Fire Ice Page 8

  A soft knock came at the door. The bearded man showed no sign that he had heard it. The knock repeated, louder and more insistent this time.

  “Yes,” the man said in Russian. His deep voice sounded as if it issued from the depths of a catacomb.

  The door opened a crack and a young man dressed in the uniform of a ship's steward peered into the room. Light from the passageway fell on the face of the sitting man. The steward murmured a silent prayer his grandmother had taught him to ward off demons. Mustering the courage to speak, he said, “Forgive the interruption, sir.”

  “What is it?”

  “Mr. Razov asks to see you in the main cabin."

  Deep-set eyes of pale yellow opened and stared out of the bony skull. They were the hypnotic eyes of a predator, large and lustrous.

  A pause. Then, “Tell him I will be there.”

  “Yes, sir.” Under the spell of the unrelenting gaze, the terrified steward felt the strength start to leave his legs. He slammed the door shut and bolted along the passageway.

  The man unfolded his body and stood to his full height of six feet four. He was dressed in a belted tunic of black cotton. The military collar of his shirt was tight against the neck, and his pants were tucked into low boots of shiny black leather. His dark brown hair was worn long over the ears, blending into a full beard that spilled down to his chest.

  He worked the stiffness from his muscles joint by joint and took great gulps of air into his starved lungs. When all his vital systems were operating normally, he opened the cabin door, ducked his head, and stepped out into the corridor. Moving silently, he followed the passageway and climbed onto the deck of the four-hundred-foot yacht. Crewmen who saw him coming stepped aside.

  The yacht had been designed with a wide uncluttered deck and low, streamlined superstructure that minimized wind resistance. Based on a design for a FastShip freighter, the vessel was built with a deep V-shaped hull that cut through the waves and a concave stem that reduced drag. Powered by gas turbines and using an innovative water jet propulsion system, the vessel could go at speeds that were twice those reached by vessels of comparable length.

  The bearded man came to a door, opened it without knocking and stepped into a spacious stateroom as big as a small house. He walked through the living area with its sofas, chairs and a dining table of medieval size. The floors were carpeted with antique Persian rugs, anyone of which was worth a small fortune. On the walls were priceless masterpieces, most stolen from museums and private collections.

  At the far end of the room was a massive desk made of the finest mahogany inlaid with gold and pearl. On the wall behind the desk was a stylized logo that depicted a military fur hat crossed by an unsheathed saber. Printed in Cyrillic letters under the symbol were the words: ATAMAN INDUSTRIES. Seated at the desk, talking into a telephone, was Mikhail Razov, president of Ataman.

  Although Razov hardly spoke above a whisper, his seemingly gentle tone couldn't mask the cold menace in his voice. His pale white face could have been carved from Carrara marble, but no one would mistake the hard-edged profile as the work of a Renaissance sculptor. It was a face that countless victims had seen with their dying breath.

  Two lean, white Russian wolfhounds lounged at his feet. When the tall man approached, they began to whimper. Razov hung the phone up and shushed the dogs, who crawled under his desk. Razov underwent an astounding metamorphosis. Unexpected warmth came into the slate gray eyes, the cruel lips widened in a smile and the rough-hewn features softened. Razov could have been anyone's favorite uncle. Career criminals like Razov become accomplished actors if they live long enough. Razov had cultivated his natural chameleon's talent under the tutelage of professional actors. In an instant, he could transform himself from a murderous thug into a hard-driving businessman, a charming host or a charismatic orator.

  Razov's powerful shoulders and muscular thighs offered a hint of humbler beginnings. Born on the steppes of the Black Sea, the son of a Cossack horse breeder, Razov had ridden from the time he was big enough to climb into a saddle. He'd had a keen mind and quickly saw the disadvantages of the brutal farm toil that had killed his mother and was ruining his father's health.

  He ran away to the city and put his muscle to work as an enforcer for a gang of extortionists. Razov's skill as a bone crusher and killer earned him top wages. He had forgotten how many times he had put a bullet into the kneecap of a recalcitrant merchant or the head of a tardy loan customer. He'd lost count of the wayward prostitutes he had strangled. In fact, he'd used his newfound wealth to buy a house of prostitution for himself.

  Soon, by eliminating his former employers, he gained control of a network of brothels. He protected his investment with a private army of ruthless thugs and branched out into gambling, drugs and loan-sharking. With generous bribes and strategic killings, Razov put himself beyond the reach of Soviet authority and became a multimillionaire. He'd become the quintessential Soviet mobster, and it seemed as if he would go on until a more aggressive rival surfaced.

  The bearded man came over and stood in front of Razov's desk, hands clasped in front of him. "You called for me, Mikhail?”

  “Boris, my dear friend and advisor. I'm sorry if I disturbed your meditation, but there's important news.”

  “The test was a success then?"

  Razov nodded. “The early damage reports are most impressive, considering the small scale of the experiment." He hit a button on the desk and an orderly appeared, as if by magic, with a tray, two glasses and a bottle of vodka. Razov poured the glasses full and handed one to Boris. Dismissing the orderly, he indicated a chair, took a seat opposite and raised his glass in toast.

  Boris's large Adam's apple bobbled as he noisily slugged his drink down. He drained the glass as if the contents were no stronger than herbal tea and wiped his mouth with the back of his hairy hand. “How many dead?” he said, hardly able to control his eagerness.

  “One or two,” Razov said, with a shrug. “Apparently, there was a warning.”

  The monk's strange eyes blazed with a killing anger. “An informer?”

  “No, it was completely unanticipated. A fisherman warned the townspeople, and the harbor was evacuated.”

  “A pity,” Boris said, with genuine sadness in his voice. “We must be sure next time that there is no warning.”

  Razov nodded in agreement and pointed to a large computer-generated monitor on one wall. The screen displayed a map of the world. It sparkled with lights that showed the positions of the far-flung Ataman fleet. Using a remote control, he zoomed in on the map to bring up a line of lights assembling off the East Coast of the United States.

  “Our assets are moving into position.” His eyes grew colder. “I can assure you that when we have accomplished our work, there will be many dead to count, and much more.”

  Boris smiled. “Then the North American project is on schedule?”

  Razov refilled their glasses. He seemed troubled. “Yes and no. There are some matters of vital importance that I want to discuss with you. They have a bearing on our plans. We must deal with an unexpected problem. There have been intruders at our Black Sea operation.”

  “Moscow has heard of our activities?”

  “The fools in Moscow are still unaware of our plan,” Razov replied with unveiled contempt. “No, it was not the central government. An American television crew landed near the old submarine pen.”

  “Americans?” He lifted his arms toward the sky. “A gift from heaven,” he said, eyes glittering. “I hope their necks felt the sharp edges of the Guardians' blades.”

  “To the contrary. There was a fight and the Guardians were driven off. Some of your men died in the struggle.”

  “How could that be, Mikhail? The Guardians are trained to kill without mercy.”

  “True, they are superb horsemen, Cossack warriors in the finest sense. Their weapons are traditional but effective.”

  “Then how could an unarmed television crew resist?”

 
; “They were not alone,” Razov said, scowling. “Apparently, they had help from an aircraft.”

  “Military?”

  Razov shook his head. “My sources tell me the aircraft was launched from a ship called the Argo. The vessel is supposedly in the Black Sea to conduct a scientific survey for NUMA.”

  “What is this NUMA ?”

  “I've forgotten that you were isolated from the outside world for many years. The National Underwater and Marine Agency is the largest oceanic science organization in the world. They have thousands of scientists and engineers spread across the globe. The pilot of the aircraft, the man who killed the Guardians, was one of those scientists.”

  Boris stood and paced the cabin. 'This report concerns me. How could scientists or engineers defeat armed warriors?"

  “A good question. I don't know. I'm certain of one thing, however. This is not the end of it. I have ordered preparations made to move our operations. Meanwhile, extra guards will be posted. I have taken the liberty of arming them with more contemporary weapons. I'm sorry. I know how you feel about preserving the purity of our traditions.”

  “I understand the need to be ready to face impure forces. What of your source in Washington?”

  “His power is limited, but I have asked him to do what he can without jeopardizing his role.”

  “We must know who and what we are dealing with,” Boris said. 'This NUMA may not be what it says it is."

  “Agreed. It would be folly to underestimate them, as the Guardians did.”

  “Tell me about these television people.”

  “I have confirmed that they were from an American network. Two men and a woman.”

  Boris stroked his beard in thought. 'This is no accident. The television people and this NUMA must be a cover for an American scheme. Where are they now?"

  “On the Argo heading back to Istanbul. I've dispatched a boat to follow her.”

  “Can we destroy the NUMA ship?”

  “As easily as smashing an insect, but I don't think it would be wise at this time. It might draw attention to our Black Sea venture.”

  “Then we must wait.”

  “I agree. After the Black Sea venture is done, then you may take your vengeance.”

  “I defer to your wisdom, Mikhail.”

  Razov's smile had all the warmth of an anaconda's. “No, Boris, it is you who is the wise one. My expertise is business and politics, but you have the vision for the great and grand future.”

  “A vision you will carry out as the lone defender against the corruption and materialism that is a cancer in our once-great country. We must show the world that our cause is right. Nothing must stand in the way of our plan to carve out decay where we find it.”

  “I want you to see something.” Razov said. He punched a button on his desk. “This is my most recent speech before the army.”

  A picture appeared on the wall screen: Razov speaking in a large hall. The audience was made up of men in the uniforms of the various Russian armed services. Razov stepped onto the stage, and within minutes he had his audience in the palm of his hand. As he spoke, he seemed to grow to ten feet high, drawing on the power of his deep voice, impressive physique and his convictions to exhort the crowd:

  “We must honor the warrior creed of our Cossack brothers. Our people threw off the yoke of the Ottoman Empire and defeated Napoleon. The Cossacks took Azov for Peter the Great and have defended the borders of Russia against intruders for centuries. Now, seven million strong, with your help, we will destroy the enemies within, the financiers, the criminals and the politicians who would grind our country to dust beneath their boots.”

  Before long the crowd was on its feet in a frightening example of mass hysteria. They surged toward the podium with glazed eyes, arms reaching out. They wanted to be part of him. They were chanting, “Razov... Razov... Razov... ” He flicked off the television.

  “You have learned well, Mikhail,” Boris said.

  “No, Boris. You have taught me well.”

  “I merely showed you how to draw upon the passions of our people.”

  “This is nothing compared to what is to come. But much depends on our Black Sea work. I was talking to the salvage ship when you arrived. There are many difficulties, but they are close to their goal. I told them that their lives depended on success. I will not accept failure.”

  “Do you wish me to look into the future?”

  “Yes, tell me what you see.”

  Boris bent his head and touched his fingers to his brow. His eyes became glassy. Speaking as if his voice were coming from a cave, he said, “I prophesy that the day will come when you take the reins as the new tsar of Mother Russia. All our enemies will be vanquished. The United States will be the first to feel the sword of righteousness.”

  “What else do you see?”

  His forehead furrowed as if he were in pain, and his voice became hollow. “Cold and blackness. A place of death under the sea.” He reached out and grabbed Razov's arm, digging his fingers into the flesh like daggers. “There is light.” The thick lips curled into a beatific smile. “Success is within reach.” Life returned to the stony eyes. “The ghosts of the dead will soon bestow their blessing on our cause. They plead for you to seek revenge in their name.”

  Razov had been a successful gangster and was a creature of the city. Once out of his element he was practically helpless. Razov thought back to his first meeting with Boris. He had been wandering, lost and half starved, through the bleak countryside when he came upon a stream of peasants. There were dozens of them, frail and sick, some unable to walk, carried by others. When he asked where they were going, they replied that they were going to the monastery to be cured by the “mad one.” Having nothing else to do, he followed. He saw the crippled throwaway their crutches and walk and blind people claim they could see. When he went up to Boris, the monk had gazed at him as if they had known each other forever and said, “I have been expecting you, my son.”

  Under the gaze of those remarkable eyes, Razov had poured out his story. His shock at his father's dying words. His retreat from civilization and his wanderings in the wild country around the Black Sea. Boris told him to stay after the others had left, and they talked through the night. When Razov asked where the other monks were, Boris only said, “They were unworthy." Razov suspected the horrible truth, but it made no difference. When he returned to civilization, the bizarre figure of the bearded monk was at his side, and he had been at his side ever since.

  Eventually, other mobsters had moved into Razov's territory. At Boris's suggestion, he'd sent out word that he was abandoning his turf, and he made sure his sordid past would not come back to haunt him. First, he changed his name, then, after several assassinations, some arson fires and bombings, he had wiped out most connections to his criminal days. Using the millions stashed in Swiss bank accounts and the strong-arm methods that had served him well as a criminal, he'd bought into mines that were slipping from communist control. Soon he expanded his mining interests into the sea.

  Observers noted a mysterious and profound bond between the two men. Razov consulted Boris on all crucial decisions and he rewarded Boris handsomely. The monk himself was a study in multiple personality. His stateroom on the yacht was furnished with only a cot, where he spent many hours in meditation, and he would go for long periods without washing. Sometimes, however, when the yacht was in port, he disappeared. Razov had Boris followed and learned that the monk had been spending his time in the seediest brothels. Boris seemed to be struggling with his two sides, the ascetic monk and the murderous voluptuary.

  For all his madness, though, the monk was a valuable advisor, his insanity tempered by a rational intelligence. In this case, Boris was right about NUMA. It might prove a menace waiting in the wings.

  NUMA 3 - Fire Ice

  -8- BLACK SEA

  FOLLOWING IN THE wake of the original Argo, the NUMA ship steamed across the Black Sea toward the Bosporus, the narrow strait that separated th
e Asian and European sides of Istanbul. Unlike Jason, who brought home the Golden Fleece, all that Austin had to show for his labors was a head laceration, a bedraggled television crew and a pile of unanswered questions.

  The evacuation from the Russian beach had gone off without a hitch. Captain Atwood had sent a boat in to transport Austin and the television people to the Argo. Moving the Gooney was less trouble than anticipated; it was mostly a case of picking up the pieces. Austin didn't look forward to telling Zavala that the nifty little plane he'd designed could practically fit into a shoe box.

  On the final run to the beach, Austin had spotted something floating in the water. It was the body of the Turkish helmsman, Mehmet. They'd hauled the body onto the tender and brought it back to the ship. The pitiful sight reminded Austin of the deadly game he'd been playing. One wrong roll of the dice and it would have been his body pulled from the water and wrapped in a tarpaulin.

  Austin checked in with the ship's paramedic to have his cut treated, then showered and changed. He had suggested to Kaela that she meet him for dinner in the mess hall after she had a chance to rest. Austin snagged a table next to a big window that looked out over the stern deck. He was gazing out at the ship's foamy wake, trying to make sense of the skirmish on the beach, when Kaela made her entrance.

  The reporter wore jeans and a faded blue chambray shirt borrowed from a female oceanographer whose figure must have been shorter and wider. What would have been practical but ill-fitting work clothes on another woman achieved an elegant sophistication draped over Kaela' s slim physique. As she entered the mess, she could have been strolling down a Paris runway wearing the latest in avant-garde fashion.

  She smiled at Austin and came over to the table. “Something smells good.”

  “You're in luck. The chef has decided on an Italian theme. Have a seat.”