They shook hands on the deal. Austin said he would be there with the sun. He left before Kemal wanted to seal the agreement with another cup of raki. His head was spinning on the walk back to the Argo, though by the time he returned to the NUMA ship, the fresh air off the Bosporus had cleared away most of the alcoholic vapors. He went up to the bridge to see Captain Atwood, who was poring over some charts.

“How's the television star?” he asked.

“You've obviously heard about what a natural I am before the cameras,” Atwood replied. “Okay, I admit it,” he said, with a sheepish grin. “I had a good time filming with those crazy characters. My guess is that they'll edit out my pretty mug in favor of the lovely Miss Dorn.”

“Would you blame them?”

“Hell no! Not in a hundred years. I'm surprised you didn't make a move on the lady. Losing your touch?”

“My heart belongs only to NUMA,” Austin said, placing his hand on his chest. “Which brings up why I'm here. I'm going to need some help, no questions asked.”

The captain cocked his head. He had known Austin a long time and never knew the man to leave business of any sort unfinished.

“We'll do what we can, as long as it doesn't involve putting the Argo or its crew in jeopardy.”

“It won't. All I need is the loan of some gear.” Austin summarized his wish list and asked that the equipment be delivered to the Turgut. None of it would be a problem, the captain said. While Atwood ordered up the requested gear, Austin went to his cabin and plugged in his laptop computer. He called up a commercial satellite-imaging company off the Internet and requested photos of a location on the Russian coast of the Black Sea. He examined the photos closely, but wasn't surprised when nothing unusual popped out at him. The Soviets would not be advertising their secret base.

He punched out a number on his Globalstar phone. It was still early back in the States, but he knew from his days of working with the CIA that Sam Leahy would be in his office.

“How's the weather at Langley?” Austin said, when Leahy's brass-lunged voice came on the phone.

There was a pause. “You've got the wrong number, pal. If you're looking for a goddamn weather report, call the National Underwater and Marine Agency. Hell, I hear the smart alecks at NUMA know everything there is to know.”

“Almost everything, Sam. That's why I'm calling for your help.”

“I knew you'd come crawling back to the Company. Great hearing from you. How have you been, you old sea dog?”

“I'm fine. They still have you tied to a desk?”

“Not for long. Retirement is in six months. Then it's running fishing charters on the Chesapeake. I could use a first mate if you ever get tired of the Washington rat race.”