The Company of the Dead (10 page)

“I’m also the great-grandson of the man who single-handedly kept America out of the Great War,” Lightholler finished.

“You sound bitter, John. Astor was a good man, and a fine president.”

Lightholler could just imagine the old admiral shaking his head. “He was a good friend to Germany, if that’s what you mean.” The words came to him with difficulty. “It’s just that sometimes I think he kept the United States out of the wrong war.”

“You’re entitled to your own opinion, son. Astor’s actions as a private citizen during the
Titanic
hearings certainly contributed to the ill will between England and America at the time. But he was just one man, John. One man may start a war; it takes a few good men to stop one. As for his conduct during the presidency, you have to consider that the Supreme Court was still sorting out the formation of the Confederacy. There was a lot of resentment between the North and the South at the time, and barely a generation had passed since the Civil War.

“When the South turned to Japan for trade, it left the North isolated both politically
and
economically. And when the Mexicans invaded the South during the First Ranger War, Astor had to convince all of Congress in order to send military aid to the Confederates. By the time the Japanese seized Pearl Harbor, though, he was left with no options.”

Lightholler remained silent, allowing the admiral to continue.

“It was a testimony to Astor’s ability as a statesman that he was able to achieve the peace terms he did with Japan.”

“The Japanese ended up annexing the majority of the Union’s West Coast and Alaska, as well as occupying New York,” Lightholler said. “That had to be a bitter pill to swallow.”

“It certainly was a better deal than the Chinese got.”

True enough. Even today, more than half a century after the Pacific War, stories of the atrocities still circulated.

“And what do you think would have happened if the Americans had entered the Great War, John?” the admiral asked.

“Well, sir, the Russians were out of the picture, and the French were on the verge of mutiny. But the Germans were exhausted too—they had been fighting a two-front war for three years. With fresh troops, such as the Americans would have supplied, the Allies might have won.”

“Do you really think the Americans might have swung the balance?”

“Looking at them now, sir, I don’t know.” Lightholler paused, collecting his thoughts. “But at the very least, entering the Great War would have prevented the Secession.”

“Perhaps, John, but who could have known what was to come? If you ask me, the Great War had no victors. In fact, to my way of thinking, the damn thing isn’t even over yet. There’s just been a slight rearrangement in the sides since 1917. Since then, we’ve all been taking a bit of a breather,” he added. “Mustering our strength in readiness for the final round.”

Lightholler mulled over the admiral’s words, his original question almost forgotten. “The Germans aren’t exactly famous for their sentimentality, Admiral; there must have been some other reason I was selected as captain for the
Titanic
.”

“I’d be surprised if there wasn’t. Particularly in light of your new assignment.” Lloyd fell silent.

“So that’s all you can tell me, sir?”

“I’m afraid so, John. Good luck to you. And remember what I said to you the day you left Southampton.” Lloyd’s voice had resumed its grandfatherly tone.

“You told me to stay away from icebergs, sir.”

Lightholler said his goodbyes and hung up, little wiser by the end of the call. If anything he had more questions.

What in the world did the wreck of a hundred-year-old ocean liner have to do with Confederate security? Or the Germans, for that matter?

On being informed of his appointment to the new
Titanic
, he’d assumed that genealogy had played a role in the decision. His mother’s grandfather had been the original ship’s second officer. No surviving crewman from the disaster ever rose to the rank of captain in the White Star Line—or any other shipping line for that matter. Association with the wreck had tainted them all. Yet one hundred years later, he had brought the
Titanic
into New York Harbor. And now, out of the blue, she was being taken away from him.

There was one thing he knew for certain. He would attempt to do whatever was asked of him—it appeared as though he had little choice in that regard. But when it was over, he would return to England. He would return to his ship.

Lightholler emerged from the hotel lobby at twelve-thirty. He needed fresh air and time to collect his thoughts. Despite the early spring sunshine, chill gusts of wind raced down Park Avenue. He flipped up his collar and wrapped his coat tightly around himself. He tucked his fedora under his arm. The avenue was teeming with people. Businessmen on lunch breaks, children capering from storefront to storefront, tourists in town to see the
Titanic
. Some samurai slouched against a phone booth, smoking. They gave him a quick once-over and resumed their conversation, eyeing the crowds with the detachment of zookeepers long since weary of their charges.

Since his arrival Lightholler had noticed a steady increase in the military presence. Not for the first time he yearned to be back in London. At least there the soldiers spoke English. New York enfolded him with the insincere embrace that most newcomers fell for. Before the navy and fresh out of the academy, he’d come to New York to celebrate the turn of the millennium. He’d visited Astor Place and taken coffee with distant cousins and listened as they reiterated the stories he’d been raised upon. John Jacob Astor and Charles Lightholler, clinging to the remains of a broken lifeboat, forging covenants that would be borne out in ways they could never have imagined.

Astor and Lightholler, New York and London. The two worlds that bound him.

A doorman approached him. “Call you a cab, Captain?”

“Thank you.”

The doorman gave an ear-splitting whistle and threw an arm up in the air. In moments a dilapidated yellow taxi pulled up to the kerb. Lightholler ducked into the back after handing the doorman a thousand-yen note.

The driver glanced at him in the rear-view mirror. He asked for Lightholler’s destination in broken English. A thin pale scar ran from his left temple to just above his lip—probably a refugee from one of the Occupied Territories.

“St Marks Place,” Lightholler replied, and sank back into the worn leather seat.

Despite the chill, he wound down the grime-stained window as they proceeded east on 50th Street, then downtown on Second Avenue. On his right, the scarlet towers of the Summer Palace soared into the smog-ridden heights. To the left, through narrow intersections, he caught glimpses of the East River. The Brooklyn shore, grey and broken, stretched out along the waterway. As they crossed 14th Street, the spires and skyscrapers of Midtown grudgingly gave way to the tenements and brownstones of the Lower East Side. If you closed your eyes, he thought, just slightly, made the street signs a blur so that the names were illegible, you could almost believe the Japanese had never been here at all.

Almost.

The taxi pulled up at the Second Avenue corner of St Marks Place in a garland of brown exhaust. Lightholler paid the fare, just managing to escape the cab before it rushed back into the seethe of morning traffic.

Kennedy took the call in what passed for the brownstone’s office. David Hardas’s voice sounded strained on the other end of the line.

“What have you got?” Kennedy asked, trying to keep his darker thoughts at bay. “Lightholler spent most of the morning on the phone. He’s just left the Waldorf.”

Kennedy checked his Einstein watch. It was twelve-forty. “Did he check out?”

“He wasn’t carrying any suitcases.”

“He won’t run. Who’s watching him?”

“Good question,” Hardas replied. “I saw the doorman put a tail on him.”

That was pretty fast. Not surprising, but fast. Playing host to the Russo– Japanese peace talks would attract some attention; involvement in the operation outlined by Saffel would garner a lot more. Kennedy had allowed the surveillance devices in Lightholler’s suite to operate just long enough to verify the identity of his visitors. His association with Project Camelot would confer immunity within the higher echelons of the intelligence communities. The question was: who had placed Lightholler under surveillance—the Germans or the Japanese?

“Abwehr or Kempei-Tai?” he asked.

“You won’t believe this, Major. They’re Bureau.”

“You sure?”

“Positive. I made the doorman. He’s one of ours.”

Kennedy considered the possibilities for a moment. The Bureau’s mandate didn’t extend beyond the Confederacy’s borders. Camelot, by its very nature, was the exception. So what the hell was going on here?

“Then he’s double-dealing,” Kennedy said. “Has to be.”

“I doubt it. I caught the last part of his transmission, Major. Got zip on the standard Jap and Kraut bandwidths so I put it through one of our decoders for the hell of it. He was using a Bureau frequency.”

“Anything tricky?” Kennedy asked.

“No, Major. Routine settings. Way I see it, they don’t know we’re after him, or they simply don’t give a shit.”

“Neither option’s appealing.”

Kennedy tried putting it all together. First Saffel, now this. Was the CBI watching Lightholler independently, or keeping tabs on Camelot itself?

“Any mention of our visit to the captain?” he asked.

“None, but I only heard a snatch before he broke off.”

“What’ve you done about it?”

“I’ve got Collins and Shaw following the tail.”

Collins and Shaw: two CBI operatives who’d accompanied Kennedy here from Nevada. They’d been with him since Camelot’s inception.

“Do they know they’re following CBI agents?” Kennedy asked.

“It won’t take them long to figure it out. Is that a problem?”

“Could be. We’ll see how it plays out. Have them report back to you on one of
our
frequencies and get back down here. I need you here straightaway.”

Kennedy ended the call.

So another player had entered the game. Someone within the Bureau was offering new pieces and changing the rules, advancing pawns of a different colour. Behind them, emerging from the void, would come the knights, the castles and finally the sovereign.

But who was moving them?

It took Hardas twenty minutes to cross town. Shine handed him a glass of rye as he entered the suite. Kennedy ushered him towards a chair. He drained the glass and poured himself another, anticipating the worst.

Kennedy told him about Saffel’s report.

He listened, asking the occasional question and nodding his head gravely at each reply. It was bold and it was insane, but it was possible. Nevada had taught him that
anything
was possible. He smudged a finger through the pile of cold ashes on the table and spoke up.

“Why would the Germans pull a stunt like this now? As far as anyone knows, Camelot is ready to roll.”

“This stunt was years in the making. Maybe they were using Camelot as a smokescreen.”

“They wouldn’t be the first.”

Kennedy offered a cool smile. “It may amount to nothing. We need to know for sure before we start changing our own plans.”

“You think Lightholler is involved?”

“I have to assume the worst. I want you to prove me wrong.”

“And the Bureau knows what’s going on?”

“Like I said...” Kennedy’s voice trailed away.

“Do you think they know we’re here?” Shine asked. “The CBI?”

Hardas started at the sound of the man’s voice. Shine made a habit of slipping into the background.

“They will soon enough,” Kennedy said. “I’m going to call in.”

“You sure that’s a good idea?” Hardas said. “Director Webster thinks we’re in Louisiana, Major.”

“If Webster has a watch team on Lightholler, it won’t take him long to connect the dots. We don’t want to be tarred with the same brush. Besides, we don’t have any choice. Camelot has been in the works for the past three years and in all that time we’ve had free rein in its operation. Now that it’s on the boil, the Bureau sends another team across the border. I need to know why.”

“Why take the chance?” Hardas asked. “We’re about done here anyway. All we have to do is grab Lightholler and run. Hit Nevada and then...” he snapped his fingers, “we’re gone.”

“It’s not that simple. If Lightholler is part of the German plot, he’s a liability. We may have to forget about him.”

“Forget about him... how?” Shine asked.

Kennedy cast him a glance. “Just forget about him.” He paused a moment. “Thing is, we lose Lightholler and we lose our contingency plan.”

“We don’t need a contingency plan, Major,” Shine said softly.

“Everyone needs a contingency plan.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and walked over to the window. He stood before it with his face twisted into a scowl, then turned his gaze towards the old flag and murmured, “I’ve got a bad feeling that this is where it all starts.”

“It’s too early,” Hardas said.

“We don’t know that. We don’t know
how
it begins, just how it ends.”

Hardas suppressed a shudder. It was time to ask the question no one wanted to hear.

“Do you think Webster knows?” he asked. “Do you think he has any idea about what we’re really up to?”

“I can’t see how,” Kennedy replied after a long silence. “He’d be doing a lot more than watching us if he even suspected such a thing.” When he spoke again it was with a measure of renewed vigour. “Morgan will be back around five, right?”

Hardas and Shine both nodded.

“Get going then, David. We need to know what we need to know. Martin, I need you to stay here. I have no idea how Webster’s going to react once I blow our cover. With a second CBI task force in New York— one that’s potentially hostile—we’ll have to move fast. I need us ready to ship out at a moment’s notice. Can you take care of that?”

“Sure thing, Major,” Shine replied.

“If Morgan gets back before we do, keep him in the dark. We need him clear and focused.”