Devil's Gate

live led the soldiers to trunks filled with jewels and coin. But before these items reached the Bolsheviks, they vanished. Thirty years later, a defector who had been one of those soldiers dug them up from a hiding place and tried to take them to America.”

Now she understood. “Tarasov.”

The Bald Man nodded. “The Americans would have been happy to take him, but they would not do it officially unless he could make it to America,” he said. “They sent a man named Hudson Wallace, a freelance agent of theirs, to pick him up. The aircraft was his. Tarasov boarded it in Sarajevo and was flown out overnight.”

“What does this have to do with the discovery in the Azores?”

The Bald Man grinned, and his round face wrinkled like a hound dog’s. “Wallace could not fly from Sarajevo to the United States in a single leg,” he said. “He didn’t have the range.”

“He went to the Azores,” she said.

“While most of our agents foolishly watched the skies over Paris, Madrid, and London, one of my more prescient forerunners guessed that Wallace would choose a less obvious location to refuel. Somewhere friendly and out of the way. He sent a message to our agents in Santa Maria. Hudson’s big silver plane landed several hours later. When Wallace and Tarasov tried to escape, our agents shot them, killing Tarasov. Unfortunately, the American managed to reach his aircraft and fly away, out into a storm.”

“Unfortunate,” Major Komarov added.

“Very,” the Bald Man agreed.

“Wallace didn’t make it to the United States,” he continued. “Or Newfoundland or Canada. He lasted precisely nine minutes before radioing a ‘Mayday’ and then crashing into the Atlantic. Miraculously, he survived. He was rescued a week later by Portuguese fishermen, and he told a strange story about electromagnetic interference, all his instruments failing, and a sudden loss of electrical power. A story we, naturally, did not believe.”

“You don’t think he crashed?”

The man across from her smiled, no doubt pleased by her curiosity.

“For years we thought it was a lie,” he said. “Either his lie or the CIA’s. The United States did not look for the plane, and our own search turned up nothing. It seemed a good cover story to brush the entire situation under the rug. But now we feel differently.”

She cocked her head to the side.

“Look at the bottom photo, Ms. Luskaya.”

She turned her attention back to the page. She saw a murky, somewhat blurred image. For a moment she couldn’t figure out what she was looking at. And then it hit her: three metallic fins sticking up out of the sediment. Connected to them she saw what had to be the fuselage of a plane.

“That is Hudson Wallace’s plane,” the Bald Man from the State informed her. “It appears to be mostly intact.”

“Amazing,” she said, looking up.

“Quite,” he replied. “And we want you to go there. You will pretend you’ve come to study the strange magnetism these Americans claim to have found. And when you get the chance, investigate this aircraft. If the trunks are still inside — or you can locate them nearby — then you are to recover them and bring them back home to Russia.”

In a weird way it was flattering. Her country needed her for a mission of some sort. But why did they need her?

“May I ask why you don’t send a professional agent?”

“You are a known member of the scientific establishment,” the Bald Man said. “You have been overseas many times before, your activities have always been legitimate. By sending you instead of an agent with a cover, we vastly reduce the possibility of suspicions being raised.”

“What if I don’t want to go?” she asked cautiously.

The Bald Man narrowed his gaze and stared at her. Over her shoulder, she felt the presence of Major Komarov just as strongly. It no longer felt as if they were asking. That shouldn’t have been a surprise. The State rarely made requests.

“We can be barbarians at times, Ms. Luskaya,” the Bald Man said. “But in this case there is no need. You want to go. You want to test yourself. I can see it in your eyes.”

She looked down at the photos once more. A strange mix of fear and excitement coursed through her. The feeling was so similar to the adrenaline rush she’d felt before competitions that it scared her. She was quite sure saying no was not an option, but it didn’t matter.

The Bald Man from the State was right: She wanted to go.

16

Eastern Atlantic, June 22

AFTER ARRIVING ON STATION THE DAY BEFORE, the NUMA vessel Matador had set up shop and begun “mowing the lawn”: a search pattern that allowed them to scan the ocean floor in strips, one ten-mile leg to the northeast and another ten-mile leg to the southwest, and then back again. With fairly precise information as to where the Kinjara Maru went down and good records on the currents in the area, they were able to find the ship in less than twelve hours.

Once found, the Kinjara Maru and her debris field had been mapped by a pair of deep diving ROVs. With the information and photographs plugged into a computer and a three-dimensional model of the ship created, the crew of the Matador were able to examine the ship and come up with a game plan for actually exploring it before they even went down.

It was the perfect mission for Rapunzel, with one particular problem.

“Didn’t anyone bring an extension cord?” Paul Trout grumbled.

“We weren’t expecting to go deep-sea fishing,” Gamay said in her best calming voice. She knew her husband well enough to know that he was slow to anger but hard to rope back in once he got there.

“The deepwater kit is on its way out,” she added. “It’ll be here the day after tomorrow, but in the meantime…” “Dirk still wants us to take a look at it,” he said.

She nodded. “The ship is resting halfway down a pretty steep slope. Dirk wants us to pull some samples before she goes any deeper.” Both of them knew what that meant. Despite the danger, they would have to go down in the deepwater submersible.

“We can connect Rapunzel to the submersible and operate her free of the tethers once we’re down there.” “I’m going with you,” Paul said.

“You barely fit,” she replied.

“So it’ll be a little cramped,” he said. “I like being in close quarters with you.”

THREE HOURS LATER, Paul and Gamay were hovering over the wreck in a bathyscaphe-type submersible named the Grouper. Rapunzel was attached to the outer hull and charging her batteries. They were lying on their stomachs side by side, like kids riding their sled. Paul piloted the Grouper while Gamay readied Rapunzel for her sortie.

The temperature in the Grouper was a cool 48 degrees as the deepwater currents surrounding them dropped to a few degrees above freezing. Between the cramped quarters and the cold, Paul’s entire body ached.

“Feels like Maine in November,” he said into the intercom.

“At least it’s not raining,” Gamay said. “We start getting rain in here, we have a big problem.” Paul looked around. The Grouper was the sturdiest of all NUMA’s deep-sea vehicles. It had been to twenty-four thousand feet, sixteen was a walk in the park.

“We’ll be all right,” he said.