"Timing was critical. The only chance the Russians had to board the Titanic with any degree of success was during the eye of the hurricane. It was clever thinking. The possibility never occurred to us. If the tugs could have towed the hulk without any complications, we'd have missed the eye by thirty miles. But thanks to Drummer, the instability of the listing hull made the tow job a shambles. Before the cable parted, she sheered all over the ocean, forcing the tugs to reduce their speed to minimum steerage way. And, as you can see, the mere presence of Prevlov and his band of cutthroats attests to the success of Drummer's efforts."
The truth began to register then. None of the salvage crew had actually witnessed Drummer slaving over a pump or offering to carry his share of the load. It registered that he'd always been off on his own, showing up only to complain of his frustration at not overcoming the obstacles that supposedly prevented his survey tour of the ship. They stared at Drummer as though he was some alien from another world, waiting for, expecting the indignant words of denial.
There was to be no denial, no shocked plea of innocence, only a flicker of annoyance that vanished as quickly as it had come. Drummer's transformation was nothing short of astounding. The sad droop to the eyes had disappeared; they suddenly took on a glinting sharpness. Gone too was the lazy curl from the corners of his lips and the slouched, indifferent posture of his body. The indolent facade was gone and, in its place, was a straight-shouldered, almost aristocratic-looking man.
"Permit me to say, Pitt," Drummer said in a precise tone, "your powers of observation would do a first-class espionage agent proud. However, you haven't uncovered anything that really changes the situation."
"Fancy that," Pitt said. "Our former colleague has suddenly lost his Jubilation T Cornpone accent."
"I mastered it rather skillfully, don't you think?"
"That's not all you mastered, Drummer. Somewhere in your budding career you learned how to win secrets and murder friends."
"A necessity of the trade," Drummer said. He had eased away from the salvage crew until he was standing beside Prevlov.
"Tell me, which one are you, Silver or Gold?"
"Not that it matters any longer," Drummer shrugged "I'm Gold."
"Then your brother is Silver."
Drummer's smug expression hardened. "You know this?" he said slowly.
"After I had you pegged, I turned over my evidence, meager as it was, to the FBI. I have to hand it to Prevlov and his comrades at Soviet Naval Intelligence. They laid a phony history on you that was as American as apple pie, or should I say Georgia peach pie, and seemingly as genuine as the Confederate flag. But the bureau finally broke through the false documents certifying your impeccable security clearance and tracked you all the way back to the old homestead in Halifax, Nova Scotia, where you and your brother were born . . . within ten minutes of each other I might add."
"My God!" Spencer muttered. "Twins."
"Yes, but nonidentical. They don't even look like brothers."
"So it became a simple case of one twin leading to the other," Spencer said.
"Hardly simple," Pitt replied. "They're a smart pair, Drummer and his brother. You can't take that away from them. That was my prime mistake, attempting to draw a parallel between two men who should have had the same likes and dislikes, who shared the same quarters or who palled around together. But Silver and Gold played opposite roles to the core. Drummer was equally chummy to everyone and lived alone. I was at a dead end. The FBI was trying to trace Drummer's brother while rechecking the security clearances of every member of the salvage crew, but nobody could make a definite connection. Then a break in the form of near-tragedy burst on the scene and pinned the tail on the donkey."
"The Deep Fathom accident," Gunn said, staring at Drummer through cold, unblinking eyes. "But Drummer had no relation with the submersible. He was on the crew of the Sappho II. "
"He had a very real relation. You see, his brother was on the Deep Fathom. "
"How did you guess that?" Drummer asked.
"Twins have a curious bond. They think and feel things as one. You may have masqueraded as two totally unrelated persons, Drummer, but the two of you were too close for one of you not to come unglued when the other was on the brink of death. You felt your brother's agony, just as surely as if you were trapped down there in the abyss with him."
"Of course," Gunn said. "We were all on edge at the time, but Drummer was damn-near hysterical."
"Again it became a process of elimination among three men; this time Chavez, Kiel, and Merker. Chavez is obviously of Mexican descent and you can't fake that. Kiel is eight years too young; you can't fake that either. That left Sam Merker."
"Damn!" Spencer muttered. "How could we have been taken in for so long?"
"Not hard to imagine when you consider that we were up against the best team the Russians could field." A smile tugged at Pitt's lips. "Incidentally, Spencer, you previously stated that there were ten of us here. You miscounted there are eleven. You neglected to include Jack the Ripper there." He turned to the guard who was still standing in front of Dana, still clutching the knife in his hand as if it had grown there. "Why don't you drop your stupid disguise, Merker, and join the party."
The guard slowly removed his cap and unwound the muffler that covered the lower half of his face.
"He's the dirty bastard that knifed Woodson," Giordino hissed.
"Sorry about that," Merker said calmly. "Woodson's first mistake was in recognizing me. He might have lived if he had let it go at that. His second mistake, and a very fatal one, was attacking me."
"Woodson was your friend."
"The business of espionage makes no allowances for friends."
"Merker," Sandecker said. "Merker and Drummer. Silver and Gold. I trusted you both, and yet you sold NUMA down the river. For two years you sold us. And for what? A few lousy dollars."
"I wouldn't say a few, Admiral." Merker eased the knife back into its sheath. "More than enough to support my brother and me in fashionable style for a long time to come."
"Hey, where did he come from?" Gunn asked. "Merker is supposed to be in Doc Bailey's sick bay on board the Capricorn. "
"He stowed away on Sturgis's helicopter," Pitt said, patting his bleeding head with a damp handkerchief.
"Can't be!" Sturgis blurted out. "You were there, Pitt, when I opened the cargo hatch. Except for Mrs. Seagram, the copter was empty."
"Merker was there all right. After he gave Doc Bailey the slip, he kept away from his own cabin and made for brother Drummer's quarters, where he borrowed a fresh change of clothing, including a pair of cowboy boots. Then he sneaked onto the helicopter, threw out the emergency life raft, and hid under its cover. Unfortunately for Dana, she happened along in search of her make-up kit. When she knelt down to retrieve it, her eye caught Merker's boots protruding from under the life raft cover. Not about to let her screw up his escape, he popped her on the head with a hammer he'd found lying around somewhere, wrapped her in a tarpaulin, and crawled back into his hiding space."
"That means he was still in the cargo compartment when we uncovered Mrs. Seagram."
"No. By then he was gone. If you recall, after you switched open the cargo door, we waited for a few moments, listening for any movement inside. There was none because Merker had already crept into the control cabin under the cover of the noise from the door-actuator motors. Then when you and I played Keystone Kops and entered the cargo compartment, he dropped down the cockpit ladder outside and walked peacefully into the night."
"But why throw the hammer into the rotor blades?" Sturgis persisted. "What was the purpose?"
"Since you flew the copter from the Capricorn empty," Merker said, "and there was no freight to unload, I couldn't risk the chance of your taking off again without opening the cargo door. You had me trapped back there and didn't know it.
"You became a busy little beaver after that," Pitt said to Merker, "flitting about the ship, guided no doubt by a diagram
provided by Drummer. First, you took your brother's portable cutting rig and burned off the tow cable while Chief Bascom and his men were resting in the gymnasium between inspection tours. Next, you cut the mooring lines to the helicopter, taking great satisfaction, I'm certain, in knowing that it was swept over the side of the ship with me in it."
"Two birds with one slice," Merker admitted. "Why deny-"
Merker was cut short by a muffled burst from a submachine gun that echoed from somewhere on the decks below. Prevlov shrugged and looked at Sandecker.
"I fear your men below are proving difficult." He removed the cigarette from its holder and crushed it out with his boot. "I think this discussion has lasted long enough. The storm will be abating in a few hours and the Mikhail Kurkov will move into position for the tow. Admiral Sandecker, you will see to it your men cooperate in manning the pumps. Drummer will show you the locations where he's pierced the hull below the waterline so that the rest of your crew can stem the leakage."
"So it's back to the torture games," Sandecker said contemptuously.
"I am through playing games, Admiral." Prevlov had a determined look. He spoke to one of the guards, a short man with a coarsened toughness about him. The same guard who had shoved his gun into Sandecker's side. "This is Buski, a very direct fellow who happens to be the finest marksman in his regiment. He also understands a smattering of English, enough at any rate to translate numerical progression." He turned to the guard. "Buski, I am going to begin counting. When I reach five, you will shoot Mrs. Seagram in the right arm. At ten, in the left; at fifteen in the right knee; and so on until Admiral Sandecker mends his uncooperative ways."
"A businesslike concept," Pitt added. "And you'll shoot the rest of us after we've served your purpose, weight our bodies, and dump them in the sea so they're never found. Then you'll claim we abandoned the ship in the helicopter, which, of course, conveniently crashed. You'd even provide two witnesses, Drummer and Merker, who would testify after their miraculous survival about how the benevolent Russians plucked them from the sea just as they were going down for the third time."
"I see no need to prolong the agony any further," Prevlov said tiredly. "Buski."
Buski raised his machine pistol and took aim at Dana's arm.
"Your intrigue me, Prevlov," Pitt said. "You've shown little interest in how I learned Drummer and Merker's code names or why I didn't have them thrown in the brig after I ferreted out their identities. You don't even seem curious as to how I came to know your name."
"Curious, yes, but it makes no difference. Nothing can change the circumstances. Nothing and no one can help you and your friends, Pitt. Not now. Not the CIA or the whole United States Navy. The die is cast. There will be no more play with words."
Prevlov nodded at Buski. "One."
"When Captain Prevlov reaches the count of four, you will die, Buski."
Buski leered smugly and made no reply.
"Two."
"We knew your plans for taking the Titanic. Admiral Sandecker and I have known for the last forty-eight hours."
"You've run your last bluff," Prevlov said. "Three."
Pitt shrugged indifferently. "Then all blood is on your hands, Prevlov."
"Four."
An ear-shattering blam rang deafeningly through the dining saloon as the bullet caught Buski just below the hairline and between the eyes, catapulting a quarter of his skull in a crimson blur of slow-motion, snapping his head upward, and slamming him to the deck in an inert spreadeagle at Prevlov's feet.
Dana cried out in startled pain as she was slammed to the deck. There were no apologies from Pitt for throwing her there and then crushing the breath out of her as he used his hundred and ninety pounds for a protective shield. Giordino dove for Sandecker and hauled him down with all the intensity of a desperation tackle by a linebacker for the Green Bay Packers. The rest of the salvage crew wasted no more than a tenth of a second in demonstrating their fondness for self-preservation. They scattered and dropped like leaves in a windstorm, closely followed by Drummer and Merker, who fell as though shackled together.
The blast was still ringing in the far corners of the room when the guards came alive and began firing bursts from their submachine pistols into the darkness toward the dining-saloon entrance. It was a meaningless gesture. The first was cut down almost instantly, pitching forward on his face. The second flung his machine pistol into the air and clutched the river of red that burst from his neck while the third sank slowly to his knees, staring dumbly at the two small holes that had suddenly appeared in the center of his coat.
Now Prevlov stood alone. He stared down at them all and then at Pitt. His expression was one of acceptance, acceptance of defeat and death. He nodded a salute at Pitt and then calmly pulled his automatic from the holster and began firing into the darkness. He expended his clip and stood there, waiting for the gun flash, braced for the pain that must surely come. But there was no return fire. The room went silent. Everything seemed to slow down, and only then did the revelation burst on him. He was not meant to die.
It had been a trap, and he had walked into it as naively as a small child into a tiger's den.
A name began to tear at his very soul, taunting him, repeating itself over and over again.
Marganin . . . Marganin . . . Marganin . . .
67
A marine seal is usually defined as an aquatic carnivorous mammal with webbed flippers and soft fur, but the wraithlike phantoms who suddenly materialized around Prevlov and the fallen guards bore little resemblance to their name sake. The United States Navy SEAL, an acronym of sea, air, and land, were members of an extraordinary elite fighting group, trained in every phase of combat from underwater demolition to jungle warfare.
There were five of them encased in pitch-black rubber wetsuits, hoods, and tight slipperlike boots. Their faces were indistinguishable under the ebony warpaint, making it all but impossible to tell where the wetsuits left off and flesh began. Four men held M-24 automatic rifles with collapsible stocks, while the fifth tightly gripped a Stoner weapon, a wicked looking affair with two barrels. One of the SEALs detached himself from the rest and helped Pitt and Dana to their feet.
"Oh God," Dana moaned. "I'll be black and blue for a month." For perhaps five dazed seconds she massaged her aching body, oblivious to the fact that Pitt's jacket had come open. When shocked realization did come, when she saw the guards sprawled grotesquely in death, her-voice dropped to a whisper. "Oh shit . . . Oh shit. . ."
"I think it's safe to say the lady survived," Pitt said with a half grin. He shook the SEAL's hand, then introduced him to Sandecker, who was unsteadily clutching Giordino's shoulder for support.
"Admiral Sandecker, may I present our deliverer, Lieutenant Fergus, United States Navy SEALs."
Sandecker acknowledged Fergus's smart salute with a pleased nod, released his hold on Giordino, and stood ramrod straight.
"The ship, Lieutenant, who commands the ship?"
"Unless I'm mistaken, sir, you do--"
Fergus's words were punctuated by another burst of echoing gunfire from somewhere in the cavernous depths of the ship.
"The last stubborn holdout." Fergus smiled. It was obvious. His white teeth gleamed like a neon sign at midnight. "The ship is secure, sir. My ironclad guarantee on it."
"And the pumping crew?"
"Safe and sound and back at their work."
"How many men in your command?"
"Two combat units, Admiral. Ten men in all, including myself."
Sandecker's eyebrows raised. "Only ten men, did you say?"
"Ordinarily for an assault of this nature," Fergus said matter-of-factly, "we'd have used just one combat unit, but Admiral Kemper thought it best to double our force to be on the safe side."
"The Navy's advanced some since I served," Sandecker said wistfully.
"Any casualties?" Pitt asked.
"Until five minutes ago, two of my men wounded, nothing serious, and one missing."
br /> "Where did you come from?" The question was from Merker's lips. He was staring malevolently over the shoulder of a wary SEAL. "There was no ship in the area, no aircraft was sighted. How . . . ?"
Fergus looked at Pitt questioningly. Pitt nodded. "Permission granted to inform our former colleague the facts of life, Lieutenant. He can muse over your answers while he's sitting in a cell on death row."
"We came aboard the hard way," Fergus obliged. "From fifty feet below the surface through the torpedo tubes of a nuclear submarine. That's how I lost one of my men; the water was rough as hell. A wave must have crushed him against the Titanic's hull while we were taking turns climbing the boarding ladders dropped over the side by Mr. Pitt."
"Strange that no one else saw you come on board," Spencer murmured.