Before he could learn any more, Kurt heard footsteps and another door opening at the far side of the cavernous room. He realized he was being surrounded. He looked up. Another catwalk beckoned thirty feet above.
Cautiously, he climbed up the hydraulic actuator and pulled himself onto the array. It was like scaling the world’s largest set of monkey bars. He was almost there when he accidentally touched one of the coolant pipes.
He pulled his arm back with lighting speed and somehow managed not to lose his balance or curse in pain. Gritting his teeth, he looked at his hand. The skin was peeling off as if it had been burned, but he knew better: it had frozen instantly.
He looked at the pipe. Writing barely visible beneath the frost read “LN 2,” a common abbreviation for liquid nitrogen. From what he’d learned, superconducting magnets had to be chilled to ridiculous temperatures in order to activate their superconducting properties. He guessed the pipe’s insulated surface was at close to 70 degrees below zero. The liquid inside would be pressurized and pumping through at an incredible 321 degrees below zero.
Kurt began climbing again.
Don’t touch the pipes, he mouthed to himself, as if his freezer-burned skin wasn’t enough to remind him.
By the time he reached the catwalk he could see the men pursuing him. Three of them approached from one side, five more from the other, spread out along the floor.
As quietly as he could, Kurt climbed onto the catwalk. After sitting still for a second, he began creeping along it.
He remained virtually silent, but the vibration caused by his movement caused a chunk of frost to break off of the bottom. It dropped like an icicle from a power line and made a sound like shattering glass as it hit the ground.
“Up there!” someone shouted.
Kurt took off, running. He heard a single shot and then nothing.
Had he managed to look back, he would have seen the leader of the pursuers grabbing the shooter and all but choking him for firing a stray shot in this room. But Kurt never looked back. He made it to the door on the far side of the Fulcrum’s vast bay and pushed through it, closing it behind him.
He raced forward, desperately looking for a place to hide and a way to send a message.
Something was about to happen, this ship was about to take some type of action, he was certain of that. And whatever it might be, he was pretty certain the rest of the world would not like what was coming.
56
Moscow, Russia
THE BALD MAN FROM THE STATE, a ranking member of the FSB, held court in a windowless room in the Lubyanka, the huge monolithic headquarters building of the Russian Federal Security Service.
In the room with him were several members of the Politburo and a representative from the Russian Navy and a general in the Red Army.
He’d just finished listening to a radio call from Katarina Luskaya, claiming she was aboard a ship with a man named Andras who wanted to sell them a superweapon, one that would put them years ahead of the Americans and the Chinese.
After listening to the explanation, one of the politicians could not contain his scorn. “Strange that we have not heard anything of this weapon,” he said, “and now we are to believe your most junior operative has uncovered it.”
“She was captured by Andras,” the Bald Man said. “It is fortunate that he has kept her with him. It is he who brings the offer to us. We have a history with him.”
“It is not a good one,” the general noted.
“No, it is not,” the Bald Man admitted.
“And he demands an outrageous amount,” the Politburo member said.
The Bald Man waved him off. “Of course we would not pay what he asks. A fraction, perhaps ten percent. Even then, only if it was decided that we should.”
“Your agent sounded as if she was under duress,” the general said.
“Yes,” the Bald Man replied. She had used a code word designed to alert only them to the fact that she was being held against her will. But, to her credit, she had chosen the less harsh of the two codes, which meant she thought the situation might be manageable. He was rather impressed with the young former Olympian.
The lone naval representative in the group spoke up. “It would be nice to get a look at that ship,” he said. “If it turns out to be of interest, we can start negotiations. If it turns out to be a lie, we simply write Ms. Luskaya off.”
The Bald Man cut his eyes to the naval representative. This younger generation understood little. It concerned him. “All of you are missing the bigger point. According to Andras, they will demonstrate the weapon against the American capitol in less than thirty minutes. That makes the question of the ship irrelevant. What we must decide — now that we have been informed — is whether to tell the Americans.”
The room went silent. No one wanted to speak.
“It is a very delicate situation,” the Bald Man said. “If the threat turns out to be real and it should come out that we knew about it in advance…”
There was no need to elaborate.
The Politburo member spoke. “What do you recommend?”
The Bald Man wrung his hands. Every instinct in his body told him it was an American problem. To some extent, he wouldn’t have minded seeing a disaster sprung on his old adversary. But the repercussions could be enormous. The law of unintended consequences could not be discounted.
“Inform the Americans of the threat,” he said finally. “Do not speak of the ship, and make sure you forget that we had this conversation.”
He looked around the room. All present were men of power, but they feared him, as they should.
“What happens after that is up to them,” he added.
“And the ship?”
“If the opportunity should arise,” the Bald Man replied, “we take it when it’s offered. Perhaps we pay, perhaps we barter. Those are mere details to be considered later.”
FIVE THOUSAND MILES AWAY, in the middle of the Atlantic, Andras stood over Katarina, who remained at the radio console. Finally, a call came through. It was the Bald Man.
“Tell Andras we are not interested in damaged goods this time,” he said.
She looked up. Whatever the message meant, Andras understood. He nodded.
“He understands,” she said, keying the microphone.
“Da,”the Bald Man said. “Well done, Ms. Luskaya. We await your return.”
She didn’t feel as if she’d done well. All she’d done was cower before a thug who’d kidnapped her, threatened her, and killed others, including Major Komarov and Kurt, who had tried to save her from this very fate. And now she was part of an incident that would take countless lives in his country.
She could see no way to stop it.
Suddenly, Klaxons began to sound. Andras reacted, and the door opened seconds later.
“What the hell is going on?” Andras demanded.
A breathless crewman stood there. “Problem in the reactor compartment.”
“A leak?” he asked.
“No,” the man said. “We have an intruder.”
Andras laughed. “An intruder? Are you sure? We’re twelve hundred miles from the nearest land.”
“I know,” the man said. “I can’t say how it happened. No ships or boats have come close to us. Sonar has detected no undersea craft. Maybe a stowaway,” he guessed finally.
“Also unlikely,” Andras said with supreme confidence. “More probable, someone’s drunk and making a very big mistake.”
Katarina could hear the anger in his voice. She wouldn’t want to be the crewman who might be making that mistake.
“All the crew are accounted for,” the man said. “One of the engineers is dead, another was beaten up by an American commando with silver hair.”
Katarina’s face lit up.
“Silver hair?” Andras said, suddenly tensing.