Clive Cussler - Fire Ice

"I recall hearing that the Cold War is over. I have a suggestion. Why not ask your friends to give us a lift to the bar at the Palace Hotel? We can talk about old times over a drink."

"In time, Mr. Austin. In time. We have a matter of grave importance to discuss." Petrov's voice had gained a businesslike edge, and his eyes drilled into Austin's face. "I would like to know what you were doing at the abandoned Soviet submarine base on the Black Sea."

"Seems I was naive to think our brief visit went unnoticed."

"Not at all. It's a desolate part of the coast. Under normal circumstances, you could have landed a division of Marines without detection. We've kept the area under surveillance for months, but we were caught off guard. We know from intercepted radio messages that you landed some sort of air- craft and that the NUMA ship came in to pick you up. Please tell me what you were doing on Russian territory. Take your time. I'm in no hurry."

"I'll be glad to fill you in." Austin squirmed in his chair. "It might help my memory if I weren't sitting on my wrists. How about loosening the tape?"

Petrov thought briefly, then nodded. "I consider you a dangerous man, Mr. Austin. Please don't try anything foolish."

Petrov gave a sharp order in Russian. Someone came up from behind. Austin felt a cold blade against his wrists and the tape was severed in a single swipe.

"Now for your story, Mr. Austin."

Austin massaged the circulation back into his arms. "I was on the NUMA survey ship Argo, conducting a study of wave action in the Black Sea. Three American television people were supposed to rendezvous with our ship, but they had heard about the old sub base before they sailed from Istanbul, and decided to check it out without notifying us of their change in plans. They were overdue and I went looking for them. Some men on shore murdered a Turkish fisherman who was bringing the TV people to shore, and attempted to kill them, too."

"Tell me about these killers."

"There were about a dozen of them, on horseback, and wearing Cossack uniforms. They even carried swords and old rifles – really old."

"Then what happened?"

Austin laid out a detailed narrative of the fight. Petrov listened impassively, although from his experience with Austin's resourcefulness, he was not surprised at the way the battle had ended.

"An ultralight," Petrov said, with a chuckle. "An ingenious tactic using your flare gun."

Austin shrugged. "I was lucky. They were using antique weapons. Otherwise my story would not have a happy Hollywood ending."

"You couldn't have known from the air that they were using old rifles. I assume you must have landed."

"In a manner of speaking. Old or not, those rifles made a sieve out of my plane's wings. I crash-landed on the beach."

"What did you see besides the weapons? Every detail, please."

"We found the body of one of the attackers behind the sand dune."

"He was dressed like the others?"

"That's right. Fur hat, baggy pants. I found this on one of them." He reached into his pocket and dug out the emblem he had taken from the dead Cossack's hat.

Petrov studied the pin without expression and passed it to one of his men. "Go on," he said.

"After I confirmed that the TV people were okay, I called my ship in. They picked us up, and we left as soon as we were able."

"We found no evidence of a body or weapons," Petrov said. "I don't know what happened to the body. Maybe his friends came back after we left, and tidied up. We took the weapons with us."

"That's larceny, Mr. Austin."

"I prefer to call it spoils of war."

Petrov dismissed Austin's reply with a wave of his hand. "No matter. What of this television crew? Did they film any of this?"

"They were too busy running for their lives. They filmed the body, but without an explanation I doubt if they can do much with it."

"I hope for their sake that you are right."

"Let me ask you a question if I may, Ivan."

"I'm the one asking the questions."

"I'm aware of that, but it's the least you can do in return for the beautiful flowers I sent you."

"I've already repaid your kind gesture with one of my own. I didn't kill you. But go ahead. I'll allow one question."

"What the hell is this all about?"

A slight smile tweaked the ends of Petrov's lips, and he picked up the cigarette pack in front of him. Extracting a cigarette with great care, he put it between his lips, lit the end and blew the smoke from his nostrils. The strong tobacco smell filled the office and drove out the musty odor.

"What do you know about the current political situation in Russia?"

"What I read in the papers. It's no secret that your country has big problems. Your economy is shaky, organized crime and corruption are worse than Chicago under Capone, your military is underpaid and unhappy, your health care system is a mess and you've got independence movements and civil wars nibbling around your borders. But you've got an educated and energetic workforce and abundant natural resources. If you don't keep shooting yourself in the foot, you may come out okay, but it will take time."

"A reasonably accurate summary of a complicated scenario. Ordinarily I would say you are right, that we would muddle through. Our people are used to adversity. Thrive on it, in fact. But there are forces at work that are much more powerful than anything we have talked about."

"What sort of forces?"

"The worst kind. Human passions, whipped into a fiery nationalism by the winds of cynicism, dismay and hopelessness."

"You've had nationalist movements before."

"True, but we've managed to marginalize them, blackmail the proponents or demonize them as eccentric cranks before they could build up their cause and bring others into it. This is different. The new movement has sprung whole from the steppes of south Russia along the Black Sea where the neo-Cossacks live."

"Cossacks? Like the crew I met the other day?"

"That's right. The Cossacks were originally outlaws and fugitives, nomads who drifted into south Russia and the Ukraine, where they formed a loose federation. They were known for their horsemanship, a skill that helped Peter the Great defeat the Ottoman Turks. In time they evolved into a military class. Cossacks served as an elite cavalry for the tsars, who used them to terrorize revolutionaries, strikers and minority groups."

"Then came the Bolshevik revolution, the tsar fell and the Cossacks ended up driving cabs in Paris," Austin observed.

"Not all were so lucky. Some joined the Bolsheviks, others became staunch defenders of the last of Imperial Russia, even after the tsar and his family were assassinated. Stalin tried to neutralize or eliminate them, but he was only partially successful. To this day, the Cossacks are a warrior caste who believe that they embody the glories of a pure Mother Russia. There is a word for it. Kazachestvo. Cossackism. The idea that they are the ones chosen by a Higher Power to dominate inferior races."

Austin was getting restless. "The Cossacks aren't the first to think they were chosen to set the rest of the world straight. History is full of groups that have come and gone, leaving a high body count behind them."

"True. The difference is that those groups are chapters in a history book, while the Cossacks and their blind faith are very much alive." He leaned forward onto the desk and leveled his gaze at Austin. "Russia has become a violent place, and violence is the life's blood of the Cossack. There has been a great revival of Kazachestvo. Neo-Cossacks have taken over parts of Russian territory around the Black Sea. They ignore the Moscow government, knowing that it is weak and toothless. They have formed private armies and hired out as mercenaries. Their audacity has captured the loyalty of many Russians who tired quickly of capitalism and freedom. Many in parliament and the streets yearn for a reactionary nationalism that would restore the glories of Russia. There are pure Cossack units in the Russian army with their own costumes and ranks. They have declared a New Russia around the Black Sea and are expanding into other areas, seven million strong. That pin you found is the emblem of their movement. It shows the sun in a new dawn for Russia."