The Memory of Eva Ryker (18 page)

“Eva doesn't remember.” He slipped back into his iron mask. “What little peace that child has had comes from forgetting about the
Titanic
.” The voice dropped to a reedy moan. “And if you or any other man threaten her state of mind by repeating the contents of that cipher, I swear to God I'll kill you with my bare hands.”

“I can understand your feelings, Mr. Ryker. But it was very long ago.”

“‘Long ago,' you say!” Ryker struggled for breath. “It was yesterday! Do you understand? Yesterday! My daughter and I …” He tightened the lid on the past and looked me in the eye. “No, Mr. Hall. You have written a lot of detective fiction and you have started to believe your own books. In real life men with secrets damn well keep their mouths shut.”

“Only for so long, Mr. Ryker. The tight-lipped men die, but willing listeners are always around.”

“Spoken like a true phrase maker,” he laughed bitterly. “You've helped me make up my mind.”

“How's that?”

“I'm going down with you to see the
Titanic
.”

Mike Rogers leaned against the starboard railing under the helipad, bundled in a heroic parka, tossing Fritos into the icy sea.

“Chumming for sharks?” I asked.

He spun around, then laughed self-consciously, crumpling the bag in his fist. “Sea gulls.”

I craned my neck up at the swooping birds bickering among themselves. “Mike, I've got some questions.”

He pitched another corn chip into the water. “I may not be able to answer.”

“The subject is noncontroversial. Right up your alley. Your boss' crazy submarine jaunt.”

“Oh. That. I never pry into Mr. Ryker's personal affairs.”

“Very noble. But what do his doctors say?”

“They did a lot of yelling, naturally. But, when you get to be that age, what
will
the doctors let you do?”

“It's still a bad decision on his part.”

“That may be. But I can't see that it's any of your business.”

“Quite true, Mike. However, the field of journalism is built upon the divine right to be meddlesome. Readers tend to yawn at unerring good taste.”

The gulls brayed impatiently. Mike flung the Frito bag overboard. “Suppose I told you to shove your readers' questions up your ass.”

“I would be mildly offended. And slightly awestruck. A very indiscreet choice of words for someone with PR ambitions. Be sure and check with your boss before putting me on the Shit List.”

His face whitened. “What are you …”

“Ryker and I have reached a mutual understanding. Or armed truce. You might be wise to follow suit.”

“I didn't …”

“… know. Of course not. But I'm more worried about Ryker's health than your occasional lapses of tact.”

“It's his life to risk, Norm.”

“Suppose he has a seizure down there? Even if it was minor, he could be very dead by the time we'd make it back to the surface.”

“I've discussed the risks with Mr. Ryker. But he won't back down. If something happens, you'll just have to wing it.”

“Inspirational, Mike. Much thanks.”

Just past noon I settled down to a corner table in the galley by a fastidious gentleman named Alvin Spears. He wasn't exactly eager to talk about his work, but finally confided that he was an engineering consultant for the remote manipulative tools used by the bathyscaphs.

“Tell me,” I asked, “are there any special problems using waldos under such extreme pressure?”

Spears blinked dully at me. “I'm afraid I don't understand.”

I spent the next five minutes explaining how remote-control tools got their nickname. But he had never heard of the term before, which, to put it mildly, seemed very odd.

Before I could pursue the matter any further, Burke joined me at the table, watching me down the last of my salmon.

I folded my napkin on the table. “Want to go for a walk?”

“Sounds fine.” He jumped up to lead the way.

Alvin Spears nodded to acknowledge my words of farewell and kept on chewing.

Turning my collar against the wind, I let Burke lead me by the elbow as we walked along the deck.

“Norman,” he whispered in my ear. “I know you think I'm totally paranoid, but we're being watched. I mean one particular man. My personal shadow.”

“Maybe he's a … friend. Perhaps your reputation precedes you.”

Burke's eyes narrowed. “Very shabby, Norman. Actually, he's not my type. Very ethnic, warty and swarthy, with matching five o'clock shadow. He's been milling about in the corner of my eye for the last two hours.”

I glanced along the deck. “Well? Where's he now?”

Burke patted the guardrail. “Just stay put. He'll show up.”

I'm glad I didn't bet. I would have lost. He appeared within five minutes. Nodding brusquely, he swept past us, stopping to pick up an empty cigarette carton left on deck.

“Any comments, Norman?”

“Only the obvious ones. That he's keeping tabs on you. Me too, most likely. Probably one of Ryker's men. But you never know. The Navy can be so damn touchy on a project like this. He could be working for Brazier.”

Burke laughed mirthlessly. “I've thought of all that. I was hoping you'd have some bright ideas.”

“Shoot him.” I pointed at his camera. “When we get back to Halifax, we'll have a crack at tracing him down. Provided you're still interested, of course.”

At one
P.M
, I met Burke Sheffield and William Ryker on the starboard deck of the
Savonarola
.

The principal characters milled together like theatergoers at intermission. Lisl Slote steadied her boss' wheelchair and wrapped blankets around his thin shoulders. From what I saw of Ryker's face, he could use the extra warmth.

Commander Brazier fussed over the crew securing the rope ladders attached to the conning towers of the
Marianas
and
Neptune
, bobbling above the gray-blue swells.

One of Brazier's starched-white ensigns compressed all of Burke's camera gear down to one bundle, fitted it into a nylon sling, then lowered it down to a crewman braced atop the
Neptune's
conning tower.

He straightened, looking Burke in the eye. “You're next.”

He made a show of independence, but welcomed a steadying arm as he inched down the long swinging ladder. The man atop the
Neptune
grabbed Burke's leg and guided him down the steel rungs, disappearing into the innards of the bathyscaph.

Seeing Burke was safe, Commander Brazier crooked an arm at Mike, who bent anxiously down to his boss.

“You're sure you're feeling all right, sir?”

Ryker's voice was deadly chill. “Rogers, you're not my mother, wife, or lover. Mind your own damn business.”

I tried to help Mike with the wheelchair but Ryker shooed me away. His wrinkled, shrunken neck corded with strain as he rose like a miracle man in a Katherine Kuhlman revival meeting. The pipe cleaner legs trembled like tuning forks and Mike and I lunged for his arms. But Ryker stayed erect, taking one step and then another.

A special winch was rigged above the rope ladder, complete with a harness usually used for air-sea rescue. Commander Brazier and Fräulein Slote buckled the harness across his shoulders and under his arms. Ryker grinned triumphantly at me. An old banty rooster with a few tricks still in him. I found myself returning his grin.

“All right, Mr. Hall,” said Brazier. “You go on ahead.”

The conning tower of the
Marianas
seemed a very long way down once I swung one leg over the edge of the ship. I took one rung at a time and tried not to think about falling.

An electric motor whined above me. Looking up, I watched Ryker swing out over the sea.

“Grab the ladder!” I yelled. And he did so in his feeble fashion.

I lowered my foot to the next rung but felt nothing. The deck of the
Marianas
rose and fell beneath my feet as the crewman reached for my legs. I waited until a swell rolled the conning tower to me, then jumped, grabbing hold of the crewman's arm. I clambered down the access tube to the observation sphere under the main tanks.

A broad-shouldered man, hunched over a blinking instrument panel, looked up quizzically through the opening.

“Welcome aboard, Mr. Hall.” A Boston accent. “Come join the party.”

Captain Phillip Toffler was red-haired and freckled, with a ginger mustache that went well with Navy tans. He watched my eyes rove within the little sphere. “Homey, wouldn't you say?”

“Very.” Two little circles of cool light caught my attention. I bent forward and bumped my nose against the glass.

Dark and threatening, the hull of the
Savonarola
faded into the mist. The surface sizzled like quicksilver butter frying in a pan.

“How thick is this glass?”

“About a foot. Very safe.”

Ryker arrived at the hatch with a wheezing clatter. We guided him into one of the two chairs.

The old man seemed shaken by his descent but was too stubborn to admit it.

“Well, Captain?” he rasped. “Are we going to get this thing underway or not?”

“Soon, Mr. Ryker.” He bent down to examine the seal of the hatch, then slammed it shut. It must have weighed the good side of three hundred pounds. Now I knew how it felt to be trapped in a bank vault.

The captain checked the instruments. “We're just now opening the flood valves. That fills the access tube with sea-water. Then Mr. Noiret, who helped you two aboard, opens the valves of the water ballast tanks just before he jumps back onto the
Savonarola
.”

We sat still for a moment. The small rocking motion that I had taken for granted stopped.

Toffler checked the depth gauge. “We're off.”

There was no feeling of movement. Ryker and I stared through the viewing ports. Slowly the hull of the
Savonarola
seemed to rise up and out of sight. The surface faded away until I could see only a pale blue light. I figured the
Neptune
must be very close, but it was out of our line of sight.

A large swordfish swept in front of me, and I heard a strange hollow gurgling in the cabin.

“Hydrophones on the hull,” Toffler explained.

A vast school of flounders floated by. Then nothing.

“Have you had much experience with deep-sea salvaging?”

Ryker kept his eyes to the port. “Captain Toffler has a ship to run, Mr. Hall. I think we should let him do it in peace.”

Toffler looked at me, then at Ryker. He shrugged and returned to his instruments.

“
Neptune
calling
Marianas
.” A voice rattled from a hidden loudspeaker. “Passing one-hundred-fifty-foot depth.”

The captain grabbed the microphone. “
Marianas
calling
Neptune
. Ship at, mark, one hundred seventy-four feet. Out.”

I still couldn't see the
Neptune
. Sitting back, I watched the light slowly fade beyond the port.

Two hundred feet. Two hundred twenty-five feet. Three hundred feet.

All trace of sunlight vanished. Toffler switched on the external spotlights.

Five hundred feet. Twelve hundred feet. Eighteen hundred feet.

Tiny white flakes flashed up past the port, resembling a snow flurry in reverse.

“Plankton.” Toffler answered my unasked question. “It appears to be moving up as we descend through it.” He eyed the depth gauge. “In fact, we're descending a little
too
fast.”

He released ballast and a volley of steel pellets bubbled up by the port. The
Marianas
was falling faster than the weights Toffler had released. He increased the ballast until the pellets fell steadily away and vanished into the darkness below.

Twenty-one hundred feet. Twenty-five. Thirty-five. Forty. Fifty-five. Over a mile down. Six thousand feet.

“The halfway point.”

A long red snipe eel writhed under the lights and was gone.

Seven thousand. Seventy-six hundred. Eighty-two hundred. Nine thousand.

I flinched instinctively as a huge fish with long fangs and an immense bloated stomach chased by.

Ten thousand. I glanced at my watch. About an hour since our descent began.

“
Neptune
calling
Marianas
. Eleven thousand feet.”

“
Marianas
calling
Neptune
. Mark, ten thousand, three twenty-five feet.”

Eleven thousand. Far below I spotted a glow worm of light.

“The
Neptune
” Toffler staunchly replied when I pointed it out to him. He gestured at the echo sounder graph, which showed a few dark streaks. “There's the bottom.”

Still over a thousand feet to go. Eleven thousand. Eleven five.

The floodlights seemed to brighten.

“We're reflecting off the sand and silt.”

Toffler released more ballast, lowering the bathyscaph to the bottom with almost erotic care.

“Well, we have arrived. A little off the mark. The
Titanic
's about a mile away, if I reckon correctly.”

The bottom of the observation sphere hovered about three feet from the sand. I watched a hatchet fish scamper away from the light.

“Peaceful, isn't it?” Toffler said softly. “It's hard to realize that an unprotected man out there would be pulped so quickly he'd never feel a thing.”

The hydrophones picked up the propeller's whir as Toffler inched the
Marianas
forward, raising her slightly at the same time until we rested about a hundred feet from the ocean floor.

The seabed was no longer smooth. Huge boulders glided beneath us. Once again I spotted the yellow light of the
Neptune
.

It was then that the misty silt below cleared and the
Titanic
congealed out of the haze.

The ship lay on its starboard side, on an eighty-degree angle. Although rusted to a brown-orange and encrusted with sea animals and ancient slime, the
Titanic
was still intact.