Clive Cussler - Raise the Titanic

He halted at a small sign beside the road. Part of the lettering was obscured by a small tree that had grown up around it. Slowly, as if he were afraid his hopes would be shattered by yet another disappointment, he pushed aside the branches and suddenly it all became quite clear. The key to the riddle of Joshua Hays Brewster and the byzanium was there in front of him. He stood there soaking up the falling rain and in that instant he knew that everything had been worthwhile.

81

Marganin sat on a bench by the fountain in Sverdlov Square across from the Bolshoi Theater and read a newspaper. He felt a slight quiver and knew without looking that someone had taken the vacant place beside him.

The fat man in the rumpled suit leaned against the backrest and casually gnawed on an apple. "Congratulations on your promotion, Commander," he mumbled between bites.

"Considering how events turned out," Marganin said without lowering the paper, "it was the least Admiral Sloyuk could do."

"And your situation now . . . with Prevlov out of the way?"

"With the good Captain's defection, I was the logical choice to replace him as Chief of the Foreign Intelligence Analysis Division. It was an obvious conclusion."

"It is good that our years of labor have paid such handsome dividends."

Marganin turned a page. "We have only opened the door. The dividends are yet to come."

"You must be more careful of your actions now than ever before."

"I intend to," Marganin said. "This Prevlov business badly burned the Soviet Navy's credibility with the Kremlin. Everyone in the Naval Intelligence Department is having their security clearances rechecked under tight scrutiny. It will be a long time before I am trusted as fully as Captain Prevlov was."

"We will see to it that things are speeded up a bit." The fat man pretended to swallow a large bite from the apple. "When you leave here, mingle with the crowd at the entrance to the subway across the street. One of our people who is adroit at lifting wallets from the unsuspecting will do a reverse routine and discreetly insert an envelope into your inside breast pocket. The envelope contains the minutes from the last meeting of the United States Navy Chief of Staff with his fleet commanders."

"That's pretty heady material."

"The minutes have been doctored. They may seem important, but in reality they have been carefully reworded to mislead your superiors."

"Passing along fake documents won't do my position any good."

"Ease your mind," the fat man said. "Tomorrow at this time an agent of the KGB will obtain the same material. The KGB will declare it bona fide. Since you will have produced your information twenty-four hours ahead of them, it will put a feather in your cap in the eyes of Admiral Sloyuk."

"Very cunning," Marganin said, staring at the newspaper. "Anything else?"

"This is good-by," the fat man murmured.

"Good-by?"

"Yes. I have been your contact long enough. Too long. We've come too far, you and I, to become lax in our security now."

"And my new contact?"

"Are you still living in the naval barracks?" the fat man replied with another question.

"The barracks will remain my home. I am not about to draw suspicion as a big spender and live in a fancy apartment like Prevlov's. I shall continue to lead a spartan existence on my Soviet naval pay."

"Good. My replacement is already assigned. He will be the orderly who cleans the officers' quarters of your barracks."

"I will miss you, old friend," Marganin said slowly.

"And I, you."

There was a long moment of silence. And then, finally, the fat man spoke again in a hushed undertone. "God bless, Harry."

When Marganin folded the newspaper and laid it aside, the fat man was gone.

82

"That's our destination over there to the right," the pilot of the helicopter said. "I'll set down in that pasture just across the road from the churchyard."

Sandecker looked out the window. It was a gray, overcast morning and soft blankets of mist were hovering over the low areas of the tiny village. A quiet lane wandered past several quaint houses and was bordered on both sides by picturesque rock walls. He stiffened as the pilot made a steep bank around the church steeple.

He glanced at Donner on the seat beside him. Donner was staring straight ahead. In front of him, occupying the seat next to the pilot, was Sid Koplin. The mineralogist had been called back on this one last assignment for Meta Section, because Herb Lusky was still not well enough to make the trip.

Sandecker felt the slight bump as the landing skids touched the ground, and a moment later the pilot cut the engine and the rotor blades drifted to a stop.

In the sudden stillness after the flight from London, the pilot's voice seemed overly loud. "We're here, sir."

Sandecker nodded and stepped out the side door. Pitt was waiting and walked toward him with an outstretched hand.

"Welcome to Southby, Admiral," he said smiling.

Sandecker smiled as he took Pitt's hand, but there was no humor in his face. "The next time you take a powder without notifying me as to your intentions, you're fired."

Pitt feigned a hurt expression and then turned and greeted Donner. "Mel, nice to see you."

"Likewise," Donner said warmly. "I believe you've already met Sid Koplin."

"A chance meeting," Pitt grinned. "We were never formally introduced."

Koplin took Pitt's hand in both of his. This was hardly the same man Pitt had found dying in the snows of Novaya Zemlya. Koplin's grip was firm and his eyes alert.

"It was my fondest wish," he said, his voice heavy with emotion, "that some day I would have the opportunity of thanking you in person for saving my life."

"I'm glad to see you in good health," was all Pitt could think of to mumble. He looked down at the ground nervously.

By God, Sandecker thought to himself, the man was actually embarrassed. He never dreamed he'd see the day when Dirk Pitt turned modest. The admiral rescued Pitt by grabbing him by the arm and pulling him toward the village church.

"I hope you know what you're doing," Sandecker said. "The British frown upon colonials who go around digging up their graveyards."

"It took a direct call from the President to the Prime Minister to cut through all the bureaucratic red tape of an exhumation," Donner added.

"I think you will find the inconvenience has been worth it," Pitt said.

They came to the road and crossed it. Then they passed through an ancient wrought-iron gate and walked into the graveyard that surrounded the parish church. They walked in silence for several moments, reading the inscriptions on the weather-worn headstones.

Then Sandecker motioned toward the little village. "It's so far off the beaten track. What steered you onto it?"

"Pure luck," Pitt answered. "When I began tracing the Coloradans' movements from Aberdeen, I had no idea of how Southby might fit in the puzzle. The final sentence in Brewster's journal, if you recall, said 'How I long to return to Southby.' And, according to Commodore Bigalow, Brewster's last words just before he shut himself in the Titanic's vault were 'Thank God for Southby.'

"My only inkling, and a meager one at that, was Southby had an English ring to it, so I began by pinpointing as nearly is I could the miners' trail to Southampton-"

"By following their grave markers," Donner finished.

"They read like signposts," Pitt admitted. "That and the fact that Brewster's journal recorded the times and places of their deaths, except, that is, for Alvin Coulter and Vernon Hall. Coulter's final resting place remains a mystery, but Hall lies here in the Southby village cemetery."

"Then you found it on a map."

"No, the village is so small it isn't even a dot in the Michelin Tour Guide. I just happened to notice an old, forgotten hand-painted sign some farmer had set along the main road years ago advertising a milk cow for sale. The directions gave the farm's location as three kilometers east in the next country lane to Southby. The last pieces of the puzzle then began dropping into place."