Fire Ice

Kaela raised an eyebrow, suddenly remembering the name. "The only one they're likely to match you with is Roy Orbison."

"I'll remember that in case someone wants my autograph. Now that I've passed inspection, how are you?"

"I'm fine, Kurt. It's good to see you again."

"I'm hoping after business hours we can pick up where we left off."

"I'd like that," she said, with a flirtatious tilt of her head. "I'd like that very much."

Kaela wore a taupe pantsuit whose silky folds emphasized the curves of her body. Austin found himself being drawn in again by her exotic looks. With great effort, he put a lid on his amorous thoughts. For now, anyway.

"Then it's a date. Cocktails at the Ritz Bar." He looked around at the milling crowds of men and women dressed for the black-tie affair. "Ready to crash the party?"

Kaela hung a plastic laminated ill card around his neck. "From now on, you're Hank Simpson, our sound man. It should be easy to fake, Dundee's job was mostly hauling equipment around and holding a mike boom. I'll help you set up. Mickey is going to meet us at the press boat. Just grab those cases and play dumb."

"Dumb I can do," Austin said. Snatching up the heavy metal suitcases as if they were feathers, he followed Kaela to a section of the pier where a PRESS sign had been nailed onto a piling. An open launch was coming in to pick up the next load of journalists.

The short, stocky figure of Mickey Lombardo came trotting over with a steadi-cam on his shoulder. "I got some great shots of the Ke

Austin held his finger up to his lips and glanced around.

"Oh, yeah, I forgot," Lombardo said, lowering his voice to a stage whisper. "By the way, I like your taste in clothes." Like Austin, Mickey himself was dressed almost all in black.

"If anybody asks, tell them we're the Blues Brothers," Austin suggested.

"Hate to interrupt your reunion, boys, but our ride is here," Kaela said.

Austin picked up the sound-equipment cases and loaded them into the launch. The seats in the boat were set up in rows like a bus. Kaela sat between her two crewmen. Within minutes, the boat was filled with a diverse group made up of print journalists uncomfortable in their rented tuxes and blow-dried TV anchorpersons, each with an entourage of fawning assistants. The launch swung away from the pier and sped across the harbor, its place taken by another shuttle.

The arrival of Razov's yacht had attracted press coverage from allover the East Coast. The general public had learned for the first time of Razov's wealth and political ambitions, and his intention to open a billion-dollar trade center in Boston. But it was the physical manifestation of that incredible wealth, his huge and luxurious yacht, that invited the most interest.

The Kazachestvo was the biggest thing to hit Boston since the Tall Ships. Circling TV helicopters followed her entrance into the harbor and beamed aerial pictures around the world. An escort of fire-fighting boats sent fountains of water arcing into the sky. Hundreds of pleasure craft nudged closer, only to be shooed away by the Coast Guard patrols.

When the yacht dropped anchor, it was greeted by boatloads of politicians, bureaucrats and businesspeople. But only the most important and influential guests were invited to the gala reception in the evening.

The Ataman ship was allowed to anchor between Logan Airport and the Boston waterfront, so guests arriving by plane could be shuttled to the party. The yacht blazed from one end to the other with colored lights that lit up the harbor. To celebrate the gala event, the local congressional delegation had persuaded the Navy Department to move the frigate U.S.S. Constitution, "Old lronsides," from her home at the Charlestown Navy Yard for a rare nighttime harbor excursion.

The old fighting ship normally left her pier only once a year, when she was turned around so that her sides weathered evenly. The a

As the launch drew closer, Austin turned his attention to the yacht. It was as Gamay's photos showed, with a sharp V-shaped bow, concave stem and streamlined superstructure. He recognized the FastShip design that would allow Razov to move his headquarters and home anywhere there was water within days. The launch took its place in line behind several others, corning alongside the ship to a door on the side of the hull. Crewmen leaned from the opening and helped passengers out of the shuttle boats. The guests were passed on to official greeters, who barely glanced at their press credentials and sent them toward a stairway. Austin noted with perverse amusement that the TV anchors looked as if they had stood in front of a fan after the trip in the open boat.

With Kaela leading, Austin and Lombardo lugged their equipment to the main deck, which resembled a high-class block party. The press representatives passed through a gauntlet of young men and women, all dressed maroon blazers, who looked as if they had been hired through central casting. They were handed press kits, novelty key chains in the shape of Russian wolfhounds and magnets with the Ataman logo on them. Thus loaded down, they were guided to a roped-off section in the fantail.

A handsome young man whose blazer had a crest on it, indicating rank, welcomed them to the reception. He said interviews were being set up in the media center with the governor and the mayor. Mr. Razov would be giving no interviews, but would make a statement shortly. Knowing that free food and drink are the most persuasive bribes for favorable publicity, he directed them to the salon.

While the other press people stampeded toward the open bar, Austin and his crew set up their equipment near a rank of microphones and floodlights. When their work was finished, he took Kaela by her slim arm. "Shall we join the other muckety-mucks?”

"In a minute," she said. She guided him to the rail, where there was a view of the Boston skyline, the Customs House and the Prudential and Hancock towers. Her soft features were set in a grave expression. "Before we go in, I want to ask you something. You were determined to get on board this boat. Does Razov have anything to do with the Black Sea sub base or those thugs who attacked us?"

"Why would you conclude that?"

"Please don't be coy with me. He's Russian. They were Russian. His operations are centered in the Black Sea."

"Sorry, I can't tell you everything. It's for your own protection. But there is a co

"Is Razov Tesponsible for the death of Captain Kemal's cousin, Mehmet?"

Austin paused. There was no refusing the determined gaze of those amber eyes. "Indirectly, yes."

"I knew it. It's time that dirtbag is called to accounts."

"I have every intention of making Razov pay for his deeds," Austin said.

"Then I want a piece of the action."

"You'll get your story. I promise."

"I'm not talking about a story. Look, Kurt," she said with frustration, "I'm not some California Valley Girl whose biggest thrill was getting kicked out of the mall for smoking. I grew up in a tough hood and if I hadn't had an even tougher mother, I might be doing ten to twenty at Soledad now. I want to do something to help."