Clive Cussler: Raise the Titanic

"It's a mystery to me, sir," Marganin said softly, "how you can take so easily to Western trash."

Prevlov looked up from a file and gave Marganin a cool, disdainful stare. "Like so many of our comrades, you are ignorant of the world at large. I think like an American, I drink like an Englishman, I drive like an Italian, and I live like a Frenchman. And do you know why, Lieutenant?"

Marganin flushed and mumbled nervously. "No, sir."

"To know the enemy, Marganin. The key is to know your enemy better than he knows you, better than he knows himself. Then do unto him before he has a chance to do unto you."

"Is that a quote from Comrade New Tshetsky?"

Prevlov shrugged in despair. "No, you idiot; I'm bastardizing the Christian Bible." He inhaled and blew a stream of smoke through his nostrils and sipped the gin. "Study the Western ways, my friend. If we do not learn from them, then our cause is lost." He turned back to the files. "Now then, why are these matters sent to our department?"

"No reason other than that the incident took place on or near a seacoast."

"What do we know about this one?" Prevlov snapped open the next file.

"Very little. A soldier on guard patrol at the north island of Novaya Zemlya is missing, along with his dog."

"Hardly grounds for a security panic. Novaya Zemlya is practically barren. An outdated missile station, a guard post, a few fishermen-we have no classified installations within hundreds of miles of it. Damned waste of time to even bother sending a man and a dog out to patrol it."

"The West would no doubt feel the same way about sending an agent there."

Prevlov's fingers drummed the table as he squinted at the ceiling.

Finally, he said, "An agent? Nothing there . . . nothing of military interest . . .yet-" He broke off and flicked a switch on his intercom. "Bring me the National Underwater and Marine Agency's ship placements of the last two days."

Marganin's brows lifted. "They wouldn't dare send an oceanographic expedition near Novaya Zemlya. That's deep within Soviet waters."

"We do not own the Barents Sea," Prevlov said patiently. "It is international waters."

An attractive blond secretary, wearing a trim brown suit, came into the room, handed a folder to Preview, and then left, closing the door softy behind her.

Prevlov shuffled through the papers in the folder until he found what he was looking for. "Here we are. The NUMA vessel First Attempt, last sighted by one of our trawlers three hundred and twenty-five nautical miles southwest of Franz Josef Land."

"That would put her close to Novaya Zemlya," Marganin said.

"Odd," Prevlov muttered. "According to the United States Oceanographic Ship Operating Schedule, the First Attempt should have been conducting plankton studies off North Carolina at the time of this sighting." He downed the remainder of the gin, mashed out the butt of his cigarette, and lit another. "A very interesting concurrence."

"What does it prove?" Marganin asked.

"It proves nothing, but it suggests that the Novaya Zemlya patrol guard was murdered and the agent responsible escaped, most likely rendezvoused with the First Attempt. It suggests that the United States is up to something when a NUMA research ship deviates from her planned schedule without explanation."

"What could they possibly be after?"

"I haven't the foggiest notion." Prevlov leaned back in his chair and smoothed his mustache. "Have the satellite photos enlarged of the immediate area at the time of the event in question."

The evening shadows were darkening the streets outside the office windows when Lieutenant Marganin spread the photo blowups on Prevlov's desk and handed him a high powered magnifying glass.

"Your perceptiveness paid off, sir. We have something interesting here."

Prevlov intently studied the pictures. "I see nothing unusual about the ship; typical research equipment, no military-detection hardware in evidence."

Marganin pointed at a wide-angle photo that barely revealed a ship as a small white mark on the emulsion. "Please note the small shape about two thousand meters from the First Attempt in the upper-right corner."

Prevlov peered through the glass for almost a full half minute. "A helicopter!"

"Yes, sir, that's why I was late with the enlargements. I took the liberty of having the photos analyzed by Section R."

"One of our Army security patrols, I imagine."

"No, sir."

Prevlov's brows raised. "Are you suggesting that it belong to the American vessel?"

"That's their guess, sir." Marganin placed two more pictures in front of Prevlov. "They examined earlier photos from another reconnaissance satellite. As you can see by comparing them, the helicopter is flying on a course away from Novaya Zemlya toward the First Attempt. They judged its altitude at ten feet and its speed at less than fifteen knots."

"Obviously avoiding our radar security," Prevlov said.

"Do we alert our agents in America?" said Marganin.

"No, not yet. I don't want to risk their cover until we are certain what it is the Americans are after."

He straightened the photographs and slipped them neatly into a folder, then looked at his Omega wristwatch. "I've just time for a light supper before the ballet. Do you have anything else, Lieutenant?"

"Only the file on the Lorelei Current Drift Expedition. The American deep-sea submersible was last reported in fifteen thousand feet of water off the coast of Dakar."

Prevlov stood up, took the file and shoved it under his arm. "I'll study it when I get a chance. Probably nothing in it that concerns naval security. Still, it should make good reading. Leave it to the Americans to come up with strange and wonderful projects."

5

"Damn, damn, double damn!" Dana hissed. "Look at the crow's-feet coming in around my eyes." She sat at her dressing table and stared dejectedly at her reflection in the mirror. "Who was it who said old age is a form of leprosy?"

Seagram came up behind her, pulled back her hair, and kissed the soft, exposed neck. "Thirty-one on your last birthday and already you're running for senior citizen of the month."

She stared at him in the mirror, bemused at his rare display of affection. "You're lucky; men don't have this problem."

"Men also suffer from the maladies of age and crow's-feet. "What makes women think we don't crack at the seams, too?"

"The difference is, you don't care."

"We're more prone to accept the inevitable," he said, smiling. "Speaking of the inevitable, when are you going to have a baby?"

"You bastard! You never give up, do you?" She threw a hairbrush on the dressing table, knocking a regiment of evenly spaced bottles of artificial beauty about the glass top. "We've been through all this a thousand times. I won't subject myself to the indignities of pregnancy. I won't swish crap-laden diapers around in a toilet bowl ten times a day. Let someone else populate the earth. I'm not about to split off my soul, like some damned amoeba."

"Those reasons are phony. You don't honestly believe them yourself."

She turned back to the mirror and made no reply.

"A baby could save us, Dana," he said gently.

She dropped her head in her hands. "I won't give up my career any more than you'll give up your precious project."

He stroked her soft golden hair and gazed at her image in the mirror. "Your father was an alcoholic who deserted his family when you were only ten. Your mother worked behind a bar and brought men home to earn extra drinking money. You and your brother were treated like animals until you were both old enough to run away from the garbage bin you called home. He turned crook and started holding up liquor stores and gas stations; a nifty little occupation that netted him a murder conviction and life imprisonment at San Quentin. God knows, I'm proud of how you lifted yourself from the sewer and worked eighteen hours a day to put yourself through college and grad school. Yes, you had a rotten childhood, Dana, and you're afraid of having a baby because of your memories. You've got to understand your nightmare doesn't belong to the future; you can't deny a son or daughter their chance at life."