Hannah's gaze narrowed on Kirov's laptop screen, which was now divided into two distinct sections. One window featured a graphic representation of a GPS device, the other was littered with blue and white icons.

Kirov pointed to the icons. "These are the various destination coordinates still lurking in the GPS unit's memory."

"How were you able to do this on such short notice?"

"The Internet is a wonderful thing. I downloaded a recovery utility that people use when they accidentally delete addresses they need."

He double-clicked an icon, and a map appeared on the on-screen GPS device. "This is the Docklands area of London."

"Whoever owned this has been to that address?"

"Most likely." Kirov pulled up on online telephone directory and keyed in the address. "Club Oasis" came up on the screen.

Hannah nodded in recognition. "That's a dance club."

"Frequent the place, do you?"

"Some of the guys in my crew have been there. It wasn't easy getting them back to work after a night in that place."

"Fairly innocuous," Kirov said. "And we already know this man has a fondness for European pop music."

Kirov turned his attention back to the destination icons. One by one, he clicked them and checked the locations against his online telephone directory.

After he was finished, Hannah checked the notes she had taken. "Fourteen locations, all in either England, Scotland, or Ireland. All public addresses-restaurants, pubs, dance clubs, a racquet club. On their own, they don't mean very much."

"I agree. Perhaps we should just give it a rest until I hear something back about McClary."

"Fine." Hannah picked up the digital music player and earphones.

"What do you want with that?"

"Maybe it'll help me get to know the person who owns it better." She headed for the adjoining door. "Besides, I might like it. Just because you don't like anything recorded since 1970 doesn't mean I don't."

Static. Shrill, earsplitting static.

Hannah sat bolt upright in her bed and yanked out the earphones. At first she thought it was nothing more than the opening refrain of a bit of obnoxious techno pop, but there was no way this could be considered music. She had been listening to the player for over an hour, and while the songs certainly weren't to her taste, she didn't detest them the way Kirov did.

This number was entirely another matter.

She checked out the tiny LCD screen and saw that the song was entitled "Waterbridge." She held the earphones up and still heard only static. She jumped to the next tune and heard guitars, synth drums, and heavily processed vocals, just like almost every other song on the player.

Back to "Waterbridge." More static.

Then, nothing.

She looked at the LCD screen again. It now read: INVALID FILE.

Invalid file.

She went rigid. Christ almighty.

She picked up the phone and punched Kirov's extension. "Get your laptop and bring it down to my room. Now."

"I'll be there in three minutes."

Two minutes later Hannah opened her door to Kirov's knock. He was carrying his laptop and cables. "What is it?"

"You can set up the laptop on my desk."

He crossed the room to the desk. "The iPod?"

Hannah nodded. "We were on the right track, but concentrating on the wrong device. Upload the song 'Waterbridge' into your laptop and tell me what you get."

Kirov uploaded the file and double-clicked it. An "invalid or unknown file" error message came up on the screen. "That's strange," he murmured. "It has an MP3 extension, which would indicate it's an audio file."

"But it's not," Hannah said. "It was given an MP3 extension so that it could be downloaded to the music player and appear in the directory. We need to rename it."

"Rename it to what?" Kirov said.

"I don't know. I'll just start trying extensions and see what works."

Hannah sat next to Kirov and tried several of the more common file extensions, assignable to popular word-processing and graphic file formats. None opened the file.

Until she tried the.wmv extension.

"It's opening," Kirov said as the Windows Media Player appeared on the screen.

The video was a crudely animated map that showed a set of coordinates that Hannah quickly identified as a point off the New England coast.

The "camera" then plunged underwater to show four red cylinders at a depth reading of 1625 feet.

"What the hell is that?" she asked. "Is that what Pavski has been looking for?"

"I don't think so," Kirov said. "If he really knew the location, he wouldn't be bothering with the Silent Thunder, you, your brother, and with reinforcements from the motherland. This has to be something else."

"Like what?"

"I don't know." He stared at the crudely rendered red cylinders. "Those could represent training torpedoes we used during military exercises."

"Why would they be on the bottom of the ocean?"

"Actually, they were made to float. But it's possible that there's something placed inside to weigh them down."

"Do you think these may have been ejected from the Silent Thunder?" Hannah leaned back in her chair. "Something that can point the way to what they're looking for? Maybe what we want isn't on the sub at all."

The video repeated on the screen, and Kirov jotted down the coordinates. "Who knows? But if Pavski had this information over a week ago, he's probably recovered them by now."

Hannah studied the animatic as the underwater plunge repeated. "Maybe not. If this depth is correct, it would take some expensive equipment and a lot of expertise to do that. We might still have a chance."

"How? Unless you're willing to involve Bradworth and the resources of the U.S. government-"

"No way."

"You're thinking. I can see the wheels go round." He leaned back in his chair, and a small smile curved his lips. "It's a lovely thing to behold. How are we going to do this, Hannah?"

"Experts and expensive equipment," Hannah said. "In case you're forgetting, I am an expert. And as far as resources go, I have a few connections of my own."

By sundown, Hannah and Kirov were on a forty-foot rented fishing boat, heading toward the research vessel Aurora 125 miles off the Virginia coast. Kirov manned the wheel while Hannah stood beside him staring ahead at the 225-foot craft.

"Do you really think this is going to work?" Kirov asked.

"Who knows? If it doesn't, we'll try something else," Hannah said. "Captain Tanbury is a good guy, but he may be at the mercy of the researchers aboard. He says they're studying brine shrimp populations."

"Brine shrimp? You mean sea monkeys?"

Hannah chuckled. "Excellent pop culture reference. Did they advertise them on the back of comic books in Russia, too?"

"Not that I know of, but I've seen the packages in your country's souvenir shops, especially in coastal towns. It's ridiculous. Next they'll be packaging algae and selling it to children as pets."

"In any case, this is our best hope. My only other options are either too far away or too closely tied to military interests." She waved back at a man in a bright red shirt who was waving at her from the stern. "There's Tanbury now. I'm afraid you'll have to pretend to be a member of my crew again."

Kirov shrugged. "I'm getting used to being your lackey. As long as I don't catch you enjoying it too much."

"No promises," Hannah said, as they pulled alongside the Aurora and tossed mooring lines to the waiting deckhands.

A rope ladder flew over the side, and Captain Tanbury's round red face appeared above the railing. "Ahoy, Hannah Bryson. Have you come to rescue me?"

Hannah smiled as she and Kirov climbed the ladder. "Rescue you from what?"