close range was devastating. The hand exploded in a shower of bone and blood. Boris stared down in disbelief at the bloody stump. An ordinary mortal would have crumpled to the deck. Instead, Boris let out a feral cry of rage and glared at Austin with hate burning in his eyes. He reached under his tunic with his left hand and pulled out a dagger. Paying no heed to the blood flowing from his mangled hand, he went for Austin.
The other men cocked their machine pistols Boris shouted a warning. He wanted Austin to himself.
Austin couldn't believe the man was still standing. He raised the Bowen, intending to finish Boris off with a bullet between the mad, staring eyes, but without warning his arms were pinioned by his sides. Pulaski had grabbed him from behind.
Boris was so close Austin could smell the animal odor of the unwashed body and the foul breath. Boris smiled, showing a mouthful of rotting teeth, and raised his knife to strike. Forcefully, Austin ground his heel into Pulaski's instep.
Pulaski grunted with pain and his grip loosened, and Austin bent his knees and drove his elbow into the man's side. Pulaski let go completely, then Austin brought the long barrel of his revolver up so it was mere inches from the Russian's chest, and squeezed the trigger. The impact of the heavy bullet hurled Boris back and he slammed into the bulkhead and fell to the deck.
Then Pulaski brought the butt down on the side of Austin's head. Austin saw every star in the galaxy and he crashed to the deck and blacked out for a second, but the in. tense pain kept him at the edge of consciousness. Through blurred eyes, he saw Razov tapping out a command on the blood-splattered keyboard. He felt the recoil of the gun in his hand and blacked out.
Pulaski bent over and lowered his machine pistol to Austin's head to administer the coup de grace, but Zavala's Heckler and Koch stuttered from the side door. Pulaski went down, with the Cossack right behind him.
When Austin regained consciousness, Zavala was kneeling by his side. The wolfhounds had cowered in a corner when the shooting started. Now they came over and licked Austin's hand.
'Sorry I didn't get here sooner. I had to take care of a couple of Razov's goons.'
Austin brushed the dogs gently aside. 'Where's Razov?” he said, looking around.
'He slipped out the other side while I was trading gunfire with the Cossack guard.'
With Zavala's help, Austin got to his feet. He glanced at the bodies of the dead Cossack, Pulaski and Boris, then went over to the computer. The screen was a pile of splintered glass. 'The bombs had to be activated from here. Razov was typing out the command to trigger the explosions. I got the control computer with a lucky shot.'
Zavala smiled. 'I hope he's got a thirty-day warranty.'
Austin got on the radio to Petrov. 'Ivan, are you there?'
'Yes, we're here. Any problems?'
'A few, but we took care of them. How are you doing?'
'They made the mistake of trying to outflank us. We were waiting for them. It was what you Americans call a turkey shoot. I lost a few men, but it's now only a question of mopping up.'
'Good work. Boris is dead. We stopped the bombs from being activated. Razov is on the run. Keep an eye out for him.”
'Yes – wait. There's a helicopter taking off.'
Austin could hear the clatter of rotors above the sporadic gunfire. He stepped out onto the bridge wing in time to see a black helicopter soar over the ship. He raised his pistol, but the masts interfered with his aim. Within seconds, the helicopter had merged with the darkness.
Something nuzzled the back of Austin's knees. The wolfhounds wanted attention and food, not necessarily in that order. He holstered his gun and scratched their heads. With the two white hounds trailing behind them, he and Zavala made their way down to the main deck to rendezvous with Petrov and his men. Maybe he could find a plate of sausages for his new pals.
37
ENGLAND
THIRTY-SIX HOURS LATER, Lord Dodson sat up suddenly in his leather chair, blinked the sleep out of his eyes and looked around at the familiar dark paneling of his study. He had dozed off reading a new biography of Lord Nelson. He muttered to himself. Sign of old age. Nelson's life was anything but boring.
A noise had jarred him from his slumber; he was sure of it. All was quiet now. Jenna, his housekeeper, had left a short while before. The house had no ghosts that he knew of, although it sometimes creaked and mumbled. He reached over and plucked his cold pipe from the ashtray and considered lighting it. Curiosity got the best of him. He replaced the pipe and put his book aside, rose from his chair, unlatched the front door and stepped out into the soft darkness.
Great luminous clouds were moving across the moon and stars peeked out here and there. There was no wind. With his hand, he stirred the wind chimes outside the door. No, he thought, the tinkling sound they made wasn't what had awakened him. He went back into the house. As he shut the door, he froze at the ragged cracking noise from the kitchen.
Had Jenna returned without his knowledge? Impossible. She was going to tend to a sick sister, and her family took precedence over work.
Dodson quietly went back into the study and removed the hunting rifle from above the fireplace. With trembling hands, he rummaged through a desk drawer until he found a box of shells. He loaded the rifle and made his way to the kitchen.
The light had been left on. He stepped inside, and his eyes went immediately to the broken window pane in the back door. The floor was littered with shards of glass. The sharp sound could have been someone walking on a broken piece of window. Burglars. Damned cheeky breaking into a house with somebody home. Dodson walked over to the door for a closer look. As he was bending over to examine the damage, he caught the reflection of movement in an unbroken pane.
He whirled around. A man had stepped out of the pantry, pistol in hand.
'Good evening, Lord Dodson,' the man said. 'Please give me your rifle.'
Dodson was cursing himself for not checking the pantry first. He lowered the rifle and handed it over. 'Who in the blazes are you and what are you doing here?'
'My name is Razov. I am the rightful owner of a valuable object that you have in your possession.'
'Then you've made a big mistake. Everything in this house is mine.'
The man's lips widened in a sardonic smile. 'Everything?”
Dodson hesitated. 'Yes.'
The man took a step closer. 'Come, Lord Dodson. It's not dignified for a proper English gentleman to be caught in a lie.”
'You'd better leave. I've called the police.'
'Tut-tut. Another lie. I cut your telephone line after I had a little chat with your housekeeper.'
'Jenna? Where is she?'
'In a safe place. For now. But if you don't start telling the truth, I will have to kill her.'
Dodson had no doubt the man meant what he said. 'All right. What is it that you want?'
'I think you know. The crown of Ivan the Terrible.'
'What makes you think I have this-what is it? Some sort of Russian crown, you say?'
'Don't try my patience with your futile bluff. When I failed to find the crown with the other tsarist treasure on the Odessa Star, I did what any experienced hunter does. I backtracked. The crown was with the tsar's family until they arrived in Odessa. But the tsarina had a premonition that she and her family would never complete their journey. She wanted to make sure that even if the family died, the crown would find its way to a surviving Romanov who would use it to reclaim the Russian throne. She entrusted the crown to an English agent.'
'That would have been long before my time.'
'Of course, but we both know that the agent was in the employ of your grandfather.'
Dodson started to protest, but he could see it was indeed futile. This man knew everything. 'The crown is nothing to me. If I give it to you, I must have your word that you will let my housekeeper go. She has no knowledge
