Raise the Titanic! (7 page)

“I mean the man who killed the Soviet patrol guard and his dog, and carried me off the island.”

Donner and Seagram looked at each other thunderstruck. Donner was the first to recover. “Killed a Soviet patrol guard!” It was more statement than question. “My God, that tears it!”

“But that's impossible!” Seagram finally managed to blurt. “When you rendezvoused with the NUMA ship, you were alone.”

“Who told you that?”

“Well…no one. We naturally assumed—”

“I'm not Superman,” Koplin said sarcastically. “The patrol guard picked up my trail, closed to within two hundred yards, and shot me twice. I was hardly in any condition to outrun a dog and then sail a sloop over fifty miles of open sea.”

“Where did this Dirk Pitt come from?”

“I haven't the vaguest idea. The guard was literally dragging me off to his security post commander when Pitt appeared through the blizzard, like some vengeful Norse god, and calmly, as if he did it every day before breakfast, shot the dog and then the guard without so much as a how-do-you-do.”

“The Russians will make propaganda hay with this.” Donner groaned.

“How?” Koplin demanded. “There were no witnesses. The guard and his dog are probably buried under five feet of snow by now: they may never be found. And if they are, so what? Who's to prove anything? You two are pushing the panic button over nothing.”

“It was a hell of a risk on that character's part,” Seagram said.

“Good thing he took it,” Koplin muttered. “Or instead of me lying here safe and snug in my sterile hospital bed, I'd be lying in a sterile Russian prison spilling my guts about Meta Section and byzanium.”

“You have a valid point,” Donner admitted.

“Describe him,” Seagram ordered. “Face, build, clothing, everything you can remember.”

Koplin did so. His description was sketchy in some areas, but in others his recollection of detail was remarkably accurate.

“Did you talk with him during the trip to the NUMA ship?”

“Couldn't. I blacked out right after he picked me up and didn't come to until I found myself here in Washington in the hospital.”

Donner gestured to Seagram. “We'd better get a make on this guy, quick.”

Seagram nodded. “I'll start with Admiral Sandecker. Pitt must have been connected with the research vessel. Perhaps someone in NUMA can identify him.”

“I can't help wondering how much he knows,” Donner said staring at the floor.

Seagram didn't answer. His mind had strayed to a shadowy figure on a snow-covered island in the Arctic. Dirk Pitt. He repeated the name in his mind. Somehow it seemed strangely familiar.

The telephone rang
at 12:10
A.M
. Sandecker popped open one eye and stared at it murderously for several moments. Finally, he gave in and answered it on the eighth ring.

“Yes, what is it?” he demanded.

“Gene Seagram here, Admiral. Did I catch you in bed?”

“Oh, hell no.” Sandecker yawned. “I never retire before I write five chapters on my autobiography, rob at least two liquor stores, and rape a cabinet member's wife. Okay, what are you after, Seagram?”

“Something has come up.”

“Forget it. I'm not endangering any more of my men and ships to bail your agents out of enemy territory.” He used the word enemy as though the country were at war.

“It's not that at all.”

“Then what?”

“I need a line on someone.”

“Why come to me in the dead of night?”

“I think you might know him.”

“What's the name?”

“Pitt. Dirk. The last name is Pitt, probably spelled P-i-t-t.”

“Just to humor an old man's curiosity, what makes you think I know him?”

“I have no proof, but I'm certain he has a connection with NUMA.”

“I have over two thousand people under me. I can't memorize
all
their names.”

“Could you check him out? It's imperative that I talk to him.”

“Seagram,” Sandecker grunted irritably, “you're a monumental pain in the ass. Did it ever occur to you to call my personnel director during normal working hours?”

“My apologies,” Seagram said. “I happened to be working late and—”

“Okay, if I dig up this character, I'll have him get in touch with you.”

“I'd appreciate it.” Seagram's tone remained impersonal. “By the way, the man your people rescued up in the Barents Sea is getting along nicely. The surgeon on the
First Attempt
did a magnificent job of bullet removal.”

“Koplin, wasn't it?”

“Yes, he should be up and around in a few days.”

“That was a near thing, Seagram. If the Russians had cottoned on to us, we'd have a nasty incident on our hands about now.”

“What can I say?” Seagram said helplessly.

“You can say good night and let me get back to sleep,” Sandecker snarled. “But first, tell me how this Pitt figures into the picture.”

“Koplin was about to be captured by a Russian security guard when this guy appears out of a blizzard and kills the guard, carries Koplin across fifty miles of stormy water, not to mention stemming the blood flow from his wounds, and somehow deposits him on board your research vessel, ready for surgery.”

“What do you intend to do when you find him?”

“That's between Pitt and myself.”

“I see,” Sandecker said. “Well, good night, Mr. Seagram.”

“Thank you, Admiral. Good-by.”

Sandecker hung up and then sat there a few moments, a bemused expression on his face. “Killed a Russian security guard and rescued an American agent. Dirk Pitt…you sly son of a bitch.”

United's early flight
touched down at Denver's Stapleton Airfield at eight in the morning. Mel Donner passed quickly through the baggage claim and settled behind the wheel of an Avis Plymouth for the fifteen-minute drive to 400 West Colfax Avenue and the
Rocky Mountain News
. As he followed the west-bound traffic, his gaze alternated between the windshield and a street map stretched open beside him on the front seat.

He had never been in Denver before, and he was mildly surprised to see a pall of smog hanging over the city. He expected to be confronted with the dirty brown and gray cloud over places like Los Angeles and New York, but Denver had always conjured up visions in his mind of a city cleansed by crystal clean air, nestled under the protective shadow of Purple Mountain Majesties. Even these were a disappointment; Denver sat naked on the edge of the great plains, at least twenty-five miles from the nearest foothills.

He parked the car and found his way to the newspaper's library. The girl behind the counter peered back at him through tear-shaped glasses and smiled an uneven-toothed, friendly smile.

“Can I help you?”

“Do you have an issue of your paper dated November 17, 1911?”

“Oh my, that does go back.” She twisted her lips. “I can give you a photocopy, but the original issues are at the State Historical Society.”

“I only need to see page three.”

“If you care to wait, it'll take about fifteen minutes to track down the film of November 17, 1911, and run the page you want through the copy machine.”

“Thank you. By the way, would you happen to have a business directory for Colorado?”

“We certainly do.” She reached under the counter and laid a booklet on the smudged plastic top.

Donner sat down to study the directory as the girl disappeared to search out his request. There was no listing of a Guthrie and Sons Foundry in Pueblo. He thumbed to the T's. Nothing there either for the Thor Forge and Ironworks of Denver. It was almost too much to expect, he reasoned, for two firms still to be in business after nearly eight decades.

The fifteen minutes came and went, and the girl hadn't returned, so he idly leafed through the directory to pass the time. With the exception of Kodak, Martin Marietta, and Gates Rubber, there were very few companies he'd heard of. Then suddenly he stiffened. Under the J listings his eyes picked out a Jensen and Thor Metal Fabricators in Denver. He tore out the page, stuffed it in his pocket, and tossed the booklet back on the counter.

“Here you are, sir,” the girl said. “That'll be fifty cents.”

Donner paid and quickly scanned the headline in the upper-right-hand corner of the old newsprint's reproduction. The article covered a mine disaster.

“Is it what you were looking for?” the girl asked.

“It will have to do,” he said as he walked away.

 

Jensen and Thor Metal Fabricators was situated between the Burlington-Northern rail yards and the South Platte River; a massive corrugated monstrosity that would have blotted any landscape except the one that surrounded it. Inside the work shed, overhead cranes shuffled enormous lengths of rusty pipe from pile to pile, while stamping machines pounded away with an intolerable clangor that made Donner's eardrums cringe from the attack. The main office sat off to one side behind soundproofed aggregate concrete walls and tall arched windows.

An attractive, large-breasted receptionist escorted him down a shag-carpeted hall to a spacious paneled office. Carl Jensen, Jr., came around the desk and shook hands with Donner. He was young, no more than twenty-eight, and wore his hair long. He had a neatly trimmed mustache and wore an expensive plaid suit. He looked for all the world like a UCLA graduate; Donner couldn't see him as anything else.

“Thank you for taking the time to see me, Mr. Jensen.”

Jensen smiled guardedly. “It sounded important. A big man on the Washington campus and all. How could I refuse?”

“As I mentioned over the telephone, I'm checking on some old records.”

Jensen's smile thinned. “You're not from the Internal Revenue, I hope.”

Donner shook his head. “Nothing like that. The government's interest is purely historical. If you still keep them, I'd like to check over your sales records for July through November of 1911.”

“You're putting me on.” Jensen laughed.

“I assure you, it's a straight request.”

Jensen stared at him blankly. “Are you sure you've got the right company?”

“I am,” Donner said brusquely, “if this is a descendant of the Thor Forge and Ironworks.”

“My great-grandfather's old outfit,” Jensen admitted. “My father bought up the outstanding stock and changed the name in 1942.”

“Would you still have any of the old records?”

Jensen shrugged. “We threw out the ancient history some time ago. If we'd saved every receipt of sale since great-granddaddy opened his doors back in 1897, we'd need a warehouse the size of Bronco Stadium just to store them.”

Donner pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the beads of sweat from his face. He sagged in his chair.

“However,” Jensen continued, “and you can thank the foresight of Carl Jensen, Sr., we have all our past records down on microfilm.”

“Microfilm?”

“The only way to fly. After five years, we film everything. Efficiency personified, that's us.”

Donner couldn't believe his luck. “Then you
can
provide me with sales for the last six months of 1911?”

Jensen didn't answer. He leaned over the desk, spoke into his intercom, and then tilted back in his executive chair. “While we wait, can I get you a cup of coffee, Mr. Donner?”

“I'd prefer something with a little more snap.”

“Spoken like a man from the big city.” Jensen stood up and walked over to a mirrored bar from which he produced a bottle of Chivas Regal. “You'll find Denver quite gauche. A bar in an office is generally frowned upon here. The locals' idea of entertaining visiting firemen is to treat them to a large Coca-Cola and a lavish lunch at the Wienerschnitzel. Fortunately for our esteemed out-of-town customers, I spent my business apprenticeship on Madison Avenue.”

Donner took the offered glass and downed it.

Jensen looked at him appraisingly and then refilled the glass. “Tell me, Mr. Donner, just what is it you expect to find?”

“Nothing of importance,” Donner said.

“Come now. The government wouldn't send a man across half the country to itemize seventy-six-year-old sales records strictly for laughs.”

“The government often handles its secrets in a funny way.”

“A classified secret that goes back to 1911?” Jensen shook his head in wonder. “Truly amazing.”

“Let's just say we're trying to solve an ancient crime whose perpetrator purchased your great-grandfather's services.”

Jensen smiled and courteously accepted the lie.

A black-haired girl in long skirt and boots swiveled into the room, threw Jensen a seductive look, laid a Xerox paper on his desk, and retreated.

Jensen picked up the paper and examined it. “June to November must have been a recession year for my ancestor. Sales for those months were slim. Any particular entry you're interested in, Mr. Donner?”

“Mining equipment.”

“Yes, this must be it…drilling tools. Ordered August tenth and picked up by the buyer on November first.” Jensen's lips broke into a wide grin. “It would seem, sir, the laugh is on you.”

“I don't follow.”

“The buyer, or as you've informed me, the criminal…,” Jensen paused for effect, “…was the U.S. government.”