Clive Cussler - Raise the Titanic

Koplin feebly clutched Seagram's hand. "The . . . the Coloradans. . ."

Then his eyes closed and he drifted into unconsciousness.

They walked through the parking lot as a siren whined in the distance. "What do you suppose he meant?" Donner asked.

"It doesn't figure," Seagram answered vaguely. "It doesn't figure at all."

8

"What's so important that you have to wake me on my day off!" Prevlov grunted. Without waiting for an answer, he shoved open the door and motioned Marganin into the apartment. Prevlov was wearing a silk Japanese robe. His face was drawn and tired.

As he followed Prevlov through the living room into the kitchen, Marganin's eyes traveled professionally over the furnishings and touched each piece. To someone who lived in a tiny six-by-eight-foot barracks room, the decor, the vastness of the apartment seemed like the interior east wing of Peter the Great's summer palace. It was all there, the crystal chandeliers, the floor to ceiling tapestries, the French furniture. His eyes also noted two glasses and a half-empty bottle of Chartreuse on the fireplace mantel; and on the floor, beneath the sofa, rested a pair of women's shoes. Expensive, Western, by the look of them. He palmed a strand of hair and found himself staring at the closed bedroom door. She would have to be extremely attractive. Captain Prevlov had high standards.

Prevlov leaned into the refrigerator and lifted out a pitcher of tomato juice. "Care for some?"

Marganin shook his head.

"Mix it with the right ingredients," Prevlov muttered, "as the Americans do, and you have an excellent cure for a hangover." He took a sip of the tomato juice and made a face. "Now then, what do you want?"

"KGB received a communication from one of their agents in Washington last night. They had no clues as to its meaning and hoped that perhaps we might throw some light on it."

Marganin's face reddened. The sash on Prevlov's robe had loosened and he could see that the captain wore nothing beneath it.

"Very well." Prevlov sighed. "Continue."

"It said, `Americans suddenly interested in rock collecting. Most secret operation under code name Sicilian Project."'

Prevlov stared at him over his Bloody Mary. "What sort of drivel is that?" He finished the glass in one gulp and slammed it down on the sink counter. "Has our illustrious brother intelligence service, the KGB, become a house of fools?" The voice was the dispassionate, efficient voice of the official Prevlov-cold, and devoid of all inflection except bored irritation. "And you, Lieutenant? Why do you bother me with this childish riddle now? Why couldn't this have waited until tomorrow morning when I'm back in the office?'

"I . . . I thought perhaps it was important," Marganin stammered.

"Naturally." Prevlov smiled coldly. "Every time the KGB whistles, people jump. But veiled threats don't interest me. Facts, my dear Lieutenant, facts are what count. What do you feel is so important about this Sicilian Project?"

"It seemed to me the reference to rock collecting might tie in with the Novaya Zemlya files."

Perhaps twenty seconds elapsed before Prevlov Spoke. "Possible, just possible. Still, we can't be certain of a connection'

"I . . . I only thought-"

"Please leave the thinking to me, Lieutenant." He tightened the sash on his robe. "Now, if you have run out of here-brained witch hunts, I would like to filet back to bed."

"But if the Americans are looking for something-"

"Yes, but what?" Prevlov asked dryly. "What mineral is so precious to them that they must look for it in the earth of an unfriendly country?"

Marganin shrugged.

"You answer that and you have the key." Prevlov's tone hardened almost imperceptibly. "Until then, I want solutions. Any peasant bastard can ask stupid questions."

Marganin's face reddened again. "Sometimes the Americans have hidden meanings to their code names."

"Yes," Prevlov said with mock solemnity. "They do have a penchant for advertising."

Marganin plunged forward. "I researched the American idioms that refer to Sicily, and the most prevalent seems to be their obsession with a brotherhood of hooligans and-"

"If you. had done your homework" Prevlov yawned, " you'd have discovered it's called the Mafia."

"There is also a musical ensemble that refer to themselves as the Sicilian Stilettos."

Prevlov offered Marganin a glacial stare.

"Then there is a large food processor in Wisconsin who manufactures a Sicilian salad oil."

"Enough!" Prevlov held up a protesting hand. "Salad oil, indeed. I am not up to such stupidity so early in the morning." He gestured at the front door. "I trust you have other projects at our office that are more stimulating than rock collecting."

In the living room he paused before a table on which was a carved ivory chess set and toyed with one of the pieces. "Tell me, Lieutenant, do you play chess?"

Marganin shook his head. "Not in a long time. I used to play a little when I was a cadet at the Naval Academy."

"Does the name Isaak Boleslavski mean anything to you?"

"No, sir."

"Isaak Boleslavski was one of our greatest chess masters," Prevlov said, as if lecturing a schoolboy. "He conceived many great variations of the game. One of them was the Sicilian Defense." He casually tossed the black king at Marganin who deftly caught it. "Fascinating game, chess. You should take it up again."

Prevlov walked to the bedroom door and cracked it. Then he turned and smiled indifferently to Marganin. "Now, if you will excuse me. You may let yourself out. Good day, Lieutenant."

Once outside, Marganin made his way around the rear of Prevlov's apartment building. The door to the garage was locked, so he glanced furtively up and down the alley and then tapped a side window with his fist until it splintered. Carefully, he picked out the pieces until his hand could grope inside and unlatch the lock. One more look down the alley and he pushed up the window, climbed the sill, and entered the garage.

A black American Ford sedan was parked next to Prevlov's orange Lancia. Quickly, Marganin searched both cars and memorized the numbers on the Ford's embassy license plate. To make it look like the work of a burglar, he removed the windshield wipers-the theft of which was a national pastime in the Soviet Union-and then unlocked the garage door from the inside and walked out.

He hurried back to the front of the building and he had only to wait three minutes for the next electric bus. He paid the driver and eased into a seat and stared out the window. Then he began to smile. It had been a most profitable morning.

The Sicilian Project was the furthest thing from his mind.

THE COLORADANS

August 1987

9

Mel Donner routinely checked the room for electronic eavesdropping equipment and set up the tape recorder. "This is a test for voice level." He spoke into the microphone without inflection. "One, two, three." He adjusted the controls for tone and volume, then nodded to Seagram.

"We're ready, Sid," Seagram said gently. "If it becomes tiring, just say so and we'll break off until tomorrow."

The hospital bed had been adjusted so that Sid Koplin sat nearly upright. The mineralogist appeared much improved since their last meeting. His color had returned and his eyes seemed bright. Only the bandage around his balding head showed any sign of injury. "I'll go until midnight," he said. "Anything to relieve the boredom. I hate hospitals. The nurses all have icy hands and the color on the goddamned TV is always changing."

Seagram grinned and laid the microphone in Koplin's lap. "Why don't you begin with your departure from Norway."

"Very uneventful," Koplin said. "The Norwegian fishing trawler Godhawn towed my sloop to within two hundred miles of Novaya Zemlya as planned. Then the captain fed the condemned man a hearty meal of roast reindeer with goat-cheese sauce, generously provided six quarts of aquavit, cast off the tow-hawser, and sent yours truly merrily on his way across the Barents Sea."