Raise the Titanic! (11 page)

“It was followed in a week by a second card,” Adeline said as she handed it to Seagram. It depicted Sacré Coeur but was postmarked Le Havre.

“You're certain it's Jake's handwriting?” Seagram asked.

“Absolutely. I have other papers and old letters of Jake's. You can compare them if you wish.”

“That won't be necessary, Ad.” She smiled when she heard her nickname. “Was there any further communication?”

She nodded. “The third and last. Jake must have stocked up on picture postcards of Paris. This one shows the Sainte-Chapelle, but it was mailed from Aberdeen, Scotland, on April 4, 1912.”

Along the side, another hand had written in:

Seagram took out the list of the crew's names that Donner had read him over the phone.

“V.H. must have been Vernon Hall,” he said.

“Yes, Vern and Jake were good friends.”

“What happened after that? Who swore you to secrecy?”

“About two months later, I think it was early in June, a Colonel Patman or Patmore—I can't remember which—came to the house in Boulder and told me it was imperative that I never reveal any contact from Jake after the Little Angel mine affair.”

“Did he give any reason?”

She shook her head. “No, he simply said it was in the interest of the government to remain silent, and then he handed me the check for ten thousand dollars and departed.”

Seagram sagged in his chair as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. It didn't seem possible that this little ninety-three-year-old woman should have the key to a lost billion-dollar ore cache, but she did.

Seagram looked at her and smiled. “That offer of lunch is beginning to sound awfully good about now.”

She grinned back and he could see the mischief in her eyes. “As Jake would have said, to hell with lunch. Let's have a beer first.”

The crimson rays
of the sunset were still lingering on the western horizon when the first rumble of distant thunder signaled the approach of a lightning storm. The air was warm and the gentle offshore breeze felt good on Seagram's face as he sat on the terrace of the Balboa Bay Club and sipped his after-dinner cognac.

It was eight o'clock, the hour when the fashionable residents of Newport Beach began their evening socializing. Seagram had taken a dip in the club pool and then eaten early. He sat there listening to the grumbling of the nearing storm. The air became thick and charged with electricity, but there was no sign of rain or wind. In the photographic flash of the lightning he could see pleasure boats cruising up the bay, showing red and green navigation lights, their white paint giving them the appearance of silent gliding ghosts. Lightning stabbed the night air again, a jagged fork splitting the clouded sky. He watched it strike somewhere behind the Balboa Island rooftops, and in almost the same instant, the roar of the thunder thrust against his eardrums like a cannon barrage.

Everyone else had nervously moved inside the dining room, and Seagram soon found the terrace deserted. He stayed, enjoying Mother Nature's display of fireworks. He finished off the cognac and leaned back in his chair, watching for the next flash of lightning. It soon came and illuminated a figure standing beside his table. In that instant of light, he made out a tall man with black hair and rugged features staring down at him through cool, piercing eyes. Then the stranger blended into the darkness again.

As the thunder rumbled away, a seemingly disembodied voice asked, “Are you Gene Seagram?”

Seagram hesitated, waiting for his eyes to readjust themselves to the dark that followed the flash. “I am.”

“I believe you've been looking for me.”

“At the moment, you have the advantage.”

“My apologies. I'm Dirk Pitt.”

The skies lit up again and Seagram was relieved to see a smiling face. “It would seem, Mr. Pitt, that dramatic entrances are a habit with you. Did you also conjure up this electrical storm?”

Pitt's answering laugh came to the accompaniment of a clap of thunder.

“I haven't mastered that feat yet, but I am making progress at parting the Red Sea.”

Seagram gestured to an empty chair. “Won't you sit down?”

“Thank you.”

“I'd offer you a drink, but my waiter apparently has a fear of lightning.”

“The worst of it is passing,” Pitt said, looking skyward. The voice was quiet and controlled.

“How did you find me?” Seagram asked.

“A step-by-step process,” Pitt replied. “I called your wife in Washington, and she said you were on a business trip to Leisure World. Since it's only a few miles from here, I checked with the guard at the gate. He told me he had admitted a Gene Seagram who was okayed for entry by a Mrs. Bertram Austin. She in turn mentioned she had recommended the Balboa Bay Club when you stated a desire to postpone your flight back to Washington and lay over until tomorrow. The rest was easy.”

“I should feel flattered by your persistent style.”

Pitt nodded. “All very elementary.”

“A fortunate circumstance that we happened to be in the same neck of the woods,” Seagram said.

“I always like to take a few days off and go surfing about this time of year. My parents have a house just across the bay. I could have contacted you sooner, but Admiral Sandecker said there was no hurry.”

“You know the Admiral?”

“I work for him.”

“Then you're with NUMA?”

“Yes, I'm the agency's special projects director.”

“I thought your name sounded vaguely familiar. My wife has mentioned you.”

“Dana?”

“Yes, have you worked with her?”

“Only once. I flew in supplies to Pitcairn Island last summer when she and her NUMA archaeological team were diving for artifacts from the
Bounty
.”

Seagram looked at him. “So Admiral Sandecker told you there was no hurry to contact me.”

Pitt smiled. “From what I gather, you rubbed him wrong with a middle-of-the-night phone call.”

The black clouds had rolled seaward and the lightning was stabbing at Catalina across the channel.

“Now that you have me in your sights,” Pitt said, “what can I do for you?”

“You can begin by telling me about Novaya Zemlya.”

“Not much to tell,” Pitt said casually. “I was in charge of the expedition to pick up your man. When he didn't show on schedule, I borrowed the ship's helicopter and made a reconnaissance flight toward the Russian island.”

“You took a chance. Soviet radar might have picked you up on their scopes.”

“I took that possibility into consideration. I stayed within ten feet of the water and kept my air speed down to fifteen knots. Even if I had been spotted, my radar blip would have read as a small fishing boat.”

“What happened after you reached the island?”

“I cruised the shoreline until I found Koplin's sloop moored in a cove. I set the copter down on the beach nearby and began searching for him. It was then I heard shots through a wall of swirling snow that had been kicked up by a gust of wind.”

“How was it possible to run into Koplin and the Russian patrol guard? Finding them in the middle of a snowstorm is akin to stumbling on a needle in a frozen haystack.”

“Needles don't bark,” Pitt answered. “I followed the sound of a dog on the hunt. It led me to Koplin and the guard.”

“The latter, of course, you murdered,” Seagram said.

“I suppose a prosecuting attorney might suggest that.” Pitt gestured airily. “On the other hand, it seemed the thing to do at the time.”

“What if the guard had been one of my agents also?”

“Comrades-in-arms don't sadistically drag each other through the snow by the scruff of the neck, especially when one of them is seriously wounded.”

“And the dog, did you have to kill the dog?”

“The thought occurred to me that left to his own devices, he might have led a search patrol back to his master's body. As it is, chances are neither will be discovered, ever.”

“Do you always carry a gun with a silencer?”

“This wasn't the first time Admiral Sandecker called upon me for a dirty job outside my normal duties,” Pitt said.

“Before you flew Koplin to your ship, I take it you destroyed his sloop,” Seagram said.

“Rather cleverly, I think,” Pitt replied. There was no inflection of conceit in his tone. “I bashed a hole in the hull, raised the sail, and sent her on her way. I should judge that she found a watery grave about three miles from shore.”

“You were far too confident,” Seagram said testily. “You dared to meddle in something that didn't concern you. You flaunted Russian vigilance by taking a grave risk without authority. And, you cold-bloodedly murdered a man and his animal. If we were all like you, Mr. Pitt, this would be a sorry nation indeed.”

Pitt rose and leaned across the table until he was eyeball to eyeball with Seagram. “You don't do me justice,” he said, his eyes cold as glaciers. “You left out the best parts. It was I who gave your friend Koplin two pints of blood during his operation. It was I who ordered the ship to bypass Oslo and lay a course for the nearest U.S. military airfield. And it was I who talked the base commander out of his private transport plane for Koplin's flight back to the States. In conclusion, Mr. Seagram, bloodthirsty, mad-dog Pitt pleads guilty…guilty of salvaging the broken pieces of your sneaky little spy mission in the Arctic. I didn't expect a tickertape parade down Broadway or a gold medal; a simple thank you would have done nicely. Instead, your mouth flows with a diarrheal discharge of rudeness and sarcasm. I don't know what your hang-up is, Seagram, but one thing comes through loud and clear. You are a Grade-A asshole. And, as kindly as I can put it, you can go fuck yourself.”

With that, Pitt turned and walked into the shadows and was gone.

Professor Peter Barshov
pushed a leathery hand through his graying hair and pointed the stem of his meerschaum pipe across the desk at Prevlov.

“No, no, let me assure you, Captain, that the man I sent to Novaya Zemlya is not subject to hallucinations.”

“But a mine tunnel…” Prevlov muttered incredulously. “An unknown, unrecorded mine tunnel on Russian soil? I wouldn't have thought it possible.”

“But nonetheless a fact,” Barshov replied. “Indications of it first appeared on our aerial contour photos. According to my geologist, who gained entrance, the tunnel was very old, perhaps between seventy and eighty years.”

“Where did it come from?”

“Not where, Captain. The question is who. Who excavated it and why?”

“You say the Leongorod Institute of Geology has no record of it?” Prevlov asked.

Barshov shook his head. “Not a word. However, you might find a trace of it in the old Okhrana files.”

“Okhrana…oh yes, the secret police of the czars.” Prevlov paused a moment. “No, not likely. Their sole concern in those days was revolution. They wouldn't have bothered with a clandestine mining operation.”

“Clandestine? You can't be sure of that.”

Prevlov turned and gazed out the window. “Forgive me, Professor, but in my line of work, I attach Machiavellian motives to everything.”

Barshov removed the pipe from between his stained teeth and tamped its bowl. “I have often read of ghost mines in the Western Hemisphere, but this is the first such mystery I've heard of in the Soviet Union. It is almost as if this quaint phenomenon was a gift of the Americans.”

“Why do you say that?” Prevlov turned and faced Barshov again. “What have they got to do with it?”

“Perhaps nothing, perhaps everything. The equipment found inside the tunnel was manufactured in the United States.”

“Hardly proof positive,” Prevlov said skeptically. “The equipment could merely have been purchased from the Americans and used by other parties.”

Barshov smiled. “A valid assumption, Captain, except for the fact that the body of a man was discovered in the tunnel. I have it on reliable authority that his epitaph was written in the American vernacular.”

“Interesting,” Prevlov said.

“I apologize for not providing you with more in-depth data,” Barshov said. “My remarks, you understand, are purely secondhand. You will have a detailed report on your desk in the morning concerning our findings at Novaya Zemyla, and my people will be at your disposal for any further investigation.”

“The Navy is grateful for your cooperation, Professor.”

“The Leongorod Institute is always at the service of our country.” Barshov rose and gave a stiff bow. “If that is all for now, Captain, I will get back to my office.”

“There is one more thing, Professor.”

“Yes?”

“You didn't mention whether your geologists found any trace of minerals?”

“Nothing of value.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Trace elements of nickel and zinc, plus slight radioactive indications of uranium, thorium, and byzanium.”

“I'm not familiar with the last two.”

“Thorium can be converted into nuclear fuel when bombarded by neutrons,” Barshov explained. “It's also used in the manufacture of different magnesium alloys.”

“And byzanium?”

“Very little is known about it. None has ever been discovered in enough quantity to conduct constructive experiments.” Barshov tapped his pipe in an ashtray. “The French are the only ones who have shown interest in it over the years.”

Prevlov looked up. “The French?”

“They have spent millions of francs sending geological expeditions around the world looking for it. To my knowledge, none of them was successful.”

“It would seem then that they know something our scientists do not.”

Barshov shrugged. “We do not lead the world in every scientific endeavor, Captain. If we did, we, and not the Americans, would be driving autos over the moon's surface.”

“Thank you again, Professor. I look forward to your final report.”