Raise the Titanic - Cussler Clive (электронная книга .TXT) 📗

    "I suppose a prosecuting attorney might suggest that." Pitt gestured airily. "On the other hand, it seemed the thing to do at the time."

    "What if the guard had been one of my agents also?"

    "Comrades-in-arms don't sadistically drag each other through the snow by the scruff of the neck, especially when one of them is seriously wounded."

    "And the dog, did you have to kill the dog?"

    "The thought occurred to me that left to his own devices, he might have led a search patrol back to his master's body. As it is, chances are neither will be discovered, ever."

    "Do you always carry a gun with a silencer?"

    "This wasn't the first time Admiral Sandecker called upon me for a dirty job outside my normal duties," Pitt said.

    "Before you flew Koplin to your ship, I take it you destroyed his sloop," Seagram said.

    "Rather cleverly, I think," Pitt replied. There was no inflection of conceit in his tone. "I bashed a hole in the hull, raised the sail, and sent her on her way. I should judge that she found a watery grave about three miles from shore."

    "You were far too confident," Seagram said testily. "You dared to meddle in something that didn't concern you. You taunted Russian vigilance by taking a grave risk without authority. And, you cold-bloodedly murdered a man and his animal. If we were all like you, Mr. Pitt, this would be a sorry nation indeed."

    Pitt rose and leaned across the table until he was eyeball to eyeball with Seagram. "You don't do me justice," he said, his eyes cold as glaciers. "You left out the best parts. It was I who gave your friend Koplin two pints of blood during his operation. It was I who ordered the ship to bypass Oslo and lay a course for the nearest U.S. military airfield. And it was I who talked the base commander out of his private transport plane for Koplin's flight back to the States. In conclusion, Mr. Seagram, bloodthirsty, mad-dog Pitt pleads guilty . . guilty of salvaging the broken pieces of your sneaky little spy mission in the Arctic. I didn't expect a ticker-tape parade down Broadway or a gold medal; a simple thank you would have done nicely. Instead, your mouth flows with a diarrheal discharge of rudeness and sarcasm. I don't know what your' fang-up is, Seagram, but one thing comes through loud and clear. You are a Grade-A asshole. And, as kindly as I can put it, you can go fuck yourself."

    With that, Pitt turned and walked into the shadows and was gone.

17

    Professor Peter Barshov pushed a leathery hand through his graying hair and pointed the stem of his meerschaum pipe across the desk at Prevlov.

    "No, no, let me assure you, Captain, that the man I sent to Novaya Zemlya is not subject to hallucinations."

    "But a mine tunnel . . ." Prevlov muttered incredulously. "An unknown, unrecorded mine tunnel on Russian soil? I wouldn't have thought it possible."

    "But nonetheless a fact," Barshov replied. "Indications of it first appeared on our aerial contour photos. According to my geologist, who gained entrance, the tunnel was very old, perhaps between seventy and eighty years."

    "Where did it come from?"

    "Not where, Captain. The question is who. Who excavated it and why?"

    "You say the Leongorod Institute of Geology has no record of it?" Prevlov asked.

    Barshov shook his head. "Not a word. However, you might find a trace of it in the old Okhrana files."

    "Okhrana . . . oh yes, the secret police of the czars." Prevlov paused a moment. "No, not likely. Their sole concern in those days was revolution. They wouldn't have bothered with a clandestine mining operation."

    "Clandestine? You can't be sure of that."

    Prevlov turned and gazed out the window. "Forgive me, Professor, but in my line of work, I attach Machiavellian motives to everything."

    Barshov removed the pipe from between his stained teeth and tamped its bowl. "I have often read of ghost mines in the Western Hemisphere, but this is the first such mystery I've heard of in the Soviet Union. It is almost as if this quaint phenomenon was a gift of the Americans."

    "Why do you say that?" Prevlov turned and faced Barshov again. "What have they got to do with it?"

    "Perhaps nothing, perhaps everything. The equipment found inside the tunnel' was manufactured in the United States."

    "Hardly proof positive," Prevlov said skeptically. "The equipment could merely have been purchased from the Americans and used by other parties."

    Barshov smiled. "A valid assumption, Captain, except for the fact that the body of a man was discovered in the tunnel. I have it on reliable authority that his epitaph was written in the American vernacular."

    "Interesting," Prevlov said.

    "I apologize for not providing you with more in-depth data," Barshov said. "My remarks, you understand, are purely secondhand. You will have a detailed report on your desk in the morning concerning our findings at Novaya Zemyla, and my people will be at your disposal for any further investigation."

    "The Navy is grateful for your cooperation, Professor."

    "The Leongorod Institute is always at the service of our country." Barshov rose and gave a stiff bow. "If that is all for now, Captain, I will get back to my office."

    "There is one more thing, Professor."

    "Yes?"

    "You didn't mention whether your geologists found any trace of minerals?"

    'Nothing of value."

    Nothing at all?"

    Trace elements of nickel and zinc, plus slight radioactive indications of uranium, thorium, and byzanium."

    "I'm not familiar with the last two."

    "Thorium can be converted into nuclear fuel when bombarded by neutrons," Barshov explained. "It's also used in the manufacture of different magnesium alloys."

    "And byzanium?"

    "Very little is known about it. None has ever been discovered in enough quantity to conduct constructive experiments." Barshov tapped his pipe in an ashtray. "The French are the only ones who have shown interest in it over the years."

    Prevlov looked up. "The French?"

    "They have spent millions of francs sending geological expeditions around the world looking for it. To my knowledge, none of them was successful."

    "It would seem then that they know something our scientists do not."

    Barshov shrugged. "We do not lead the world in every scientific endeavor, Captain. If we did, we, and not the Americans, would be driving autos over the moon's surface."

    "Thank you again, Professor. I look forward to your final report."

18

    Four blocks from the Naval Department building, Lieutenant Pavel Marganin relaxed on a park bench, casually reading a book of poems. It was noontime and the grassy areas were crowded with office workers eating their lunch beneath the evenly spaced rows of trees. Every so often he looked up and cast an appraising eye on the occasional pretty girl who wandered by.

    At half past twelve, a fat man in a rumpled business suit sat down on the other end of the bench and began unwrapping a small roll of black bread and a cup of potato soup. He turned to Marganin and smiled broadly.

    "Will you share a bit of bread, sailor?" the stranger said jovially. He patted his paunch. "I have more than enough for two. My wife always insists on feeding me too much and keeping me fat so the young girls won't chase after me."