hancock towers. Her soft features were set in a grave expression. "Before we go in, I want to ask you something. You were determined to get on board this boat. Does Razov have anything to do with the Black Sea sub base or those thugs who attacked us?"

  "Why would you conclude that?"

  "Please don't be coy with me. He's Russian. They were Russian. His operations are centered in the Black Sea."

  "Sorry, I can't tell you everything. It's for your own protection. But there is a connection."

  "Is Razov Tesponsible for the death of Captain Kemal's cousin, Mehmet?"

  Austin paused. There was no refusing the determined gaze of those amber eyes. "Indirectly, yes."

  "I knew it. It's time that dirtbag is called to accounts."

  "I have every intention of making Razov pay for his deeds," Austin said.

  "Then I want a piece of the action."

  "You'll get your story. I promise."

  "I'm not talking about a story. Look, Kurt," she said with frustration, "I'm not some California Valley Girl whose biggest thrill was getting kicked out of the mall for smoking. I grew up in a tough hood and if I hadn't had an even tougher mother, I might be doing ten to twenty at Soledad now. I want to do something to help."

  "You've already helped by getting me on board."

  "That's not enough. It's evident to me that you want to nail this creep to the wall. Okay, I want my hand on the hammer."

  Austin vowed never to get caught in the crosshairs of Kaela's gunsight.

  "It's a deal, but tonight we're on Razov's turf. You keep a low profile. I don't want to expose you and Mickey to any danger. I'll work the ship on my own. Agreed?"

  Kaela nodded. "You'll have time while we're doing the interviews." She grabbed his arm and guided him toward the salon door. "But first I'm calling in the IOU on that drink you've promised me since the day we met."

  They joined the throng moving into the immense salon. For a moment, Austin forgot that he was on a boat. They seemed to have been transported a hundred years back in time. The salon looked like a throne room designed by a Las Vegas casino architect. It was a curious meld of Western civilization and Eastern barbarism. Their feet sank into a plush carpet of imperial purple that was big enough to cover several houses. Crystal chandeliers hung from vaulted ceilings that were covered with figures of cupids and nymphs. On each side of the room was a row of square-built columns whose sides were carved and covered with gold leaf.

  The crowd was a cross section of Boston's powerful and influential. Fat, red-nosed pols whose bellies strained at the buttons of their rented tuxedos jostled each other for room at the huge center table, which groaned under the weight of Russian delicacies of every description. At the other exreme, painfully thin women sat at rococo tables and picked at their food as if it were poisoned. Waspish businessmen gathered in knots to discuss how best to help the wealthy Razov spend his money. Legions of attorneys, financiers, Beacon Hill lobbyists and staff people flitted from table to table like bees in search of nectar. At the far end was a dais, but instead of a gold throne it held a band that played a lively Russian folk tune. The musicians were dressed like Cossacks, Austin noted with discomfort.

  While Austin and Kaela looked for a place to light, there was a roll of drums from the band. The public-relations man in the crested blazer took the stage, effusively thanked everyone for coming and said that their host would like to say a few words. Moments later, a middle-aged man wearing a plain blue suit climbed the stage and took the microphone. At his heel were two Russian wolfhounds-lean, regal-looking dogs with snow-white fur.

  Austin edged closer for a good look at Razov. The Russian didn't look like an arch villain. Except for his hatchet-faced profile and deathly pale skin, he was quite ordinary. Austin reminded himself that history is full of men of unremarkable appearance who have rained unbounded misery on their fellow human beings. Hitler could have passed as the starving artist he once was. Roosevelt had called Stalin "Uncle Joe," as if he were a kindly old relative instead of a mass murderer. Razov began to talk.

  Speaking English with only a trace of an accent, he said, "I wish to thank you all for coming to this party honoring your wonderful city." Gesturing toward the wolfhounds, he said, "Sasha and Gorky are very happy to have you here too." The dogs were the ice breakers he wanted them to be. After the crowd had responded with laughter and applause, the hounds were taken away by a handler. Razov waved good-bye to the dogs and grinned at the audience. He spoke in a deep baritone and with an authoritative manner. He had the gift of appearing to look people directly in the eye. Within minutes, he had everyone in the room hanging on his every word. Even the pols had stopped their gluttony to listen.

  "It gives me great pleasure to be here in America's cradle of independence. Only a few miles from here is Bunker Hill, and a little farther, Lexington, where the shot was fired that was 'heard 'round the world.' Your great institutions of learning and medical centers are legendary. You have done much to inspire my country, and in return I wish to announce the opening of a Russian trade center that will foster the smooth flow of commerce between our two great countries."

  While Razov was going over the details of his investment, Austin whispered into Kaela's ear. "Time for me to poke around. I'll meet you back at the launch."

  Kaela squeezed his hand. "I'll be waiting," she said. Austin edged his way toward a side door and stepped out into the coolness of the night. With most people in the salon listening to Razov speak, the decks were virtually deserted. He bumped into only one person, a waiter who pressed a plate loaded down with sausages and boneless prime rib into his hand. Austin was going to throw the plate over the side as soon as the waiter was out of sight, but decided he'd look less conspicuous if he wandered around the boat with the plate in his hands.

  He sauntered toward the front of the yacht until he came to a roped-off section. A sign in English hung from the rope: PRIVATE. The deck beyond the sign was in darkness. Razov had kept his strong-arm boys out of sight so as not to scare the guests. But as Austin was checking the off-limits area, a stocky man with the unmistakable bulge of weapon under his suit walked by. He saw Austin and said, "Is preevat," in a thick Russian accent.

  Austin gave him a drunken smile and offered his plate. "Sausage?"

  The guard replied with a sour look and kept on his rounds. Austin waited until he was out of sight and prepared to duck under the rope. He turned at the sound of a light patter on the deck and saw two white ghosts sprinting in his direction. Razov's wolfhounds. Trailing their leashes, they jumped up on his chest and almost knocked him down, then stuck their long curved snouts into the plate he was carrying. He put the food down on the deck. The dogs noisily gobbled down the sausages and prime rib, licked the plate clean, then looked up at Austin as if be were holding out on them.

  Someone was running toward them. It was the dogs' trainer. He said something in Russian that might have been an apology, grabbed the leashes and led the dogs away. Austin waited until he was once more alone, then ducked under the ropes into the restricted area. He made his way forward, as silent as a ghost. With his black outfit he easily melted into the shadows.

  After a few minutes, he stopped at a vent that was taller dim he was by a foot. He reached into his pocket, brought out an object about the size and shape of a Palm Pilot and hit the On button. The small dial glowed pale green, and a set of numbers appeared. Yaeger's "sniffer" was ready to go to work.

  An excited Yaeger had called while Austin was getting ready to go to Boston. "I think I know how to plug into the yacht's system," Yaeger said. "Wi-Fi."

  Austin no longer blinked at the strange language Yaeger used. He assumed that computer geniuses like Yaeger were on another planet and sometimes they reverted to their native tongue. He'd asked for an explanation. Yaeger said that Wi-Fi was shorthand for the wireless computer networks that we
re coming into use at major complexes.

  "Say you're running a big hospital," Yaeger explained. "You want your people to have access to vital information so that if they're away from their computers on the other side of the building, they don't have to go running back. You set up a wireless computer network that only covers the building or complex. The key staff carry laptop computers. They simply switch them on, tune in to the right frequency and they have instant access to the main system."

  "That's very interesting, Hiram, but what's it got to do with our problem?"

  "Everything. The Ataman yacht has Wi-Fi."

  Austin still wasn't sure where Yaeger was going, but Hiram's enthusiasm was contagious. "How do you know this?"

  "It's Max's idea, really. After we fell flat on our faces trying to decipher Ataman's code, she started to pullout everything she could find on the yacht. There wasn't a lot, because Ataman built the ship at its yard on the Black Sea. But the electronics were beyond anything the Russians had, so they bought American equipment and had it installed by a French team. Max got into the French company's file. They set up Wi-Fi for the yacht."

  "I can see a hospital using something like that, but why a yacht?"

  "Think of it, Kurt. A boat that size is a community unto itself. Say you're the purser, and a question on the payroll comes up while you're away from your office at the other end of the boat. You flick on your laptop, and there you have it. Same thing goes for the chef. Maybe he's in his cabin and has to check inventory. Or you're the first mate and you're on break in the mess hall when you need information on who's manning a shift."

  "How's this help with our main problem, the missing password?"

  “The password must be in that ship. If Max and I could plug directly into the network. we could take stuff out at our leisure and look closely at it."

  "What's stopping you?"

  "A couple of things. First of all, the information is bound to be encrypted against unauthorized use. Second, the wireless signal is a weak one that only covers the yacht itself. I need somebody to place a 'sniffer' on board."