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

    "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 Kemper 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."