Raise the Titanic! (6 page)

“I'm sorry, but
he is under sedation and I cannot allow any visitors at this time.” The aristocratic Virginia voice was quiet and courteous, but there was no hiding the anger that clouded the doctor's gray eyes.

“Is he able to talk?” Donner asked.

“For a man who regained consciousness only minutes ago, his mental faculties are remarkably alert.” The cloud remained behind the eyes. “But don't let that fool you. He won't be playing any tennis for a while.”

“Just how serious is his condition?” Seagram asked.

“His condition is just that: serious. The doctor who operated on him aboard the NUMA vessel did a beautiful job. The bullet wound in his left side will heal nicely. The other wound, however, left a neat little hairline crack in the skull. Your Mr. Koplin will be having headaches for some time to come.”

“We must see him now,” Seagram said firmly.

“As I've told you, I'm sorry, but no visitors.”

Seagram took a step forward so that he was eye to eye with the doctor. “Get this into your head, Doctor. My friend and I are going into that room whether you like it or not. If you personally try to stop us, we'll put you on one of your own operating tables. If you yell for attendants, we'll shoot them. If you call the police, they will respect our credentials and do what we tell them.” Seagram paused and his lips curled in a smug grin. “Now then, Doctor, the choice is yours.”

 

Koplin lay flat on the bed, his face as white as the pillowcase behind his head, but his eyes were surprisingly bright.

“Before you ask,” he said in a low rasp, “I feel awful. And that's true. But don't tell me I look good. Because that's a gross lie.”

Seagram pulled a chair up to the bed and smiled. “We don't have much time, Sid, so if you feel up to it, we'll jump right in.”

Koplin nodded to the tubes connected to his arm. “These drugs are fogging my mind, but I'll stay with you as long as I can.”

Donner nodded. “We came for the answer to the billion-dollar question.”

“I found traces of byzanium, if that's what you mean.”

“You actually found it! Are you certain?”

“My field tests were by no stroke of the imagination as accurate as lab analysis might have been, but I'm ninety-nine-percent positive it was byzanium.”

“Thank God.” Seagram sighed. “Did you come up with an assay figure?” he asked.

“I did.”

“How much…how many pounds of byzanium do you reckon can be extracted from Bednaya Mountain?”

“With luck, maybe a teaspoonful.”

At first Seagram didn't get it, then it sunk in. Donner sat frozen and expressionless, his hands clenched over the armrests of the chair.

“A teaspoonful,” Seagram mumbled gloomily. “Are you certain?”

“You keep asking me if I'm certain.” Koplin's drawn face reddened with indignation. “If you don't buy my word for it, send somebody else to that asshole of creation.”

“Just a minute.” Donner's hand was on Koplin's shoulder. “Novaya Zemlya was our only hope. You took more punishment than we had any right to expect. We're grateful, Sid, truly grateful.”

“All hope isn't lost yet,” Koplin murmured. His eyelids drooped.

Seagram didn't hear. He leaned over the bed. “What was that, Sid?”

“You've not lost yet. The byzanium was there.”

Donner moved closer. “What do you mean, the byzanium
was
there?”

“Gone…mined….”

“You're not making sense.”

“I stumbled over the tailings on the side of the mountain.” Koplin hesitated a moment. “Dug into them…”

“Are you saying someone has already mined the byzanium from Bednaya Mountain?” Seagram asked incredulously.

“Yes.”

“Dear God.” Donner moaned. “The Russians are on the same track.”

“No…no…” Koplin whispered.

Seagram placed his ear next to Koplin's lips.

“Not the Russians—”

Seagram and Donner exchanged confused stares.

Koplin feebly clutched Seagram's hand. “The…the Coloradans…”

Then his eyes closed and he drifted into unconsciousness.

They walked through the parking lot as a siren whined in the distance. “What do you suppose he meant?” Donner asked.

“It doesn't figure,” Seagram answered vaguely. “It doesn't figure at all.”

“What's so important
that you have to wake me on my day off?” Prevlov grunted. Without waiting for an answer, he shoved open the door and motioned Marganin into the apartment. Prevlov was wearing a silk Japanese robe. His face was drawn and tired.

As he followed Prevlov through the living room into the kitchen, Marganin's eyes traveled professionally over the furnishings and touched each piece. To someone who lived in a tiny six-by-eight-foot barracks room, the décor, the vastness of the apartment seemed like the interior east wing of Peter the Great's summer palace. It was all there, the crystal chandeliers, the floor to ceiling tapestries, the French furniture. His eyes also noted two glasses and a half-empty bottle of Chartreuse on the fireplace mantel; and on the floor, beneath the sofa, rested a pair of women's shoes. Expensive, Western, by the look of them. He palmed a strand of hair and found himself staring at the closed bedroom door. She would have to be extremely attractive. Captain Prevlov had high standards.

Prevlov leaned into the refrigerator and lifted out a pitcher of tomato juice. “Care for some?”

Marganin shook his head.

“Mix it with the right ingredients,” Prevlov muttered, “as the Americans do, and you have an excellent cure for a hangover.” He took a sip of the tomato juice and made a face. “Now then, what do you want?”

“KGB received a communication from one of their agents in Washington last night. They had no clues as to its meaning and hoped that perhaps we might throw some light on it.”

Marganin's face reddened. The sash on Prevlov's robe had loosened and he could see that the captain wore nothing beneath it.

“Very well.” Prevlov sighed. “Continue.”

“It said, ‘Americans suddenly interested in rock collecting. Most secret operation under code name Sicilian Project.'”

Prevlov stared at him over his Bloody Mary. “What sort of drivel is that?” He finished the glass in one gulp and slammed it down on the sink counter. “Has our illustrious brother intelligence service, the KGB, become a house of fools?” The voice was the dispassionate, efficient voice of the official Prevlov—cold, and devoid of all inflection except bored irritation. “And you, Lieutenant? Why do you bother me with this childish riddle now? Why couldn't this have waited until tomorrow morning when I'm back in the office?”

“I…I thought perhaps it was important,” Marganin stammered.

“Naturally.” Prevlov smiled coldly. “Every time the KGB whistles, people jump. But veiled threats don't interest me. Facts, my dear Lieutenant, facts are what count. What do you feel is so important about this Sicilian Project?”

“It seemed to me the reference to rock collecting might tie in with the Novaya Zemlya files.”

Perhaps twenty seconds elapsed before Prevlov spoke. “Possible, just possible. Still, we can't be certain of a connection.”

“I…I only thought—”

“Please leave the thinking to me, Lieutenant.” He tightened the sash on his robe. “Now, if you have run out of harebrained witch hunts, I would like to get back to bed.”

“But if the Americans are looking for something—”

“Yes, but what?” Prevlov asked dryly. “What mineral is so precious to them that they must look for it in the earth of an unfriendly country?”

Marganin shrugged.

“You answer that and you have the key.” Prevlov's tone hardened almost imperceptibly. “Until then, I want solutions. Any peasant bastard can ask stupid questions.”

Marganin's face reddened again. “Sometimes the Americans have hidden meanings to their code names.”

“Yes,” Prevlov said with mock solemnity. “They do have a penchant for advertising.”

Marganin plunged forward. “I researched the American idioms that refer to Sicily, and the most prevalent seems to be their obsession with a brotherhood of hooligans and gangsters.”

“If you had done your homework…” Prevlov yawned “…you'd have discovered it's called the Mafia.”

“There is also a musical ensemble that refer to themselves as the Sicilian Stilettos.”

Prevlov offered Marganin a glacial stare.

“Then there is a large food processor in Wisconsin who manufactures a Sicilian salad oil.”

“Enough!” Prevlov held up a protesting hand. “Salad oil, indeed. I am not up to such stupidity so early in the morning.” He gestured at the front door. “I trust you have other projects at our office that are more stimulating than rock collecting.”

In the living room he paused before a table on which was a carved ivory chess set and toyed with one of the pieces. “Tell me, Lieutenant, do you play chess?”

Marganin shook his head. “Not in a long time. I used to play a little when I was a cadet at the Naval Academy.”

“Does the name Isaak Boleslavski mean anything to you?”

“No, sir.”

“Isaak Boleslavski was one of our greatest chess masters,” Prevlov said, as if lecturing a schoolboy. “He conceived many great variations of the game. One of them was the Sicilian Defense.” He casually tossed the black king at Marganin, who deftly caught it. “Fascinating game, chess. You should take it up again.”

Prevlov walked to the bedroom door and cracked it. Then he turned and smiled indifferently to Marganin. “Now, if you will excuse me. You may let yourself out. Good day, Lieutenant.”

Once outside, Marganin made his way around the rear of Prevlov's apartment building. The door to the garage was locked, so he glanced furtively up and down the alley and then tapped a side window with his fist until it splintered. Carefully, he picked out the pieces until his hand could grope inside and unlatch the lock. One more look down the alley and he pushed up the window, climbed the sill, and entered the garage.

A black American Ford sedan was parked next to Prevlov's orange Lancia. Quickly, Marganin searched both cars and memorized the numbers on the Ford's embassy license plate. To make it look like the work of a burglar, he removed the windshield wipers—the theft of which was a national pastime in the Soviet Union—and then unlocked the garage door from the inside and walked out.

He hurried back to the front of the building and he had only to wait three minutes for the next electric bus. He paid the driver and eased into a seat and stared out the window. Then he began to smile. It had been a most profitable morning.

The Sicilian Project was the furthest thing from his mind.

AUGUST 1987

Mel Donner routinely
checked the room for electronic eavesdropping equipment and set up the tape recorder. “This is a test for voice level.” He spoke into the microphone without inflection. “One, two, three.” He adjusted the controls for tone and volume, then nodded to Seagram.

“We're ready, Sid,” Seagram said gently. “If it becomes tiring, just say so and we'll break off until tomorrow.”

The hospital bed had been adjusted so that Sid Koplin sat nearly upright. The mineralogist appeared much improved since their last meeting. His color had returned and his eyes seemed bright. Only the bandage around his balding head revealed that he had been injured. “I'll go until midnight,” he said. “Anything to relieve the boredom. I hate hospitals. The nurses all have icy hands and the color on the goddamned TV is always changing.”

Seagram grinned and laid the microphone in Koplin's lap. “Why don't you begin with your departure from Norway.”

“Very uneventful,” Koplin said. “The Norwegian fishing trawler
Godhawn
towed my sloop to within two hundred miles of Novaya Zemlya as planned. Then the captain fed the condemned man a hearty meal of roast reindeer with goat-cheese sauce, generously provided six quarts of aquavit, cast off the tow-hawser, and sent yours truly merrily on his way across the Barents Sea.”

“Any weather problems?”

“None—your meteorological forecast held perfect. It was colder than a polar bear's left testicle, but I had fine sailing weather all the way.” Koplin paused to scratch his nose. “That was a sweet little sloop your Norwegian friends fixed me up with. Was she saved?”

Seagram shook his head. “I'd have to check, but I'm certain it had to be destroyed. There was no way to take it on board the NUMA research vessel, and it couldn't be left to drift into the path of a Soviet ship. You understand.”

Koplin nodded sadly. “Too bad. I became rather attached to her.”

“Please continue,” Seagram said.

“I raised the north island of Novaya Zemlya late in the afternoon of the second day. I had been at the helm for over forty hours, dozing off and on, and I began to find it impossible to keep my eyes open. Thank God for the aquavit. After a few swigs, my stomach was burning like an out-of-control forest fire and suddenly I was wide awake.”

“You sighted no other boats?”

“None ever showed on the horizon,” Koplin answered. Then he went on, “The coast proved to be a seemingly unending stretch of rocky cliffs. I saw no point in attempting a landing—it was beginning to get dark. So I turned out to sea, hove to, and sneaked a few hours sleep. In the morning I skirted the cliffs until I picked out a small sheltered cover and then went in on the auxiliary diesel.”

“Did you use your boat for a base camp?”

“For the next twelve days. I made two, sometimes three field trips a day on cross-country skis, prospecting before returning for a hot meal and a good night's rest in a warm bunk.”

“Up to now, you had seen no one?”

“I kept well clear of the Kelva missile station and the Kama security post. I saw no sign of the Russians until the final day of the mission.”

“How were you discovered?”

“A Russian soldier on patrol; his dog must have crossed my trail and picked up my scent. Small wonder. I hadn't bathed in almost three weeks.”

Seagram dropped a smile. Donner picked up the questioning more coldly, aggressively “Let's get back to your field trips. What did you find?”

“I couldn't cover the whole island on cross-country skis, so I concentrated on the promising areas that had been pinpointed by the satellite computer printouts.” He stared at the ceiling. “The north island; the outer continuation of the Ural and Yugorski mountain chains, a few rolling plains, plateaus, and mountains—most of which are under a permanent ice sheet. Violent winds much of the time. The chill factor is murderous. I found no vegetation other than some rock lichen. If there were any warm-blooded animals, they kept to themselves.”

“Let's stick to the prospecting,” Donner said, “and save the travel lecture for another time.”

“Just laying the groundwork.” Koplin shot Donner a disapproving stare, his tone icy. “If I may continue without interruption—”

“Of course,” Seagram said. He pulled his chair strategically between the bed and Donner. “It's your game, Sid. We'll play by your rules.”

“Thank you.” Koplin shifted his body. “Geographically, the island is quite interesting. A description of the faulting and uplifting of rocks that were once sediments formed under an ancient sea could fill several textbooks. Mineralogically, the magmatic paragenesis is barren.”

“Would you mind translating that?”

Koplin grinned. “The origin and geological occurrence of a mineral is called its paragenesis. Magma, on the other hand, is the source of all matter; a liquid rock heated under pressure which turns solid to form igneous rock, perhaps better known as basalt or granite.”

“Fascinating,” Donner said dryly. “Then what you're stating is that Novaya Zemlya is void of minerals.”

“You are singularly perceptive, Mr. Donner,” Koplin said.

“But how did you find traces of byzanium?” Seagram asked.

“On the thirteenth day, I was poking around the north slope of Bednaya Mountain and ran into a waste dump.”

“Waste dump?”

“A pile of rocks that had been removed during the excavation of a mine shaft. This particular dump happened to have minute traces of byzanium ore.”

The expressions on his interrogators' faces suddenly went sober.

“The shaft entrance was cunningly obscured,” Koplin continued. “It took me the better part of the afternoon to figure which slope it was on.”

“One minute, Sid.” Seagram touched Koplin's arm. “Are you saying the entrance to this mine was purposely concealed?”

“An old Spanish trick. The opening was filled until it was even with the natural slope of the hill.”

“Wouldn't the waste dump have been on a direct line from the entrance?” Donner asked.

“Under normal circumstances, yes. But in this case they were spaced more than a hundred yards apart, separated by a gradual arc that ran around the mountain's slope to the west.”

“But you
did
discover the entrance?” Donner went on.

“The rails and ties for the ore cars had been removed and the track bed covered over, but I managed to trace its outline by moving off about fifteen hundred yards and studying the mountain's slope through binoculars. What you couldn't see when you were standing on top of it became quite clear from that distance. The exact location of the mine was then easy to determine.”

“Who would go to all that trouble to hide an abandoned mine in the Arctic?” Seagram asked no one in particular. “There's no method or logic to it.”

“You're only half right, Gene,” Koplin said. “The logic, I fear, remains an enigma; but the method was brilliantly executed by professionals—Coloradans.” The word came slowly, almost reverently. “They were the men who excavated the Bednaya Mountain mine. The muckers, the blasters, the jiggers, the drillers, the Cornishmen, the Irishmen, Germans, and Swedes. Not Russians, but men who emigrated to the United States and became the legendary hard-rock miners of the Colorado Rockies. How they came to be on the icy slopes of Bednaya Mountain is anybody's guess, but these were the men who came and mined the byzanium and then vanished into the obscurity of the Arctic.”

The sterile blankness of total incomprehension flooded Seagram's face. He turned to Donner and was met by the same expression. “It sounds crazy, absolutely crazy.”

“‘Crazy'?” Koplin echoed. “Maybe, but no less true.”

“You seem pretty confident,” Donner muttered.

“Granted. I lost the tangible proof during my pursuit by the security guard; you have only my word on it, but why doubt it? As a scientist, I only report facts, and I have no devious motive behind a lie. So, if I were you, gentlemen, I would simply accept my word as genuine.”

“As I said, it's your game.” Seagram smiled faintly.

“You mentioned tangible evidence.” Donner was calm and coldly efficient.

“After I penetrated the mine shaft—the loose rock came away in my hands, and I had only to scoop out a three-foot tunnel—the first thing my head collided with in the darkness was a string of ore cars. The strike of my fourth match illuminated an old pair of oil lamps. They both had fuel and lit on the third try.” The faded blue eyes seemed to stare at something beyond the hospital room wall. “It was an unnerving scene that danced under the lamp's glow—mining tools neatly stacked in their racks, empty ore cars standing on rusting eight-gauge rails, drilling equipment ready to attack the rock—it was as though the mine were waiting for the incoming shift to sort the ore and run the waste to the dump.”

“Could you say whether it looked as if someone left in a hurry?”

“Not at all. Everything was in its place. The bunks in a side chamber were made, the kitchen was cleared up, all the utensils were still on the shelves. Even the mules used to haul the ore cars had been taken to the working chamber and efficiently shot; their skulls each had a neat round hole in its center. No, I'd say the departure was very methodical.”

“You have not yet explained your conclusion as to the Coloradans' identity,” Donner said flatly.

“I'm coming to it now.” Koplin fluffed a pillow and turned gingerly on his side. “The indications were all there, of course. The heavier equipment still bore the manufacturers' trademarks. The ore cars had been built by the Guthrie and Sons Foundry of Pueblo, Colorado; the drilling equipment came from the Thor Forge and Ironworks of Denver; and the small tools showed the names of the various blacksmiths who had forged them. Most had come from Central City and Idaho Springs, both mining towns in Colorado.”

Seagram leaned back in his chair. “The Russians could have purchased the equipment in Colorado and then shipped it to the island.”

“Possibly,” Koplin said. “However, there were a few other bits and pieces that also led to Colorado.”

“Such as?”

“The body in one of the bunks for one.”

Seagram's eyes narrowed. “A body?”

“With red hair and a red beard,” Koplin said casually. “Nicely preserved by the sub-zero temperature. It was the inscription on the wood above the bunk supports that proved most intriguing. It said, in English, I might add, ‘Here rests Jake Hobart. Born 1874. A damn good man who froze in a storm, February 10, 1912.'”

Seagram rose from his chair and paced around the bed: “A name: that at least is a start.” He stopped and looked at Koplin. “Were there any personal effects left lying around?”

“All clothing was gone. Oddly, the labels on the food cans were French. But then there were about fifty empty wrappers of Mile-Hi Chewing Tobacco scattered on the ground. The last piece of the puzzle though, the piece that definitely ties it to the Coloradans, was a faded yellow copy of the
Rocky Mountain News
, dated November 17, 1911. It was this part of the evidence that I lost.”

Seagram pulled out a pack of cigarettes and shook one loose. Donner held a lighter for him and Seagram nodded.

“Then there is a chance the Russians may not have possession of the byzanium,” he said.

“There is one more thing,” Koplin said quietly. “The top-right section of page three of the newspaper had been neatly snipped out. It may mean nothing, but, on the other hand, a check of the publisher's old files might tell you something.”

“It might at that.” Seagram regarded Koplin thoughtfully. “Thanks to you, we have our work laid out for us.”

Donner nodded. “I'll reserve a seat on the next flight to Denver. With luck, I should come up with a few answers.”

“Make the newspaper your first stop, then try and trace Jake Hobart. I'll make a check on old military records from this end. Also, contact a local expert on Western mining history, and run down the names of the manufacturers Sid gave us. However unlikely, one of them might still be in business.”

Seagram stood up and looked down at Koplin. “We owe you more than we can ever repay,” he said softly.

“I figure those old miners dug nearly half a ton of high-grade byzanium from the guts of that bitch mountain,” Koplin said, rubbing his hand through a month's growth of beard. “That ore has got to be stashed away in the world somewhere. Then again, if it hasn't emerged since 1912, it may be lost forever. But, if you find it, make that
when
you find it, you can say thanks by sending me a small sample for my collection.”

“Consider it done.”

“And while you're at it, get me the address of the fellow who saved my life so I can send him a case of vintage wine. His name is Dirk Pitt.”

“You must mean the doctor on board the research vessel who operated on you.”