The Titanic Secret

by Clive Cussler

  “What do you know about the ship they’re using?”

  “We saw it when they transferred our mining gear from the ocean liner in Le Havre.”

  “And?”

  “And what? It was a Navy ship converted into a fast freighter, about a hundred feet in length, with extra-long boom arms on its main crane to move cargo ashore.”

  If it was a Navy vessel, the Société des Mines had secured government sanction for this job. Notable, but ultimately unimportant at this time, Bell concluded. “Did it have icebreaking capabilities?”

  Brewster shrugged. “I don’t know. Wait! It doesn’t.”

  “Keep your voice down,” Bell admonished in a harsh whisper.

  “Sorry. I remember them saying that it was a good thing summer stayed until so late in October or they would have to use a different ship.”

  “Okay. That’s our advantage. We’ll use an icebreaker and get you out before the French leave for the island. What’s the soonest you can finish the job?”

  “Mid-April. That’s shaving two weeks off the estimate I gave Gregg.”

  “Not good enough,” Bell said quickly.

  “You don’t know the conditions up there.”

  “It doesn’t matter. If we try to pick you up in mid-April, the French are going to be waiting. We need to go earlier, Brewster, or it’s all for nothing. We’ll be there on April first.”

  “Damnit.”

  Bell could see the conflict in Brewster’s fiery eyes. The miner knew just how hard he could push his crew to make the tighter deadline and it was clear he recognized the need for the revised schedule, that he’d have to drive them like a biblical slavemaster. His body was tense, like a cable on a bridge, and he seemed to vibrate, but then he accepted the inevitability of his decision and the muscles of his shoulders relaxed slightly.

  A fist banged on the bathroom door.

  “Hurry it up, man,” Foster Gly growled.

  “A minute,” Brewster shot back. “The food you’re givin’ is killing me.”

  Brewster’s eyes drilled into Bell’s, and he whispered as quiet and as deadly as a cobra. “If you’re not there on the first, most likely my boys are gonna kill me for what I done to them to make the deadline. They’re good lads all, but they’re facing some hardships no man or beast should endure. And if, by some miracle, they don’t kill me for pushing them so hard, Mr. Bell, I’m surely gonna kill you.”

  Isaac Bell wasn’t someone to be intimidated or threatened, especially by a man he towered over, but the glare Brewster gave him suppressed the defiant reply he’d normally give in this situation.

  “Understood, Mr. Brewster.”

  The Coloradan yanked the chain to empty the toilet’s cistern. Bell let himself back into the closet in case Gly happened to check again.

  “About time,” Gly said to Brewster when he stepped out of the small lavatory.

  As Bell waited in the dark and cramped closet, breathing ammonia in concentrations not much weaker than smelling salts, he contemplated the only flaw that he could see in his plan—that he had no idea how to get access to an icebreaker or a captain reckless enough to attempt an evacuation of American miners from a Russian island with a vessel from the French Navy possibly lurking nearby.

  He had four months.

  17

  Sandefjord, Norway

  March 1912

  It was clear early on in Bell’s search for a skipper with the right kind of Arctic experience that he’d end up either in the northern reaches of Canada or back in Europe. And the Canadian angle seemed unlikely because most of those experts amid the frozen seas were native hunters in open longboats searching the black waters for small whales and walrus.

  That he needed a whaler was never in doubt. They are the only men who are willing to risk both ship and crew on the hunt for the giant cetaceans that migrate around the ice fields at the top of the world. No merchantman need traverse these frozen reaches, save small coastal freighters plying the waters from village to village along the coasts of Norway and Iceland and the Faroe Islands. None had any need to know how to circumvent the mighty floes that drifted down from the Arctic or how to spot and exploit open leads in the ice that were large enough for a ship and navigable.

  The fishermen certainly had the bravery for what Bell had in mind, but they were mariners of the open waters where they could trawl their vast nets without fear of them being shredded by an accidental brush against an iceberg’s jagged underside. They stayed well clear of bergs and pack ice. And when winter’s darkened grip held fast and the ice grew truly thick, they beached the boats and tended to winter chores until the sun returned again in the spring.

  The men who chased the whales. That’s who Bell was told he needed by sailors he’d befriended during past cases. He talked to the few he knew and they, in turn, led him to seafarers with specialized knowledge of the mariners of the far north. It was at this point a name emerged, whispered as rumor at first but who others claimed to have first- or at least secondhand knowledge of a legendary skipper, a man whose skills and experience and bravery were the stuff of tavern tales. When cannon-mounted harpoons had made whaling so deadly efficient that they’d decimated the populations of minke, blue, and bowhead, he’d been one of the first skippers to turn southward and hunt the vast ice fields surrounding the continent of Antarctica.

  The skipper was Ragnar Fyrie, a native of Iceland, and Isaac Bell had tracked him to the city of Sandefjord, which served as the whaling capital of Norway. In reality, the coastal town of six thousand was also the world’s whaling capital, as so much of the industry was based here or at least crewed by sailors local to the area.

  Situated near the mouth of the mighty Oslofjord, Sandefjord boasted a natural harbor that was well protected from the ravages of the Skagerrak Strait, the section of the North Sea between Norway and Denmark. Unlike the towering fjords in the north of the country, the town was backed by low hills. It consisted mostly of wooden cottages owned by the whalers, but there were some brick structures for the wealthy and a central street dominated by the newly rebuilt Sandefjord church, with its soaring brick tower roofed in dark slate and a suite of bells that sounded every hour.

  Bell arrived by train from Oslo. He’d read that in the summer the nearby beaches were popular with the capital city’s residents and that there were spas nestled around town. However, when he stepped off the train and onto the platform, a heavy smell hit him like a gut punch and he wondered how anyone could spend even a few seconds in Sandefjord let alone an entire summer season.

  The smell was of the whaling fleet at anchor in the inner harbor. The ships were modern, ocean-capable vessels and were regularly serviced by their crews, but, like the slave ships of old, there was no amount of cleansing that could rid them of the noxious odor they carried like the stain of sin for what they were built to do. The particular smell permeated everything within the city and probably carried for many miles. It was the fishy stink of blubber rendered into whale oil, but also the hot copper scent of blood so copious that it would wash the whalers’ decks like the slosh of waves during heavy seas.

  He imagined it was a stench the locals had grown so accustomed to, they never noticed it, but that outsiders would never find themselves immune from.

  It was now mid-March, and his window to reach Brewster and his fellow miners was closing rapidly. It had taken far too long to find the right person for the job, and longer still to develop a plan to secure his assistance. The problem was, Ragnar Fyrie stood accused of illegally poaching whales in an area claimed as the exclusive territory of a concession holder from there in Sandefjord.

  For Bell, the legalities seemed a little vague. The concession holder maintained that the Norwegian government gave him the authority to hunt whales over a wide swath of the Arctic Ocean and he, in turn, employed captains and crews to do the actual harvesting. Fyrie maintained that he wa
s a native of Iceland, which made him a Danish citizen, and was therefore not bound by a concession granted by a foreign power. His argument held little sway with the Norwegians. As soon as he’d put into port with nearly ten thousand gallons of whale oil, as well as some more valuable spermaceti oil his crew had harvested from the mammoth heads of several sperm whales, his ship had been impounded and its cargo confiscated.

  That had occurred at the end of the 1911 hunting season, and the wrangling between the governments of Norway and Denmark had lasted throughout the sunless Arctic winter and there seemed to be no end in sight as spring fast approached and the great cetaceans’ migrations were about to begin anew. Fyrie and his crew were free to leave the ship and enjoy Sandefjord as they awaited their fate so long as their vessel remained tied to the dock with her main engines cold.

  Bell knew all of this before he had arrived in the coastal town and had crafted a plan with the help of a marine engineer employed by a wealthy shipping magnate who’d used the Van Dorn Agency on a few occasions when discretion was a must. It was only a matter of convincing Captain Fyrie to go along with it.

  It took two porters to wrestle each of the large trunks Bell had stowed in the luggage car for the sixty-mile trip from Oslo. The contents had been purchased at some expense from specialists in New York, Newark, and Philadelphia. Bell’s acquisitions had all but emptied the supplies in all three cities. Customs forms declared powdered silica. That was far from the truth.

  He shuddered to think what would have happened if one of the waterproofed trunks had failed and its contents come into contact with water. The trunks, as well as two personal bags, went onto a waiting Leyland truck he’d rented that took Bell across town to a small inn that was crowded during the summer season but was empty now except for him on this cold, dark March evening. He paid extra to have the truck parked in a clapboard barn behind the inn.

  Bell changed out of his suit and put on dark woolen pants, a cable-knit wool sweater, and a Navy coat with a high collar.

  The docks were easy enough to find. He simply followed his nose and knew he was on the right path when the smell grew progressively stronger. Twenty-odd whaling ships tied up in loose rows. Each sported a raised platform on the bow, usually accessible by a suspended catwalk over the forward part of the ship from the wheelhouse. On the platform was mounted a vicious-looking harpoon cannon capable of hurling an explosives-tipped lance far and with enough force to pierce a whale’s thick blubber hide.

  He found Fyrie’s ship easily enough. Bell knew he had the right ship, the Hvalur Batur, or Whale Boat, because a small guardhouse had been erected at the foot of its gangplank and a trickle of smoke coiled from the chimney of what he imagined was a potbellied stove.

  He strode past the guard shack without a moment’s pause or the slightest regard for its occupant and mounted the inclined ramp up from the quay to the deck of the Icelandic whaler. He’d noted she flew a Danish flag on her jack staff as a cheeky reminder that she wasn’t bound by Norway’s laws.

  The guard didn’t emerge from his little metal lodge, and no one challenged him upon reaching the ship’s deck. He climbed a steep flight of stairs welded to the superstructure and emerged on a balcony that wrapped around the bridge and extended out to the harpoon some fifty feet forward. The bridge was dark, and when he tugged at a pitted brass doorknob, he found it locked. Back down on deck, he located a watertight door aft of the gangplank, but it too was locked.

  He retreated from the ship, and when he came abreast of the guard shack, the door opened. The man wore a blue serge police uniform with bright buttons, but his face was in bad need of a shave, and the bags under his eyes were large enough to be considered ladies’ purses. It was obvious he’d been on duty for quite some time and that this wasn’t considered a plum assignment.

  He spoke a few words in Norwegian to Bell.

  “I’m sorry,” the detective replied, “do you speak English?”

  The guard scratched himself absently. “The crew. Ja?”

  “Captain Fyrie?”

  “Ja. They drink at the Lundehund. A tavern. Lundehund—is a dog. You see on, ah, sign. Little dog. Lundehund.”

  “Captain Fyrie and his men are at a tavern called the Lundehund, which is named for a dog painted on a sign outside.”

  The man flashed nicotine-yellowed teeth and pointed in the direction of the big church that dominated the downtown district. “Ja.”

  Bell thanked the guard and headed out. It was growing steadily darker and colder. He flipped up the jacket collar and crammed his hands into its pockets.

  He found the bar at the very end of the main commercial street, closest to the waterfront. As promised, the sign over the front door showed a dog with fox-like ears and a bright yellow coat. The establishment wasn’t exactly a wharf dive, but it wasn’t much better. Before he mounted the steps up to a wooden porch that ran the width of the building, he noticed a group of men loitering up the street in the light cast by a flickering gas lamp. What piqued his interest was that they shared none of the laughter-filled banter of comrades out on the town for some fun. They stood in a tight circle, hunched against the cold, and with no obvious purpose for idling outdoors on a chilly night.

  Bell’s natural suspicion went into overdrive.

  The long winter was coming to a close and the whaling season would start soon enough. The locals had been patient with the slow grind of justice’s wheels over the past months. Now that they were getting ready to leave port again, it was possible some sought extra-judicial retribution against Ragnar Fyrie for poaching whales in their waters.

  There were five men clustered around the gas lamp. Bell had no idea how many it took to crew a modern whaling ship, but his estimate was for far more than that and that this lot down the street was likely waiting for reinforcements.

  The two quickest ways for men to become friends, Bell had learned over the years, was to either get drunk together or have each other’s back in a fight. He’d planned on the former to hire Fyrie for the mission to Novaya Zemlya, but now it looked like it was going to be the latter. He had his .45 holstered at the small of his back, praying it wouldn’t be needed. He had his stiletto boot knife at his ankle, and knowing he’d be spending time near the dockyards, he carried brass knuckles in his coat pocket.

  Bell climbed up onto the porch and let himself into the bar. The interior was dim, and the air was so full of tobacco smoke, it reminded him of being downwind of a wildfire in Southern California. Under the haze, like the afternotes of a particularly foul wine, lingered the smell of spilled liquor, sweaty men, and the reek of whale oil. Few of the patrons, all male, shot him even a passing glance before turning back to their solo drinks or crowded tables. The floors were bare wood covered with a layer of sawdust so infused with alcohol that some spots were as slick as an ice rink. The plank and plaster ceiling was virtually black with a century’s worth of soot.

  He scanned the room quickly, making assessments each time his eyes flicked from group to group and person to person. One table stood out immediately. It sat in the far corner, and the men at it all had their backs to the wall, an inconvenient arrangement for conversation but one that was easy to defend.

  Ragnar Fyrie had been described to Bell as handsome, blond, younger than expected, and someone who has that certain something.

  There was a total of eight men at the table, with Fyrie at the center. He sensed Bell’s scrutiny and returned the look with a hint of detached curiosity. Bell had taken the temperature of the room. There was no open hostility toward Fyrie and his men, and there was no love either. Approaching the Icelandic whalers wouldn’t get Isaac a shiv in the back, but it wouldn’t likely gain him any friends.

  Bell strode over and stood before Fyrie, holding the man’s steady gaze. The two of them were handsome and blond-haired, yet whereas Bell’s looks were classically masculine, Fyrie had a delicacy to his features that didn�
��t jibe with the clichéd image of a salt-toughened seaman. He was already forty, and apart from just a crinkle around his blue eyes, his face was as unlined as a youth’s. Bell pictured him at the helm of a sleek yacht out of some wealthy East Coast enclave like Providence or Hyannis Port.

  “English?” Isaac asked.

  A twitch of a smile lifted the corner of his mouth and made his eyes brighten. “Icelandic, actually, but I suspect you know that. And, yes, I speak English.” With his Norse accent, his voice had a lyric quality that didn’t conform to the stereotype but somehow managed to convey strength and elicit respect.

  “There are five men waiting up the street who I can only guess are looking for a fight. I call it seven minutes before they come through that door.”

  Fyrie nodded as if this news wasn’t unexpected. “It was bound to happen. They’re off a local boat called the Isbjørn—that means ‘polar bear.’ They had a terrible season last year and blame us. Thanks for letting me know. What’s your interest?”

  “My name is Isaac Bell, Captain, and I need you and your crew healthy enough so I can hire you for a particular job.”

  18

  Ragnar Fyrie used a foot to push out a chair on Bell’s side of the round table. Bell sat and accepted a mug of beer poured from a half-finished pitcher. The beer was room temperature but richly flavored. “Mr. Bell, apart from the fight we’re about to have against a larger crew, there is the problem of my ship impounded and my crew on—let’s call it precautionary probation. How can we possibly help you and your, ah, particular job?”

  Bell liked Fyrie’s style. As described, he was charming yet distant, and he had a certain quality—a sangfroid, perhaps, or just a devil-may-care attitude—that he wore well.

  “Are you familiar with the M Line?”

  The captain nodded. “Black Jack McCallister. Not personally but by reputation. They’re a good outfit. Fast ships on the North Atlantic route. Well-trained crews.”