Raise the Titanic! (12 page)

Four blocks from
the Naval Department building, Lieutenant Pavel Marganin relaxed on a park bench, casually reading a book of poems. It was noontime and the grassy areas were crowded with office workers eating their lunch beneath the evenly spaced rows of trees. Every so often he looked up and cast an appraising eye on the occasional pretty girl who wandered by.

At half past twelve, a fat man in a rumpled business suit sat down on the other end of the bench and began unwrapping a small roll of black bread and a cup of potato soup. He turned to Marganin and smiled broadly.

“Will you share a bit of bread, sailor?” the stranger said jovially. He patted his paunch. “I have more than enough for two. My wife always insists on feeding me too much and keeping me fat so the young girls won't chase after me.”

Marganin shook his head no, and went back to his reading.

The man shrugged and seemed to bite off a piece of the bread. He began chewing vigorously, but it was an act; his mouth was empty.

“What have you got for me?” he murmured between jaw movements.

Marganin stared into his book, raising it slightly to cover his lips. “Prevlov is having an affair with a woman who has black hair, shortly cropped, wears expensive, size six low-heeled shoes, and is partial to Chartreuse liqueur. She drives an American embassy car, license number USA—one-four-six.”

“Are you sure of your facts?”

“I don't create fiction,” Marganin muttered while nonchalantly turning a page. “I suggest you act on my information immediately. It may be the wedge we have been looking for.”

“I will have her identified before sunset.” The stranger began slurping his soup noisily. “Anything else?”

“I need data on the Sicilian Project.”

“I never heard of it.”

Marganin lowered the book and rubbed his eyes, keeping a hand in front of his lips. “It's a defense project connected somehow with the National Underwater and Marine Agency.”

“They may prove fussy about leaks on defense projects.”

“Tell them not to worry. It will be handled discreetly.”

“Six days from now. The men's toilet of the Borodino Restaurant. Six-forty in the evening.” Marganin closed his book and stretched.

The stranger slurped another spoonful of soup in acknowledgment and totally ignored Marganin, who rose and strolled off in the direction of the Soviet Naval Building.

The President's secretary
smiled courteously and got up from behind his desk. He was tall and young, and had a friendly, eager face.

“Mrs. Seagram, of course. Please step this way.”

He led Dana to the White House elevator and stood aside for her to enter. She put on a show of indifference, staring straight ahead. If he knew or suspected anything, he'd be mentally stripping her to the skin. She sneaked a quick glance at the secretary's face; his eyes remained inscrutably locked on the blinking floorlights.

The doors opened and she followed him down the hall and into one of the third-floor bedrooms.

“There it is on the mantel,” the secretary said. “We found it in the basement in an unmarked crate. A beautiful piece of work. The President insisted we bring it up where it can be admired.”

Dana's eyes narrowed as she found herself looking at the model of a sailing ship that rested in a glass case above the fireplace.

“He was hoping you might be able to shed some light on its history,” the secretary continued. “As you can see, there is no indication of a name either on the hull or the dust case.”

She moved uncertainly toward the fireplace for a closer look. She was confused; this was hardly what she had expected. Over the telephone earlier that morning, the secretary had simply said, “The President wonders if it would be convenient for you to drop by the White House about two o'clock?” A strange sensation passed through her body. She wasn't sure if it was a feeling of letdown or relief.

“Early-eighteenth-century merchantman by the look of her,” she said. “I'd have to make some sketches and compare them with old records in the Naval Archives.”

“Admiral Sandecker said if anybody could identify her, you could.”

“Admiral Sandecker?”

“Yes, it was he who recommended you to the President.” The secretary moved toward the doorway. “There is a pad and pencil on the nightstand beside the bed. I have to get back to my desk. Please feel free to take as much time as you need.”

“But won't the President…?”

“He's playing golf this afternoon. You won't be bothered. Just take the elevator down to the main floor when you're finished.” Then, before Dana could reply, the secretary turned and left.

Dana sat heavily on the bed and sighed. She had rushed home after the phone call, taken a perfumed bath, and carefully donned a girlish, virginal white dress over black lingerie. And it had all been for nothing. The President didn't want sex; he simply wanted her to put the make on some damned old ship's model.

Utterly defeated, she went into the bathroom and checked her face. When she came out, the bedroom door was closed and the President was standing by the fireplace, looking tanned and youthful in a polo shirt and slacks.

Dana's eyes flew wide. For a moment she couldn't think of anything to say. “You're supposed to be golfing,” she finally said stupidly.

“That's what it says in my appointment book.”

“Then this model ship business…”

“The brig
Roanoke
out of Virginia,” he said, nodding at the model. “Her keel was laid in 1728, and she went on the rocks off Nova Scotia in 1743. My father built the model from scratch about forty years ago.”

“You went to all this trouble just to get me alone?” she said dazedly.

“That's obvious, isn't it?”

She stared at him. He met her eyes steadily and she blushed.

“You see,” he went on, “I wanted to have a little informal chat, just the two of us, without interference or interruption from the hassles of my office.”

The room reeled about her. “You…you just want to talk?”

He looked at her curiously for a moment and then he began to chuckle. “You flatter me, Mrs. Seagram. It was never my intent to seduce you. I fear my reputation as a ladies' man is somewhat exaggerated.”

“But at the party—”

“I think I understand.” He took her by the hand and led her to a chair. “When I whispered, ‘I must meet you alone,' you took it as a proposition from a lecherous old man. Forgive me, that was not my intent.”

Dana sighed. “I wondered what a man who could have any one of a hundred million women just by snapping his fingers could possibly see in a drab, married, thirty-one-year-old marine archaeologist.”

“You don't do yourself justice,” he said, suddenly serious. “You are really quite lovely.”

Again she found herself blushing. “No man has made a pass at me in years.”

“Perhaps it is because most honorable men do not make passes at married women.”

“I'd like to think so.”

He pulled up a chair and sat opposite her. She sat primly, her knees pressed together, hands in lap. The question, when it came, caught her totally unprepared.

“Tell me, Mrs. Seagram, are you still in love with him?”

She stared at him, incomprehension written in her eyes. “Who?”

“Your husband, of course.”

“Gene?”

“Yes, Gene,” he said, smiling. “Unless you have another spouse hidden away somewhere.”

“Why must you ask that?” she said.

“Gene is cracking at the seams.”

Dana looked puzzled. “He words hard, but I can't believe he is on the verge of a mental breakdown.”

“Not in the strict clinical sense, no.” The President's expression was grim. “He is, however, under enormous pressure. If he is faced with serious marital problems on top of his workload, he might fall over the brink. I cannot allow that to happen, not yet, not until he completes a highly secret project that is vital to the nation.”

“It's that very damned secret project that's come between us,” she burst out angrily.

“That and a few other problems—such as your refusal to bear children.”

She looked at him thunderstruck. “How could you possibly know all this?”

“The usual methods. It makes no difference how. What matters is that you stick with Gene for the next sixteen months and give him all the tender loving care you can find in your soul to give.”

Nervously, she folded and unfolded her hands. “It's that important?” she asked in a faint voice.

“It's that important,” he said. “Will you help me?”

She nodded silently.

“Good.” He patted her hands. “Between us, maybe we can keep Gene on the track.”

“I'll try, Mr. President. If it means so much, I'll try. I can promise no more.”

“I have complete confidence in you.”

“But I draw the line at having a baby,” she said defiantly.

He grinned the famous grin so often captured by photographers. “I can order a war, and I can order men to die, but not even the President of the United States has the power to order a woman to become pregnant.”

For the first time, she laughed. It seemed so strange, talking intimately with a man who wielded such incredible power. Power was indeed an aphrodisiac and she began to feel the bitter disappointment of not being taken to bed.

The President rose and took her arm. “I must go now. I have a meeting with my economic advisers in a few minutes.” He began guiding her toward the door. Then he stopped and drew her face to his and she felt the firmness of his lips. When he let her go, he looked into her eyes and said, “You are a very desirable woman, Mrs. Seagram. Don't you forget that.”

He escorted her to the elevator.

Dana was waiting
on the concourse when Seagram departed his plane.

“What gives?” He eyed her questioningly. “You haven't met me at the airport in ages.”

“An overwhelming impulse of affection.” She smiled.

He claimed his luggage and they walked to the parking lot. She held his arm tightly. The afternoon seemed a faraway dream now. She had to keep reminding herself that another man had found her alluring and had actually kissed her.

She took the wheel and drove onto the highway. The last of the rush-hour traffic had faded away, and she made good time through the Virginia countryside.

“Do you know Dirk Pitt?” he asked, breaking the silence.

“Yes, he's Admiral Sandecker's special projects director. Why?”

“I'm going to burn the bastard's ass,” he said.

She glanced at him in astonishment. “What's your connection with him?”

“He screwed up an important part of the project.”

Her hands tightened on the wheel. “You'll find him a tough ass to burn,” she said.

“Why do you say that?”

“He's considered a legend around NUMA. His list of achievements since he joined the agency is second only to his outstanding war record.”

“So?”

“So, he's Admiral Sandecker's fair-haired boy.”

“You forget, I carry more weight with the President than Admiral Sandecker.”

“More weight than Senator George Pitt of California?” she said flatly.

He turned and looked at her. “They're related?”

“Father and son.”

He slouched in a morose silence for the next several miles.

Dana put her right hand on his knee. When she stopped at a red light, she leaned over and kissed him.

“What was that for?”

“That's a bribe.”

“How much is it going to cost me?” he grumbled.

“I have this great idea,” she announced. “Why don't we take in that new Brando film, and afterward we can have a scrumptious lobster dinner at the Old Potomac Inn, then go home, turn out the lights and—”

“Take me to the office,” he said. “I have work to do.”

“Please, Gene, don't push yourself,” she pleaded. “There's time for your work tomorrow.”

“No, now!” he said.

The chasm between them was uncrossable, and from now on, things would never be the same again.

Seagram looked down
at the metal attaché case on his desk, then up at the colonel and the captain who were standing across from him. “There's no mistake on this?”

The colonel shook his head. “Researched and verified by the Director of Defense Archives, sir.”

“That was fast work. Thank you.”

The colonel made no attempt to leave. “Sorry, sir, I am to wait and return to the Department of Defense with the file on my person.”

“By whose orders?”

“The Secretary,” the colonel answered. “Defense Department policy dictates that all material classified as Code Five Confidential must be kept under surveillance at all times.”

“I understand,” Seagram said. “May I study the file alone?”

“Yes, sir. My aide and I will wait outside, but I must respectfully request that no one be allowed to enter or leave your office while the file is in your possession.”

Seagram nodded. “All right, gentlemen, make yourselves comfortable. My secretary will be at your service for coffee and refreshments.”

“Thank you for your courtesy, Mr. Seagram.”

“And, one more thing,” Seagram said, and smiled faintly. “I have my own private bathroom, so don't expect to see me for a while.”

Seagram sat motionless for several moments after the door closed. The final vindication of five years work lay before his eyes. Or did it? Maybe the documents within the case would only lead to another mystery, or, worse yet, a dead end. He inserted the key into the case and opened it. Inside there were four folders and a small notebook. The labels on the folders read:

The notebook was simply entitled: “Journal of Joshua Hays Brewster.”

Logic dictated that Seagram study the folders first, but logic was set aside as he settled back in his chair and opened the journal.

Four hours later, he stacked the book neatly on top of the folders and pushed a button on the side of his intercom. Almost immediately a recessed panel in a side wall swung open and a man in a white technician's coat entered.

“How soon can you copy all this?”

The technician thumbed through the book and peeked in the folders. “Give me forty-five minutes.”

Seagram nodded. “Okay, get right on it. There's someone in my outer office who's waiting for the originals.”

After the panel closed, Seagram pushed himself wearily from his chair and staggered into the bathroom. He closed the door and leaned against it, his face twisted in a grotesque mask.

“Oh God, no,” he moaned. “It's not fair, it's not fair.”

Then he leaned over the sink and vomited.