The Skorpion Directive (35 page)

“Daniel. You hit Joko with the champagne bottle.”

“I did not. I merely handed it to you.”

“What did you think I was going to do with it? Stick a flower in it?”

“Do they still think Micah killed Galan?”

Fyke shook his head, his smile fading.

“What is it, Ray? You look strange.”

“You remember a cop named Bogdan Davit, in Kerch?”

“I heard good things, but I never met him. I never got to Kerch.”

“Seems he has . . . acquired . . . a video of Galan being killed. It clears Dalton. That’s why the Mossad want to help. We’re after the same people now.”

“ ‘Acquired’? That sounds like Micah Dalton.”

“Yeah. Has Mikey written all over it, especially since there now seems to be a good chance that Russia and the Ukraine are going to war. He’s an active lad, is Mikey.”

“I’d like to know what he knows. There’s a good chance we’ve got hold of both ends of the same tail.”

“If we do, I hope he’s got the end closest to the tiger’s ass. There’s one way we can get in touch with him.”

“What’s that?”

“Set fire to this end of the tail. He’ll hear about it. I’ll bet he already knows about Tel Aviv.”

“Everybody does. We made the BBC, Ray.”

“Yeah. Good point. Then be patient, Nikki. He’ll turn up.”

Nikki looked across the wharf, watching as Kirikoff and Babic circled around the big stainless-steel tanker truck. Kirikoff was leaning in close to Babic to make himself heard over the din of the port, Babic running a loving hand over the gleaming surface of the tanker’s body.

“What is this?” asked Fyke. “Is Kirikoff trying to sell the damned thing to Babic?”

“I don’t know,” said Nikki. “But we better not lose sight of this thing. Whatever’s going on, that tanker has something to do with it. I’d love to know what’s in it.”

“I can tell you that,” said Fyke. “Nothing. That tanker’s bone-dry. You can tell by the tires and the height off the ground. A full tanker, one that size, would be squatting down over its shocks like a beetle with a brick on its back, tires all bulged out.”

“So it’s empty? That tanker?”

“Empty as my pockets, Nikki, dear heart.”

“Well, this is too deep for me. I guess I better get going.”

“Ellinikon. You know it? It’s down the coast from here, about ten klicks.”

“I know it.”

“You’ll recognize them, then, will you, my darling?”

“Yes, Ray. I think so. They’ll be the grumpy ones in the bloodstained bandages.”

Dalton watched the city of Istanbul glide by underneath the starboard wing of Poppy Pownall’s corporate Learjet. The Sultan Mehmet Bridge was almost directly below, noonday traffic streaming across it, hundreds of gypsy freighters dragging their white wakes up the Bosphorus to the Black Sea, through the Kerch Strait and into the Sea of Azov and the gritty Russian coal and iron ports or down to the Sea of Marmora through the Dardanelles and out into the Aegean. A pall of smoke and haze lay over the low, crowded slopes of Istanbul, the spear tips of a hundred minarets lancing up out of the smog, facets of sunlight bouncing off the dome of Hagia Sophia.

He checked his watch, checked their airspeed indicator, made a rough calculation that they’d be on the ground in Athens by three in the afternoon. He sipped at his G & T and shifted his weight in the wide leather chair, easing the pressure on the wound in his hip, which was painful as hell. Mandy, sitting opposite, gave him an up-from-under smile, crossing her long legs as she did to great effect, since she was wearing a tight blue skirt and a crisp white blouse, sleek black stilettos with bright scarlet soles. She looked, as always, shatteringly and untouchably beautiful.

For his part, Dalton, although shaved and showered and turned out in a very fine blue pinstripe over a fresh white shirt, felt like a low-rent fur ball. He smiled back at Mandy, sipped at his G & T, and asked about Dobri Levka, who, after getting some medical attention and a couple of stiff vodkas, had gone limping off to sleep at the rear of the jet.

“Levka’s a tough lad,” said Mandy. “He just needs some sleep. How are you doing?”

“Vukov. I can’t get over it.”

“Well, try,” said Mandy, holding her wineglass out for Dalton to fill, “Whiners bore me.”

“I’m not whining.”

“Not yet. But you’re circling the drain. Anyway, what’s left of him is probably working its way through some creature’s alimentary canal right now. We were sixteen miles out at sea. You really think he could swim sixteen miles, in water that cold?”

“I think Vukov is hard to kill.”

“So’s my sense of humor, but you’re managing. What do you want to do when we get on the ground in Athens?”

“How’s your math?”

“I don’t do math. I have people for that. How’s yours?”

“The Russians intercepted Levka’s boat three weeks ago, towed it to Anapa. Two days later, he watched as a yacht transporter took the
Subito
aboard, lashed it down under a tarp, and steamed out into the Black Sea. According to Earl Ford, Turkish authorities had cleared a Kerch-bound yacht transporter to transit the Bosphorus seven days before. There aren’t many yacht transporters going into the Black Sea. None in over a month. This transporter was called the
Novotny Ocean,
owned by a shipping conglomerate with offices in Athens, Marseilles, Bremen—”

“Northstar Logistics. Fast-forward, Micah, dear boy.”

“The Turks passed it back
down
the Bosphorus fifteen days ago. No record was kept of the load. According to Lloyd’s, the
Novotny Ocean
is over three hundred feet long, has two Wartsila Vasa diesel engines, and can cruise at fifteen knots with a full load, faster with only one boat on board. It’s eight hundred and fourteen klicks from Kerch to Istanbul—”

“Dear God, I need a drink—”

“You’ve got one.”

“I need a
real
drink.”

Dalton mixed her up a G & T, handed it over. She took a sip, shivered, set it down, leaned back, and artfully recrossed her legs, giving him an eyebrow as she did.

“That’s not going to work,” said Dalton, his face a little hot.

“Not immediately. Please,
do
go on. I’m utterly transfixed.”

“Another five hundred and forty-one from Istanbul to Athens. It cleared Greek customs and was logged into Piraeus Harbor twelve days ago. It was refueled and resupplied by the dock crew and left the next evening, declaring a course for Gibraltar. It’s roughly twenty-six hundred klicks from Athens to Gibraltar—”

“We Brits just call it Gib—”

“Thank you for that, Mandy. At fifteen—”

“You’re welcome.”

“At fifteen knots per hour—”

“Do I get a prize if I guess this right?”

“Yes. At fifteen knots—”

“What sort of prize?”

“A kiss on any body part you care to name. At fifteen—”

Mandy named one.

Dalton took some time to refocus, but, being a trained professional, he managed. Mandy sipped at her G & T and felt rather good about her flirting skills. They were not in any way declining.

“At fifteen knots an hour,” said Dalton, beginning again, “the
Novotny Ocean
would reach Gib in eight days. Am I right?”

“Actually, no, since a knot is a nautical mile, and a mile is longer than a kilometer. Say, to be safe, seven days. But what if this
Novotny
thingy wasn’t really going to Gib?”

“The IMO keeps a geostationary satellite over the Med. I don’t think there’s a body of water in the world, other than the Indian Ocean, where ships get tracked as carefully as in the Med. I think we can assume the
Novotny
was going to Gibraltar—”

“Since it left Piraeus Harbor roughly ten days ago, we can assume it’s already
in
Gibraltar. We just don’t—”

“Know
why
?”

“Yes,” he said, picking up his glass. “We don’t know why.”

The bathroom door at the back of the Lear cracked open, and Levka, showered and shaved and wearing jeans, cowboy boots, a black T-shirt, and a black leather jacket that he had borrowed from one of Captain Davit’s sailors, came down the aisle, stopping at the bar to pour himself a large vodka. He wasn’t moving very well, but he wasn’t dead either. He came along to their seating area, sat down—carefully—beside Dalton, and lifted his glass to Mandy.

“You come to get me, Miss Mandy. I wish to say thank you! And to you, boss, I
hope
you will. But, even so, I never think I leave that place alive.”

“How are you feeling?” asked Mandy, looking at his bruised and battered face, at his general pastiness. Levka, when properly fed, had developed a kind black Lab aura, solid, friendly, a bit of a scoundrel but an honest scoundrel. She was sorry to see him looking so downcast.

“I am okay, Miss Mandy. I am not happy to lose boat. Was my business. My new life. Now is gone.”

“Did the ship have one of those embedded GPS things?” asked Mandy. “The ones they hide in the hull somewhere?”

Levka looked a little shamefaced.

“Yes. But battery was dead, and I not getting around to fixing. Battery cost three hundred euros,” he added by way of an explanation, looking down at his hands. “I am idiot. Boat gone.”

“Maybe not. We have a rough idea where it is,” said Dalton.

Levka brightened.

“Is true? How?”

Dalton nodded to Mandy.

“My father has a friend in Yalta,” she said. “We were able to identify the boat that came to get the
Subito
. The
Blue Nile
. Shipping records show it on a course for Gibraltar. We think it may be there now.”

“In Gibraltar? But why?”

“Good question,” said Dalton, offering him a Sobranie, which he lit and carefully placed between his battered lips, drawing the smoke in. From up in the cockpit came a female voice, gently chiding, “Please, sir, there’s no smoking on this jet.”

Levka sighed, stubbed it out, looked out the window.

“Speak of no smoking,” he said, “I hope they pumping out engine compartment every day.”

“Why?”

“Sump is malfunction. Fumes always building up in engine area. Make you pretty sick, you go down there.”

“Isn’t that a fire hazard?” asked Dalton.

“No. Everything, all the electrics, are shielded. Fuses, breakers, wiring—all shielded good. No. No hazard there. But if you go down with cigarette in mouth, you come back up pretty fast. Only in little pieces. Along with rest of boat.”

“Maintenance, Dobri,” said Dalton, giving Levka a look. “You ever get it back, you need to take better care of that boat.”

Levka sighed again, nodded.

“Sure will, boss. If I ever see it again. Where are we now?”

“Over the Dardanelles,” said Dalton. “We’ll be in Athens soon.”

“What we going to do in Athens, boss?”

Dalton told him about Northstar Logistics, about their warehouse in Piraeus. “Vukov said Kirikoff was in Athens. If he is, that’s where to start looking for him.”

“You believe him? This Vukov?”

“It’s the only lead we’ve got. And the
Novotny Ocean
logged in there twelve days ago. So it’s a good place to start.”

“Okay, boss. Work for me.”

“I have a question,” said Mandy. Levka drank some vodka, wincing as the alcohol stung his lips. “Please, miss.”

“Why are you alive, Dobri? Why didn’t Vukov kill you?”

Levka shrugged, pulled his lips down—a very Italian gesture.

“I am not knowing. I am glad. But not knowing.”

“He beat you pretty badly. What was that for?”

“He want to know about boss,” he said, looking over at Dalton and then back to Mandy. “Where he live. His work. How me and the boss got into work together. He know about Istanbul, about Mr. Galan . . . Sorry about him, boss . . . Anyway, I say I know nothing. He beat me. I pass out. He wake me up. We start again. After time, I forget who I am . . .”

“But he kept you alive,” said Dalton. “He must have needed you for something. Needed you alive, at any rate.”

“Yes,” said Mandy. “And they needed his boat.”

“Yes,” said Levka. “My boat . . .”

He fell silent, staring out at the water.

“I forget a lot while with Vukov. But it come back a little. Anybody see cell phone in that place? In Anapa? Red Motorola Krzr? MP3 player? Very nice.”

“We didn’t look that hard,” said Dalton. “But I’d say no. It wasn’t with what was left of your clothes, and they’d all been shredded to bits. We gathered what we could, but people were coming. We left in a hurry. Just got off the beach when a cop car pulled up at the back of the place.”

“No Krzr phone?”

“No.”

“Then maybe is not dream. When Russians show up—two patrol boats, sirens going—we are to stop engines and be boarded. I try to call out on ship radio but only get static. They jam the radio, I think. Boss, you remember engine room in Istanbul where we find Kissmyass, the KGB guy?”

“Yes. In the pilot’s cabin, there’s trapdoor in the deck that leads down to the engine compartment. He was hiding there.”

“Yes. He had cell phone, remember? So do I. I think, Okay, hide in engine compartment like Kissmyass, make call to Bogdan, tell him what is happening. This I do. I go down in engine room, close hatch. I making call when hatch open up. Sailors are there, Russkies. I fight. I think I drop the phone in engine room. I think may still be there.”

“Did that phone have a GPS function?” asked Dalton.

“Yes. Maybe if we—”

“More than three weeks ago,” said Mandy. “The battery would have died after a couple of days.”

“No. I set to shut down if not using. Shut-off time sixty minutes.”

“Dobri,” said Dalton, letting him down easy, “The GPS function wouldn’t work if the cell phone is turned off.”