Sandecker drove Trout to his Georgetown town house and gave Austin a lift to Fairfax. Austin dropped his overnight bag inside the door and went into the den-study, a spacious room with dark wood colonial furniture and walls lined with shelves for his books and progressive jazz collection. The red light was blinking on his telephone answering machine. He clicked through the messages and was happy to hear that Joe Zavala was back from England. Austin grabbed a tall can of Speckled Hen ale from his refrigerator and settled into a black leather chair with his phone. Joe answered on the first ring. They talked at length. Zavala filled him in on his interview with Lord Dodson, and Austin gave a summary of Jenkins's visit to NUMA and the successful mission to the Ataman ship.
After he hung up, Austin walked out onto the deck and drew a deep breath of river air into his lungs. The exercise cleared his head, and he began to think about the drama that had played out on the Black Sea decades ago. With the passage of time, the people who had struggled for their lives had no more substance than the lights glowing like fireflies along the Maryland shore. Yet the long-ago echoes of their voices were still being heard more than eighty years later.
According to Zavala's report, the empress and her daughters were traveling on the Odessa Star with some of the royal treasure when the ship was attacked and sunk. Razov probably had the treasure now. Austin was uncertain why a man who already had more money than Croesus would go through so much trouble to dive for treasure. Greed knows no bounds, he concluded.
More important was the fact that the Grand Duchess Maria had escaped. Lord Dodson was worried about political turmoil if and when the news got out. Austin frowned at the tacit approval of the British Crown in the sordid tale. The story might embarrass some families, but all those involved were long dead. Mendacity by those in high office was no longer the scandal it once had been. Austin was more concerned about how the story connected to Ataman and the supposed plot against the United States.
Austin glanced at his watch. He hadn't realized the late- ness of the hour or how worn-out he was. He crawled up to his bedroom in the turret of the old Victorian boathouse, crashed into bed and was asleep within minutes.
AUSTIN WAS UP at dawn, dressed in T-shirt, shorts and baseball cap, put a pot of Jamaican coffee on to brew and went downstairs to where his twenty-three-foot Mass Aero racing scull was stored under the house. He was lifting the forty-pound scull off its rack in preparation for a morning row on the Potomac, when he heard the telephone ring. Irritated at having his routine interrupted, he sprinted up the stairs to the main level and snatched the phone from its cradle.
"We've got it," Yaeger said, his voice scratchy from weariness. "That is to say, Max and I almost got it."
"Should I be happy or sad?"
"Maybe both," Yaeger said. "I had Max working on the file all night. She did a hell of a job. Click on your computer, and I'll show you what I've got."
Austin did as he was told and called up the e-mail and the attachment Yaeger had forwarded. The image that came up showed a document with several lines of Russian written in graceful script, the words bounded by fancy scrollwork.
"What is it?"
"It's a menu," Yaeger said. "The first one is the appetizer, Beluga caviar. The rest is a list of courses for something like a Russian banquet. Perlmutter would love it. Sounds quite tasty after this morning's snack of sugar-glazed doughnuts and weak coffee."
"I'll buy you a full-course breakfast later, but are you saying that after all we went through to get this stuff, the best we can come up with is caviar?"
"Yes and no. The menu is really a set of files encrypted with steganography. It means 'covered writing.' It's a way of hiding messages in pictures. Uses a special software. Man, whoever set up security is real good. Even Max hit the wall on this one. I wrote a new program that unravels the puzzle. Watch."
A gray dialog box appeared. "What is that?"
"It's asking for the password."
"What about the password we used to get into the ship's computer?"
"Troika was only good so far as it went. It got me to this point. Now I need another one."
Austin groaned. "So we're right back to where we started."
"Yes and no. I've got Max running through possible words or combinations. She'll come up with an answer… but it could be days."
"We may not have days," Austin said. "Then I've got another idea that may help you. The files indicate that there is a master control somewhere other than on your mystery ship. Find that, and we can find your password."
Austin's head was swimming, as it did after any conversation with Yaeger. "Let me think about it. I'll get back to you."
Austin went back downstairs and shoved his racing scull into the water. Easing into the narrow craft, he warmed up for ten minutes under quarter pressure, gradually working his rate to twenty-eight strokes a minute, his eyes glued to the dial of the StrokeCoach over his toes. The strokes merged with an unbroken rhythm that sent the light shell scudding smoothly over the river's misty surface like flowing quicksilver.
Austin rowed without gloves so he could feel the river with each dip of the oars. He wanted to sweat out the white-hot anger he felt over the Sea Hunter so that the heat would not consume him. He slipped into a meditative state and felt his rage ebb, although it didn't go away entirely. After rowing for a time, he turned in a wide circle and headed back. Before long, the scull was gliding up to the ramp of the boathouse. He threw his sweaty clothes in a hamper, took a long shower and shaved, and dressed in a tan sports jacket, navy blue polo shirt and light slacks.
A sound sleep and an energetic row had given him perspective. He brushed aside the distractions that had been pulling his mind apart in a hundred different directions and concentrated on the prime force behind all he had experienced. Razov. He had to find Razov. Everything else would flow from there. He picked up the phone and called Rudi Gunn, who had never shaken his old navy habits and was in his office before most commuters had poured their first cup of coffee.
"Kurt, I was about to call you. Admiral Sandecker told me about your successful mission. Congratulations to you and Paul."
"Thanks, Rudi. Unfortunately, our job isn't over. Razov is the key to all this. I was wondering if you'd heard anything about his whereabouts."
"That's what I wanted to tell you. The Mad Russian has come up for air. He and his super yacht are expected momentarily in Boston."
"How'd you pick that up, through intelligence or satellites?"
"Neither one, actually. I saw it in the business section of the Washington Post. I'll read it to you:
Russian mining tycoon Mikhail Razov will arrive in Boston today to announce the opening of an international trade center. Razov, who is also a prominent political figure in his country, will host a reception for government officials and other guests tonight aboard his yacht, said to be one of the largest privately owned vessels in the world. The stop-off is part of a tour of major East Coast ports."
"Thoughtful of him to save us time and energy," Austin said.
"It doesn't fit with what I have heard about the gentleman. Wonder what he's really up to?"
"Why don't I go aboard and ask him?"
"You're serious?"
"Of course. It might do some good for him to know that we're onto him. Maybe we can shake the trees and see what falls out."
"Just as long as you're not standing under them."
Austin thought of Yaeger's suggestion about finding the master control center. A man like Razov would never let anything get far from his control. And his yacht was both his home and the headquarters of his worldwide corporation.
"We can't let an opportunity like this go by. I want to get aboard that yacht."
"We could fix you up with some NUMA credentials."
"That would be like waving a red flag in front of a bull. I have another idea. I'll get back to you."