He was carrying an attaché case and wore a business suit that begged to be pressed. A faint smile crossed his lips as Prevlov studied him with a speculative gaze of surprised Recognition.
"Captain Prevlov, I am Warren Nicholson."
"I know," Prevlov said as he uncoiled to his feet and gave a very correct half-bow. "I was not prepared to entertain the Chief Director of the Central Intelligence Agency himself. At least not under these rather awkward circumstances."
"I've come personally to escort you to the United States."
"I am flattered."
"It is we who are flattered, Captain Prevlov. You are considered a very big catch indeed."
"Then it is to be an internationally publicized trial, complete with grave accusations against my government for attempted piracy on the high seas."
Nicholson smiled again. "No, except for a few high-ranking members of your government and mine, I'm afraid your defection will remain a well-kept secret."
Prevlov squinted. "Defection?" This was clearly not what he had expected.
Nicholson nodded without answering.
"There is no method by which you can make me willingly defect," Prevlov said grimly. "I shall deny it at every opportunity."
"A noble gesture." Nicholson shrugged. "However, since there will be no trial and no interrogation, a request for political asylum becomes your only escape clause."
"You said, 'no interrogation.' I must accuse you of lying, Mr. Nicholson. No good intelligence service would ever pass up the chance of prying out the knowledge a man of my position could provide them."
"What knowledge?" Nicholson said. "You can't tell us anything that we don't already know."
Prevlov's mind was off-balance. Perspective, he thought. He must gain a perspective. There was only one way the Americans could have gained possession of the mass of Soviet intelligence secrets that were locked away in the files in his office in Moscow. The middle of the puzzle was incomplete, but the borders were neatly locked into place. He met Nicholson's steady gaze and spoke quietly. "Lieutenant Marganin is one of your people." It was more statement than question.
"Yes." Nicholson nodded. "His name is Harry Koskoski, and he was born in Newark, New Jersey."
"Not possible," Prevlov said. "I personally checked every phase of Pavel Marganin's life. He was born and raised in Komsomolsk-na-Amure. His family were tailors."
"True, the real Marganin was a native Russian."
"Then your man is a double, a plant?"
"We arranged it four years ago when one of your Kashin class missile destroyers exploded and sank in the Indian Ocean. Marganin was one of the few survivors. He was discovered in the water by an Exxon oil tanker, but died shortly before the ship docked in Honolulu. It was a rare opportunity, and we had to work fast. Of all our Russian speaking agents, Koskoski came the closest to Marganin's physical features. We surgically altered his face to make it look as though it had been disfigured in the explosion and then airlifted him to a small, out-of-the-way island two hundred miles from where your ship sank. When our bogus Soviet seaman was finally discovered by native fishermen and returned to Russia, he was delirious and suffering from an acute attack of amnesia."
"I know the rest," Prevlov said solemnly. "We not only repaired his face through plastic surgery to that of the Genuine Marganin, but we re-educated him to his own personal history as well."
"That's pretty much the story."
"A brilliant coup, Mr. Nicholson."
"Coming from one of the most respected men in Soviet intelligence, I consider that a rare compliment indeed."
"Then this whole scheme to place me on the Titanic was hatched by the CIA and carried through by Marganin."
"Koskoski, alias Marganin, was certain you would accept the plan, and you did."
Prevlov gazed at the deck. He might have known, he might have guessed, should have been suspicious from the beginning that Marganin was slowly and intricately positioning his neck on the headman's block. He should never have fallen for it, never, but his vanity had been his downfall, and he accepted it.
"Where does this all lead?" Prevlov asked bleakly.
"By now Marganin has produced solid proof of your-if you'll pardon the expression-traitorous activities and has also proven, aided by planted evidence, that you intended for the Titanic mission to fail from the start. You see, Captain, the trail leading to your defection has been carefully mapped for nearly two years. You yourself helped matters considerably with your fondness for expensive refinements. Your superiors can draw but one conclusion from your actions, you sold out for a very high price."
"And if I deny it?"
"Who would believe you? I venture to say that your name is already on the Soviet liquidation list."
"Then what's to become of me now?"
"You have two choices. One, we can set you free after a proper period of time."
"I wouldn't last a week. I am well aware of the KGB assassin network."
"Your second choice is to cooperate with us." Nicholson paused, hesitated, then looked directly at Prevlov. "You're a brilliant man, Captain, the best in your field. We don't like to let good brains go to waste. I don't have to paint you a picture of your value to the Western intelligence community. That's why it's my intention to set you up in charge of a new task force. A line of work you should find right up your alley."
"I suppose I should be grateful for that," Prevlov said dryly.
"Your facial appearance will be altered, of course. You'll get a cram course in English and American idioms along with our history, sports, music, and entertainment. In the end, there won't be the slightest trace of your former shell for the KGB to home in on."
Interest began to form in Prevlov's eyes.
"Your salary will be forty thousand a year, plus expenses and a car."
"Forty thousand dollars?" Prevlov asked, trying to sound casual.
"That will buy quite a bit of Bombay Gin." Nicholson grinned like a wolf sitting down to dinner with a wary rabbit. "I think that if you really try, Captain Prevlov, you might come to enjoy the pleasures of our Western-style decadence. Don't you agree?"
Prevlov said nothing for several moments. But the choice was obvious constant fear versus a long and pleasurable life. "You win, Nicholson."
Nicholson shook hands and was mildly surprised to see tears welling in Prevlov's eyes.
74
The final hours of the long tow brought a clear and sunny sky with a wandering wind that gently nudged the long ocean swells shoreward and brushed their green curving backs.
Ever since dawn, four Coast Guard ships had been busy riding herd on the huge fleet of pleasure craft that darted in and out vying for a closer look at the sea-worn decks and superstructure of the hulk.
High over the crowded waters, hordes of light aircraft and helicopters swarmed like hornets, their pilots jockeying to give photographers and cameramen the perfect angle from which to shoot the Titanic.
From five thousand feet higher, the still listing ship looked like a macabre carcass that was under attack from all sides by armadas of gnats and white ants.
The Thomas J. Morse reeled in her tow wire from the bow of the Samuel R. Wallace and fell back to the derelict's stem, here she attached a hawser and then eased astern to assist steering the unwieldy bulk through the Verrazano Narrows and up the East River to the old Brooklyn Navy Yard. Several harbor tugs also appeared and stood by to lend hand, if called upon, when Commander Butera gave orders to shorten the main tow cable to two hundred yards.
The pilot boat arrived within inches of the bulwarks of the Wallace and the pilot leaped aboard. Then it passed on by and thumped against the rusty plates of the Titanic, separated only by worn truck tires that hung along the smaller boat's freeboard. Within half a minute, the New York Harbor Chief Pilot had clutched a rope ladder and was scrambling up to the cargo deck.
Pitt and Sandecker greeted him and then led the way up to the port bridge wing, where the chief pilot pla
ced both hands on the railing as though he were part of it and solemnly nodded for the tow to carry on. Pitt waved and Butera punched his whistle in reply. Then the tug commander ordered "slow ahead" and aimed the bow of the Wallace into the main channel under the Verrazano Bridge that arches from Long Island to Staten Island.
As the strange convoy probed its nose into Upper New York Bay, Butera began pacing from one side of the tug's bridge to the other, studying the hulk, the wind and the current, and the tow cable with the dedication of a brain surgeon who is about to perform a delicate operation.
Since the night before, thousands of people had lined the waterfront. Manhattan had come to a standstill, streets emptied and office buildings suddenly became silent, as workers crowded the windows in hushed awe as the tow crawled up the harbor.
On the shore of Staten Island, Peter Hull, a reporter from The New York Times, began his story:
Ghosts do exist. I know, I saw one in the mists of morning. Like some grotesque phantom that had been rejected from hell, she passed before my unbelieving eyes. Surrounded by the invisible pall of bygone tragedy, shrouded in the souls of her dead, she was truly an awesome relic from a past age. You could not lay your eyes upon her and not sense pride and sorrow together ....
A CBS commentator expressed a more journalistic view "The Titanic completed her maiden voyage today, seventy-six years after departing the dock at Southampton, England . . . ." By noon the Titanic was edging past the Statue of Liberty and a vast sea of spectators on the Battery. No one on shore spoke above a whisper, and the city became strangely silent; only an occasional toot from a taxi horn gave any hint of normal activity. It was as though the whole of New York City had been picked up and placed in a vast cathedral.
Many of the watchers wept openly. Among them were three of the passengers who had survived the tragic night so long ago. The air seemed heavy and hard to breathe. Most people, describing their feelings later, were surprised to recall nothing but an odd sense of numbness, as though they had been temporarily paralyzed and struck dumb. Most that is, except a rugged fireman by the name of Arthur Mooney.
Mooney was the captain of one of the New York Harbor fireboats. A big, mischief-eyed Irishman born of the city, and a seagoing fire-eater for nineteen years. He slammed a massive fist against the binnacle and shook off the spell. Then he shouted to his crew.
"Up off your asses, boys. You're not department store dummies." His voice carried into every corner of the boat. Mooney hardly ever required the services of a bullhorn. "This here's a ship arrivin' on her maiden voyage, ain't she? Then let's show her a good old-fashioned traditional New York welcome."
"But skipper," a crew member protested, "it's not like she was the QE II or the Normandie comin' up the channel for the first time. That thing is nothin' but a wasted hulk, a ship of the dead."
"Wasted hulk, your ass," Mooney shouted. "That ship you see there is the most famous liner of all time. So she's a little delapidated, and she's arrivin' a tad late. So who gives a damn? Turn on the hoses and hit the siren."
It was a re-enactment of the Titanic's raising all over again, but on a much grander scale. As the water spouted in great sheets over Mooney's fireboat, and his boat whistle reverberated off the city's skyscrapers, another fireboat followed his example, and another. Then whistles on docked freighters began to scream. Then the horns of cars lined up along the shores of New Jersey, Manhattan, and Brooklyn joined the outpouring of noise followed by the cheers and yells from a million throats.
What had begun with the insignificant shrill of a single whistle now built and built until it was a thunderous bedlam of sound that shook the ground and rattled every window in the city. It was a moment that echoed across every ocean of the world.
The Titanic had made port.
75
Thousands of greeters jammed the dock where the Titanic was tied up. The swarming antlike mass was made up of newspeople, national dignitaries, cordons of harried policemen, and a multitude of uninvited who climbed the shipyard fence. Any attempt at security was futile.
A battery of reporters and cameramen stormed up the makeshift gangplank and surrounded Admiral Sandecker, who stood like a victorious Caesar, on the steps of the main staircase rising from the reception room on D Deck.
This was Sandecker's big moment and a team of wild horses couldn't have dragged him off the Titanic this day. He never missed an opportunity to snatch good publicity in the name of the National Underwater and Marine Agency, and this was one occasion where he was going to milk every line of newsprint, every second of national television, for all they were worth. He enthralled the reporters with highly colored exploits of the salvage crew and stared at the mobile camera units, and smiled and smiled and smiled. The Admiral was in his own paradise.
Pitt could have cared less about the fanfare; his idea of paradise at the moment was a shower and a clean, soft bed. He pushed his way down the gangplank to the dock and melted into the crowd. He thought he'd almost gotten clear when a TV commentator rushed forward and thrust a microphone under his nose.
"Hey, fella, are you a member of the Titanic's salvage crew?"
"No, I work for the shipyard," Pitt said, waving like a yokel at the camera.
The commentator's face fell. "Cut it, Joe," he yelled to his cameraman. "We grabbed a bummer." Then he turned and moved his way toward the ship, shouting for the crowd to keep their feet off his mike cord.
Six blocks, and a whole half-hour later, Pitt finally found a cab driver who was more interested in hauling a fare than in ogling the derelict.
"Where to?" the driver asked.
Pitt hesitated, looking down at his grimly, sweat-stained shirt and pants under the torn and just as grimy windbreaker. He didn't need a mirror to see the bloodshot eyes and five o'clock shadow. He could easily imagine himself as the perfect reflection of a Bowery wino. But then he figured, what the hell, he'd just stepped off what was once the most prestigious ocean liner in the world.
"What's the most luxurious and expensive hotel in town?"
"The Pierre, on Fifth Avenue and Sixty-first, ain't cheap.
"The Pierre it is then."
The driver looked over his shoulder, studied Pitt, and wrinkled his nose. Then he shrugged and pulled into the traffic. He took less than a half hour to reach the curb in front of the Pierre, overlooking Central Park.
Pitt paid off the cabby and walked through the revolving doors and up to the desk.
The clerk gave him a look of disgust that was a classic. "I'm sorry, sir," he said haughtily before Pitt could open his mouth. "We're all filled up."
Pitt knew it would only be a matter of minutes before a mob of reporters discovered his whereabouts if he gave his real name. He wasn't ready to face the ordeal of celebrity status yet. All he wanted was uninterrupted sIeep.
"I am not what I appear," Pitt said, trying to sound indignant. "I happen to be Professor R. Malcolm Smythe, author and archaeologist. I have just stepped off the plane after a four-month dig up the Amazon, and I haven't had time to change. My man will be here shortly with my luggage from the airport."
The desk clerk was instantly transformed into peaches and cream. "Oh, I am sorry, Professor Smythe, I didn't recognize you. However, we're still filled up. The city is crowded with people who came to see the arrival of the Titanic. I'm sure you understand."
It was a masterful performance. He didn't buy Pitt or one word of his fanciful tale.
"I'll vouch for the professor," said a voice behind Pitt. "Give him your best suite and charge it to this address."
A card was thrown on the counter. The desk clerk picked it up and read it and lit up like a roman candle. Then with a flourish he laid a registration card before Pitt and produced a room key as if by sleight of hand.
Pitt slowly turned and met a face that was every bit as worn and haggard as his. The lips were turned up in a crooked smile of understanding, but the eyes were dulled with the lost and vacant stare of a zombie. It was Gene Seagram. br />
"How did you track me down so fast?" Pitt asked. He was lying in a bathtub nursing a vodka on the rocks. Seagram sat across the bathroom on the john.
"No great exercise in intuition," he said. "I saw you leave the shipyard and followed you."
"I thought you'd be dancing on the Titanic about now."
"The ship means nothing to me. My only concern is the byzanium in its vault, and I've been told it will be another forty-eight hours before the derelict can be moved into dry dock and the wreckage in the cargo hold removed."
"Then why don't you relax for a couple of days and have some fun. In a few weeks your problems will be over. The Sicilian Project will be off the drawing boards and a working reality."