Clive Cussler - Raise the Titanic

"Did Brewster know Jake was married?"

"Odd you should ask that. We had a little house in Boulder, away from the mining camps, because Jake didn't want it known he had a wife. He claimed that mine foremen wouldn't hire a blaster who was married."

"So naturally, Brewster, unaware of Jake's marital status, paid him to blast in the Little Angel mine."

"I know what was printed in the newspapers, Mr. Seagram, but Jake never set foot in the Little Angel mine, nor did the rest of the crew."

Seagram pulled his chair closer so that they were almost touching knees. "Then the disaster was a hoax," he said hoarsely.

She looked up. "You know . . . you know that?"

"We suspected, but have no proof."

"If it's proof you want, Mr. Austin, I'll get it for you." She rose to her feet, shrugging off Seagram's attempts to help her, and disappeared into another room. She returned carrying an old shoebox, which she proceeded to open reverently.

"The day before he was to enter the Little Angel, Jake took me down to Denver and we went on a shopping spree. He bought me fancy clothes, jewelry, and treated me to champagne at the finest restaurant in town. We spent our last night together in the honeymoon suite of the Brown Palace Hotel. Do you know of it?"

"I have a friend staying there right now."

"In the morning, he told me not to believe what I heard or read in the newspapers about his death in a mining accident, and that he would be gone for several months on a job somewhere in Russia. When he returned, he said we would be rich beyond our wildest dreams. Then he mentioned something I've never understood."

"What was that?"

"He said the Frenchies were taking care of everything and that when it was all over, we would live in Paris." Her face took on a dreamlike quality. "In the morning he was gone. on his pillow was a note that simply said, 'I love you, Ad' and an envelope containing five thousand dollars."

"Do you have any idea where the money came from?"

"None. We only had about three hundred dollars in the bank at the time."

"And that was the last you heard from him?"

"No." She handed Seagram a faded postcard with a tinted photograph of the Eiffel Tower on the front. "This came in the mail about a month later."

Dear Ad, The weather is rainy here and the beer awful. Am fine and so is the other boys. Don't fret. As you can tell I ain't dead by a long shot. You know who.

The handwriting was obviously from a heavy hand. The postmark on the card was dated Paris, December 1, 1911.

"It was followed in a week by a second card," Adeline said as she handed it to Seagram. It depicted Sacra Coeur but was postmarked Le Havre.

DearAd, We're headin for the arctic. This will be my last message for some time. Be brave. The Frenchies are treating us right. Good food, good ship. You know who.

"You're certain it's Jake's handwriting?" Seagram asked. "Absolutely. I have other papers and old letters of Jake's. You can compare them if you wish."

"That won't be necessary, Ad." She smiled when she heard her nickname. "Was there any further communication?"

She nodded. "The third and last. Jake must have stocked up on picture postcards of Paris. This one shows the Sainte-Chapelle, but it was mailed from Aberdeen, Scotland, on April 4, 1912."

DearAd, This is a frightful place. The cold is fearsome. We don't know if we will survive. If I can somehow get this to you, you will be taken care of. God Bless. Jake.

Along the side, another hand had written in:

Dear Mrs. Hobart. We lost Jake in a storm. We gave him a Christian readin. We're sorry. V.H.

Seagram took out the list of the crew's names that Donner had read him over the phone.

"V.H. must have been Vernon Hall," he said.

"Yes, Vern and Jake were good friends."

"What happened after that? Who swore you to secrecy?"

"About two months later, I think it was early in June, a Colonel Patman or Patmore-I can't remember which came to the house in Boulder and told me it was imperative that I never reveal any contact from Jake after the Little Angel mine affair."

"Did he give any reason?"

She shook her head. "No, he simply said it was in the interest of the government to remain silent, and then he handed me the check for ten thousand dollars and departed."

Seagram sagged in his chair as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. It didn't seem possible that this little ninety-three-year-old woman should have the key to a lost billion-dollar ore cache, but she did.

Seagram looked at her and smiled. "That offer of lunch is beginning to sound awfully good about now."

She grinned back and he could see the mischief in her eyes. "As Jake would have said, to hell with lunch. Let's have a beer first."

16

The crimson rays of the sunset were still lingering on the western horizon when the first rumble of distant thunder signaled the approach of a lightning storm. The air was warm and the gentle offshore breeze felt good on Seagram's face as he sat on the terrace of the Balboa Bay Club and sipped his after-dinner cognac.

It was eight o'clock, the hour when the fashionable residents of Newport Beach began their evening socializing. Seagram had taken a dip in the club pool and then eaten early. He sat there listening to the grumbling of the nearing storm. The air became thick and charged with electricity, but there was no sign of rain or wind. In the photographic flash of the lightning he could see pleasure boats cruising up the bay, showing red and green navigation lights, their white paint giving them the appearance of silent gliding ghosts. Lightning stabbed the night air again, a jagged fork splitting the clouded sky. He watched it strike somewhere behind the Balboa Island rooftops, and in almost the same instant, the roar of the thunder thrust against his eardrums like a cannon barrage.

Everyone else had nervously moved inside the dining room, and Seagram soon found the terrace deserted. He stayed, enjoying mother nature's display of fireworks. He finished off the cognac and leaned back in his chair, watching for the next flash of lightning. It soon came and illuminated a figure standing beside his table. In that instant of light, he made out a tall man with black hair and rugged features staring down at him through cool, piercing eyes. Then the stranger blended into the darkness again.

As the thunder rumbled away, a seemingly disembodied voice asked, "Are you Gene Seagram?"

Seagram hesitated, waiting for his eyes to readjust themselves to the dark that followed the flash. "I am."

"I believe you've been looking for me."

"At the moment, you have the advantage."

"My apologies. I'm Dirk Pitt."

The skies lit up again and Seagram was relieved to see a smiling face. "It would seem, Mr. Pitt, that dramatic entrances are a habit with you. Did you also conjure up this electrical storm?"

Pitt's answering laugh came to the accompaniment of a clap of thunder.

"I haven't mastered that feat yet, but I am making progress at parting the Red Sea."

Seagram gestured to an empty chair. "Won't you sit down?"

"Thank you."

"I'd offer you a drink, but my waiter apparently has a fear of lightning."

"The worst of it is passing," Pitt said, looking skyward. The voice was quiet and controlled.

"How did you find me?" Seagram asked.

"A step-by-step process," Pitt replied. "I called your wife in Washington, and she said you were on a business trip to Leisure World. Since it's only a few miles from here, I checked with the guard at the gate. He told me he had admitted a Gene Seagram who was okayed for entry by a Mrs Bertram Austin.. She in turn mentioned she had recommended the Balboa Bay Club when you stated a desire to postpone your flight back to Washington and lay over until tomorrow. The rest was easy."