Raise the Titanic! (19 page)

Mel Donner leaned
on the doorbell of Seagram's house in Chevy Chase and stifled a yawn.

Seagram opened the door and stepped out onto the front porch. They nodded silently without the usual early-morning pleasantries and walked to the curb and Donner's car.

Seagram sat and gazed dully out the side window, his eyes ringed with dark circles. Donner slipped the car into gear.

“You look like Frankenstein's monster before he came alive,” Donner said. “How late did you work last night?”

“Actually came home early,” Seagram replied. “Bad mistake; should have worked late. Simply gave Dana and me more time to fight. She's been so damned condescending lately, it drives me up the wall. I finally got pissed and locked myself in the study. Fell asleep at my desk. I ache in places I didn't know existed.”

“Thank you,” Donner said, smiling.

Seagram turned, puzzled. “Thank you for what?”

“For adding another brick under my determination to remain single.”

They were both silent while Donner eased through Washington's rush-hour traffic.

“Gene,” Donner said at last, “I know this is a touchy subject; put me on your shit list if you will, but you're beginning to come across like a self-tortured cynic.”

There was no reaction from Seagram, so Donner forged ahead. “Why don't you take a week or two off and take Dana to a quiet, sunny beach somewhere. Get away from Washington for a while. The defense-installation construction is going off without a hitch, and there's nothing we can do about the byzanium except sit back and pray that Sandecker's boys at NUMA salvage it from the
Titanic
.”

“I'm needed now, more than ever,” Seagram said flatly.

“You're only kidding yourself into an ego trip. At the moment, everything is out of our hands.”

A grim smile touched Seagram's lips. “You're closer to the truth than you can imagine.”

Donner glanced at him. “What do you mean?”

“It's out of our hands,” Seagram repeated vacantly. “The President ordered me to leak the Sicilian Project to the Russians.”

Donner pulled over to the curb and looked at Seagram dumbfounded.

“My God, why?”

“Warren Nicholson over at CIA has convinced the President that by feeding bits of hard data on the project to the Russians, he can get control of one of their top intelligence networks.”

“I don't believe a word of it,” Donner said.

“It makes no difference what you believe,” Seagram said brusquely.

“If what you say is true, what good will the Russians get out of bits and scraps? Without the necessary detailed equations and calculations, it would take them at least two years to put a workable theory on paper. And without byzanium, the whole concept is worthless.”

“They could build a working system within thirty months if they get their hands on the byzanium first.”

“Impossible. Admiral Kemper would never permit it. He'd send the Russians packing in a hurry if they tried to pirate the
Titanic
.”

“Suppose,” Seagram murmured softly, “just suppose Kemper was ordered to lay back and do nothing.”

Donner leaned over the wheel and rubbed his forehead in disbelief. “Are you asking me to believe the President of the United States is working with the Communists?”

Seagram shrugged wearily and said, “How can I ask you to believe anything when I don't know what to believe myself?”

Pavel Marganin, tall
and authoritative in his white naval uniform, took a deep breath of the evening air and turned into the ornate lobby of the Borodino Restaurant. He gave his name to the maître d' and followed him to Prevlov's customary table. The captain sat there reading a thick sheath of papers bound in a file folder. His eyes came up briefly and acknowledged Marganin with a bored glance before they flicked back to the contents of the file.

“May I sit down, Captain?”

“Unless you wish to place a towel over your arm and clear away the dishes,” Prevlov said, still engrossed in his reading. “By all means.”

Marganin ordered a vodka and waited for Prevlov to initiate the conversation. After nearly three full minutes, the captain finally laid the file aside and lit a cigarette.

“Tell me, Lieutenant, have you followed the Lorelei Current Drift Expedition?”

“Not in detail. I merely scanned the report before passing it along to your attention.”

“A pity,” Prevlov said loftily. “Think of it, Lieutenant, a submersible capable of moving fifteen hundred miles along the ocean floor without surfacing once in almost two months. Soviet scientists would do well to be half as imaginative.”

“Frankly, sir, I found the report rather dull reading.”

“Dull reading, indeed! If you had studied it during one of your rare fits of conscientious dedication, you would have discerned a strange course deviation during the expedition's final days.”

“I fail to see a hidden meaning in a simple course change.”

“A good intelligence man looks for the hidden meaning in everything, Marganin.”

Properly rebuked, Marganin nervously checked his watch and stared in the direction of the men's room.

“I think we should investigate whatever it is the Americans find so interesting off the Newfoundland Grand Banks,” Prevlov continued. “Since that Novaya Zemlya business, I want a close look into every operation undertaken by the National Underwater and Marine Agency, beginning six months ago. My intuition tells me the Americans are up to something that spells trouble for Mother Russia.” Prevlov motioned to a passing waiter and pointed at his empty glass. He leaned back and sighed. “Things are never what they seem, are they? We are in a strange and baffling business when you consider that every comma, every period on a scrap of paper can possess a vital blueprint to an extraordinary secret. It is the least obvious direction that holds the answers.”

The waiter came with Prevlov's cognac and he emptied the glass, swishing the liquor around in his mouth before downing it in one swallow.

“Will you excuse me a moment, sir?”

Prevlov looked up and Marganin nodded in the direction of the men's room.

“Of course.”

Marganin stepped into the high-ceilinged, tiled bathroom and stood in front of the urinal. He was not alone. A pair of feet with the trousers draped about the ankles showed under a toilet stall. He stood there, taking his time, until he heard the toilet flush. Then he moved over to the washbasin and rinsed his hands slowly, watching in the mirror as the same fat man from the park bench hitched up his belt and approached him.

“Pardon me, sailor,” the fat man said. “You dropped this on the floor.”

He handed Marganin a small envelope.

Marganin took it without hesitation and slipped it into his tunic. “Oh, how careless of me. Thank you.”

The fat man then leaned over the basin as Marganin turned away for a towel. “You have explosive information in that envelope,” said the fat man softly. “Do not treat it lightly.”

“It will be handled delicately.”

The letter was
resting neatly centered on Seagram's desk in the study. He turned on the lamp, sagged into the chair, and began reading.

Seagram reread the letter four times, his eyes refusing to turn from the neatly scripted pages. Finally, he clicked off the light and sat there in the darkness.

Dana Seagram stood
in front of her closet going through the feminine ritual of deciding what to wear when a knock sounded on the bedroom door.

“Dana? You almost ready?”

“Come on in, Marie.”

Marie Sheldon opened the door and leaned into the bedroom. “Good lord, sweetie, you're not even dressed yet.”

Marie's voice came from deep within her throat. She was a small, thin, vital woman with vivid blue eyes, a pert bobbed nose, and a mass of bleached blond hair shaped in a shag style. She might have been very provocative except for her square-cut chin.

“I go through this every morning,” Dana said irritably. “If only I could get organized and lay things out the night before, but I always wait until the last moment.”

Marie moved beside Dana. “How about the blue skirt?”

Dana slipped the skirt off the hanger and then threw it down on the carpet. “Damn! I sent the matching blouse to the cleaners.”

“If you're not careful, you'll start foaming at the mouth.”

“I can't help it,” Dana said. “Nothing seems to go right lately.”

“Since you walked out on your husband, you mean.”

“The last thing I need now is a sermon.”

“Settle down, sweetie. If you want to take out your wrath on somebody, then stand in front of a mirror.”

Dana stood, tense as a toy doll whose spring has been wound too tightly. Marie could see an emotional crying jag coming on and beat a strategic retreat.

“Relax. Take your time. I'll go down and warm up the car.”

Dana waited until Marie's footsteps died before she went into the bathroom and downed two Librium capsules. As soon as the tranquilizer began to take effect, she calmly slipped on a turquoise linen dress, straightened her hair, pulled on a pair of flat-heeled shoes, and headed downstairs.

On the way to NUMA headquarters, Dana sat bright and perky while tapping her foot to the music from the car radio.

“One pill or two?” Marie said casually.

“Umm?”

“I said, one pill or two. It's a safe bet that when you instantly transform from a bitch into a Miss Goody Two-Shoes, you've been popping pills.”

“I meant it about the sermon.”

“Okay, but a warning, old roommate. If I find you flaked out on the floor some dark night from an overdose, I'm going to quietly fold my tent and silently steal off into the night. I can't stand traumatic death scenes.”

“You're exaggerating.”

Marie looked at her. “Am I? You've been hitting that stuff like a health nut gobbles vitamins.”

“I'm all right,” Dana said defiantly.

“Like hell you are. You're a classic case of an emotionally depressed and frustrated female. The worst kind, I might add.”

“It takes time for the ragged edges to dull.”

“Ragged edges, my ass. You mean it dulls your guilt.”

“I won't delude myself into believing I did the best thing by leaving Gene. But I'm convinced I did the right thing.”

“Don't you think he needs you?”

“I used to hope he would reach out to me, yet every time we're together, we fight like alley cats. He's closed me out, Marie. It's the same old tired story. When a man like Gene becomes a slave to the demands of his work, he throws up a wall that can't be breached. And the stupid reason, the incredibly stupid reason, is because he imagines that sharing his problems automatically throws me on the firing line, too. A man accepts the thankless burden of responsibility. We women do not. To us, life is a game we play one day at a time. We never plan ahead like men.” Her face became sad and drawn. “I can only wait and come back after Gene falls wounded in his private battle. Then, and only then, am I certain he'll welcome a return of my company.”

“It may be too late,” Marie said. “From your description of him, Gene sounds like a prime candidate for a mental breakdown or a massive coronary. If you had an ounce of guts, you'd stick it out with him.”

Dana shook her head. “I can't cope with rejection. Until we can get together peacefully again, I'm going to make another life.”

“Does that include other men?”

“Platonic love only.” Dana forced a smile. “I'm not about to play the liberated female and jump onto every penis that wanders across my path.”

Marie grinned slyly. “It's one thing to be picky and pay lip service to high standards, sweetie, but quite another matter in actual practice. You forget, this is Washington, D.C. We outnumber the men eight to one. They're the lucky ones who can afford to be choosy.”

“If something happens, then something happens. I'm not going out and look for an affair. Besides, I'm out of practice. I've forgotten how to flirt.”

“Seducing a man is like riding a bicycle,” Marie said, laughing. “Once learned, never forgotten.”

She parked in the vast open lot of the NUMA headquarters building. They walked up the steps into the lobby, where they joined the stream of other staff members who were hurrying down the halls and up the elevators to their offices.

“How about meeting me for lunch?” Marie said.

“Fine.”

“I'll bring a couple of male friends for you to exercise your latent charms on.”

Before Dana could protest, Marie had melted into the crowd. As she stood in the elevator, Dana noted with a curious sense of detached pleasure that her heart was thumping.