Clive Cussler: Fire Ice

"Stop, Razov!" Austin shouted. "It's no use."

The crackle of broken branches came from ahead as Razov crashed through the bushes bordering the river. They heard a splash. Austin and Zavala followed the sound until they stood on the grassy bank that rose a few feet above the river. Razov was trying to ford the river, but had only made it a few yards from shore before his feet became encased in the soft bottom mud. He had tried to scramble back to land without success. Now he stood in the water waist deep, facing the bank, the crown still clutched in his arms.

"I can't move," he said.

Austin remembered Dodson's warning of quicksand. He found a limb broken off a tree and extended it toward Razov. "Grab this."

Razov was sinking almost to his armpits, yet he made no effort to reach for the branch.

"Drop the damned crown!" Austin yelled.

"No, I've waited too long. I won't let it go."

"It's not worth your life," Austin said.

The water had reached Razov's chin, and his reply was unintelligible. He lifted the crown high and placed it on his head. The weight only served to push him under the surface more quickly. His face disappeared until only the crown was visible, seemingly floating on the water, its surface glittering with a silver fire. Then it, too, disappeared.

"Dios mio," Zavala said, reverting to his native Spanish. "What a way to go."

They heard a huffing and puffing. Dodson had retrieved his rifle and ran toward them with a flashlight.

"Where is that scoundrel?" Dodson asked.

"There." Austin threw the useless branch into the river where Razov had disappeared. "The crown, too."

"Dear God," Dodson said. He pointed his light at the brown, muddy water. Only a few bubbles marked Razov's position and soon they, too, were swept away by the slow-moving current.

"Long live the tsar," Austin said.

Then he turned and walked back to the house.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

AUSTIN ROWED IN the misty golden light, so intent on his strokes that he barely noticed the powerboat that crossed the river until it took up a position behind him. Austin stopped and the boat did the same. He wiped the sweat off his forehead, took a pull from his plastic water bottle and rested on his oar handles, squinting against the glare. As he gazed back at the unmoving boat, Austin began to wonder if life still pulsed in a stray tentacle of Razov's vast organization.

As a test, he started to row. He had only taken a few strokes before the boat stirred and followed him again, keeping an even distance. He let the scull coast to a halt. The powerboat stopped again.

A quick glance up and down the river told Austin he was on his own. The river was empty of boats, which was why he rowed so early. Austin set the scull into a wide easy turn and pointed the needle-sharp bow back the way he had come. He picked up the pace, keeping in mind that rowing was more technical precision than power. As he drew nearer, he saw that the boat had a white hull, although he couldn't tell how many people were aboard. He pulled harder, and the scull shot toward the boat with the unerring accuracy of a cruise missile.

He was nearing a section of shoreline that bulged into the Potomac like a beer gut. Austin knew that the current flowing near the knob of land described a peculiar curlicue that could suck an unwary boater in close to land before spitting him out. Although his rowing created a straight-line illusion, he was actually being drawn closer to the bulge.

On his next stroke, Austin kept one oar out of the water and used the other as an impromptu rudder. The scull veered suddenly and he finessed the abrupt change in direction without overturning, pointing the scull toward land. He heard the angry buzz of the outboard motor.

He had hoped to catch the watcher off-guard and hadn't expected such a swift reaction. The powerboat quickly rose up on plane. Austin saw he'd never make shore and that he'd be at his most vulnerable, broadside to the approaching boat. He jettisoned his original plan, did another quick turn and sent the scull directly toward the fast-approaching powerboat. The boat was slightly shorter than the scull, but seen from water level it seemed to loom like the QE2. Any collision with the arrow-slim scull would be as devastating as an encounter with an ocean liner. Austin hoped that the boat would veer off at the last moment, or at the worst, that the hulls would come together with a glancing blow. Just when they seemed about to collide, he hoisted one oar on his shoulder as if preparing to throw a javelin, and braced himself.

The motorboat throttled back, came off plane and settled down in the water, where hull resistance brought it almost to a stop a few feet away. Austin heard a familiar barking laugh and looked up to see Petrov's cold-chiseled face looking down at him. The Russian was wearing a baseball cap and a Hawaiian shirt with palm trees and bikini-clad women on it.

Austin replaced the oar in its outrigger. His heart was still thumping in his chest. "Hello, Ivan. I was wondering when you'd show up again. How'd you know I'd be out here?"

Petrov shrugged.

Austin smiled and said, "You might be interested to know that I checked into your dossier. Seems you've only become – Ivan Petrov in the last couple of years."

"As the poet said, what's in a name?"

"When do you leave for home?"

"Tomorrow. Your president has turned the tsar's treasure over to my country. I'll be returning to Russia as a hero. There's even talk of political office. With the disappearance of Razoy, his Cossack forces are in disarray and the moderates have a chance of staying in power."

"Congratulations. You deserve it."

"Thank you, but to be honest, can you really see me sitting in the parliament?"

"Guess not, Ivan," Austin said. "You'll always be a man of the shadows."

"Do you blame me? It's where I belong and where I'm the most comfortable."

"Maybe you could answer a couple of questions before you take on your next identity. Was Razov really descended from the tsar?"

"That's what he was told from his father's deathbed. When he met Boris, the mad monk saw it as a marriage made in heaven. We have definite proof that Boris was directly descended from Rasputin."

"The original mad monk?" Petrov nodded.

Austin shook his head in amazement. "And Razov?"

"His father was ill, advised. The village priest who kept the family records was a bit of a drunkard. He had heard the story of the tsar's daughter surviving, and used it to pry vodka money from Razov's father."

"So there were no descendants from Maria."

"I didn't say that." Petrov's lips widened in an enigmatic smile.

Austin raised an eyebrow.

"The Grand Duchess Maria had two descendants who are still living. A man and a woman. I've talked to both of them. They are happy in their lives and aware of the repercussions that would result if they revealed themselves. I will respect their wish for privacy. Now I have a question. How did you know Razov was headed to see Lord Dodson?"

"We searched his yacht and found some papers indicating that the crown had been sent to Dodson's grandfather. We hopped a NUMA jet to England. Razov was traveling alone, luckily. I don't think he wanted anyone to know he had to steal the crown. Sorry we couldn't save it."

"Don't be. It's probably better off where it is. If ever an inanimate object harbored a malignancy, that was it. Every one of those jewels was paid for with the blood and sweat of the serfs." Petrov watched a hawk making a lazy circle over the river and said, "Well, Mr. Austin – "

"Kurt. We're beyond formalities."

Petrov saluted. "Until we meet again, Kurt." He kicked up the throttle and raced down the river until the boat disappeared around a curve. Austin resumed his rowing and was back at the boathouse in a few minutes. He stowed the scull and climbed the stairs that took him to the main level. Stripping down to his shorts, he made a fresh pot of Jamaican coffee and gathered the ingredients for a gourmet breakfast.