Raise the Titanic! (5 page)

“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 crud 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.”

The stone wall remained unbreached. She shook off his hands and furiously began plucking her brows. The discussion was closed; she had shut him out as conclusively as if she had caused him to vanish from the room.

When Seagram emerged from the shower, Dana was standing in front of a full-length closet mirror. She studied herself as critically as a designer who was seeing a finished creation for the first time. She wore a simple white dress that clung tightly to her torso before falling away to the ankles. The décolletage was loose and offered a more than ample view of her breasts.

“You'd better hurry,” she said casually. It was as though the argument had never happened. “We don't want to keep the President waiting.”

“There will be over two hundred people there. No one will stick a black star on our attendance chart for being tardy.”

“I don't care.” She pouted. “We don't receive an invitation to a White House party every night of the week. I'd at least like to create a good impression by arriving on time.”

Seagram sighed and went through the ticklish ritual of tying a bow tie and then attaching his cuff links clumsily with one hand. Dressing for formal parties was a chore he detested. Why couldn't Washington's social functions be conducted with comfort in mind? It might be an exciting event to Dana, but to him it was a pain in the rectum.

He finished buffing his shoes and combing his hair and went into the living room. Dana was sitting on the couch, going over reports, her briefcase open on the coffee table. She was so engrossed she didn't look up when he entered the room.

“I'm ready.”

“Be with you in a moment,” she murmured. “Could you please get my stole?”

“It's the middle of summer. What in hell do you want to sweat in a fur for?”

She removed her horn-rimmed reading glasses and said, “I think one of us should show a little class, don't you?”

He went into the hall, picked up the telephone, and dialed. Mel Donner answered in the middle of the first ring.

“Donner.”

“Any word yet?” Seagram asked.

“The
First Attempt
—”

“Is that the NUMA ship that was supposed to pick up Koplin?”

“Yeah. She bypassed Oslo five days ago.”

“My God! Why? Koplin was to jump ship and take a commercial flight stateside from there.”

“No way of knowing. The ship is on radio silence, per your instructions.”

“It doesn't look good.”

“It wasn't in the script, that's for sure.”

“I'll be at the President's party till around eleven. If you hear anything, call me.”

“You can count on it. Have fun.”

Seagram was just hanging up when Dana came out of the living room. She read the thoughtful expression on his face. “Bad news?”

“I'm not sure yet.”

She kissed him on the cheek. “A shame we can't live like normal people so you could confide your problems to me.”

He squeezed her hand. “If only I could.”

“Government secrets. What a colossal bore.” She smiled slyly. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Aren't you going to be a gentleman?”

“I'm sorry, I forgot.” He pulled her stole from the closet and slipped it over her shoulders. “A bad habit of mine, ignoring my wife.”

Her lips spread in a playful grin. “For that, you will be shot at dawn.”

Christ, he thought miserably, a firing squad might not be too farfetched at that, if Koplin screwed up at Novaya Zemlya.

The Seagrams settled
behind the crowd gathered at the entrance to the East Room and waited their turn in the receiving line. Dana had been in the White House before, but she was still impressed by it.

The President was standing smartly and devilishly handsome. He was in his early fifties and was definitely a very sexy man. The latter was supported by the fact that standing next to him, greeting every guest with the fervor of discovering a rich relative, was Ashley Fleming, Washington's most elegant and sophisticated divorcée.

“Oh shit!” Dana gasped.

Seagram frowned at her irritably. “Now what's your problem?”

“The broad standing beside the President.”

“That happens to be Ashley Fleming.”

“I know that,” Dana whispered, trying to hide behind Seagram's reassuring bulk. “Look at her gown.”

Seagram didn't get it at first, and then it hit him, and it was all he could do to suppress a boisterous laugh. “By God, you're both wearing the same dress!”

“It's not funny,” she said grimly.

“Where did you get yours?”

“I borrowed it from Annette Johns.”

“That lesbian model across the street?”

“It was given to her by Claude d'Orsini, the fashion designer.”

Seagram took her by the hand. “If nothing else, it only goes to prove what good taste my wife has.”

Before she could reply, the line joggled forward and they suddenly found themselves standing awkwardly in front of the President.

“Gene, how nice to see you.” The President smiled politely.

“Thank you for inviting us, Mr. President. You know my wife, Dana.”

The President studied her, his eyes lingering on her cleavage. “Of course. Charming, absolutely charming.” Then he leaned over and whispered in her ear.

Dana's eyes went wide and she flushed scarlet.

The President straightened and said, “May I introduce my lovely hostess, Miss Ashley Fleming. Ashley, Mr. and Mrs. Gene Seagram.”

“It's a great pleasure to meet you at last, Miss Fleming,” Seagram murmured.

He might as well have been talking to a tree. Ashley Fleming's eyes were cutting apart Dana's dress.

“It seems apparent, Mrs. Seagram,” Ashley said sweetly, “one of us will be searching for a new dress designer first thing in the morning.”

“Oh, I couldn't switch,” Dana replied innocently. “I've been going to Jacques Pinneigh since I was a little girl.”

Ashley Fleming's penciled brows raised questioningly. “Jacques Pinneigh? I've never heard of him.”

“He's more widely known as JCPenney,” Dana smiled sweetly. “His downtown store is having a clearance sale next month. Wouldn't it be fun if we shopped together? That way we wouldn't wind up as look-alikes.”

Ashley Fleming's face froze in a mask of indignation as the President went into a coughing spasm. Seagram nodded weakly, grabbed Dana's arm, and quickly hustled her away into the mainstream of the crowd.

“Did you have to do that?” he growled.

“I couldn't resist it. That woman is nothing but a glorified hooker.” Then Dana's eyes looked up at him in bewilderment. “He propositioned me,” she said, unbelieving. “The President of the United States propositioned me.”

“Warren G. Harding and John F. Kennedy were rumored to be swingers. This one is no different. He's only human.”

“A lecher for a President. It's disgusting.”

“Are you going to take him up on it?” Seagram grinned.

“Don't be ridiculous!” she snapped back.

“May I join the battle?” The request came from a little man with flaming red hair, nattily dressed in a blue dinner jacket. He had a precisely trimmed beard that matched the hair and complemented his piercing hazel eyes. To Seagram the voice seemed vaguely familiar, but he drew a blank on the face.

“Depends whose side you're on,” Seagram said.

“Knowing your wife's fetish for Women's Lib,” the stranger said, “I'd be only too happy to join forces with her husband.”

“You know Dana?”

“I should. I'm her boss.”

Seagram stared at him in amazement. “Then you must be—”

“Admiral James Sandecker,” Dana cut in, laughing, “Director of the National Underwater and Marine Agency. Admiral, may I introduce my easily flustered husband, Gene.”

“An honor, Admiral.” Seagram extended his hand. “I've often looked forward to the opportunity of thanking you in person for that little favor.”

Dana looked puzzled. “You two know each other?”

Sandecker nodded. “We've talked over the telephone. We've never met face-to-face.”

Dana slipped her hands through the men's arms. “My two favorite people consorting behind my back. What gives?”

Seagram met Sandecker's eyes. “I once called the Admiral and requested a bit of information. That's all there was to it.”

Sandecker patted Dana's hand and said, “Why don't you make an old man eternally grateful and find him a scotch and water.”

She hesitated a moment, then kissed Sandecker lightly on the cheek and obediently began worming her way through the scattered groups of guests milling around the bar.

Seagram shook his head in wonder. “You have a way with women. If I had asked her to get me a drink, she'd have spit in my eye.”

“I pay her a salary,” Sandecker said. “You don't.”

They made their way out on the balcony and Seagram lit a cigarette while Sandecker puffed to life an immense Churchill cigar. They walked in silence until they were alone beneath a tall column in a secluded corner.

“Any word on the
First Attempt
from your end?” Seagram asked quietly.

“She docked at our Navy's submarine base in the Firth of Clyde at thirteen hundred hours, our time, this afternoon.”

“That's nearly eight hours ago. Why wasn't I notified?”

“Your instructions were quite clear,” Sandecker said coldly. “No communications from my ship until your agent was safely back on U.S. soil.”

“Then how?…”

“My information came from an old friend in the Navy. He phoned me only a half an hour ago, madder than hell, demanding to know where my skipper got off using naval facilities without permission.”

“There's been a screw-up somewhere,” Seagram said flatly. “Your ship was supposed to dock at Oslo and let my man come ashore. Just what in hell is she doing in Scotland?”

Sandecker gave Seagram a hard stare. “Let's get one thing straight, Mr. Seagram, NUMA is not an arm of the CIA, FBI, or of any other intelligence bureau, and I don't take kindly to risking my people's lives just so you can poke around Communist territory playing espionage games. Our business is oceanographic research. Next time you want to play James Bond, get the Navy or the Coast Guard to do your dirty work. Don't con the President into ordering out one of
my
ships. Do you read me, Mr. Seagram?”

“I apologize for your agency's inconvenience, Admiral. I meant nothing derogatory. You must understand my uneasiness.”

“I'd like to understand.” There was a slight softening in the admiral's face. “But you'd make things a damned sight simpler if you would take me into your confidence and tell me what it is you're after.”

Seagram turned away. “I'm sorry.”

“I see,” Sandecker said.

“Why do you suppose the
First Attempt
bypassed Oslo?” Seagram said.

“My guess is that your agent felt it was too dangerous to catch a civilian plane out of Oslo and decided on a military flight instead. Our nuclear sub base on the Firth of Clyde has the nearest airfield, so he probably ordered the captain of my research vessel to skip Norway and head there.”

“I hope you're right. Whatever the reason, I'm afraid that the deviation from our set plan can only spell trouble.”

Sandecker spied Dana standing in the balcony doorway with a drink in one hand. She was searching for them. He waved and caught her eye, and she started to move toward them.

“You're a lucky man, Seagram. Your wife is a bright and lovely gal.”

Suddenly, Mel Donner appeared, rushed past Dana, and reached them first. He excused himself to Admiral Sandecker.

“A naval transport landed twenty minutes ago with Sid Koplin on board,” Donner said softly. “He's been taken to Walter Reed.”

“Why Walter Reed?”

“He's been shot up pretty badly.”

“Good God.” Seagram groaned.

“I've got a car waiting. We can be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Okay, give me a moment.”

He spoke quietly to Sandecker and asked the admiral to see that Dana got home and to make his regrets to the President. Then he followed Donner to the car.