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."
"Any weather problems?"
"None-your meteorological forecast held perfect. It was colder than a polar bear's left testicle, but I had fine sailing weather all the way." Koplin paused to scratch his nose. "That was a sweet little sloop your Norwegian friends fixed me up with. Was she saved?"
Seagram shook his head. "I'd have to check, but I'm certain it had to be destroyed. There was no way to take it on board the NUMA research vessel, and it couldn't be left to drift into the path of a Soviet ship. You understand."
Koplin nodded sadly. "Too bad. I became rather attached to her."
"Please continue," Seagram said.
"I raised the north island of Novaya Zemlya late in the afternoon of the second day. I had been at the helm for over forty hours, dozing off and on, and I began to find it impossible to keep my eyes open. Thank God for the aquavit. After a few swigs, my stomach was burning like an out-of-control forest fire and suddenly I was wide awake."
"You sighted no other boats?"
"None ever showed on the horizon," Koplin answered. Then he went on, "The coast proved to be a seemingly unending stretch of rocky cliffs. I saw no point in attempting a landing-it was beginning to get dark. So I turned out to sea, hove to, and sneaked a few hours sleep. In the morning I skirted the cliffs until I picked out a small sheltered cover and then went in on the auxiliary diesel."
"Did you use your boat for a base camp?"
"For the next twelve days. I made two, sometimes three field trips a day on cross-country skis, prospecting before returning for a hot meal and a good night's rest in a warm-"
"Up to now, you had seen no one?"
"I kept well clear of the Kelva missile station and the Kama security post. I saw no sign of the Russians until the final day of the mission."
"How were you discovered?"
"A Russian soldier on patrol his dog must have crossed my trail and picked up my scent. Small wonder. I hadn't bathed in almost three weeks."
Seagram dropped a smile. Donner picked up the questioning more coldly, aggressively "Let's get back to your field trips. What did you find?"
"I couldn't cover the whole island on cross-country skis, so I concentrated on the promising areas that had been pinpointed by the satellite computer printouts." He stared at the ceiling. "The north island; the outer continuation of the Ural and Yugorski mountain chains, a few rolling plains, plateaus, and mountains-most of which are under a permanent ice sheet. Violent winds much of the time. The chill factor is murderous. I found no vegetation other than some rock lichen. If there were any warm-blooded animals, they kept to themselves."
"Let's stick to the prospecting," Donner said, "and save the travel lecture for another time."
"Just laying the groundwork." Koplin shot Donner a disapproving stare, his tone icy. "If I may continue without interruption-"
"Of course," Seagram said. He pulled his chair strategically between the bed and Donner. "It's your game, Sid. We'll play by your rules."
"Thank you." Koplin shifted his body. "Geographically, the island is quite interesting. A description of the faulting and uplifting of rocks that were once sediments formed under an ancient sea could fill several textbooks. Mineralogically, the magmatic paragenesis is barren."
"Would you mind translating that?"
Koplin grinned. "The origin and geological occurrence of a mineral is called its paragenesis. Magma, on the other hand, is the source of all matter; a liquid rock heated under pressure which turns solid to form igneous rock, perhaps better known as basalt or granite."
"Fascinating," Donner said dryly. "Then what you're stating is that Novaya Zemlya is void of minerals."
"You are singularly perceptive, Mr. Donner," Koplin said.
"But how did you find traces of byzanium?" Seagram asked.
"On the thirteenth day, I was poking around the north slope of Bednaya Mountain and ran onto a waste dump."'
"Waste dump?"
"A pile of rocks that had been removed during the excavation of a mine shaft. This particular dump happened to have minute traces of byzanium ore."
The expressions on his interrogators' faces suddenly went sober.
"The shaft entrance was cunningly obscured," Koplin continued. "It took me the better part of the afternoon to figure which slope it was on."
"One minute, Sid." Seagram touched Koplin's arm. "Are you saying the entrance to this mine was purposely concealed?"
"An old Spanish trick. The opening was filled until it was even with the natural slope of the hill."
"Wouldn't the waste dump have been on a direct line from the entrance?" Donner asked.
"Under normal circumstances, yes. But in this case they were spaced over a hundred yards apart, separated by a gradual arc that ran around the mountain's slope to the west."
"But you did discover the entrance?" Donner went on.
"The rails and ties for the ore cars had been removed and the track bed covered over, but I managed to trace its outline by moving off about fifteen hundred yards and studying the mountain's slope through binoculars. What you couldn't see when you were standing on top of it became quite clear from that distance. The exact location of the mine was then easy to determine."
"Who would go to all that trouble to hide an abandoned mine in the Arctic?" Seagram asked no one in particular. "There's no method or logic to it."
"You're only half right, Gene," Koplin said. "The logic, I fear, remains an enigma; but t
he method was brilliantly executed by professionals-Coloradans." The word came slowly, almost reverently. "They were the men who excavated the Bednaya Mountain mine. The muckers, the blasters, the jiggers, the drillers, the Cornishmen, the Irishmen, Germans, and Swedes. Not Russians, but men who emigrated to the United States and became the legendary hard-rock miners of the Colorado Rockies. How they came to be on the icy slopes of Bednaya Mountain is anybody's guess, but these were the men who came and mined the byzanium and then vanished into the obscurity of the Arctic."
The sterile blankness of total incomprehension flooded Seagram's face. He turned to Donner and was met by the same expression. "It sounds crazy, absolutely crazy."
" `Crazy'?" Koplin echoed. "Maybe, but no less true."
"You seem pretty confident," Donner muttered.
"Granted. I lost the tangible proof during my pursuit by the security guard; you have only my word on it, but why doubt it? As a scientist, I only report facts, and I have no devious motive behind a lie. So, if I were you, gentlemen, I would simply accept my word as genuine."
"As I said, it's your game." Seagram smiled faintly.
"You mentioned tangible evidence." Donner was calm and coldly efficient.
"After I penetrated the mine shaft-the loose rock came away in my hands, and I had only to scoop out a three-foot tunnel-the first thing my head collided with in the darkness was a string of ore cars. The strike of my fourth match illuminated an old pair of oil lamps. They both had fuel and lit on the third try." The faded blue eyes seemed to stare at something beyond the hospital room wall. "It was an unnerving scene that danced under the lamp's glow, mining tools neatly stacked in their racks, empty ore cars standing on rusting eight-gauge rails, drilling equipment ready to attack the rock-it was as though the mine was waiting for the incoming shift to sort the ore and run the waste to the dump."
"Could you say whether it looked as if someone left in a hurry?"
"Not at all. Everything was in its place. The bunks in a side chamber were made, the kitchen was cleared up, all the utensils were still on the shelves. Even the mules used to haul the ore cars had been taken to the working chamber and efficiently shot; their skulls each had a neat round hole in its center. No, I'd say the departure was very methodical.
"You have not yet explained your conclusion as to the Coloradans' identity," Donner said flatly.
"I'm coming to it now." Koplin fluffed a pillow and turned gingerly on his side. "The indications were all there, of course. The heavier equipment still bore the manufacturers' trademarks. The ore cars had been built by the Guthrie and Sons Foundry of Pueblo, Colorado; the drilling equipment came from the Thor Forge and Ironworks of Denver; and the small tools showed the names of the various blacksmiths who had forged them. Most had come from Central City and Idaho Springs, both mining towns in Colorado."
Seagram leaned back in his chair. "The Russians could have purchased the equipment in Colorado and then shipped it to the island."
"Possibly," Koplin said. "However, there were a few other bits and pieces that also led to Colorado."
"Such as?"
"The body in one of the bunks for one."
Seagram's eyes narrowed. "A body?"
"With red hair and a red beard," Koplin said casually. "Nicely preserved by the sub-zero temperature. It was the inscription on the wood above the bunk supports that proved most intriguing. It said, in English, I might add, `Here rests Jake Hobart. Born 1874. A damn good man who froze in a storm, February 10, 1912."'
Seagram rose from his chair and paced around the bed "A name, that at least is a start." He stopped and looked at Koplin. "Were there any personal effects left lying around?"
"All clothing was gone. Oddly, the labels on the food cans were French. But then there were about fifty empty wrappers, Mile-Hi Chewing Tobacco, scattered on the ground. The last piece of the puzzle though, the piece that definitely ties it to the Coloradans, was a faded yellow copy of the Rocky Mountain News, dated November 17, 1911. It was this part of the evidence that I lost."
Seagram pulled out a pack of cigarettes and shook one loose. Donner held a lighter for him and Seagram nodded.
"Then there is a chance the Russians may not have possession of the byzanium," he said.
"There is one more thing," Koplin said quietly. "The top-right section of page three of the newspaper had been neatly snipped out. It may mean nothing, but, on the other hand, a check of the publisher's old files might tell you something."
"It might at that." Seagram regarded Koplin thoughtfully. "Thanks to you, we have our work laid out for us."
Donner nodded. "I'll reserve a seat on the next flight to Denver. With luck, I should come up with a few answers."
"Make the newspaper your first stop, then try and trace Jake Hobart. I'll make a check on old military records from this end. Also, contact a local expert on Western mining history, and run down the names of the manufacturers Sid gave us. However unlikely, one of them might still be in business."
Seagram stood up and looked down at Koplin. "We owe you more than we can ever repay," he said softly.
"I figure those old miners dug nearly half a ton of high-grade byzanium from the guts of that bitch mountain," Koplin said, rubbing his hand through a month's growth of beard. "That ore has got to be stashed away in the world somewhere. Then again, if it hasn't emerged since 1912, it may be lost forever. But, if you find it, make that when you find it, you can say thanks by sending me a small sample for my collection."
"Consider it done."
"And while you're at it, get me the address of the fellow who saved my life so I can send him a case of vintage wine. His name is Dirk Pitt."
"You must mean the doctor on board the research vessel who operated on you."
"l 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"
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
"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.
10
The telephone rang at 1210 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.