Bored by the human talk, the President's basset hound stretched out and peacefully dozed off The President looked thoughtfully at the animal for several moments, weighing the odds. The decision was a painful one. He felt as though he was stabbing all his friends from Meta Section in the back.
"I'll have the man who is heading the project draw up an initial report," he said finally. "You, Nicholson, will tell me where and how you want it delivered so the Russians do not suspect the deception. You will go through me, and only me, for any further information concerning the Sicilian Project. Is that clear?"
Nicholson nodded. "I will arrange the channels myself." The President seemed to wither and shrink into the chair. "I don't have to impress upon you gentlemen," he said wearily, "the sorry fact that if we're found out, we'll all be branded as traitors."
30
Sandecker leaned over a large, contoured map of the North Atlantic Ocean floor, his hand toying with a small pointer. He looked at Gunn, then at Pitt standing on the other side of the miniaturized seascape. "I can't understand it," he said after a moment's silence. "If that horn is any indication, the Titanic doesn't lie where she's supposed to."
Gunn took a felt-tipped pen and made a tiny mark on the map. "Her last reported position just before she sank was here, at 41°46'N-50°14'W."
"And you found the horn where?"
Gunn made another mark. "The exact position of the Sappho I's mother ship on the surface at the time we discovered Farley's cornet put us here, about six miles to the southeast."
"A six-mile discrepancy. How is that possible?"
"There was a conflict of evidence concerning the position of the Titanic when she went down," Pitt said. "The skipper of one of the rescue ships, the Mount Temple, put the liner much farther to the east, and his reading was based on a sun-sighting, far more accurate than the dead-reckoning position figured by the Titanic's fourth officer right after she struck the iceberg."
"But the ship that picked up the survivors, the Carpathia, I believe it was," Sandecker said, "steamed on a course toward the position given by the Titanic's wireless operator and came in direct contact with the lifeboats within four hours."
"There is some doubt that the Carpathia actually traveled as far as her captain assumed," Pitt replied. "If so, the sighting of the wreckage and the lifeboats could have occurred several miles southeast of the Titanic's wirelessed position."
Sandecker idly tapped the pointer against the map railing. "This puts us between the devil and the deep blue sea, so to speak, gentlemen. Shall we conduct our search efforts in the exact area of 41°64'N-50°14'W? Or do we bet our money on Graham Farley's horn six miles to the southeast? If we lose, God only knows how many acres of Atlantic Ocean real estate we'll have to drag underwater television cameras over before we stumble on the wreck. What do you say, Rudi?"
Gunn did not hesitate. "Since our search pattern with the Sappho I failed in and around the Titanic's advertised position, I say we drop the TV cameras in the vicinity where we picked up Farley's cornet."
"And you, Dirk?"
Pitt was silent a few moments. Then he spoke, "My vote goes for a delay of forty-eight hours."
Sandecker stared across the map speculatively. "We can't afford one hour, much less forty-eight."
Pitt stared back at him. "I suggest that we skip the TV cameras and leapfrog to the next step."
"Which is?"
"We send down a manned submersible."
Sandecker shook his head. "No good. A TV camera sled towed by a surface vessel can cover five times the area in half the time it would take a slow-moving submersible."
"Not if we pinpoint the gravesite in advance."
Sandecker's expression darkened. "And how do you propose to pull off that minor miracle?"
"We gather every shred of knowledge concerning the Titanic's final hours-glean all records for speed, conflicting position reports, water currents, the angle she slid beneath the waves, throw in the cornet's resting place-- everything, and program it through NUMA's computers. With luck, the readout data should point directly to the Titanic's front yard."
"It's the logical approach," Gunn admitted.
"In the meantime," Sandecker said, "we lose two days."
"We lose nothing, sir. We gain," Pitt said earnestly. "Admiral Kemper has loaned us the Modoc. She's docked at Norfolk right now, fitted out and ready to sail."
"Of course!" Gunn blurted. "The Sea Slug. "
"Precisely," Pitt replied. "The Sea Slug is the Navy's latest-model submersible, designed and constructed especially for deep-water salvage and rescue, and she's sitting on the Modoc's afterdeck. In two days, Rudi and I can have both vessels over the general area of the wreck, ready to begin the search operation."
Sandecker rubbed the pointer across his chin. "And then, if the computers do their job, I feed you the corrected position of the wreck site. Is that the picture?"
"Yes, sir, that's the picture."
Sandecker moved away from the map and eased into a chair. Then he looked up into the determined faces of Pitt and Gunn. "Okay, gentlemen, it's your ball game."
31
Mel Donner leaned on the doorbell of Seagram's house in Chevy Chase and stifled a yawn.
Seagram opened the door and stepped out onto the front porch. They nodded silently without the usual early morning pleasantries and walked to the curb and Donner's car.
Seagram sat and gazed dully out the side window, his eyes ringed with dark circles. Donner slipped the car into gear.
"You look like Frankenstein's monster before he came alive," Donner said. "How late did you work last night?"
"Actually came home early," Seagram replied. "Bad mistake; should have worked late. Simply gave Dana and me more time to fight. She's been so damned condescending lately, it drives me up the wall. I finally got pissed and locked myself in the study. Fell asleep at my desk. I ache in places I didn't know existed."
"Thank you," Donner said, smiling.
Seagram turned, puzzled. "Thank you for what?"
"For adding another brick under my determination to remain single."
They were both silent while Donner eased through Washington's rush-hour traffic.
"Gene," Donner said at last, "I know this is a touchy subject; put me on your shit list if you will, but you're beginning to come across like a self-tortured cynic."
There was no reaction from Seagram, so Donner forged ahead. "Why don't you take a week or two off and take Dana to a quiet, sunny beach somewhere. Get away from Washington for a while. The defense-installation construction is going off without a hitch, and there's nothing we can do about the byzanium except sit back and pray that Sandecker's boys at NUMA salvage it from the Titanic."
"I'm needed now, more than ever," Seagram said flatly.
"You're only kidding yourself into an ego trip. At the moment, everything is out of our hands."
A grim smile touched Seagram's lips. "You're closer to the truth than you can imagine."
Donner glanced at him. "What do you mean?"
"It's out of our hands," Seagram repeated vacantly. "The President ordered me to leak the Sicilian Project to the Russians."
Donner pulled over to the curb and looked at Seagram dumbfounded.
"My God, why?"
"Warren Nicholson over at CIA has convinced the President that by feeding bits of hard data on the project to the Russians, he can get control of one of their top intelligence networks."
"I don't believe a word of it," Donner said.
"It makes no difference what you believe," Seagram said brusquely.
"If what you say is true, what good will the Russians get out of bits and scraps? Without the necessary detailed equations and calculations, it would take them at least two years to put a workable theory on paper. And without byzanium, the whole concept is worthless."
"They could build a working system within thirty months if they get their hands on the byzanium first."
"Impossible. Admiral K
emper would never permit it. He'd send the Russians packing in a hurry if they tried to pirate the Titanic. "
"Suppose," Seagram murmured softly, "just suppose Kemper was ordered to lay back and do nothing."
Donner leaned over the wheel and rubbed his forehead in disbelief. "Are you asking me to believe the President of the United States is working with the Communists?"
Seagram shrugged wearily and said, "How can I ask you to believe anything when I don't know what to believe myself?"
32
Pavel Marganin, tall and authoritative in his white naval uniform, took a deep breath of the evening air and turned into the ornate lobby of the Borodino Restaurant. He gave his name to the maitre d' and followed him to Prevlov's customary table. The captain sat there reading a thick sheath of papers bound in a file folder. His eyes came up briefly and acknowledged Marganin with a bored glance before they flicked back to the contents of the file.
"May I sit down, Captain?"
"Unless you wish to place a towel over your arm and clear away the dishes," Prevlov said, still engrossed in his reading. "By all means."
Marganin ordered a vodka and waited for Prevlov to initiate the conversation. After nearly three full minutes, the captain finally laid the file aside and lit a cigarette.
"Tell me, Lieutenant, have you followed the Lorelei Current Drift Expedition?"
"Not in detail. I merely scanned the report before passing it along to your attention."
"A pity," Prevlov said loftily. "Think of it, Lieutenant, a submersible capable of moving fifteen hundred miles along the ocean floor without surfacing once in almost two months. Soviet scientists would do well to be half as imaginative."
"Frankly, sir, I found the report rather dull reading."
"Dull reading, indeed! If you had studied it during one of your rare fits of conscientious dedication, you would have discerned a strange course deviation during the expedition's final days."
"I fail to see a hidden meaning in a simple course change."
"A good intelligence man looks for the hidden meaning in everything, Marganin."
Properly rebuked, Marganin nervously checked his watch and stared in the direction of the men's room.
"I think we should investigate whatever it is the Americans find so interesting off the Newfoundland Grand Banks," Prevlov continued. "Since that Novaya Zemlya business, I want a close look into every operation undertaken by the National Underwater and Marine Agency, beginning six months ago. My intuition tells me the Americans are up to something that spells trouble for Mother Russia." Prevlov motioned to a passing waiter and pointed at his empty glass. He leaned back and sighed. "Things are never what they seem, are they? We are in a strange and baffling business when you consider that every comma, every period on a scrap of paper can possess a vital blueprint to an extraordinary secret. It is the least obvious direction that holds the answers."
The waiter came with Prevlov's cognac and he emptied the glass, swishing the liquor around in his mouth before downing it in one swallow.
"Will you excuse me a moment, sir?"
Prevlov looked up and Marganin nodded in the direction of the men's room.
"Of course."
Marganin stepped into the high-ceilinged, tiled bathroom and stood in front of the urinal. He was not alone. A pair of feet with the trousers draped about the ankles showed under a toilet stall. He stood there, taking his time, until he heard the toilet flush. Then he moved over to the washbasin and rinsed his hands slowly, watching in the mirror as the same fat man from the park bench hitched up his belt and approached him.
"Pardon me, sailor," the fat man said. "You dropped this on the floor."
He handed Marganin a small envelope.
Marganin took it without hesitation and slipped it into his tunic. "Oh, how careless of me. Thank you."
The fat man then leaned over the basin as Marganin turned away for a towel. "You have explosive information in that envelope," said the fat man softly. "Do not treat it lightly."
"It will be handled delicately."
33
The letter was resting neatly centered on Seagram's desk in the study. He turned on the lamp, sagged into the chair, and began reading.
Dear Gene,
I love you. It must seem like a banal way to begin, but it is true. I still love you with all my heart.
I have tried desperately to understand and comfort you during these months of stress. How I have suffered waiting for you to accept my love and attention, hoping for nothing in return except a small sign of your affection. I am strong in many respects, Gene, but I do not have the strength and patience to fight indifferent neglect. No woman does.
I long for our early days, the gentle days when our concern for one another far outweighed the demands of our professional lives. It was simpler then. We taught our classes at the university, we laughed and made love as though each time were our last. Perhaps I drove the wedge between us for not wanting children. Perhaps a son or a daughter might have bound us tighter together. I don't know. I can only regret the things I did not do.
I only know that it will be best for both of us if I set time and space between us for a while, for at present our living under the same roof seems to bring out a meanness and selfishness neither of us knew we possessed.
I have moved in with Marie Sheldon, a marine geologist with NUMA. She has been kind enough to loan me a spare room in her Georgetown house until I can untangle my mental cobwebs. Please do not try to contact me. It would only result in more ugly words. Give me time to work things out, Gene. I implore you.
They say time heals all wounds. Let us pray this is so. I do not mean to desert you, Gene, when you feel you need me most. I believe it will relieve one more burden from the heavy pressures of your position.
Forgive my, feminine frailty, but from the other side of the coin, my side, it is as though you drove me away. Let us hope the future will allow our love to endure.
Again, I love you.
Dana
Seagram reread the letter four times, his eyes refusing to turn from the neatly scripted pages. Finally, he clicked off the light and sat there in the darkness.
34
Dana Seagram stood in front of her closet going through the feminine ritual of deciding what to wear when a knock sounded on the bedroom door.
"Dana? You almost ready?"
"Come on in, Marie."
Marie Sheldon opened the door and leaned into the bedroom. "Good lord, sweetie, you're not even dressed yet.
Marie's voice came from deep within her throat. She was a small, thin, vital woman with vivid blue eyes, a pert bobbed nose, and a mass of bleached blond hair shaped in a shag style. She might have been very provocative except for her square-cut chin.
"I go through this every morning," Dana said irritably. "If only I could get organized and lay things out the night before, but I always wait until the last moment."
Marie moved beside Dana. "How about the blue skirt?"
Dana slipped the skirt off the hanger and then threw it down on the carpet. "Damn! I sent the matching blouse to the cleaners."
"If you're not careful, you'll start foaming at the mouth."
"I can't help it," Dana said. "Nothing seems to go right lately."
"Since you walked out on your husband, you mean."
"The last thing I need now is a sermon."
"Settle down, sweetie. If you want to take out your wrath on somebody, then stand in front of a mirror."
Dana stood, tense as a toy doll whose spring has been wound too tightly. Marie could see an emotional crying jag coming on and beat a strategic retreat.
"Relax. Take your time. I'll go down and warm up the car.
Dana waited until Marie's footsteps died before she went into the bathroom and downed two Librium capsules. As soon as the tranquilizer began to take effect, she calmly slipped on a turquoise linen dress, straightened her hair, pulled on a pair of flat-heeled shoes, and headed downstairs.
; On the way to NUMA headquarters, Dana sat bright and perky while tapping her foot to the music from the car radio.
"One pill or two?" Marie said casually.
"Umm?"