Fire Ice

"What are the commercial applications?" Gamay said.

Orlov started to pour himself more vodka, thought better of it and pushed the bottle aside. "The potential is enormous. The deposits around the world possibly hold more energy than all the other fossilized fuels combined."

"You see it as a replacement for oil and gas, then?"

"No less than Scientific American called it the 'fuel of the future.' It could be worth trillions, which is why so many people are interested in its extraction. The technical problems are formidable, though. The substance is unstable and quickly decomposes once it is removed from conditions of extreme depth and pressure. But whoever controls the process may control the future energy supply of the world. Ataman is in the forefront of the exploration and research," Orlov said. His wide brow wrinkled in a worried furrow. "Which is not good."

"Why not?" Paul asked.

"Ataman is owned in its entirety by an ambitious businessman named Mikhail Razov."

"He must be fabulously wealthy," Gamay said.

"It goes beyond riches. Razov is a complex man. While he keeps his business dealings shrouded in secret, his public persona looms quite large in Russia. He has been outspoken in his criticism of the way things are being run in Moscow, and has gained a substantial cult following."

"A tycoon with political ambitions is not unusual, even in the United States," Gamay said. "We've often elected rich men as governors, senators, presidents."

"Well, God help us if we put someone like Razov in power. He's a nationalist zealot who talks only of restoring the good old days."

"I thought communism was dead."

"Oh, it is, only to be replaced by another form of oligarchy. Razov believes Russia achieved its greatest glories under the rule of the tsars: Peter the Great, Ivan the Terrible. He's not clear on the specifics, which is what frightens many people. He says only that he wants to see the spirit; of the old empire embodied in the New Russia."

"Guys like him come and go," Paul said.

"I hope so, but this time I'm not so sure. He has a magnetic quality, and his simplistic message has struck a chord in my poor country."

"Is Ataman a city or region?" Gamay asked.

Orlov smiled. "It's a Russian term for a Cossack chieftain. Razov is a Cossack by birth, so I suppose he fancies himself as the company's chief. He spends most of his time on a magnificent yacht. It's called the Kazachestvo. Loosely translated, it stands for Cossackism, the whole bloody chest-thumping exercise. You should see it! A floating palace a few miles from here." Orlov displayed his gold teeth. "But enough of politics. We have more pleasant things to talk about. First, I must excuse myself. I have some unavoidable work I must attend to. It will take only an hour or two, then I will be completely free. In the meantime, you might like to sun yourself on the beach."

"I'm sure we can find something to do."

"Splendid." He got up, shook hands with Trout and embraced Gamay. "I will see you back here later this afternoon and we will talk all night." The middle-aged couple also took their leave and the Trouts were alone. Paul suggested that they inspect the beach.

The deep blue sea was a short walk from the camp. A lone swimmer was paddling around about a hundred feel out. The beach was stony and not conducive to sun bathing, and the metal beach chairs were as hot as grills to the touch.

While Gamay looked for a place to stretch out, Paul walked down the beach. He came back a few minutes later.

"I found something interesting," he said, and led the way around a bend, where a powerboat was drawn up on shore. The white paint was peeling on the wooden hull, but the boat looked sound enough. The outboard motor was a Yamaha in good condition and there was gas in the tank.

Gamay read her husband's mind. "Are you thinking of taking a spin?"

Trout shrugged and glanced off at a young man of college age who was coming out of the water. "Let's ask this guy if it's okay."

They went over to the swimmer, who had come to shore and was toweling himself dry. When they said hello, the young man smiled. "You're the Americans?"

Paul nodded and introduced himself and Gamay.

"My name is Yuri Orlov," the Russian said. "You know my father. I'm a student at the university." He spoke English with an American accent.

They shook hands all around. Yuri was tall and gangling, about twenty years old, with a shock of straw-colored hair over his forehead and big blue eyes magnified by horn-rimmed glasses.

"We were wondering if it would be possible to take a spin in the boat," Paul said.

"No problem," Yuri said, beaming. "Anything for friends of my father."

He pushed the boat out to where the water was deeper and gave the cord a pull. The motor coughed, but didn't start. "This motor has an attitude," he said in apology. He rubbed his hands together, then adjusted the fuel mixture and tried again. This time, the motor sputtered and snarled before smoothing out. The Trouts got in the boat and Yuri gave it a push, jumped aboard and pointed the boat out to sea.

15

AUSTIN'S EYES TOOK a few seconds to adjust to the dimness. The pungent fragrance of incense evoked the image of an ancient Byzantine chapel in a monastery he had visited high on a hill at Mystra, overlooking the Greek city of Sparti. Gaslight flickered in brass lanterns of ornate gold and stained glass that were set into sconces in rough plaster walls covered with brilliantly painted icons. The vaulted ceiling was reinforced with thick wooden ribs. A high-backed chair faced an altar at the far end of the room.

They moved in for a closer look. The altar was draped with a dark purple cloth stitched in gold with the letter R. On top of the altar was a smoking incense burner. Set in the wall above the altar was a lamp whose yellow light illuminated a large black-and-white photograph in an ornate gold frame.

Seven people were pictured in the photograph. From the facial resemblance they shared, the two adults and five young people appeared to be posing for a family portrait. Standing on the left side was a bearded man wearing a military-style visored cap and a ceremonial military uniform trimmed with fancy piping. Medals adorned his chest.

A thin, pale-faced young boy in a sailor suit stood in front of the man. Next to the boy were three girls in their teens and another girl slightly younger, all gathered around a seated middle-aged woman. The children's features combined their father's wide forehead and the broad face of their mother. In the foreground was a low column like those used for museum display. Resting on top of it was a magnificent crown.

The crown was massive and obviously not designed to be worn for very long. It was heavily encrusted with rubies, diamonds and emeralds. Even in the black-and-white photograph, the gemstones crowding the surface glittered as if they were on fire. A two-headed gold eagle surmounted the globe.

"That little bauble must be worth something," Zavala said. He leaned closer and studied the somber faces. "They look so unhappy."

"They could have had a premonition of what awaited them," Austin said. He ran his hand over the embroidered altar cover. "R as in Romanov." He glanced around the funereal chamber. "This is a shrine to the memory of Tsar Nicholas II and his family. The boy in the picture would have been in line to wear that crown if he and his family hadn't been murdered."