Raise the Titanic! (27 page)

The late-afternoon sun
was just touching the tops of the trees as Gene Seagram sat slouched on a bench in East Potomac Park and contemplated the Colt revolver in his lap. Serial number 204,783, he thought, you're about to serve the purpose you were manufactured for. Almost lovingly, he ran his fingers over the barrel, the cylinder, and the grips. Suicide: it seemed the ideal solution to end his flight into black depression. He marveled that he hadn't thought of it before. No more uncontrollable crying in the middle of the night. No more sensations of worthlessness or the gnawing inside his guts that his life had been a transparent sham.

His mind envisioned the past few months as reflected in the cracked and distorted mirror of acute despair. The two things he had cherished most were his wife and the Sicilian Project. Now Dana was gone, his marriage a shambles. And the President of the United States had taken what seemed to Seagram to be a needless risk in leaking his precious project to the sworn enemy of democracy.

Sandecker had revealed to him the presence of the two Soviet agents on the
Titanic
's salvage fleet. And the fact that the CIA had warned the admiral not to interfere with their espionage activities only served to drive, what seemed to Seagram, another nail into the coffin of the Sicilian Project. Already one of NUMA's engineers had been murdered, and just this morning, the daily report from Sandecker's staff to Meta Section told of the trapped submersible and the apparent hopelessness of rescuing its crew. It had to be sabotage. There could be no doubt of it. The mismatched pieces of the puzzle were forced into unfitting slots by Seagram's confused brain. The Sicilian Project was dead, and he now made up his mind to die with it. He was in the act of releasing the gun's safety catch when a shadow fell across him and a voice spoke in a friendly tone.

“It's much too nice a day to rip off your life, don't you think?”

Officer Peter Jones had been walking his beat along the path beside Ohio Drive when he noticed the man on the park bench. At first glance, Jones thought Seagram was simply a wine-sodden derelict soaking up the sun. He considered running him in, but dismissed it as a waste of time; a booked bum would be back on the streets inside twenty-four hours. Jones figured it was hardly worth the effort of filling out the endless reports. But then something about the man didn't fit the stereotyped lost soul. Jones moved casually, inconspicuously around a large leafing elm tree and doubled back slightly to the side of the bench. On closer inspection his suspicions were confirmed. True, the reddened unseeing eyes and the vacant look of the alcoholic were there, as was the listless uncaring droop of the shoulders, but so were small bits and pieces that didn't belong. The shoes were shined, the suit expensive and pressed, the face neatly shaven, and the fingernails trimmed. And then there was the gun.

Seagram slowly looked up into the face of a black police officer. Instead of meeting a determined look of wariness, he found himself gazing into an expression of genuine compassion.

“Aren't you jumping to conclusions?” Seagram said.

“Man, if I ever saw a classic case of suicidal depression, you're it.” Jones made a sitting gesture. “May I share your bench?”

“It's city property,” Seagram said indifferently.

Jones carefully sat down an arm's length from Seagram and languidly stretched out his legs and leaned against the backrest, keeping his hands in plain sight and away from his holstered service revolver.

“Now me, I'd pick November,” he said softly. “April is when the flowers pop and the trees go green, but November, that's when the weather turns nasty, the winds chill you to the bone, and the skies are always cloudy and dreary. Yeah, that's the month I'd pick, all right, to do away with myself.”

Seagram clutched the Colt tighter, eyeing Jones in apprehension, waiting for him to make his move.

“I take it you consider yourself something of an expert on suicide?”

“Not really,” Jones said. “In fact, you're the first one I ever got to watch in the act. Most of the time I come on the scene long after the main event. Now take drownings; they're the worst. Bodies all bloated up and black, eyeballs mush in their sockets after the fish have nibbled at them. Then there's the jumpers. I saw a fella one time who had leaped off a thirty-story building. Lit on his feet. His shinbones came out his shoulders…”

“I don't need this,” Seagram snarled. “I don't need a nigger cop feeding me horror stories.”

Anger flickered in Jones's eyes for an instant, and then quickly passed.

“Sticks and stones…” he said. He took out a handkerchief and leisurely wiped the sweatband of his cap. “Tell me, Mister ah…”

“Seagram. You might as well know. It won't make any difference later.”

“Tell me, Mr. Seagram, how do you intend on doing it. A bullet in the temple, the forehead, or in the mouth?”

“What does it matter, the results are the same.”

“Not necessarily,” Jones said conversationally. “I don't recommend the temple or forehead, at least not with a small-caliber gun. Let's see, what have you got there? Yeah, looks like a thirty-eight. It might do a messy job okay, but I doubt if it would kill you proper. I knew one guy who fired a forty-five into his temple. Scrambled his brains and shoved out his left eye, but he didn't die. Lived for years like a turnip. Can't you picture him lying there, his bowels running all over the sheets, and him begging to be put out of his misery. Yeah, if I was you, I'd stick the barrel in my mouth and blow off the back of the head. That's the safest bet.”

“If you don't shut up,” Seagram snapped, pointing the Colt at Jones, “I'll kill you too.”

“Kill me?” Jones said. “You haven't got the balls. You're not a killer, Seagram. It's written all over you.”

“Every man is capable of committing murder.”

“I agree, murder is no big deal. Anybody can do it. But only a psychopath ignores the consequences.”

“Now you're beginning to sound like a philosopher.”

“Us dumb nigger cops oftentimes like to fool white people with our smarts routine.”

“I apologize for my poor choice of words.”

Jones shrugged. “You think you got problems, Mr. Seagram? I'd love to have
your
problems. Look at yourself; you're white, obviously a man of means, you probably have a family and a nice position in life. How'd you like to trade places with me, change the color of your skin, be a black cop with six kids and a ninety-year-old frame house with a thirty-year mortgage on it? Tell me about it, Seagram. Tell me about how tough your world really is.”

“You could never understand.”

“What's there to understand? Nothing under the sun is worth killing yourself over. Oh sure, your wife will shed a few tears at first; but then she'll give your clothes to the Salvation Army, and six months from now she'll be in bed with another man while you'll be nothing but a picture in a scrapbook. Look around you. It's a beautiful spring day. Hell, think what you'll be missing. Didn't you watch the President on TV?”

“The President?”

“He came on at four o'clock and talked about all the great things that were happening. Manned flights to Mars are only three years away, there's been a breakthrough on the control of cancer, and he showed pictures of some old sunken ship the government salvaged from almost three miles below the ocean.”

Seagram stared at Jones with unbelieving eyes. “What was that you said? A ship salvaged? What ship?”

“I don't remember.”

“The
Titanic
?” Seagram asked in a whisper. “Was it the
Titanic
?”

“Yeah, that was the name. It rammed an iceberg and sank a long time ago. Come to think of it, I remember seeing a movie about the
Titanic
on television. Barbara Stanwyck and Clifton Webb were in—” Jones broke off at the look of incredulity, then shock, then twisted confusion that showed in Seagram's face.

Seagram handed his gun to the uncomprehending Jones and leaned back against the bench. Thirty days. Thirty days would be all he'd need once he had the byzanium to test the Sicilian Project's system and then see it through to operational status. It had been a narrow thing. If a wandering cop hadn't intruded when he did, thirty seconds would have been all Seagram had left to see anything ever again, forever.

“I assume you
have weighed the staggering consequences of your accusations?”

Marganin looked at the soft-spoken little man with the cold blue eyes. Admiral Boris Sloyuk seemed more the baker around the corner than the shrewd head of the Soviet Union's second-largest intelligence-gathering network.

“I fully realize, Comrade Admiral, that I am jeopardizing my naval career and risking a prison sentence, but I place duty to the State above my personal ambitions.”

“Very noble of you, Lieutenant,” Sloyuk said without expression. “The charges you have brought are extremely damaging, to say the least; however, you have not produced concrete evidence that indicates Captain Prevlov is a traitor to our country, and without it, I cannot condemn a man on his subordinate's word alone.”

Marganin nodded. But he had planned his confrontation with the admiral carefully. Bypassing Prevlov and the normal chain of command to approach Sloyuk had been a risky business indeed, but the trap had been exactingly set and timing was critical. Calmly, he reached into his pocket and produced an envelope that he passed across the desk to Sloyuk.

“Here are transaction records of account number AZF seven-six-oh-nine at the Banque de Lausanne in Switzerland. You will note, sir, that it receives large deposits on a regular basis from one V. Volper, a clumsy anagram derived from the name Prevlov.”

Sloyuk studied the bank records and then shot Marganin a very skeptical look. “You must forgive my suspicious nature, Lieutenant Marganin, but this has all the earmarks of trumped-up material.”

Marganin passed across another envelope. “This one contains a secret communication from the American ambassador here in Moscow to the Defense Department in Washington. In it he states that Captain André Prevlov has been a vital source of Soviet naval secrets. The ambassador has also included the plans for our fleet deployment in the event of a first nuclear strike against the United States.” Marganin felt satisfaction surge through him as the admiral's normally impassive face wrinkled in uncertainty. “I think the picture is clear; there is nothing trumped up here. A low-ranking officer in my position could not possibly obtain such highly classified fleet orders. Captain Prevlov, on the other hand, enjoys the confidence of the Soviet Naval Strategy Committee.”

The barriers were down and the road was open; Sloyuk had no option but to acquiesce. He shook his head in perplexity. “The son of a great party leader who betrays his country for money…I find it impossible to accept.”

“If one takes into consideration Captain Prevlov's extravagant lifestyle, it is not difficult to see the excessive demands made upon his financial resources.”

“I am well aware of Captain Prevlov's tastes.”

“Are you also aware that he is having an affair with a woman who passes herself off as the wife of the American ambassador's chief aide?”

An annoyed look crossed Sloyuk's face. “You know about her?” he asked guardedly. “Prevlov led me to believe that he was using her to obtain secrets from her husband at the embassy.”

“Not so,” Marganin said. “In fact, she is a divorcée and an agent of the Central Intelligence Agency.” Marganin paused and then drove the point home. “The only secrets that pass through her hands are those provided by Captain Prevlov. It is
he
who is
her
source.”

Sloyuk was silent for a few moments. Then he locked Marganin with a penetrating gaze. “How did you come by all this?”

“I would rather not divulge my informant's identity, Comrade Admiral. I mean no disrespect, but I have nurtured and developed his trust for nearly two years, and I gave him a solemn oath that his name and position with the American government would remain known only to me.”

Sloyuk nodded. He accepted it. “You realize, of course, that this puts us in a very grave situation.”

“The byzanium?”

“Exactly,” Sloyuk said tersely. “If Prevlov told the Americans of our plan, it could prove disastrous. Once the byzanium is in their hands and the Sicilian Project is operational, the balance of power would be theirs for the next decade.”

“Perhaps Captain Prevlov has not leaked our plan yet,” Marganin said. “Perhaps he was waiting until the
Titanic
was raised.”

“She has risen,” Sloyuk said. “Not more than three hours ago, Captain Parotkin of the
Mikhail Kurkov
reported that the
Titanic
is on the surface and ready to be taken in tow.”

Marganin looked up surprised. “But our agents, Silver and Gold, assured us the raising would not be attempted for another seventy-two hours.”

Sloyuk shrugged. “The Americans are always in a hurry.”

“Then we must cancel Captain Prevlov's plan to seize the byzanium in favor of one with credence.”

Prevlov's plan—Marganin had to suppress a grin when he said it. The shrewd captain's colossal ego would be his downfall. From here on in, Marganin thought confidently, the drama would have to be played out very, very carefully.

“It is too late to change our strategy now,” Sloyuk said slowly. “The men and ships are in place. We will go ahead as scheduled.”

“But what about Captain Prevlov? Surely you will order his arrest?”

Sloyuk looked at Marganin coldly. “No, Lieutenant, he will remain at his duties.”

“He cannot be trusted,” Marganin said desperately. “You have seen the evidence—”

“I have seen nothing that cannot be manufactured,” Sloyuk snapped brusquely. “Your little package comes too neatly wrapped, too meticulously tied with ribbon to be bought at first glance. What I do see is a young upstart who is stabbing his superior in the back in order to reach the next rung on the ladder of promotion. Purges went out before you were born, Lieutenant. You played a dangerous game and you lost.”

“I assure you—”

“Enough!” Sloyuk's tone was hard as granite. “I am secure in the knowledge that the byzanium will be safely on board a Soviet ship no later than three days from now; an event that will prove Captain Prevlov's loyalty and your guilt.”