Clive Cussler - Raise the Titanic

"You have not yet explained your conclusion as to the Coloradans' identity," Donner said flatly.

"I'm coming to it now." Koplin fluffed a pillow and turned gingerly on his side. "The indications were all there, of course. The heavier equipment still bore the manufacturers' trademarks. The ore cars had been built by the Guthrie and Sons Foundry of Pueblo, Colorado; the drilling equipment came from the Thor Forge and Ironworks of Denver; and the small tools showed the names of the various blacksmiths who had forged them. Most had come from Central City and Idaho Springs, both mining towns in Colorado."

Seagram leaned back in his chair. "The Russians could have purchased the equipment in Colorado and then shipped it to the island."

"Possibly," Koplin said. "However, there were a few other bits and pieces that also led to Colorado."

"Such as?"

"The body in one of the bunks for one."

Seagram's eyes narrowed. "A body?"

"With red hair and a red beard," Koplin said casually. "Nicely preserved by the sub-zero temperature. It was the inscription on the wood above the bunk supports that proved most intriguing. It said, in English, I might add, `Here rests Jake Hobart. Born 1874. A damn good man who froze in a storm, February 10, 1912."'

Seagram rose from his chair and paced around the bed "A name, that at least is a start." He stopped and looked at Koplin. "Were there any personal effects left lying around?"

"All clothing was gone. Oddly, the labels on the food cans were French. But then there were about fifty empty wrappers, Mile-Hi Chewing Tobacco, scattered on the ground. The last piece of the puzzle though, the piece that definitely ties it to the Coloradans, was a faded yellow copy of the Rocky Mountain News, dated November 17, 1911. It was this part of the evidence that I lost."

Seagram pulled out a pack of cigarettes and shook one loose. Donner held a lighter for him and Seagram nodded.

"Then there is a chance the Russians may not have possession of the byzanium," he said.

"There is one more thing," Koplin said quietly. "The top-right section of page three of the newspaper had been neatly snipped out. It may mean nothing, but, on the other hand, a check of the publisher's old files might tell you something."

"It might at that." Seagram regarded Koplin thoughtfully. "Thanks to you, we have our work laid out for us."

Donner nodded. "I'll reserve a seat on the next flight to Denver. With luck, I should come up with a few answers."

"Make the newspaper your first stop, then try and trace Jake Hobart. I'll make a check on old military records from this end. Also, contact a local expert on Western mining history, and run down the names of the manufacturers Sid gave us. However unlikely, one of them might still be in business."

Seagram stood up and looked down at Koplin. "We owe you more than we can ever repay," he said softly.

"I figure those old miners dug nearly half a ton of high-grade byzanium from the guts of that bitch mountain," Koplin said, rubbing his hand through a month's growth of beard. "That ore has got to be stashed away in the world somewhere. Then again, if it hasn't emerged since 1912, it may be lost forever. But, if you find it, make that when you find it, you can say thanks by sending me a small sample for my collection."

"Consider it done."

"And while you're at it, get me the address of the fellow who saved my life so I can send him a case of vintage wine. His name is Dirk Pitt."

"You must mean the doctor on board the research vessel who operated on you."

"l mean the man who killed the Soviet patrol guard and his dog, and carried me off the island."

Donner and Seagram looked at each other thunderstruck.

Donner was the first to recover. "Killed a Soviet patrol guard!" It was more statement than question. "My God, that tears it!"

"But that's impossible!" Seagram finally managed to blurt. "When you rendezvoused with the NUMA ship, you were alone."

"Who told you that?"

"Well . . . no one. We naturally assumed--"

"I'm not Superman," Koplin said sarcastically. "The patrol guard picked up my trail, closed to within two hundred yards, and shot me twice. I was hardly in any condition to outrun a dog and then sail a sloop over fifty miles of open sea."

"Where did this Dirk Pitt come from?"

"I haven't the vaguest idea. The guard was literally dragging me off to his security post commander when Pitt appeared through the blizzard, like some vengeful Norse god, and calmly, as if he did it every day before breakfast, shot the dog and then the guard without so much as a how-do-you-do."

"The Russians will make propaganda hay with this." Donner groaned.

"How?" Koplin demanded. "There were no witnesses. The guard and his dog are probably buried under five feet of snow by now, they may never be found. And if they are, so what? Who's to prove anything? You two are pushing the panic button over nothing."

"It was a hell of a risk on that character's part," Seagram said.

"Good thing he took it," Koplin muttered. "Or instead of me lying here safe and snug in my sterile hospital bed, I'd be lying in a sterile Russian prison spilling my guts about Meta Section and byzanium."

"You have a valid point," Donner admitted.

"Describe him," Seagram ordered. "Face, build, clothing"

Koplin did so. His description was sketchy in some areas, but in others his recollection of detail was remarkably accurate.

"Did you talk with him during the trip to the NUMA

"Couldn't. I blacked out right after he picked me up and didn't come to until I found myself here in Washington in the hospital."

Donner gestured to Seagram. "We'd better get a make on this guy, quick."

Seagram nodded. "I'll start with Admiral Sandecker. Pitt must have been connected with the research vessel. Perhaps someone in NUMA can identify him."

"I can't help wondering how much he knows," Donner said staring at the floor.

Seagram didn't answer. His mind had strayed to a shadowy figure on a snow-covered island in the Arctic. Dirk Pitt. He repeated the name in his mind. Somehow it seemed strangely familiar.

10

The telephone rang at 1210 A.M. Sandecker popped open one eye and stared at it murderously for several moments. Finally, he gave in and answered it on the eighth ring.

"Yes, what is it?" he demanded.

"Gene Seagram here. Admiral. Did I catch you in bed?"

"Oh, hell no." Sandecker yawned. "I never retire before I write five chapters on my autobiography, rob at least two liquor stores, and rape a cabinet member's wife. Okay, what are you after, Seagram?"

"Something has come up."

"Forget it. I'm not endangering any more of my men and ships to bail your agents out of enemy territory." He used the word enemy as though the country were at war.

"It's not that at all."

"Then what?"

"I need a line on someone."

"Why come to me in the dead of night?"

"I think you might know him."

"What's the name?"

"Pitt. Dirk. The last name is Pitt, probably spelled P-i-t-t."

"Just to humor an old man's curiosity, what makes you think I know him?"

"I have no proof, but I'm certain he has a connection with NUMA."

"I have over two thousand people under me. I can't memorize all their names."

"Could you check him out? It's imperative that I talk to him."

"Seagram," Sandecker grunted irritably, "you're a monumental pain in the ass. Did it ever occur to you to call my personnel director during normal working hours?"

"My apologies," Seagram said. "I happened to be working late and-"

"Okay, if I dig up this character, I'll have him get in touch with you."

"I'd appreciate it." Seagram's tone remained impersonal. "By the way, the man your people rescued up in the Barents Sea is getting along nicely. The surgeon on the First Attempt did a magnificent job of bullet removal."