Sins of the Titanic (A James Acton Thriller, #13) (9 page)

Acton
ignored him.

Judy
shrugged. “Some commie thing?”

It was
Acton’s turn to stifle it. “No, though some might suggest close. It’s actually
a play on the French
m’aidez
which means ‘help me’.” He waved his hand,
erasing the tangent. “Sorry, back to what I was saying. The Carpathia was the
closest ship to
respond
, but it wasn’t the closest ship.”

“What?”

Steve’s
outburst sent a shiver up Acton’s spine, the pleasure endorphins kicking in as
his delight in educating grew. “The SS Californian was actually within sight of
the Titanic as she sank. Her crew could see the distress flares, and even noted
that the deck lights seemed to be odd, probably because they were tilted on the
horizon due to her sinking at the bow.”

Judy
seemed to have checked her skepticism, instead leaning forward, enthralled.
“Why didn’t they help?”

“Their
Captain apparently thought it was just a fireworks display, and rather than wake
his radio operator, he told the crew to just monitor the situation visually. They
were stopped for the night because of heavy ice so the lookouts watched it sink
and eventually disappear on the horizon. It wasn’t until the next morning that
they turned on their radio and discovered what had happened.”

“That’s
insane!” cried Steve. “How could that possibly happen?”

“Rules
were different back then. Actually, the sinking of the Titanic probably
saved
lives in the long run. Because it was so high profile, new rules were brought
in that required enough lifeboats for every passenger, standardized distress
signals, standardized response to any suspected distress and a lot more,
including design changes. Unfortunately, all of these things were too late to
save the Titanic.”

Judy’s
mouth had been open in shock for several minutes, widening it seemed with each
word out of Acton. “When this ship—the Californian?—discovered what had
happened, did they at least help?”

“Sort
of. They actually steamed away then came back in a roundabout fashion. Their captain
claimed heavy ice in the area, however many people think he could have safely
sailed to the Titanic directly. By the time they arrived, the Carpathia had
already taken aboard the survivors. The Californian stayed behind to look for more
survivors in the water, but there were none.”

“So if
the Captain had woken his radio operator, they might have saved some of those
people.” Steve shook his head. “Unbelievable.”

“It is,
isn’t it. But that’s not the only thing.”

“What do
you mean?”

“Like I
said, there were reports of
at least
one other ship in the vicinity.”

“You
mean…”

“Some
people claim there was yet another ship.”

North Atlantic Ocean
United States Naval Vessel—Identity Classified
April 15, 1912

Brett Jones pulled on the oars, glancing over his shoulder at the stricken
ship. When he had been tasked for this mission he had been eager for a glimpse
of the already famous Titanic. To be aboard her for her maiden voyage would be
historical, though it would be something he’d never be able to share with his
grandchildren.

Otherwise
he’d have to kill them.

Especially
now.

He had
been sent on some ruthless assignments by his anonymous taskmasters over the
years, though he had to admit this was pretty coldhearted. The ship that had
brought them here was less than two miles away and could easily save hundreds
of these poor, condemned souls, but Commander Whitman had forbidden it.

He’s
a bastard if there ever was one.

Jones
had only met the man once before on a mission that had resulted in half a dozen
dead, some politician’s family in England who had apparently wronged someone.

Who, he
didn’t question.

He had
spent a couple of years in the military but had been dishonorably discharged,
his inability to obey his superiors constantly getting him in trouble despite
his superior combat skills.

He
wasn’t Army material.

But he
was somebody’s.

He had
been approached within weeks of his ignominious departure by a man in a suit
and a hat, the brim pulled low. He had laughed at him, the man almost a
caricature of what the entertainment industry thought spies should look like.

He had
given him an envelope with two hundred dollars and a piece of paper with an
address and time.

“Be
there if you want more.”

Two
hundred dollars was more money than he had seen at one time in his entire life.

He had
tied one on, buying the entire bar drinks all night, making out with some of
the sleaziest girls one could imagine, girls who wouldn’t give him the time of
day the night before.

It had
been an amazing night.

One he
could barely remember.

Yet it
had given him a taste of the good life.

And he
wanted more.

He had
gone to the meeting, been interviewed, mostly questions about loyalty to his
country—he had none after his discharge—his family—he had none—and his
friends—few, none close.

He was a
loner and alone.

Apparently
perfect, from what he had learned since.

It had
been several weeks before his first assignment. A simple courier job. Pick up
an envelope, deliver it. More courier jobs followed, then after several months,
things got interesting.

Weapons
were provided, partners, and some action was involved.

It
wasn’t until his second year that he had to kill someone.

By then
he was too addicted to the money to even question carrying out the job.

He had
done it.

And
vomited the first moment he was out of sight of his partner.

It
became easier.

Too
easy.

Now he
was almost always assigned the kill-jobs, as some of the others called them. He
almost never worked with the same person twice, which was why he had been
surprised to see “Commander Whitman” again. The last time they had met he was
an Army Major named Fitzgerald. The fact they had met before wasn’t
acknowledged, instead a knowing look exchanged then nothing.

And that
was the way it was in this business. Working for someone, who he didn’t know,
killing people for huge sums of money. It was eating away at his soul, he now
numb to it all. His life consisted of long bouts of alcohol, opium and women
with questionable backgrounds interrupted periodically for brief stints of
work.

He was
living the dream.

And it
was killing him.

Physically
and mentally.

Until he
met Margo.

She had
changed everything.

A sweet
girl, cute as can be, demure but not too compliant.

She was
a waitress at a bar he frequented. Never put up with much from the patrons,
never
dated them.

Until
him.

But that
wasn’t because of the bar. He had met her waiting for the bus, her struggling with
a load of groceries. She had agreed to a familiar face helping her, then
invited him in for a lemonade, her mother chaperoning.

He had
made it a point to try and be at the same bus stop at the same time, often
waiting for over an hour for her to show up and pretend it was just a
coincidence.

And the
lemonades had continued.

As had
her mother.

And now
they were officially courting.

She knew
nothing of his life, and he wanted to keep it that way, but if they were to
make a go of this relationship, things would have to change.

Which
was why he had begun hiding away a large portion of his paydays. He was going
to leave the business, marry Margo, and start a family.

If
they’d let him.

The
screams and cries for help were all around them now, lifeboats making their way
toward their ship, apparently revealed by a flare. The boat bumped into
something and a frozen hand broke the surface beside him, an unfortunate soul
who had apparently jumped overboard early in a fit of panic.

He
ignored it.

By the
look of things, there would be many more such deaths before the night was
through.

The boat
bumped against the side of the massive vessel and he raised his oar, looking up
at the hulking mass towering above them.

And the closed
cargo hatch directly overhead.

“I
thought it was supposed to be open?”

Commander
Whitman looked at him. “The original plan had them opening it for us at the
rendezvous.” He motioned with his hand at the ship above. “With all this going
on, who the hell knows if they’re even alive?” He pointed to several lines
leading to the water, apparently left behind by lowered lifeboats. “Let’s start
climbing gentlemen.” He pointed at one of the men. “You stay with the boat.
Under no circumstances does anyone come on board, understood?”

“Yes,
sir!”

Whitman led
the way, the man’s skills at rope climbing exceptional, the rest of the team
following. Whitman disappeared over the railing above and Jones continued after
him, the panicked passengers getting louder with each pull on the rope.

He
reached the brightly lit deck and peered over to find hundreds of pairs of feet
rushing to and fro. A hand reached over and grabbed him, hauling him to the
deck. It was Whitman. He looked about and no one seemed to be paying them any
mind, their clothes worthy of any second class passenger.

The rest
of the team quietly joined them then Whitman led the way toward the First Class
purser’s office, his briefing indicating it was located near what was called
the Grand Staircase on the starboard side of the ship. Crew were struggling to
load passengers into lifeboats on the boat deck, their shouts growing more
desperate as time ran out. Cries of women and children filled the air, the
panicked, angry shouts of men competing with the wails.

And some
simply stood in stunned silence, the expressions on their faces an odd sort of
shocked resignation, as if they realized their fate was already set, these poor
souls already dead.

It made
him wonder what he would do if he knew he were going to die.

I
wouldn’t be just standing around!

He’d
grab a bottle and a woman and have a grand old time.

At least
the old version of him would.

But now
with Margo in the picture, what would he do?

If they
were together, like some of the couples he saw clinging to each other as they
passed, he’d do everything in his power to save her. To get her on one of the
lifeboats, then do his damnedest to survive.

But
should he die, he’d take tremendous satisfaction in knowing she had lived.

He had
no illusions though that they’d be reunited in the afterlife.

He was
going to Hell.

A man
didn’t kill as much as he did without his soul being condemned.

The
purser’s office had been abandoned, its door ajar, the ship at a concerning
angle now, stray objects rolling slowly across the deck as the bow sank deeper
into what would become the icy grave of so many.

Commander
Whitman immediately made for the safe, it locked, one of the men pulling out
some gear, his job to crack it.

But
Jones had a different job.

One that
would certainly cement his place in fiery brimstone.

Saint Paul’s University, St. Paul, Maryland
Present Day

“Another ship?” Steve Wainwright shook his head. “How come nobody
knows about this?”

Acton
shrugged. “It wasn’t in the movie, I guess.” He winked at Laura. “Now remember,
the Californian is proven, historical fact. There was an inquiry and
everything. Nobody disputes that it was in the area, though some dispute how
far away it actually was.”