"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."
Marganin shook his head no, and went back to his reading.
The man shrugged and seemed to bite off a piece of the bread. He began chewing vigorously, but it was an act; his mouth was empty.
"What have you got for me?" he murmured between jaw movements.
Marganin stared into his book, raising it slightly to cover his lips. "Prevlov is having an affair with a woman who has black hair, shortly cropped, wears expensive, size six low-heeled shoes, and is partial to Chartreuse liqueur. She drives an American embassy car, license number USA-one-four-six."
"Are you sure of your facts?"
"I don't create fiction," Marganin muttered while nonchalantly turning a page. "I suggest you act on my information immediately. It may be the wedge we have been looking for."
"I will have her identified before sunset." The stranger began slurping his soup noisily. "Anything else?"
"I need data on the Sicilian Project."
"I never heard of it."
Marganin lowered the book and rubbed his eyes, keeping a hand in front of his lips. "It's a defense project connected somehow with the National Underwater and Marine Agency."
"They may prove fussy about leaks on defense projects."
"Tell them not to worry. It will be handled discreetly."
"Six days from now. The men's toilet of the Borodino Restaurant. Six-forty in the evening." Marganin closed his book and stretched.
The stranger slurped another spoonful of soup in acknowledgment and totally ignored Marganin, who rose and strolled off in the direction of the Soviet Naval Building.
19
The President's secretary smiled courteously and got up from behind his desk. He was tall and young, and had a friendly, eager face.
"Mrs. Seagram, of course. Please step this way."
He led Dana to the White House elevator and stood aside for her to enter. She put on a show of indifference, staring straight ahead. If he knew or suspected anything, he'd be mentally stripping her to the skin. She sneaked a quick glance at the secretary's face; his eyes remained inscrutably locked on the blinking floorlights.
The doors opened and she followed him down the hall and into one of the third-floor bedrooms.
"There it is on the mantel," the secretary said. "We found it in the basement in an unmarked crate. A beautiful piece of work. The President insisted we bring it up where it can be admired."
Dana's eyes narrowed as she found herself looking at the model of a sailing ship that rested in a glass case above the fireplace.
"He was hoping you might be able to shed some light on its history," the secretary continued. "As you can see, there is no indication of a name either on the hull or the dust case."
She moved uncertainly toward the fireplace for a closer look. She was confused; this was hardly what she had expected. Over the telephone earlier that morning, the secretary had simply said, "The President wonders if it would be convenient for you to drop by the White House about two o'clock?" A strange sensation passed through her body. She wasn't sure if it was a feeling of letdown or relief.
"Early-eighteenth-century merchantman by the look of her," she said. "I'd have to make some sketches and compare them with old records, in the Naval Archives."
"Admiral Sandecker said if anybody could identify her, you could."
"Admiral Sandecker?"
"Yes, it was he who recommended you to the President." The secretary, moved toward the doorway. "There is a pad and pencil on the nightstand beside the bed. I have to get back to my desk. Please feel free to take as much time as you need."
"But won't the President? . . ."
"He's playing golf this afternoon. You won't be bothered. Just take the elevator down to the main floor when you're finished." Then, before Dana could reply, the secretary turned and left.
Dana sat heavily on the bed and sighed. She had rushed home after the phone call, taken a perfumed bath, and carefully donned a girlish, virginal white dress over black lingerie. And it had all been for nothing. The President didn't want sex; he simply wanted her to put the make on some damned old ship's model.
Utterly defeated, she went into the bathroom and checked her face. When she came out, the bedroom door was closed and the President was standing by the fireplace, looking tanned and youthful in a polo shirt and slacks.
Dana's eyes flew wide. For a moment she couldn't think of anything to say. "You're supposed to be golfing," she finally said stupidly.
"That's what it says in my appointment book."
"Then this model ship business . . ."
"The brig Roanoke out of Virginia," he said, nodding at the model. "Her keel was laid in 1728, and she went on the rocks off Nova Scotia in 1743. My father built the model from scratch about forty years ago."
"You went to all this trouble just to get me alone?" she said dazedly.
"That's obvious, isn't it?"
She stared at him. He met her eyes steadily and she blushed.
"You see," he went on, "I wanted to have a little informal chat, just the two of us, without interference or interruption from the hassles of my office."
The room reeled about her. "You . . . you just want to talk?"
He looked at her curiously for a moment and then he began to chuckle. "You flatter me, Mrs. Seagram. It was never my intent to seduce you. I fear my reputation as a ladies' man is somewhat exaggerated."
"But at the party-"
"I think I understand." He took her by the hand and led her to a chair. "When I whispered, 'I must meet you alone,' you took it as a proposition from a lecherous old man. Forgive me, that was not my intent."
Dana sighed. "I wondered what a man who could have any one of a hundred million women just by snapping his fingers could possibly see in a drab, married, thirty-one year old marine archaeologist."
"You don't do yourself justice," he said, suddenly serious. "You are really quite lovely."
Again she found herself blushing. "No man has made a pass at me in years."
"Perhaps it is because most honorable men do not make passes at married women."
"I'd like to think so."
He pulled up a chair and sat opposite her. She sat primly, her knees pressed together, hands in lap. The question, when it came, caught her totally unprepared.
"Tell me, Mrs. Seagram, are you still in love with him?"
She stared at him, incomprehension written in her eyes. "Who?"
"Your husband, of course."
"Gene?"
"Yes, Gene," he said, smiling. "Unless you have another spouse hidden away somewhere."
"Why must you ask that?" she said.
"Gene is cracking at the seams."
Dana looked puzzled. "He works hard, but I can't believe he is on the verge of a mental breakdown."
"Not in the strict clinical sense, no." The President's expression was grim. "He is, however, under enormous pressure. If he is faced with serious marital problems on top of his workload, he might fall over the brink. I cannot allow that to happen, not yet, not until he completes a highly secret project that is vital to the nation."