The only sign of life for a hundred miles was the thin wisps of smoke that coiled from the ships’ funnels to provide heat and warm food for the workers.

Savich looked out to sea. A trawler was returning to the site, its wake a fat wedge, for she ran low under the weight of her catch.

With the ship’s bunkers full of fuel, fresh water available from a nearby glacial river, and food provided by a pair of trawlers, the site could remain self-sufficient for months, perhaps years. He was rightly proud of his accomplishment, but then he’d had half a lifetime to refine every detail.

All except one, Savich thought grimly. There was one obstacle he hadn’t been able to easily overcome, a commodity the site used up at a voracious pace and was the most difficult to replace.

Federov had radioed ahead, so the site manager was at the helipad to greet Savich when he stepped from the chopper into the biting cold wind. It was May, but the arctic circle was only four hundred miles north.

“Welcome back, Anton,” greeted Jan Paulus, a broadly built South African mine engineer.

The two shook hands and headed for a waiting four-wheel-drive. “Do you want to go see the workings?” Paulus asked, putting the truck in gear.

Savich had seen that aspect of the project just once and never wanted to repeat the experience. “No. Let’s go to your office. I have a decent bottle of Scotch in my bag.” The Russian didn’t much care for his site manager but knew he had to keep the man happy. Of course, Paulus’s five million dollar salary did more for their relationship than the occasional drink.

The three ships they’d brought north and beached below the site were all old cruise liners that Shere Singh had provided through his ship-breaking business. Though past their prime, they were functional and served Savich’s needs perfectly. Paulus had ensconced himself in the Ambassador Suite of a 380-foot cruise ship that had once plied the Aegean.

The gold and blue décor had once been considered chic, but the carpets were worn and scarred with cigarette burns, the furniture scuffed, and the fixtures tarnished. Savich used the bathroom and when he flushed, a god-awful stench erupted from the toilet. His image in the mirror appeared sepia because the glass had lost much of its backing.

Paulus was seated on the couch in the suite’s living room when Savich returned. He’d already filled two tumblers with the Russian’s Scotch. “There was an accident on one of the drydocks.”

Savich paused in mid-sip. “Which one?”

“The Maus. Two of your Spetsnaz commandos decided to ignore procedure and walk across the tarp covering the hold. The fabric gave way, and both fell to their deaths.”

The Russian took a sip of his drink. “Any sign they were, ah, helped?”