Clive Cussler - Fire Ice

THE TWO-HOUR PASSAGE through the Bosporus was never dull. The narrow seventeen-mile waterway is considered the world's most dangerous strait. Captain At- wood threaded the Argo around tankers, ferries and passenger boats as he made the twelve course changes necessary during the final leg of the voyage. The strong current that ran from the Black Sea to the Sea of Marmara made life even more interesting. Those on board let out a collective sigh of relief as the survey ship passed the ferry terminals and cruise-ship docks to tie alongside a pier near the Galata Bridge.

From the ship, Austin watched the television crew stuff its gear into a cab. Kaela waved good-bye, and the cab headed away from the waterfront. He walked around the deck, taking in the view of the bridge guarding the mouth of the Golden Horn, and the sprawling Topkapi Palace built for Sultan Mehmet II in the 1400s. In the distance he could see the minarets of the Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque.

He went back to his cabin and caught up on paperwork, then showered and exchanged his shorts and sweatshirt for casual slacks and a light cotton sweater. Near dinnertime, he walked down the gangway and made his way to the street to look for a cab. A taxi pulled up beside him. It was a vintage Chevrolet, circa 1950s. There were passengers in the car, which identified it as a dolmus, meaning "stuffed" in Turkish. Unlike the regular cabs, these taxis crammed in as many passengers as they could fit.

Austin got into the backseat with two other passengers who made space between them. A heavyset man sat on a jump seat and a fifth passenger occupied the front seat next to the meter. Austin told the driver to take him to the Taksim Square. He had visited Istanbul several times on NUMA assignments and knew the city fairly well. When the cab went a roundabout route, Austin thought it was simply to accommodate the other passengers. But nobody got off. The cab started to head away from Taksim Square and, suspecting the driver was trying to jack up the fare, Austin leaned forward and asked him where he was going.

The driver stared silently ahead, but the man in the front seat turned around. He had a wide, brutish face that even a mother couldn't love. Austin's eyes lingered on the passenger's features for only a second before shifting to the gun in the man's hand.

"Silence!" the man growled. The men sitting next to Austin pulled him back by the shoulders. A long-bladed knife pointed at his right eye. The cab accelerated at neck-snapping speed, exited from the traffic stream and plunged into a dark maze of narrow cobblestone lanes.

They headed away from the waterfront, skirting Karakoy and the police squads who monitored the official red-light district. Austin glanced longingly at the restaurant lights at the top of Galata Tower. Then the taxi was moving along the Istikal Caddesi, weaving in and out of traffic, past the nightclubs, movie theaters and unregulated brothels that lined the gaudy strip. The cab spun off the main drag and climbed a hill into Bozoglu, where all the old European embassies were housed during the Ottoman Empire, and executed a series of squealing turns.

The car stayed upright despite the protesting tires, which told Austin that the driver was a professional who knew the limits of his vehicle. There had been no attempt to blindfold Austin, and he wondered if this meant he had a one-way ticket to oblivion. As the car continued to hook left and right through the urban warren, he concluded that a blindfold was unnecessary; he didn't have a clue where he was.

The fact that they hadn't killed him offered slim solace. He knew instinctively that these men would not hesitate to use the weapons they had brandished in his face. After several minutes, during which the city lights faded to a glow, the car whipped down a darkened, garbage-strewn street and into an alley not much wider than the vehicle. Austin's companions hustled him from the taxi and stood him against a brick wall while they bound his hands behind his back with duct tape. Then they pushed him through a doorway along a dim hall and into the lobby of an old office building. Grime covered the marble floor. On one wall was a brass floor directory black with the patina of age. The smell of onions and the muffled cry of a baby indicated that the office building was being used for human habitation. Probably squatters, Austin surmised.

His escorts nudged Austin into an elevator and stood behind him. They were hulking men, as big or brawnier than Austin, who had never considered himself to be a pigmy. The space was cramped, and Austin stood with his face pressed against the cold wrought iron of the ornate gate. He guessed that the elevator must date back to the time of the sultans. He tried not to think of frayed and neglected cables as the elevator slowly jerked and rattled up to the third and last floor. The elevator was more nerve-wracking than the speeding car. The elevator cracked to a stop, and one of his escorts growled in his ear.

"Out!" He stepped into a dark hallway. One man grabbed the back of Austin's shirt in a bunch, used it to steer him for- ward and brake him to an abrupt stop. A door opened, and he was maneuvered inside. There was the odor of old paper and oil from long-ago business machines. He felt pressure upon his shoulders, then the edge of a chair bumped against the back of his knees. He sat down and squinted into the darkness. A spotlight flashed on, and Austin saw sunspots as the glare hit him in the face. He blinked like a suspect being given the third degree in an old gangster movie.

A voice speaking in English came from behind the spotlight.

"Welcome, Mr. Austin. Thank you for coming." Something about the voice sounded familiar, but he couldn't place it.

"It was an invitation I couldn't resist."

A dry chuckle issued from the darkness. "The years haven't changed you, have they?"

"Do I know you?" A memory clawed at the back of Austin's mind like a cat scratching softly at the door.

"I'm hurt that you don't remember me. I wanted to thank you in person for the lovely bouquet of flowers you sent to hasten my convalescence. I believe you signed the card with the name of John Doe."

Austin was stunned. "I'll be damned!" he said, with a curious mixture of delight and foreboding. "Ivan!"

THE SPOTLIGHT SNAPPED off and a portable table lamp came on, illuminating the face of a man in his forties. He had a broad forehead and high cheekbones and would have been handsome if not for the massive scar defacing his right cheek.

"Don't be alarmed, Mr. Austin," Petrov said. "I'm not the Phantom of the Opera."

Austin's mind flashed back fifteen years to the Barents Sea. He remembered the frigid waters penetrating his heated dry suit as he activated the timer on two hundred pounds of explosives. It was a miracle the Russian was still alive.

"Sorry about the booby trap, Ivan. Can't say I didn't warn you to stay clear."

"No apology necessary. Simply a misfortune of war." He paused, then said, "I've wondered something for long time. Suppose our places had been reversed. Would you have listened to a warning from me?"

After a moment's reflection, Austin said, "I might have assumed, like you, that the warning was a diversion. I'd like to think discretion would have won over valor, but I can't say for sure. It was a long time ago."

"Yes, it was a very long time ago." Petrov's lips widened in a sad smile. "Obviously, discretion did not rule over my youthful impatience. I was impetuous in those days. Don't worry; I bear you no animosity for the fruits of my own foolishness. I would have killed you long ago if I thought you were entirely to blame. As I said, c'est la guerre. In a sense you are as disfigured as I am, only you can't see the scars that cover your heart. The war made hard men out of both of us."