"America has a long list of enemies. It goes with being the only superpower."
"Add Razov's name to the roster, then. But this isn't just political – he has a personal reason as well. His fiancee was accidentally killed in the Americans' bombing of Belgrade several years ago. I understand Irini was quite beautiful, and he has never gotten over her loss. So I would urge you to take him very seriously – especially as there are signs he intends to cause great harm to your country."
"In what way?"
Petrov spread his hands. "We don't know. We know only that he has given his scheme a name: Operation Troika."
"Then you've wasted your time and mine. You should use diplomatic channels to take your case to higher-ups in the American government."
"We already have. We have told them we want them to avoid any overt moves."
"I can't picture the White House and the Pentagon ignoring a possible threat like this, not now. They've learned the hard way to take threats seriously."
"Yes, well, they're not pleased with our position. We have told them if they respond too clumsily, they will spoil our efforts and ensure that the threat, whatever it is, will be carried out."
"What's the connection between this threat and the sub base?"
"Come to your own conclusion. The sub pen was built for medium-range missile submarines that roamed the Black Sea, mostly to intimidate Turkish leaders who allowed the Americans to establish bases. It was abandoned after the Soviet government fell and lay undisturbed for years. Then Razov leased the facility from the government. His ships were seen coming and going. The Cossacks you encountered were camped nearby as guards."
"Why the fancy costumes and old weapons?"
"It has something to do with the symbolism of his cause. Razov chooses to equip some of his men as if they were still cavalry for the tsar. Make no mistake. He has accumulated many modem weapons from the former Soviet Union."
"Why haven't you moved in on these guys?"
"We were waiting and watching for the right time. Then you blundered in."
"Sorry to spoil your stakeout. Someone was being mugged and needed help."
"We think he intends to act against the U.S. before he assumes power."
"I can help you find out what he has in mind."
Petrov shook his head vigorously. "We don't need American cowboys charging in with six-guns blazing."
"Neither do I. I'm a scientist with NUMA now."
"You're being disingenuous. You have a reputation for bending the rules. I know about your Special Assignments Team. My office has press accounts of the NUMA team's role in the Andrea Doria conspiracy and the plot to take over the freshwater resources of the world."
"We like to keep busy in our spare time."
"Then keep busy with your ocean science." Austin folded his arms over his chest. "Let me see if I understand this correctly, Ivan. You want us to count fish while your madman goes on a terror spree in our country."
"We have every intention of stopping Razov before it gets to that. Your interference may already have spoiled any chance we have of containing him. If you don't stay out, I will consider you an enemy of the Russian people and will act accordingly."
"Thanks for the advice." Austin glanced at his watch. "I hate to break off our reunion, but I'm late for dinner with a lovely young woman. So if you're through…"
"Yes, I'm through." Petrov barked an order in Russian. The men guarding Austin pulled him to his feet and attempted to herd him toward the door. He stood his ground and said, "Nice seeing you again, Ivan. Sorry for past encounters."
"What's past is past. It's the future that we should both be concerned about." Petrov's hand went to his scar. "You know, Mr. Austin, you taught me a very valuable lesson."
Which is?"
"Know your enemy."
Austin was hustled down the dark hallway into the rickety elevator. Minutes later, he was in the taxi. The driver kept the car more or less under Mach I. Before long, they pulled up at the exact point where he'd been kidnapped.
"Out," said the driver.
Austin was glad to comply. He had to jump back to keep his toes from being crushed as the car sped off in a squeal of tires. He watched the taillights vanish around a corner, then walked to the Argo's slip. Back aboard the ship, he called the hotel where Kaela was staying. When she didn't answer her room phone, he asked the desk if she'd left a message.
"Yes, sir, there's a message from Ms. Dorn," the desk clerk said.
"Would you read it to me, please."
"Of course. It says, 'Waited an hour. Something more important must have come up. Went to dinner with the boys. Kaela.' "
Austin frowned. The message said nothing about getting together at another time. He would have to mend fences in the morning. Meanwhile, he went out on the Argo's deck and paced from one end of the ship to the other, trying to remember every detail of the dialogue with Ivan. As he walked, his lips tightened in determination. Damned if he was going to ignore a threat to his country. The best way to get Austin to do something was to tell him he couldn't do it. He went back into his cabin and punched out a number on his cell phone.
FIVE THOUSAND MILES away, Jose "Joe" Zavala plucked the purring cell phone from the dashboard holder of his 1961 Corvette convertible and answered with a cheery hello. Zavala had been thinking how all was right with the world. He was young,.healthy and on an undemanding work project that left him plenty of free time. At his side was a lovely blond statistical analyst from the Department of Commerce. They were driving along a country road in MacLean, Virginia, on their way to a candlelight dinner at a romantic old inn. The warm air pleasantly tousled his thick black hair. After dinner it would be back to the former district library building in Arlington, where he lived, for a nightcap. Then, who knows? The possibilities were endless. This could be the start of a long relationship, long being a relative term in Zavala's world.
When he heard the voice of his friend and colleague, Zavala's reaction was a happy one. A slight smile cracked the ends of his lips "Buona sera, Kurt, old amigo. How's your vacation?"
"Over. So is yours, I'm sorry to say."
Zavala's smile faded and a pained expression came onto his darkly handsome features, as Austin laid out his plans for Joe's immediate future. With a mighty sigh, he replaced the phone, looked soulfully into the dreamy and compliant blue eyes of his date and said, "I'm afraid I've got bad news. My grandmother just died."
WHILE ZAVALA TRIED to cushion his date's disappointment with an improvised list of outrageous promises, Paul Trout's six-foot-eight figure was bent like a praying mantis over a lab counter at the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution in Massachusetts, examining mud samples from the deepest parts of the Atlantic Ocean. Although the work was potentially messy, Trout's white lab coat was spotless. He wore one of his trademark bright bow ties, and his light brown hair was parted down the middle and combed back at the temples.
Trout grew up in Woods Hole, where his father was a Cape Cod fisherman, and he returned to his roots whenever he got the chance. He had developed friendships with many of the scientists at the world-renowned institute and often lent them his skills as a deep-ocean geologist.
Trout's intense concentration was broken by the sound of his name being called. Keeping his head lowered to the sample, he peered upward and saw a lab tech standing there.
"Call just came in for you, Dr. Trout," she said, handing him a phone. Trout's mind was still on the ocean bottom, and when he heard Austin's voice he assumed the head of the Special Assignments Team was at NUMA headquarters.
"Kurt, are you already back home?"
"Actually, I'm calling from Istanbul, where you'll be in twenty-four hours. I've got a job for you in the Black Sea."
Trout blinked his hazel eyes. "Istanbul. The Black Sea?" His reaction was the complete opposite of Zavala's. "I've always wanted to work there. My colleagues will be green with envy."