'No problem,' Zavala said, fitting the holster to the butt of his Heckler and Koch.9-mm VP70M to form a shoulder stock, giving the pistol the capability of firing three-round bursts. 'I brought spider repellent.'
Austin slipped his own brand of pesticide out of its leather holster. His Ruger Redhawk, custom-built by the Bowen Classic Arms Company, was a heavy-duty revolver chambered for the.50 special cartridge. His hand was filled with grips made of snake wood, a rare South American wood. The fat barrel was only four inches long, but the gun packed a deadly wallop.
They opened the door and stepped into a chamber half the size of the sub pen. A railroad spur extended from the main chamber. Sitting on the tracks were a half-dozen car-sized freight carriers powered by propane. The tracks ran down the center of the room, with tributaries branching out on both sides to a series of arched portals that allowed entrance into side chambers.
Entering the nearest room, they found shelves filled with spare parts. The other storerooms contained tools, firefighting equipment and workshops. One room, separated from the others by a heavy steel blast door, contained demolition charges and small arms.
They returned to the main chamber and walked over to an elevator. Next to the elevator was a door that led to a stairwell. The smell of cooked cabbage drifted from above. They climbed the stairs to the next landing and saw light coming from beneath a door that led off the landing.
Austin put his ear up to the door and listened. Hearing nothing, he cracked the door a few inches. Then he gently pushed the door open and stepped through, motioning for Zavala to follow. They were in a corridor lit by lights recessed in the ceiling. It was wide enough for four people to walk abreast. The passageway echoed the poured-concrete, bomb-shelter motif of the lower level.
Several doors opened off one side. The first led to a cold-storage room stocked with meats and vegetables. The cold room was connected to food lockers provisioned with canned goods and groceries. Next to the pantry were a large kitchen and bakery. They moved from the kitchen into the adjacent mess hall, which was furnished with long benches and tables. The smell of cooked food was strong.
Austin went over to a table, brushed some crumbs off the top and dabbed his finger into a circle of water.
'Keep a sharp eye out,' he said. 'Some of the regular customers may still be around.'
A door led from the mess hall to another passageway and a deserted dormitory fitted out with fifty bunks. The beds were unmade and the footlockers were empty. Next to the dormitory was a small game room with a few tables and chairs. Austin walked over to a chessboard, studied the pieces for a moment, then moved a black knight to a different square.
'Checkmate,' he said. With Austin in the lead, they headed back to the main corridor and climbed the stairs to the next floor. In contrast to the spartan barracks, the floors were covered with thick wall-to-wall carpeting and the walls were paneled in dark wood. They explored half a dozen offices and conference rooms. On the walls were a few yellowed charts, but the desks were cleaned out and the filing cabinets were empty.
'This must have been the command post for the submarine base,' Austin said.
Zavala glanced around the haunted precincts. 'It's been a while since they did any commanding. Spooky. Maybe we should call Ghostbusters.'
Austin grunted. 'The guys who shot me out of the air a few days ago weren't made out of ectoplasm.'
From the command post, they went back to the main passageway, poked into several rooms, each with two beds, that could have been officers' quarters, and followed another connector that led to a large and luxurious suite. The polished oak floors were covered with finely woven oriental rugs. The ornate furniture was made from heavy dark wood. The decor was a blend of Byzantine and Middle Eastern, with a liberal use of red cloth and gold fringe.
Zavala looked at the painting of a voluptuous woman, one of several that decorated the walls. 'Remind me when I get home to redo my place in harem modern.'
Austin was having a problem imagining a bulldog-jowled Soviet sub commander in these decadent surroundings. 'It looks like someone's idea of a Victorian bordello.'
Despite their bantering, both men were uneasy. Austin recalled the violence that had greeted his first visit to these shores. The quiet gave him the jitters. They explored the rest of the suite, eventually coming to a thick wooden door built with rivets and ornamental straps as if it guarded the portal to a medieval keep. Carved in the door was a large stylized letter R.
Zavala examined the antique keyhole, then he reached into his pack and pulled out a soft leather case that he unfolded to display an array of lock picks that would have gotten him arrested in most states. He selected a particularly large pick.
'The basic skeleton key should do the job.' He ran his fingers over the door carving and strong steel hinges. 'There must be something valuable on the other side. I'm surprised they didn't use a better lock.' Bending to his task, he inserted the pick in the keyhole, jiggled the tool, then turned it. The lock had been well-lubricated and the deadbolt opened with a loud clunk.
Austin put his ear up against the dark wood. Hearing nothing, he tried the ornamental knob. He paused, wondering if hidden cameras had watched them every step of the way into the labyrinth. A gang of cutthroats could be lurking on the other side of the door. The thought of a bullet or dagger in the eye made him squeamish. His lips tightened in a grim smile. Being shot or stabbed in the heart would leave him just as dead as a poke in the eye.
Austin couldn't remember who'd said the best defense is a good offense, but he had always considered it good advice. He cocked his Bowen, motioned to Zavala to back him up, then turned the knob, threw the door open and stepped inside.
14
THE DENTED BLACK Lada taxi clattered down the dirt road, with every bolt in its ancient chassis rattling in protest. The potholed ruts led through thick pines and ended at an encampment of rustic chalets clustered near the Black Sea. The cab bounced on its worn shock absorbers even after Paul and Gamay Trout extricated themselves from the cramped backseat like clowns in a circus skit. They removed their duffel bags from the roof rack and paid the driver. The cab drove off in a cloud of dust, and the door to a nearby chalet flew open with a bang. A bearlike man charged out, roaring in a voice that practically shook the cones off the trees.
'Trout! I can't believe you're here.' He wrapped Paul in a bear hug. 'How good to see you, my friend!' He pounded Trout on the back.
'Go-od to see you-oo, Vlad,' Trout replied, in between the breath-stealing thumps. 'Thi-is is my wife, Gamay- may. Gamay, meet Professor Vladimir Orlov.'
Orlov extended a ham-sized hand and attempted to click the heels of his rubber sandals together. 'A pleasure to meet you, Gamay. Your husband often talked about his brilliant and lovely wife as we drank beer at the Captain Kidd.'
'No less than he talked about you, Professor Orlov. Paul has often said how much he enjoyed your time together at Woods Hole.'
'We have many fond memories, your husband and I.' He turned to Paul. 'She is as beautiful and charming as I imagined. You are a lucky man.'
'Thank you. And you will be pleased to know that your barstool awaits your return.'
'Then it is only a question of when. Tell me how things are at the Oceanographic?'
'I was there only a few days ago. I try to get back home in between NUMA assignments. Woods Hole hasn't changed since the year you spent there.'
'I envy you. As a pauper nation, Russia is stingy with money for pure scientific research. Even a well-thought-of institution such as Rostov State University must beg for funding. We're fortunate that the government allows the university to use this place as a fieldwork center.' Gamay looked around at the rustic cottages and the water sparkling through the trees. 'It's wonderful! Reminds me of the old cottage colonies on the Great Lakes where I grew up.'
'The Soviet navy used it as a getaway for middle-level officers and their wives. There's a tennis court, but the macadam looks like the face of the moon. We've brought in students and they have done a good job fixing up the
