“Amen.” Hanley pointed at Cabrillo’s dinner. “Are you going to eat that?”

Cabrillo pulled the plate closer. “Actually, I am. I’m starved. You can have my wine if you want.”

Max went around the bar to retrieve two fresh icy shot glasses from the fridge and refilled them from the bottle of Stoli. “Pass.”

“Misha knows his life isn’t worth a plug nickel,” Juan said as he dipped a spoon into his chili.

“We discussed that. He knew the score and is already on the move. He says he has a bolt-hole someplace in Africa where Kenin will never find him.”

Cabrillo nodded noncommittally. He knew of dozens of dead or jailed fugitives who thought they’d never be found. But Kasporov wasn’t his responsibility. “Any word from Linda?”

Linda Ross was the Oregon’s number three. An elfish woman who had hit the glass ceiling in the Navy, she was currently on another assignment with one of the Corporation’s regular clients.

“She and the Emir have left Monaco on his yacht and are en route to Bermuda.”

The Emir of one of the United Arab Emirates insisted that he travel with members of the Corporation whenever he left his native land even though he was always accompanied by a virtual army of bodyguards. Usually he insisted that the Oregon shadow his 300-foot mega-yacht, Sakir, but the ship was needed to rescue Yuri, so he’d been mollified by having Linda as his traveling companion.

Max went on, “We’ll have no trouble catching up with them once we clear some of the ice still floating around up here.”

When Juan converted the Oregon into the hybrid warship/intelligence-gathering vessel she was today, the modifications included the ability to break through ice nearly three feet thick. However, in these northern waters, drifting bergs posed the most serious threat, and the Oregon, even with her armored sides, could be torn open as easily as the Titanic by a glancing blow. It wouldn’t be until they were clear of the danger that they could open the taps on the most powerful engines afloat. Her revolutionary magnetohydrodynamic engines could push the ship through the water at a rate not much below some offshore power racers.

“Is the Emir behaving himself?” Juan asked with fatherly concern.

“He’s eighty. Linda says apart from a few perfunctory passes, he reminds her of her grandfather.” Max had a bulldog face, a canvas of a lifetime of experiences writ large. Suddenly his jowls seemed to grow and his brow furled until it was corduroyed. “Something tells me that Linda’s going to be on her own for a while longer, yes?”

“Not sure,” Juan said, tearing a hunk of crusty, chili-soaked bread from the boule and popping it in his mouth. “Just before Yuri died, he implicated Admiral Pytor Kenin—”

“No surprise there,” Max interrupted.

“No,” Juan agreed. “Kenin is behind the frame-up, but I don’t think that’s what Yuri was talking about.”

“What, then?”

“He mentioned the Aral Sea and someone named Petrovski. Karl Petrovski.”

Max leaned back into his barstool, his bullet head cocked to the side. “Never heard of him.”

“Me neither. Then Yuri said something like ‘eerie boat.’”

“Eerie boat?”

“Eerie boat. Don’t ask. I have no idea. But his last word was ‘Tesla.’”

“As in Nikola?”

“I have to assume so. The Serbian inventor who basically created the modern electrical grid.”

“And a heck of a lot more,” Hanley added. “Everyone knows about Thomas Edison and his contributions to modern society, but few have ever heard of Tesla. Well, apart from the new electric sports car named after him. Tesla was an über-genius. Some of his ideas—”

Juan cut him off, a classic case of who knew more about what. “I saw a documentary on cable about how Edison tried to convince people that his DC theory was safer than Tesla’s alternating current by electrocuting elephants in New York City.”

“This was the dawn of a new age,” Max said. “The stakes couldn’t have been higher.”

“But, come on. Electrocuting elephants to prove a point?”

“In the end, showmanship did pay off, in a way. AC won out over Edison’s DC system, yet we all know Edison’s name, and Tesla remains a footnote in history. Sometimes history favors the activist more than the activity.

“So where does this leave us?”

“Trondheim,” Juan replied.

“Excuse me?”

“Trondheim, Norway. I need to get to the Aral Sea as soon as possible. I assume Trondheim is the closest city with an airport. You can drop me off on the way to the North Sea, and eventually the Atlantic and Bermuda.”

Max took in Juan’s suggestion for a second, his jaw drooping. When he spoke, he chose his words very carefully. “Eerie boat. Aral Sea. Karl Petrovski.” He waited a beat. “You see a connection?”

“No. I don’t. But Yuri did.” Cabrillo wiped his mouth with his napkin and set it on the bar next to his mostly cleared plate. He crossed to his desk phone, checked his watch, and dialed an extension. He found Eric Stone in his cabin as he’d expected.

“What’s up, Chairman?” Stone was another Navy veteran, but an R and D guy, not a blue water sailor.

“Is Mark with you?” Stone and Mark Murphy were practically conjoined twins.

“Yeah, we’re moderating a debate on the Net between Hunger Games fans.”

Cabrillo was vaguely aware those were a series of books and movies but had no idea what they were about or how two of his crewmen could be involved in an online debate. Nor did he particularly care. But Eric added, “Mark got his masters with the studio wonk charged with Internet promotions.”

“You have my sympathies.”

“We need them. I had forgotten how catty teenage girls can be, and they use language that certainly makes this sailor blush.”

“I need you two to do some digging for me. First, though, I want you to book me the fastest flight from Trondheim to the airport closest to the Aral Sea.”

“That would be Uralsk Airport in Kazakhstan,” Eric interjected.

How Stone retained such arcane information was a mystery to Cabrillo, but it made him one of the best researchers in the business. “Next, I want you to dig up everything you can find on a Karl Petrovski.” Cabrillo spelled it out for him. “That name won’t be too uncommon, so concentrate on anyone connected to the Aral Sea, Admiral Pytor Kenin, or Nikola Tesla.”

“I get Kenin’s name thrown into the mix, he’s the guy behind Yuri Borodin’s arrest. But what does Tesla have to do with anything?”

“Haven’t a clue, but it was the last thing Yuri said before he died.”

Eric paused to absorb this information. “I’m sorry, Juan. Mark and I knew he’d been hit but we didn’t know he died.”

“You guys are off duty and couldn’t have known.”

“Just so you understand, with the sea state and all, I won’t have an ETA into Trondheim for at least twelve hours.”

“I know. Do your best.” Cabrillo hung up and rejoined Hanley at the bar. He accepted another shot of vodka.

“What’s your gut telling you?” Max asked.

“One, that if I do too many more of these,” he downed the drink, “I’m going to feel it in the morning.”

“And two?”

“The timing of Yuri’s jailing wasn’t coincidental. I think he discovered something about Admiral Kenin and that something has to do with Nikola Tesla and the Aral Sea.”

“But what?”

“Until Stoney and Murph come up with some information, I have no idea. But because Yuri died passing this on to me, I intend to find out.”

Those who knew Juan Cabrillo understood that when his mind was set on a task, there wasn’t much in the world that would stop him. And anyone who tried would come to understand the true nature of determination.

The boat was rigged for ultraquiet. They were fifteen miles off California, and there was an American Coast Guard cutter cruising lazily on its way south to San Diego. The cutter was less than four miles away, and while the submarine wasn’t actively pinging with her sonar, her crew couldn’t afford being detected. Though they were in international waters, the presence of a diesel-powered attack submarine so close to the American coast would bring a swift and deadly response.