Sabotage (28 page)

His feet splashed in muck. He'd landed in a canal. He waded through a furrow of foul-smelling grime and algae that felt more like a sewage culvert. When he reached the other side, he slipped on the mud banks but quickly regained balance, figuring the ladder ploy had bought him an extra twenty seconds.

The sound of feet running over a drawbridge told him he'd made a gross overestimation.

The Russian loomed over him, standing on the wooden planks.

Reflex launched Austin at the assassin, and he hurled a fist into the man's thigh, causing him to stumble backward. Austin fell to his knees on the drawbridge. Dropping low, he seized Vasya's ankles as the man teetered, and he yanked hard. The Russian lurched and fell, but never lost his hold on the pistol. Austin clambered to his feet, only to have Vasya knock him down with a kick that buckled his knees. Austin slammed a hand on the Mak before it could find him. When Vasya tried to free it, Austin planted a foot on his cheek and thrust outward.

The blow bought Austin the time he needed to scramble upright and sprint back into town. He entered through the gate and disappeared around a corner, hearing mutters of anger from Vasya, who had recommenced the hunt.

Austin took a new direction, toward the cathedral, in hope of finding refuge. He had calculated the odds. It was useless to head anywhere else. A wake of dripping water left an obvious trail.

As he ran, he could think only of Victoria.

 

TWENTY-SEVEN

“Rage and fear make a deadly combination,” the Viking said. “Try to calm yourself, Mr. Chatham.”

Once again, the phone on speaker held the attention of the entire office. Standing at the forefront, Chatham wanted to slam a hammer onto the receiver as his world collapsed to an even lower rung of hell.

“Why are you doing this to me?”

“It's not about you. You're just a middleman.”

“It has everything to do with me,” Chatham said. “I handled the negotiations with the Pentagon. I sat in the defense secretary's office to close the Baldr deal. I oversaw the project. No, I didn't design it—but someone had to make it and sell it. It's because of me the satellite orbits. I earned the money for this company. Now you're going to sap us dry.”

“No one is forcing you to bid higher.”

“Force has everything to do with it! You know damn well I have no choice. I
must
bid.”

“In that case, your primary contender has proffered a counterbid of one point two billion.”

“Jesus Christ. What's he trying to do?” Chatham shook his head. “His damn oil revenues … and in all likelihood, we discovered his fields for him. American prospectors! Look, you've stolen our invention, and now you've pitted us against our own rightful returns. Our money against our innovation … The injustice is inestimable!”

“If you wish to preach ethics to me, Chatham, I could point to a dearth of character inside Glitnir.”

Chatham looked at Kate Dirgo as he spoke. “What are you talking about?”

“Take a closer look,” the Viking said. “Within your own agency, integrity seems to have taken a vacation.” He offered nothing more. “I'll have your next bid.”

Dirgo stepped aside for a moment to take a phone call. When she returned, she showed Chatham a note on which she'd scribbled a message:
Software engineers arrived. Will begin working to see if they can determine Baldr's location.
Chatham nodded.

“What's the minimum increment?”

“One hundred million, until we reach a standstill. Then I change the rules.”

“Tell that arrogant sheik he'll have to beat one point three billion.”

“One small step to glory,” said the Viking. “Until next time.”

 

TWENTY-EIGHT

The seas had grown more turbulent, the swells unpredictable.

Two hijackers waited on a corsair. They had not boarded the
Pearl Enchantress
with their colleagues. Instead, they had moored near her stern, waiting for their diver.

Rove came up wearing his snorkel. He blew the water out and swam toward the corsair. When he saw the men, he felt a wave of relief at what was possibly his only good fortune the entire day. The men were hardly standing watch. They carried no weapons and appeared to be staring into space, bored. When he reached the ship, he banged the hull and threw his fins onto the deck. One of the guards tossed a mesh of rope over the gunwale. Rove climbed aloft and grasped the Norwegian crewman's assisting hand when he reached the top. The second guard relieved him of his tank and BC.

Without removing his mask, Rove flattened his palm and drove the edge into the first man's carotid artery. Before the second guard could react, he connected his other fist with the man's cheekbone. The watchmen collapsed. Giving them no time to recuperate, he grabbed a nearby coil of rope and proceeded to bind them.

Leaving them on the open deck would be too risky. He also didn't know if anyone else was onboard. Not taking any chances, he descended a staircase and surveyed the lower decks for other crew. The ship was empty. These men appeared to be the only two on watch. Using his leash of rope, he dragged them into the closed space below deck.

“Who are you?” he asked.

A ball of saliva landed in his face.

“Dra til helvete!”

“Kyss meg i ræva, din drittsekk!”

Rove kicked them solidly, his expression devoid of sympathy, then held a firm ankle against the solar plexus of the man who'd spit at him. “There's a hungry shark in the water who just had an appetizer. He's ready for the main course.”

The men strained against the ropes. One of them let out a stream of unsavory shouts.

“Du er faen meg det styggeste jeg har sett, ditt fittetryne!”

Rove pushed harder, feeling the man's heartbeat. “Who are you? Why are you here?”

“Ditt helvetes grisetryne!”

This was going nowhere. Rove gagged them and knocked them unconscious with two measured blows, leaving them slumped against the wall.

He explored the enclosed area and entered a cabin. The room was tidy. On a desk lay a map, pinned down by a mariner's compass and a few stones. A lantern swung as the ship rocked, and the wood creaked. Rove took it as a sign of the brewing tempest. He examined the map, following a trail of dots that began in the fjords of northern Norway, crossed the Arctic Circle, ducked under Iceland, and faded without a clear terminus. He put them somewhere near Canada or Greenland. Whoever had been plotting the dots had given up before reaching a destination, or at least failed to mark any current coordinates.

A leather, diary-sized logbook rested against the compass. Rove opened it and read the scrawled handwriting, a mixture of Norwegian and English. The owner had written little, not enough to fill two pages. Rove read the entries he could understand.

Phone call with Viking ended approximately 16:00. Vasya left with briefcase soon after. Left cove at 20:32. Viking cannot be trusted on agreement.

We found him drifting. Miracle he survived crash. Viking thinks dead—a good thing—will keep alive now for bargaining. Job can be finished later.

Beginning to regret detaining old man, his screeches and yells …

Storm on way but nearing coordinates. Expected arrival 18:30.

How long will this traitor remain committed? Will the insider keep promise? So much rests on his ability to act …

All else was in Norwegian.

Rove closed the book. Who was this insider? What promise had he made? Who had the author found drifting in the water?

He soon learned one of the answers.

“Is someone there?”

The voice had come from another hall. He thought he'd checked every room.

“Do I hear someone?” the voice rang out. It was physically weak and careworn, made of hoarse croaks. But an underlying grittiness was still audible.

The English language in itself put him at ease. He proceeded with caution, holding his knife at the ready. He stepped out of the captain's quarters and entered a vestibule. Turning left, he discovered a new corridor.

“Wish you bastards would feed me,” came the voice.

Rove rounded the corner and entered a tiny rectangular chamber ridden with a dank, stale smell. A row of steel bars sealed off access; he could move no farther. Behind the obstruction rested a copper pot. He leaned in closer and regretted his curiosity when a collection of odors stabbed his nose. On a shelf behind the bars was a candle burning over a cascade of wax that had melted and solidified into a stalactite. The flame illuminated a frail, beaten body capped in a thick mound of wispy white hair.

“You're not one of them,” rasped the man. Apparently elated, he wrapped his fingers around the bars and leaned in for a closer look. “What's your name? How did you get here?”

“With difficulty. I'm Jake Rove, a bioacoustical oceanographer. I served as a Coast Guard LEDET and Air Force combat weatherman. Who are you?”

The captive didn't answer yet. “They've called in the military?”

“Unfortunately, no. I'm a passenger aboard the
Pearl Enchantress
.”

“The
Pearl Enchantress
?”

“A cruise ship from the Pearl fleet.”

“Forgive me. I've literally been kept in the dark. Haven't a clue where I am.” He coughed.

“Don't waste your breath on apologies. You're weak.”

“So they've taken over a Pearl ship, have they? What are you doing here?”

“Stopping them.”

“And they haven't killed you? Do they know where you are?”

“Only the ones I've knocked out. I'm learning what I can of their motives, and surprisingly advanced resources.”

“Well, Jake Rove, I could use a friend. I've jumped out of the frying pan, into the fire, and back into the frying pan. The last few days have been hellish. You're the best thing that's happened. I'd try to shake your hand, but mine are quite dirty.” Instead, he offered a salute and a canny smile that suggested an inner waywardness.

“I'll try to get you out.”

“That's impossible at this time. Only Ragnar Stahl has the key. In case you didn't know, he's the ringleader.”

“I know.” Rove scratched his head, hearing the English accent. “This may sound strange, but have we met before?”

“No. But you've may have seen me. My name is Malcolm.”

Rove drew back. “Malcolm
Clare
?”

“That's the one.”

Rove bowed his head. “I'm honored.”

“Likewise.”

“Don't mean to sound maudlin, but to the men and women of uniform, you're a hero.”

Clare chuckled mirthlessly. “Only high-level strategists are supposed to know where my military innovations come from. You're telling me you've heard of…”

“Glitnir Defense? I'm among a privileged few. Assisted some platoons that used Glitnir technology.” Rove examined the lock on the cell. “You're sure this Ragnar doesn't keep a spare key?”

“I don't know. This lock is no easy pick. Then again, I haven't had much to work with.”

“How long have you been here?”

“I've lost track of time. Days, at least. They found me floating at sea after my plane went down.”

“What caused the crash?”

“It was an assassination attempt. Not the cleverest idea to try staging an accident in a plane programmed by the victim. I managed to escape relatively unscathed. Now they've got me here after finding me adrift. For a while I thought my days were numbered.”

“Not anymore.”

“Who are these people? Pirates?”

“A safe bet, but I don't know much.”

“And Ragnar hasn't discovered you?”

“No. I've only encountered three of his men so far. One's dead, two unconscious.”

“Might I ask where these hijackers have all gone? This corsair was crawling just hours ago.”

“They've boarded the cruise ship and distributed themselves throughout the decks on patrol. The vessel has ceased all operation. It's completely blacked out.”

“Something to do with the generators?”

“More serious. All handheld electronics, all things detached from the main power grid, have failed. The hijackers must have used an EMP device to eliminate power.”

Clare looked as if those words had tortured him.

“I know where they got it.”

“How do you know?”

“I designed it.”

“That must be why they tried to kill you. To prevent you from intervening after they'd stolen the EMP device. But who, and why?”

“There's a way to get answers,” Clare said. “I'd do it myself, but I'm behind bars, and my fingers are shaky. Down the hall, you'll find Ragnar's quarters.”

“I was just there.”

“As they dragged me into this cell, I think I saw a smartphone on his desk. If it's still there, you can use it to send a message.”

“We're on the open sea, middle of nowhere.”

“I think the phone's linked to a two-way satellite communicator.”

“And if we have trouble connecting?”

“The pulse came from a special satellite that can connect you. You'll have to enter a numerical access code, which I will give you.”

“I should contact a naval base. They'll prepare an emergency dispatch.”

“That's already being done,” Clare said.

“By whom?”

“My company, Glitnir. I guarantee they're working with the military now to pinpoint us. What we need is information about our hijackers. I'm going to give you an email address. Write as much information about the hijackers as you can: defining features, their language, what their ships look like, and so on. Tell her what's going on. Just remember—you're using Ragnar's phone, so whatever you send might be read by him, his underlings, or his superiors. Don't write anything too sensitive about yourself.”