"Warren G. Harding and John F. Kennedy were rumored to be swingers. This one is no different. He's only human."
"A lecher for a President. It's disgusting."
"Are you going to take him up on it?" Seagram grinned.
"Don't be ridiculous!" she snapped back.
"May I join the battle?" The request came from a little man with flaming red hair, nattily dressed in a blue dinner jacket. He had a precisely trimmed beard that matched the hair and complemented his piercing hazel eyes. To Seagram the voice seemed vaguely familiar, but he drew a blank on the face.
"Depends whose side you're on," Seagram said.
"Knowing your wife's fetish for Women's Lib," the stranger said, "I'd be only too happy to join forces with her husband."
"You know Dana?"
"I should. I'm her boss."
Seagram stared at him in amazement. "Then you must be-"
"Admiral James Sandecker," Dana cut in, laughing, "Director of the National Underwater and Marine Agency. Admiral, may I introduce my easily flustered husband, Gene."
"An honor, Admiral." Seagram extended his hand. "I've often looked forward to the opportunity of thanking you in person for that little favor."
Dana looked puzzled. "You two know each other?"
Sandecker nodded. "We've talked over the telephone. We've never met face-to-face."
Dana slipped her hands through the men's arms. "My two favorite people consorting behind my back. What gives?"
Seagram met Sandecker's eyes. "I once called the Admiral and requested a bit of information. That's all there was to it."
Sandecker patted Dana's hand and said, "Why don't you make an old man eternally grateful and find him a scotch and water."
She hesitated a moment, then kissed Sandecker lightly on the cheek and obediently began worming her way through the scattered groups of guests milling around the bar.
Seagram shook his head in wonder. "You have a way with women. If I had asked her to get me a drink, she'd have spit in my eye."
"I pay her a salary," Sandecker said. "You don't."
They made their way out on the balcony and Seagram lit a cigarette while Sandecker puffed to life an immense Churchill cigar. They walked in silence until they were alone beneath a tall column in a secluded corner.
"Any word on the First Attempt from your end?" Seagram asked quietly.
"She docked at our Navy's submarine base in the Firth of Clyde at thirteen hundred hours, our time, this afternoon."
"That's nearly eight hours ago. Why wasn't I notified?"
"Your instructions were quite clear," Sandecker said coldly. "No communications from my ship until your agent was safely back on U.S. soil."
"Then how?..."
"My information came from an old friend in the Navy. He phoned me only a half an hour ago, madder than hell, demanding to know where my skipper got off using naval facilities without permission."
"There's been a screw-up somewhere," Seagram said flatly. "Your ship was supposed to dock at Oslo and let my man come ashore. Just what in hell is she doing in Scotland?"
Sandecker gave Seagram a hard stare. "Let's get one thing straight, Mr. Seagram, NUMA is not an arm of the CIA, FBI, or of any other intelligence bureau, and I don't take kindly to risking my people's lives just so you can poke around Communist territory playing espionage games. Our business is oceanographic research. Next time you want to play James Bond, get the Navy or the Coast Guard to do your dirty work. Don't con the President into ordering out one of my ships. Do you read me, Mr. Seagram?"
"I apologize for your agency's inconvenience, Admiral. I meant nothing derogatory. You must understand my uneasiness."
"I'd like to understand." There was a slight softening in the admiral's face. "But you'd make things a damned sight simpler if you would take me into your confidence and tell me what it is you're after."
Seagram turned away. "I'm sorry."
"I see," Sandecker said.
"Why do you suppose the First Attempt bypassed Oslo?" Seagram said.
"My guess is that your agent felt it was too dangerous to catch a civilian plane out of Oslo and decided on a military flight instead. Our nuclear sub base on the Firth of Clyde has the nearest airfield, so he probably ordered the captain of my research vessel to skip Norway and head there."
"I hope you're right. Whatever the reason, I'm afraid that the deviation from our set plan can only spell trouble."
Sandecker spied Dana standing in the balcony doorway with a drink in one hand. She was searching for them. He waved and caught her eye, and she started to move toward them.
"You're a lucky man, Seagram. Your wife is a bright and lovely gal."
Suddenly, Mel Donner appeared, rushed past Dana, and reached them first. He excused himself to Admiral Sandecker.
"A naval transport landed twenty minutes ago with Sid Koplin on board," Donner said softly. "He's been taken to Walter Reed."
"Why Walter Reed?"
"He's been shot up pretty badly."
"Good God." Seagram groaned.
"I've got a car waiting. We can be there in fifteen minutes."
"Okay, give me a moment."
He spoke quietly to Sandecker and asked the admiral to see that Dana got home and to make his regrets to the President. Then he followed Donner to the car.
7
"I'm sorry, but he is under sedation and I cannot allow any visitors at this time." The aristocratic Virginia voice was quiet and courteous, but there was no hiding the anger that clouded the doctor's gray eyes.
"Is he able to talk?" Donner asked.
"For a man who regained consciousness only minutes ago, his mental faculties are remarkably alert." The cloud remained behind the eyes. "But don't let that fool you. He won't be playing any tennis for a while."
"Just how serious is his condition?" Seagram asked.
"His condition is just that serious. The doctor who operated on him aboard the NUMA vessel did a beautiful job. The bullet wound in his left side will heal nicely. The other wound, however, left a neat little hairline crack in the skull. Your Mr. Koplin will be having headaches for some time to come."
"We must see him now," Seagram said firmly.
"As I've told you, I'm sorry, but no visitors."
Seagram took a step forward so that he was eye to eye with the doctor. "Get this into your head, Doctor. My friend and I are going into that room whether you like it or not. If you personally try to stop us, we'll put you on one of your own operating tables. If you yell for attendants, we'll shoot them. If you call the police, they will respect our credentials and do what we tell them." Seagram paused and his lips curled in a smug grin. "Now then, Doctor, the choice is yours."
Koplin lay flat on the bed, his face as white as the pillowcase behind his head, but his eyes were surprisingly bright.
"Before you ask," he said in a low rasp, "I feel awful. And that's true. But don't tell me I look good. Because that's a gross lie."
Seagram pulled a chair up to the bed and smiled. "We don't have much time, Sid, so if you feel up to it, we'll jump right in."
Koplin nodded to the tubes connected to his arm. "These drugs are fogging my mind, but I'll stay with you as long as I can."
Donner nodded. "We came for the answer to the billion dollar question."
"I found traces of byzanium, if that's what you mean?"
"You actually found it! Are you certain?"
"My field tests were by no stroke of the imagination as accurate as lab analysis might have been, but I'm ninety nine-per-cent positive it was byzanium."
"Thank God." Seagram sighed. "Did you come up with an assay figure?" he asked.
"I did."
"How much . . . how many pounds of byzanium do you reckon can be extracted from Bednaya Mountain?"
"With luck, maybe a teaspoonful."
At first Seagram didn't get it, then it sunk in. Donner sat frozen and expressionless, his hands clenched over the armrests of the chair.
&nb
sp; "A teaspoonful," Seagram mumbled gloomily. "Are you certain?"
"You keep asking me if I'm certain." Koplin's drawn face reddened with indignation. "If you don't buy my word for it, send somebody else to that asshole of creation."
"Just a minute." Donner's hand was on Koplin's shoulder. "Novaya Zemlya was our only hope. You took more punishment than we had any right to expect. We're grateful, Sid, truly grateful."
"All hope isn't lost yet," Koplin murmured. His eyelids drooped.
Seagram didn't hear. He leaned over the bed. `What was that, Sid?"
"You've not lost yet. The byzanium was there."
Donner moved closer. "What do you mean, the byzanium was there?"
"Gone . . . mined...."
"You're not making sense."
"I stumbled over the tailings on the side of the mountain." Koplin hesitated a moment. "Dug into them. . ."
"Are you saying someone has already mined the byzanium from Bednaya Mountain?" Seagram asked incredulously.
"Yes.
"Dear God." Donner moaned. "The Russians are on the same track."
"No . . . no . . ." Koplin whispered.
Seagram placed his ear next to Koplin's lips.
"Not the Russians-"
Seagram and Donner exchanged confused stares.
Koplin feebly clutched Seagram's hand. "The . . . the Coloradans. . ."
Then his eyes closed and he drifted into unconsciousness.
They walked through the parking lot as a siren whined in the distance. "What do you suppose he meant?" Donner asked.
"It doesn't figure," Seagram answered vaguely. "It doesn't figure at all."
8
"What's so important that you have to wake me on my day off!" Prevlov grunted. Without waiting for an answer, he shoved open the door and motioned Marganin into the apartment. Prevlov was wearing a silk Japanese robe. His face was drawn and tired.
As he followed Prevlov through the living room into the kitchen, Marganin's eyes traveled professionally over the furnishings and touched each piece. To someone who lived in a tiny six-by-eight-foot barracks room, the decor, the vastness of the apartment seemed like the interior east wing of Peter the Great's summer palace. It was all there, the crystal chandeliers, the floor to ceiling tapestries, the French furniture. His eyes also noted two glasses and a half-empty bottle of Chartreuse on the fireplace mantel; and on the floor, beneath the sofa, rested a pair of women's shoes. Expensive, Western, by the look of them. He palmed a strand of hair and found himself staring at the closed bedroom door. She would have to be extremely attractive. Captain Prevlov had high standards.
Prevlov leaned into the refrigerator and lifted out a pitcher of tomato juice. "Care for some?"
Marganin shook his head.
"Mix it with the right ingredients," Prevlov muttered, "as the Americans do, and you have an excellent cure for a hangover." He took a sip of the tomato juice and made a face. "Now then, what do you want?"
"KGB received a communication from one of their agents in Washington last night. They had no clues as to its meaning and hoped that perhaps we might throw some light on it."
Marganin's face reddened. The sash on Prevlov's robe had loosened and he could see that the captain wore nothing beneath it.
"Very well." Prevlov sighed. "Continue."
"It said, `Americans suddenly interested in rock collecting. Most secret operation under code name Sicilian Project."'
Prevlov stared at him over his Bloody Mary. "What sort of drivel is that?" He finished the glass in one gulp and slammed it down on the sink counter. "Has our illustrious brother intelligence service, the KGB, become a house of fools?" The voice was the dispassionate, efficient voice of the official Prevlov-cold, and devoid of all inflection except bored irritation. "And you, Lieutenant? Why do you bother me with this childish riddle now? Why couldn't this have waited until tomorrow morning when I'm back in the office?'
"I . . . I thought perhaps it was important," Marganin stammered.
"Naturally." Prevlov smiled coldly. "Every time the KGB whistles, people jump. But veiled threats don't interest me. Facts, my dear Lieutenant, facts are what count. What do you feel is so important about this Sicilian Project?"
"It seemed to me the reference to rock collecting might tie in with the Novaya Zemlya files."
Perhaps twenty seconds elapsed before Prevlov Spoke. "Possible, just possible. Still, we can't be certain of a connection'
"I . . . I only thought-"
"Please leave the thinking to me, Lieutenant." He tightened the sash on his robe. "Now, if you have run out of here-brained witch hunts, I would like to filet back to bed."
"But if the Americans are looking for something-"
"Yes, but what?" Prevlov asked dryly. "What mineral is so precious to them that they must look for it in the earth of an unfriendly country?"
Marganin shrugged.
"You answer that and you have the key." Prevlov's tone hardened almost imperceptibly. "Until then, I want solutions. Any peasant bastard can ask stupid questions."
Marganin's face reddened again. "Sometimes the Americans have hidden meanings to their code names."
"Yes," Prevlov said with mock solemnity. "They do have a penchant for advertising."
Marganin plunged forward. "I researched the American idioms that refer to Sicily, and the most prevalent seems to be their obsession with a brotherhood of hooligans and-"
"If you. had done your homework" Prevlov yawned, " you'd have discovered it's called the Mafia."
"There is also a musical ensemble that refer to themselves as the Sicilian Stilettos."
Prevlov offered Marganin a glacial stare.
"Then there is a large food processor in Wisconsin who manufactures a Sicilian salad oil."
"Enough!" Prevlov held up a protesting hand. "Salad oil, indeed. I am not up to such stupidity so early in the morning." He gestured at the front door. "I trust you have other projects at our office that are more stimulating than rock collecting."
In the living room he paused before a table on which was a carved ivory chess set and toyed with one of the pieces. "Tell me, Lieutenant, do you play chess?"
Marganin shook his head. "Not in a long time. I used to play a little when I was a cadet at the Naval Academy."
"Does the name Isaak Boleslavski mean anything to you?"
"No, sir."
"Isaak Boleslavski was one of our greatest chess masters," Prevlov said, as if lecturing a schoolboy. "He conceived many great variations of the game. One of them was the Sicilian Defense." He casually tossed the black king at Marganin who deftly caught it. "Fascinating game, chess. You should take it up again."
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 ro
utinely 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."
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