Deck Z - The Titanic (4 page)

NEAR THE WATERFRONT. SOUTHAMPTON, ENGLAND
.

WEDNESDAY, APRIL
10, 1912. 9:40
A.M
.

Weiss stumbled. His new cane and the broken cobbled streets of Southampton were not getting along. He was taking a circuitous route to the docks and watching for signs of being followed, but he’d seen nothing so far. He silently chastised himself for not adopting a better disguise than a set of ill-fitting traveling clothes and a three-day-old beard.

He rounded a corner and caught his first glimpse of the stacks. Four immense funnels loomed above the tops of the shipping offices and shops, casting shadows that stretched a good city block, like elongated fingers beckoning Southampton to explore the colossus lurking in her waters. Weiss picked up his pace. If these were the smokestacks, how big must the ship be?

Two blocks later, Weiss arrived before Dock Gate 4, Berth 34. He was thunderstruck by the sight of the mighty
Titanic
in its totality. It was as long as fifty automobiles and eight or nine stories high, which only took into account what bobbed above the waterline. Weiss had read a newspaper story that described the vessel’s “nightmarish scale.” Seeing it in person, he agreed:
Titanic
was truly a monster!

Weiss suddenly felt very small. He craned his neck up, stepping backward to fit
Titanic
into his field of vision.
Is this how the ant feels,
he wondered,
when faced with the enormity of a human?
He drew four breaths in the time it took his eyes to travel the length of the ship from pointed bow to massive stern. And what did God make of this creation of man?

Weiss pulled himself back into the present moment. He was no tourist. Anxiously, Weiss reached into the valise to again confirm the presence of his White Star boarding pass, the most important purchase he’d made during his short stay in Southampton. If he’d acquired a ticket by regular means, it would have been easy to trace his flight from Germany. He knew the ruse of his escape would not survive close scrutiny; the Kaiser’s men were most likely calling at every port and transportation agent in Germany. But even if they discovered his first voyage to Southampton, there would be no paper trail of his second. The previous night, he had traversed the city asking about a
Titanic
berth for sale, till luck finally shined on him in a bawdy neighborhood pub. He’d procured a “Third Class (Steerage) Passenger’s Contract Ticket” from a drunken fellow, who slurred, “I’m not going anywhere now! I’ve fallen in love, I have!” Weiss happily relieved Gregory P. Nosworthy of the burden of his ticket for seven pounds and a few pints of ale. He suspected a sober Nosworthy might be regretting his decision this very morning.

Weiss’s second acquisition was his new wooden walking stick. Purchased in a filthy Southampton pawn shop not long after his transaction with Mr. Nosworthy, the cane was not what Weiss originally had in mind. He’d entered looking for a replacement pistol, one easily concealed inside a jacket. The shop’s proprietor, Mr. Charles Lockerbie, was a gnarled old fellow in half-moon glasses working his way through a sorry apple.

“I need a gun,” said Weiss upon entering.

“Hello to you,” said Lockerbie and spit. “I’m fine and thank ye for asking.”

“Forgive me,” said Weiss awkwardly. “If it’s not too much trouble, I’m looking for some personal protection in the form of a pistol. If you please.”

“Nay, ye aren’t,” replied Lockerbie, bits of apple fighting to escape the corners of his mouth. “Shoot yourself in the foot, ye will, then yer wife will come back complainin’ ta me.”

Before Weiss could protest, Lockerbie crooked a finger at Weiss to follow him. He limped past carved tobacco pipes, silver pocket watches, and gaudy broaches. The old man wiped a hand wet with juice drippings on his vest, then produced a knotted walking stick from a brass stand. He tossed the staff to Weiss, who was surprised by its heft.

“You don’t understand,” Weiss protested. “I need protection—”

“Ack,” interrupted Lockerbie, grabbing the cane back. He held the stick in one hand, grunting to get the German’s attention, and tossed what was left of the apple on the floor. With a quick twist of the handle, a cruel six-inch blade sprung from the cane’s end and locked into place with a satisfying metallic
thunk.
The old man stabbed the apple clean through and offered it to Weiss.

Weiss removed the apple and inspected the sturdy blade. In close quarters, a blade might prove more dependable than a pistol. He was not much of a shot, and guns could misfire. Hidden inside the cane, the knife was certainly more discreet. “Yes,” he said, “this should do very nicely indeed.”

Now Weiss leaned on his new stick as he surveyed the enormous crowd of passengers, gawkers, and well-wishers. Motor cars full of trunks honked their way through the assembly, while men in bowler hats checked their pocket watches and hurried to the proper gangways. Then with a start, and cursing his complacency, Weiss suddenly hurried to blend into the throngs of people. Tugging his cap down and shuffling toward the boarding lines, he thought,
I must remember to be more inconspicuous.

ROOFTOP. SOUTHAMPTON, ENGLAND
.

WEDNESDAY, APRIL
10, 1912. 10:10
A.M
.

The Agent stood atop a building overlooking the Southampton harbor. His perch was the perfect vantage point to watch a line of fidgeting third-class passengers boarding the ship. Gawkers clapped along with the band, competing with screeching gulls and the cheering crowd to create a boisterous din.

It had been seven years since the pogrom in Kishinev destroyed his life. He hated Weiss for delaying his revenge even one day longer. The wait would end today. The traitor hadn’t shown himself as yet, but he would.

The Agent was confident he could spot Theodor Weiss in the black of night during a thunderstorm, and on this morning, the bright sun shone in a clear blue sky. Weiss would travel as a third-class passenger: scientists were logical to a fault. To disappear, he’d pick the most unassuming form of passage. Weiss was among this crowd; of that, the Agent was certain.

No one who knew the real Vitaly Jadovsky would mistake the Agent for the propagandist, but a bit of disguise went a long way. The Agent was now a fair match for the Russian’s grainy passport photo. Dressed in a black top coat with black tie and gray whiskers (attached
to his chin with spirit gum), he should easily pass through customs. Then again, perhaps he wouldn’t need to …

For there was Weiss!

The Agent established the vial’s hiding place instantly—in the worn black satchel the scientist clutched tightly in his left hand. Even from the rooftop, the Agent could see the tension in Weiss’s fist and forearm.

The Agent swiftly made his way to street level and entered the moving current of the crowd, keeping Weiss in his sights. The scientist was clearly traveling alone, with no companion to call for help or play the hero. Perfect. The raucous mob scene provided sufficient cover, but also a logistical problem: How to snatch the bag with the least fuss and fewest witnesses?

Closing in on his target, the Agent quickly considered his options. Killing Weiss was best, but it was unlikely to go unnoticed or unchallenged in such a crowd. It was also risky to murder the defector before the Agent was certain he had the Toxic. After the ruse with the dummy vial on Brocken Mountain, the Agent could not dismiss the possibility that Weiss might pull the trick again. The simplest ploy was to knock down Weiss from behind, then grab the bag in the confusion and quickly disappear into the masses. If the Agent couldn’t steal and authenticate the Toxic before the ship sailed, he’d finish his business on board.

A steam whistle let out a blast. His whole body went taut. He was within thirty feet of Weiss—only to be brought to a dead stop by an unacceptable development.

BOAT DOCK. SOUTHAMPTON, ENGLAND
.

WEDNESDAY, APRIL
10, 1912. 10:35
A.M
.

“Boy.”

Weiss beckoned to a scruffy youth standing alone on the dock, peering up at
Titanic
’s imposing stacks from beneath an oversized newsboy’s cap. The child’s hands were stuffed inside a dingy, charcoal-colored coat that was too large by a third. Only scuffed leather boots were visible beneath the worn black cloth.

“Who are you calling ‘boy’?”

Weiss held out a few dull coins in the palm of his hand. “You, if it’s not too much bother. I’m offering a paying job. It’s simple enough, unless you have no use for money?”

The child’s face brightened a bit. “Call me Lou.”

The youth approached Weiss tentatively, the way a squirrel might creep toward an old man offering a handful of nuts. Lou appeared to be no more than eleven years old, perhaps twelve, with locks of rust-colored hair attempting to escape the confines of the cap. A patch of skin missing from his nose indicated a spill or a fight. The scrape suited him, either way.

Weiss eased the urchin a few coins. “Just stand here and talk to me.”
And anyone searching the crowd will expect me to be alone,
he thought,
not traveling with a child.
“My stomach is feeling a little
unsettled. I’ll gladly pay for a little conversation. It would be a welcome distraction.”

“Seasick already? We’re not even on the boat!” The boy examined the coins—they appeared genuine. With a shrug, he cleaned his right hand against his cloth coat and offered it to Weiss. “Lou Goodwin. Good to know you.”

“Hello, Lou,” said Weiss. “I’m G. P. Nosworthy.”

“It’s a pleasure, G. P.”

“That’s Mr. Nosworthy to you.”

Lou arched an eyebrow. “High class, I get it. A real Guggenheim.”

Weiss stared blankly. “A real Googen … ?”

Lou pointed to a parade of first-class passengers making their way across a gangplank six stories up. “Guggenheim,” the kid said, noting a gentleman in an expensive straw hat. “He’s the one with the hundred-pound mustache.”

Weiss frowned. “How do you know that’s Mr. Guggenheim?”

“He’s the Sultan of Smelt!” cried Lou. “Worth millions! Don’t you read the papers?”

“I generally don’t find gossip and scandal worth reading,” said Weiss.

“Whatever you say, mister. But I’ll tell you this: I sell fifty copies before noon most days. With good gossip, seventy-five.” Lou sized up the strange gentleman with the odd accent. “What are you in, anyway?”

“Exports,” the German replied.

Judging by Weiss’s rather ordinary clothing, Lou decided there must not be much money in exports.

Weiss was now only ten or twelve people away from the ticket takers. He looked around furtively for signs of anyone following him. All seemed ordinary. He was nearly on the ship, mere steps away from escape.

“Oh! There’s one for you,” said Lou. “That’s the Lady Cardeza. ‘Lady’ because she used to be married to a Spanish king or duke or some sort. Watched them unload her automobile this morning—how many trunks you wager she’s bringing on board?”

“I couldn’t speculate,” said Weiss, becoming distracted as the line trickled forward.

“Would it kill you to make a guess?” asked Lou. “You’re payin’ for this.
Fourteen
trunks! Enough to fill two houses. All that money and she can’t even keep her hair on straight.”

Weiss drew his attention to the matron in a polar bear fur coat, slowly making her way into first-class passage. As Lou had observed, Lady Cardeza’s silver-blue hair was traveling southward into her eyes.

“Spend some of that dough on a hair pin, why don’t ya!” shouted Lou. A firm hand grabbed Lou’s ear and spun the child round.

“I’ve been looking for you for nearly an hour!” scolded a serious young woman wearing a fancy ruffled hat that didn’t quite match her dress. “Have you lost your mind, Louise?”

“Louise?” Weiss exclaimed. He took a second look at the waif. Sure enough, it was a girl hidden beneath the oversized cap.
Since when are girls allowed to sell newspapers?
Weiss thought.

Lou twisted to escape the tight grip on her ear, but it was no use. She pleaded to Weiss, “Been here all along, haven’t I, mister?”

The woman noticed Weiss for the first time. She released Lou’s ear, straightened up, and smoothed her dress with her gloved hands. “Has my daughter been bothering you? She was meant to be back at the hotel changing clothes for the journey.”

“Told you, it’s too cold for that frilly thing,” said Lou, crossing her arms defiantly.

“No,” replied Weiss, clearing his throat. “Not bothering me at all.” The woman’s pretty blue eyes still sparked with anger behind perfectly
round spectacles. “I must say, she seems to know a great deal about the world.”

“Not half as much as she believes,” said the woman. “I’m sorry for the trouble.” She allowed a small smile and firmly took Lou’s hand. “Come on now. Don’t get lost before we can even get to America.”

“I assure you, there was no trouble,” Weiss said, remembering to tip his cap. “A pleasant journey to you.”

The young woman acknowledged his courtesy with a polite nod, then yanked Lou’s arm as she turned away. The girl waved back, grinning broadly. “Did you hear that, mister? We’re going to America!”