Treasure of Khan (12 page)

I
T'S GONE
,” G
UNN SPAT
,
HIS
face flushed with anger. “Someone systematically yanked out our database hardware and disappeared with it. All of our data collection points, everything we've gathered in the last two weeks, it's all gone.”

Gunn continued to fume as he helped Pitt and Giordino out of their dry suits beneath the bridge.

“What about backups, Rudi?” Pitt asked.

“That's right. As a good computer geek, I know you save everything on backup disks, probably in triplicate,” Giordino admonished as he hung up his dry suit on a hook.

“Our rack of backup DVDs is missing, too,” Gunn cried. “Somebody had an idea of what to take.”

“Our buddy Sarghov?” Giordino asked.

“I don't think so,” Pitt replied. “His cabin didn't have the look of an impending escape artist.”

“I don't understand. The research data would be of value only to the scientific community. We've shared everything with our Russian counterparts. Who would want to steal the information?” Gunn asked, his anguish slowly cooling.

“Perhaps the intent was not to steal the data. Perhaps they just didn't want us to discover something in the data,” Pitt reflected.

“Could be,” Giordino agreed. “Rudi, that means your beloved computer is probably at the bottom of Lake Baikal snagging lures about now.”

“Is that supposed to be a consolation?” he muttered.

“Don't feel bad. You still made out better than the old fisherman.”

“True. He did lose his boat,” Gunn said.

“He lost more than that,” Pitt replied, then told Gunn of the discovery in the cabin.

“But why murder an old man?” Gunn gasped, shaking his head in disbelief. “And what of the others? Were they abducted? Or did they leave willingly, after killing the fisherman and destroying our scientific data?”

The same questions percolated through Pitt's mind, only there were no answers.

 

B
Y MIDDAY
, an overhead city utility line was tapped from shore and wired to the
Vereshchagin,
providing electrical power to the grounded ship and activating the bilge pumps that had been disabled. Auxiliary water pumps were deployed on the aft deck, helping pump dry the flooded compartments under the whine of their attached generators. Slowly but surely, the submerged stern began to creep out of the water at a pace far too sluggish for the few remaining crew members watching from shore.

Around Listvyanka, residents continued the cleanup from the flood-ravaged waters. The town's celebrated open-air fish market was quickly pieced back together, with several vendors already offering an aromatic assortment of fresh-smoked fish. The sounds of sawing and hammering filled the air as a row of tourist kiosks, taking the brunt of the wave's carnage, were already being rebuilt.

Word gradually filtered in about other destruction around the lake caused by the quake and wave. Extensive property damage had occurred along the southern shores of the lake, but remarkably no loss of life was reported. The Baikalsk paper mill, a landmark facility on the south coast, suffered the most costly damage, its operations forced to close for several weeks while debris was cleared and its flooded structures restored. At the opposite end of the lake, there were reports that the earthquake had severely damaged the Taishet–Nakhodka oil pipeline that skirted the northern shore. Ecologists from the Limnological Institute were already en route to assess the potential environmental damage should an oil spill approach the lake.

Shortly after lunch, Listvyanka's police chief boarded the
Vereshchagin
, accompanied by two detectives from Irkutsk. The police authorities climbed up to the ship's bridge, where they greeted Captain Kharitonov in a formal manner. The Listvyanka chief, a slovenly man in an ill-fitting uniform, dismissed with a glance the three Americans who sat reconfiguring their computer equipment on the opposite side of the bridge. A self-important bureaucrat impressed with his own power, the chief enjoyed the perquisites, if not the actual work, required of the job. As Kharitonov relayed the missing crewmen and the discovery of the dead fisherman in the flooded cabin below, a flash of anger crossed the chief's face. The missing persons and attempted sinking of the
Vereshchagin
might be explained away as an accident, but a dead body complicated matters. A potential murder would mean extra paperwork and state officials looking over his shoulder. In Listvyanka, the occasional stolen bicycle or barroom brawl was the extent of his normal criminal dealings, and that was the way he preferred it.

“Nonsense,” he retorted in a gravelly voice. “I knew Belikov well. He was a drunken old fisherman. Drank too much vodka and passed out like an old goat. An unfortunate accident,” he casually explained away.

“Then what about the disappearance of the two crewmen and the survey team that was rescued with the fisherman, as well as the attempted sinking of my ship?” Captain Kharitonov added with rising anger.

“Ah yes,” the police chief replied, “the crew members who opened the sea cocks by mistake. Ashamed of their mechanical error, they have probably fled in embarrassment. They will turn up eventually at one of our fine drinking houses,” he said knowingly. Realizing that the two Irkutsk men did not appear to be buying his rationale, he continued. “It will, of course, be necessary to interview the crew and passengers for an official accounting of the incident.”

Pitt turned from the egotistical police chief and studied the two lawmen at his side. The detectives from the Irkutsk City Police Criminal Investigation Division were clearly not cut from the same cloth. They were hardened men who wore suits rather than uniforms and carried concealed weapons. No ordinary beat cops, they had an air of quiet confidence that suggested experience and training derived from someplace other than the local police academy. When the three men began a quick round of inquiries aboard ship, Pitt curiously noted that the Irkutsk men seemed more interested in Sarghov's absence than the missing survey team or the dead fisherman.

“Who says Boris Badenov isn't alive and well?” Giordino muttered under his breath after a brief interrogation.

When the interviews were completed, the lawmen returned to the bridge, where the police chief gave Captain Kharitonov a last stern admonition, for effect. The
Vereshchagin
's captain glumly announced that at the direction of the Listvyanka police, all crew members would be required to return to the ship at once, where they were to remain in confinement until the completion of the investigation.

“They could have at least let us make a beer run first,” Giordino moaned.

“I knew I should have stayed in Washington,” Gunn grumbled. “Now we're exiled to Siberia.”

“Washington is a miserable swamp in the summertime anyway,” Pitt countered, admiring the panoramic lake view from the bridge window.

A mile and a half away, he noticed the black freighter that he and Al had flown over the night before. The ship had moved ashore and was docked at an undamaged pier at the far end of town, its stern cargo hold being picked at by a large wharf-side crane.

A pair of binoculars dangled from a hook near the bridge window and Pitt unconsciously pulled them to his eyes while studying the ship. Through the magnified lenses, he saw two large flatbed trucks and a smaller enclosed truck parked on the dock adjacent to the ship. The crane was off-loading items onto the trucks, a little unusual in that Listvyanka was primarily an outgoing port that provided goods to the rest of the lakefront communities. Focusing on one of the flatbed trucks, he could see that it held a strange vertically shaped item on a wooden pallet that was wrapped in a canvas tarp.

“Captain?” he asked of Kharitonov while pointing out the window. “That black freighter. What do you know about her?”

Captain Kharitonov stepped over and squinted in the direction of the ship. “The
Primoski
. A longtime scullion on Lake Baikal. For years, she made a regular run from Listvyanka to Baikalskoye in the north, carrying steel and lumber for a rail spur being built up there. When the work was completed last year, she sat dead at her moorings for several months. Last I heard she was under short-term lease to an oil company. They brought in their own men to sail her, which upset her old crew. I do not know what they're using her for, probably to transport pipeline equipment.”

“An oil company,” Pitt repeated. “Wouldn't by chance be the Avarga Oil Consortium, would it?”

Kharitonov looked up in thought for a moment. “Yes, now that I think about it, I believe it was. Forgive a tired man for not recalling that earlier. Perhaps they know something of our missing oil survey team. And the whereabouts of Alexander and Anatoly,” he added with a cross tone.

The Russian captain reached for the radio and issued a call to the freighter whose name,
Primoski
, was taken from a mountain range on Lake Baikal's western shore. A grunt voice answered almost immediately and replied in short, clipped responses to the captain's questions. As they conversed, Pitt played the binoculars over the old freighter, focusing a long gaze on the freighter's bare stern deck.

“Al, take a look at this.”

Giordino ambled over and grabbed the binoculars, studying the freighter carefully. Noting the covered cargo being unloaded, he said, “Being rather secretive with their cargo, wouldn't you say? Though I'm sure if we asked, they'd say it's nothing more than used tractor parts.”

“Take a look at the stern deck,” Pitt prompted.

“There was a derrick on that deck last night,” Giordino observed. “It has disappeared, like our friends.”

“Granted it was dark when we flew over the ship, but that derrick looked to be no Tinkertoy piece.”

“No, it wasn't something that could be disassembled in short order without an army of mechanical engineers,” Giordino said.

“From what I've seen through the glasses, it's a skeleton crew working that ship.”

The hearty voice of the captain interrupted as he hung up the radio microphone.

“I'm sorry, gentlemen. The captain of the
Primoski
reports that he has taken on no passengers, has not seen or heard from any oil survey team or, in fact, was even aware of their activities on the lake.”

“And I bet he doesn't know who's buried in Grant's tomb, either,” Giordino said.

“Did he happen to reveal his ship's manifest?” Pitt asked.

“Why, yes,” Kharitonov replied. “They are transporting agricultural equipment and tractor components from Irkutsk to Baikalskoe.”

T
HE ROOKIE POLICEMAN TASKED WITH
ensuring that no one left the ship quickly grew bored with his assignment. Pacing the shore tirelessly a few yards from where the
Vereshchagin
's bow had ground into the lake bed, he had alertly monitored the vessel as the sun went down. But as the evening hour waned without event, his attention began to wander. Loud thumping noises from a bar up the street gradually seized his senses and it wasn't long before he had swiveled around to face the bar's entrance, hoping to catch sight of an attractive tourist or college coed visiting from Irkutsk.

Sufficiently distracted, he had almost no chance of spotting two men dressed in black who quietly slid a small Zodiac over the
Vereshchagin
's stern rail, then silently dropped themselves into the rubber boat.

Pitt and Giordino eased the Zodiac away from the
Vereshchagin,
careful to keep the research ship between them and the shore guard.

“A couple of nice friendly drinking establishments are just a short paddle away, and you want to take us on a fishing expedition,” Giordino whispered.

“Overpriced tourist traps that hawk warm beer and stale pretzels,” Pitt countered.

“Alas, a warm beer is still better than no beer,” he replied poetically.

Though they quickly melted into the dark night, Pitt had them row almost a mile from shore before pulling on the starter rope to the boat's 25-horsepower outboard motor. The small engine quickly coughed to life, and Pitt turned the boat parallel to shore as they putted forward at slow speed. Once the boat was moving, Giordino lifted a three-foot-long sonar towfish from the floorboard and slipped it over the side, feeding it out to nearly the full length of its hundred-meter electronic tow cable. Securing the line to the gunwale, he flipped open a laptop computer and initiated the side-scan sonar's operating software. Within minutes, a yellow-tinted image of the lake bed began scrolling down the screen.

“The picture show has started,” Giordino announced, “featuring an undulating sandy bottom one hundred seventy feet deep.”

Pitt continued running the boat parallel to shore until he was even with the black freighter. He held his course for another quarter mile before turning the Zodiac around and running back in the opposite direction, a few dozen meters farther into the lake.

“The
Primorski
looked to be parked in this neighborhood when we flew over her last night,” Pitt said, waving an arm toward the southeast. His eyes turned and studied the landmarks on shore to the north, which he tried to recall sighting from the helicopter.

Giordino nodded. “I agree, we should be in the ballpark.”

Pitt pulled a compass from his pocket and took a heading, then set it on the bench in front of him. Tracking the bearing with the occasional flash of a penlight, he held a steady course until he passed a half mile in the other direction, then turned and backtracked again farther to the south. For the next hour, they continued the search, moving farther offshore as Giordino monitored the bottom contours on the laptop computer.

Pitt turned his eyes to shore, preparing to turn at the end of an imaginary lane when Giordino said, “Got something.”

Pitt held his course, leaning forward to examine the image on the laptop. A dark linear object began scrolling down the screen, followed by another thin line that angled toward it. The image slowly evolved into a large A shape that had grown a few additional cross-members.

“Length is about forty feet,” Giordino said. “Sure looks like the structure we saw sitting on the poop deck of the
Primorski
last night. Shame on them for littering the lake.”

“Shame on them, indeed,” Pitt replied, staring off toward the black freighter. “The question is, my dear Watson, why?”

When Pitt leaned over and shut off the outboard motor, Giordino knew they were going to seek the answer. Something had bothered Pitt about the black freighter the first time he saw it. Finding out it was leased by the Avarga Oil Consortium had just sealed the deal. He had little doubt that there must be some connection to the ship and the disappearance of Sarghov and the oil survey team. As he studied the ship from afar, Giordino quickly pulled in the sonar fish and closed the laptop computer, then retrieved the oars for the rowing ahead of them.

The
Primorski
sat dark and quiet at its still berth near the end of the village waterfront. The large trucks were still parked on the adjacent pier, the two flatbed rigs loaded with their concealed cargo. A tall chain-link fence secured the dock from passing villagers and was enforced by a pair of security guards lounging in a hut at the entrance. Around the trucks, a couple of men milled about studying a map splayed across one of the fenders, though the ship itself appeared devoid of life.

Pitt and Giordino approached the ship's stern silently, drifting slowly under the shadow of its high fantail. Pitt reached up and grabbed the freighter's stern mooring line, which ran down to the water, and used it to pull them alongside the dock. As Giordino tied a line around a splintered pylon, Pitt climbed from the Zodiac and crept onto the wooden dock.

The trucks were parked at the opposite end near the ship's bow, but Pitt could still hear the voices of the men wafting across the empty pier. Spotting a pair of rusty oil drums, he crept up and kneeled behind them near the dock's edge. A second later, Giordino silently appeared behind him.

“Empty as a church on Monday,” Giordino whispered, eyeing the ghostly quiet ship.

“Yes, a little too peaceful.”

Pitt peered around the drums and spied a gangway at the far end that ran up to the ship's forward hold. He then studied the freighter's side deck railing, which stood eight feet above the dock.

“Gangplank might be too grand an entrance,” he whispered to Giordino. “I think we can step over from these,” he said, pointing to the drums.

Pitt gingerly rolled one of the drums to the edge of the dock, then climbed on top. Bending his knees, he sprang off the drum and across three feet of water, reaching out and grabbing hold of the ship's lower side railing. He hung there for a second before swinging his body to the side, using the momentum to slip himself through the railing and onto the deck. It was a harder jump for the shorter Giordino, who nearly missed the rail and hung by one hand for a moment until Pitt jerked him aboard.

“Next time, I take the elevator,” he muttered.

Catching their breath, they hung to the shadows and examined the silent ship. The freighter was small by oceangoing standards, stretching just over two hundred thirty feet. She was built of the classic cargo ship design, with a central superstructure surrounded by open deck fore and aft. Though her hull was steel, her decks were made of teak and reeked of oil, diesel fuel, and a candy store assortment of chemicals spilled and absorbed into the wood fibers over four decades of use. Pitt surveyed the stern deck, which was dotted with a handful of metal containers congregated near a single hold. Moving silently across the deck, he and Giordino crept toward the shadow of one of the containers, where they stopped and peered into the open stern hold.

The deep bay was stacked at either end with bundles of small-diameter iron pipe. The center of the hold was empty, but even in the darkness, the scarred markings where the feet of the mystery trestle had recently stood was etched into the hold's decking. More intriguing was a six-foot-diameter deck cap that sealed an access hole through the deck at the exact center of the footing markers.

“Looks like a string hole for a North Sea drill ship,” Pitt whispered.

“And the drill pipe to go with it,” Giordino replied. “But this sure ain't no drill ship.”

It was a salient point. A drill ship contains the pipe and storage apparatus to drill into the earth for petroleum and collect the liquid aboard. The old freighter might have been able to set drill pipe, but obviously wasn't capable of collecting a drop of oil, if that was indeed the intended goal.

Pitt didn't stay to contemplate the point but moved quickly toward the portside passageway. Reaching the corner edge, he stopped and pressed himself against the bulkhead then peeked around the corner. There was still no sight of any shipboard inhabitants. Moving forward slowly with Giordino on his heels, he breathed easier now that they were out of sight of the dock.

They crept forward until reaching a cross-passageway that bisected the superstructure from beam to beam. A lone overhead light illuminated the empty passageway in a dull yellow glow. Somewhere in the distance, an electrical generator hummed like a swarm of cicadas. Pitt walked underneath the light and tugged his sweater down over his right hand, then reached up and unscrewed the bulb until the saffron glow was extinguished. Shielded from the dock lights, the passageway fell nearly pitch-black.

Standing at the corner of the crossways, the latch to a cabin door suddenly clicked behind them. Both men quickly turned into the side passage, moving out of sight of the opening door. A dimly illuminated open compartment beckoned on Pitt's left and he stepped into it, followed by Giordino, who closed the door behind them.

As they stood by the door listening for footsteps, their eyes scanned the room. They stood in the ship's formal mess, which doubled as a conference room. The bay was a plush departure from the rest of the shabby freighter. An ornate Persian carpet buoyed a polished mahogany table that stretched across the room, surrounded by rich leather-backed chairs. Thick wallpaper, a smattering of tasteful artwork, and a few artificial plants made it resemble the lobby of the Waldorf-Astoria. At the opposite end, a set of double doors led to the ship's galley. On the bulkhead next to Pitt, a large video screen was mounted at eye level to accept satellite video feeds.

“Nice atmosphere to chow down fish soup and borscht,” Giordino muttered.

Pitt ignored the comment as he stepped closer to a series of maps pinned to one wall. They were computer generated, showing enlarged sections of Lake Baikal. At various locations around the lake, red concentric circles had been drawn in by hand. A map of the northern fringe of the lake showed a thick concentration of the circles, some overlapping the shore where an oil pipeline was depicted running from west to east.

“Target drill sites?” Giordino asked.

“Probably. Not going to make the Earth First! crowd too happy,” Pitt replied.

Giordino listened at the door as the outside footsteps descended a nearby stairwell. When the footfalls faded away, he cracked the door slightly and peeked into the now-empty passageway.

“No one about. And no sign of any passengers aboard.”

“It's the shore boat I want to get a look at,” Pitt whispered.

Inching the door open, they crept into the side hall and back to the portside passageway. Moving forward, the freighter's superstructure quickly gave way to the open forward deck, which encompassed a split pair of recessed holds. Along the port rail near the bow sat a beat-up tender, stowed in a block cradle affixed to the deck. A nearby winch with cables still attached to the tender offered evidence that it had recently been deployed.

“She's in plain sight of the bridge,” Giordino said, nodding up toward a fuzzy light that shined from the forward bridge window twenty feet above their heads.

“But only if someone's looking that way,” Pitt replied. “I'll zip over and take a quick look.”

While Giordino hung to the shadows, Pitt crept low and scurried across the open deck, holding close to the port rail. Lights from the dock and the bridge itself bathed the deck in a dull glow, which cast a faint shadow of Pitt's steps as he moved. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of the trucks on the dock and a handful of men milling about them. Dressed in black pants and sweater, he would be almost invisible to the men at that distance. It was the occupants of the bridge that concerned him most.

Nearly sprinting as he reached the small boat, he ducked around its bow and kneeled in its covering shadow beside the rail. As his heart rate slowed, he listened for sounds of detection, but the freighter remained silent. Only the muffled sounds of activity from the nearby village echoed across the deck. Pitt peered up at the bridge and could see two men through the window talking with each other. Neither paid the slightest attention to the ship's forward deck.

Crouching down, Pitt pulled out his penlight and held it against the hull of the shore boat, then flicked the switch on for just a second. The tiny beam illuminated a battered wood hull that was painted a crimson red. Rubbing his hand along the hull, flakes of the red paint chafed onto his fingers. As Pitt had suspected, it was the same shade of red that had rubbed off against the starboard side of the
Vereshchagin
.

Rising to his feet, he moved toward the tender's bow when something in the interior caught his eye. Dropping his hand to the floorboard, he again flicked on the penlight. The brief flash of light illuminated a worn baseball cap with a red emblem of a charging hog sewn on the front. Pitt recognized the razorback mascot of the University of Arkansas and recalled that it was Jim Wofford's hat. There was no doubt in his mind now that the
Primorski
was involved with the attempted sinking of the
Vereshchagin
and disappearance of the crew.