Sins of the Titanic (A James Acton Thriller, #13)

by J. Robert Kennedy

  “A records clerk did a search on Wainwright’s name and the keyword ‘Titanic’. It triggered a security alert that we had inserted into the system years ago, and our resources were notified immediately.”

  “What do you propose we do?”

  “There can be only one response. If it were to get out what really happened that night, there could be substantial repercussions that could lead to our discovery, though I feel the risks to that are minimal. Regardless, it could result in a witch-hunt that may disrupt our interests significantly over the short term.”

  “You are proposing the problem be cleaned up.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that absolutely necessary? Don’t we risk drawing even more attention to ourselves?”

  “The sinking of the Titanic is one of the most famous incidents in modern history and holds a certain fascination with the public, especially after that damned James Cameron movie. Should it come out that those people could have been saved, everyone will be seeking the truth, from governments to press to conspiracy nuts. Our security procedures weren’t as tight back then out of necessity. All it would take would be some stray reference to us that might have serious repercussions.”

  “I agree,” said the only other person who had been speaking. “Does everyone agree?”

  Mashkov leaned forward and pressed a green button beside his terminal. Once the last button had been pressed, a tally flashed on the screen.

  Twelve to none.

  “It is agreed then. All who have been exposed to the information will be eliminated.”

  North Atlantic Ocean

  Aboard the RMS Titanic

  April 14, 1912

  Henry Dodge patted his breast pocket, the envelope still secure on his person. Yet at this moment, he felt anything but. The sight of the two men, bold as brass, within sight of him, making no attempt to hide themselves, had his heart racing since Astor’s spotting of them.

  And his heart had only just recovered from his initial scare before boarding.

  This trip, which he had been looking forward to for months, was turning into the most terrifying, stressful event of his life. He was by no means a courageous man. He had never joined the military, had never charged into a fight, verbal or otherwise. If he had to describe himself, he would lean toward the almost timid side.

  He definitely took after his mother.

  Which might be why his wife seemed to think she could control him.

  He looked in the mirror, adjusting his tie.

  If I survive this, there’s going to be some changes at home.

  He took a long breath, squaring his shoulders and inflating his chest.

  Perhaps a little more intimidating than normal?

  He narrowed his eyes slightly, wiping any trace of good humor from his face.

  Definitely more intimidating.

  He pictured the two bruisers, their suits barely containing their bulging muscles.

  Now that’s intimidating.

  He would be no match for them in a fight. Of that there was no doubt. And they were most likely armed, which would put a quick end to any contest should it occur.

  If only it were wrestling.

  His father had insisted on trying to make a man of him when he was younger, forcing him to join the Greco-Roman wrestling team. He had been quite good at it, actually. He never won any tournaments, though always placed decently, never humiliating himself.

  Yet he had hated it.

  Grappling with sweaty boys was not his idea of a good time and the locker room had always been a horror show of bodies developing far faster than his.

  Baldy.

  He frowned, looking down the mirror slightly.

  If they could see me now.

  He chuckled, shaking his head, noting it the first time he had genuinely laughed since receiving the envelope under his door.

  So sad considering the amount spent on this voyage.

  One final check in the mirror and he opened his cabin door, stepping into the hallway, nodding to an elderly couple heading to the deck, arm-in-arm.

  “How do you do,” said the gentleman, Dodge returning the greeting. He let them pass and was about to follow when he saw the bruisers at the end of the hallway.

  His stomach flipped as they spotted him.

  He turned the other way, rushing as gentlemanlike as he could to the far end of the corridor, making his way to the deck in a more roundabout fashion. He hadn’t intended to go outside, it too chilly for his liking, yet if there was one place he could be certain there would be plenty of people at this time of night it would be there.

  He hoped the eyes of the passengers would protect him.

  The air was bracing, the North Atlantic a cruel mistress to those not prepared for her harshness, and his attire certainly left him unprepared.

  He shivered.

  The pounding of footsteps behind him had him rushing down the deck, away from the door he had just stepped through. Crossing the width of the ship to the starboard side, he tried to put some distance between himself and the men but it was no use, he knew.

  Suddenly somebody stepped out in front of him from the shadows, startling him.

  It was Astor.

  He stopped.

  “They’re after me.”

  He nodded, looking down the deck. “They searched my room during dinner.”

  Dodge frowned. “Did they find anything?”

  Astor shook his head. “No, I put the papers in the ship’s safe. I knew they’d try my cabin the first chance they’d get should anyone be aboard.”

  “A prescient move.”

  Astor smiled. “Indeed.” He frowned. “Here they come.”

  “Go, nothing must happen to you.”

  Astor shook his head, popping his cane up, grabbing it tightly in the middle. “I’ve never shied away from a fight, and I’m not going to start tonight.”

  Dodge suddenly felt inferior to this man in yet another way. His wealth, power and accomplishments were probably unmatched on the ship, yet his courage appeared to be as well.

  Dodge turned toward the men, looking about for a weapon, finding none.

  The two men stopped in front of them.

  “Gentlemen, our employers would like their property returned,” said the first, smaller than the second, though to suggest he was small would be a mistake.

  “I’m sure we have no idea what you’re referring to,” replied Astor, thankfully, Dodge’s tongue stuck to the top of his suddenly dry mouth.

  Somebody shouted far above them, the words inaudible.

  The man smiled, revealing a cracked front tooth, what remained black as coal. “Mr. Astor, sir, please don’t waste our time. You know exactly what we are referring to.” He held out a hand. “If you would kindly hand it over, all will be forgotten.”

  More shouts from above, again inaudible, their tone though clear.

  Something was wrong.

  But no one seemed to notice, the casual strolls continuing, even their own little confrontation going unnoticed.

  Astor jabbed the air with his cane. “Do you honestly believe that if I did have whatever it is you are looking for, I would be stupid enough to carry it on my person? Do you honestly believe either of us would be stupid enough?”

  The envelope in Dodge’s pocket suddenly felt ten pounds heavier.

  The sound of the engines changed and he could feel the boat begin to turn to the left slightly, the shouts above continuing.

  Yet no one, including Astor and the bruisers, seemed to notice.

  Something is definitely wrong.

  What that could be, he had no clue. He peered down the deck but could see nothing, the lights too bright to see if anything was in their path.

  The larger man opened his lapel, revealing a shoulder holster. “We must insist, gentlemen. Either you provide us with the papers you stole, or take us to them.”

  The ship vibrated then shook, Dodge reaching out for something to catch his balance as a stran
ge sound rapidly approached.

  And that was when he saw it.

  A massive iceberg, passing by the starboard side, towering over their heads, impossibly close. The noise grew as it neared them, chunks of ice scattering across the deck much to the shock and surprise of those casually strolling only a moment before.

  Dodge looked at Astor, fear on his face, but felt almost reassured at the calm on the older man’s face. Suddenly Astor’s cane whipped out, smacking the larger man on the side of the head, the man collapsing in pain, grabbing at the point of impact as Astor raised his weapon for a second blow.

  The other man was shocked at first, it unclear whether or not it was from the iceberg or Astor’s attack, but a growl erupted and Dodge reacted, surprising even himself. He rushed forward, leaning over, shoving his shoulder into the man’s midriff, lifting him off the ground as he wrapped his arms around his opponent. Surging toward the railing as the iceberg passed their position, he roared as the man began to fight back.

  They hit the railing bringing Dodge to an immediate halt. He released his grip on the man’s back, his foe’s momentum carrying him backward and over the side. He didn’t hear or see the splash as the man hit the water, his eyes drawn to the shocking sight of the iceberg continuing down the side of the ship.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Astor’s cane swing again.

  The man was down, blood flowing from his head. Astor bent over and pulled the man’s gun from its holster. He looked at Dodge. “Help me.”

  Dodge stepped over and helped Astor lift the man to his feet. “Is he dead?”

  “Not yet.”

  Dodge looked around to find no one paying attention to them, all eyes on the iceberg and the ice scattered on the deck. “Then we have to hurry,” said Dodge, his decision made. These men meant to kill them, and once the excitement of the close encounter with the iceberg was forgotten, their opponent would have the opportunity to try again.

  He grabbed the man’s belt and hauled him toward the railing, shoving him over the side, Astor’s surprised expression leaving him slightly uncertain as to whether or not it had been a wise move.

  “I do believe I have underestimated you, Mr. Dodge.”

  Dodge said nothing for a moment, instead shaking uncontrollably as both the cold and the adrenaline fueling his momentary bravado took hold. “I-I think I su-surprised myself.”

  Astor looked about then took Dodge by the arm. “Let’s get inside. We’ll report them as having fallen overboard when the iceberg hit. No one will doubt us.”

  Dodge nodded, allowing himself to be led inside by the older man, still stunned at what he had just done.

  You killed two men!

  He rubbed his hands together as the warmth began to return to his body. His hands continued to shake and he was at a loss as to how to calm his heart, now hammering in his chest.

  Two crewmembers rushed by, concern written on their faces.

  It wasn’t until they were almost out of sight he noticed they were wearing life vests.

  “I think something’s wrong.”

  Yet Astor seemed to already know.

  “I have to get to my wife; she will be upset, I’m sure.”

  “But shouldn’t we be telling the Captain about what just happened?”

  Astor looked at Dodge.

  “I fear none of that will matter in a few hours.”

  Collette Court, Odenton, Maryland

  Present Day

  “I dunno, looks the same to me.”

  Steve Wainwright sat at his desk, the painting discovered rolled up in his grandfather’s basement clipped to an easel poached from his wife who stood next to him. On his computer screen was a Wikipedia article about the most valuable item lost on the Titanic, a painting that looked, to his untrained eye, identical to the one standing before them.

  “Me too,” agreed his sister Judy. “It’s either the same painting or a very good forgery.” She looked at his wife, Sally. “You’re the artist in the family, what do you think?”

  “I’d hardly call myself an artist.” Sally shrugged. “I don’t know. To me it looks identical, but I wouldn’t know where to begin to figure out if it’s real or not.”

  Steve looked from the screen to the painting, sighing. “Then where should we begin?”

  Judy scratched the back of her hand. “I think we need an art expert.”

  Steve was not an art buff. “Okay, where the hell do we find one of those?”

  “Art gallery?” suggested Sally.

  “No way!” Steve shook his head emphatically. “I wouldn’t trust them to not claim it was a fake and steal it.” He tapped his chin. “No, we need somebody impartial, not motivated by money.”

  Sally put a hand on his shoulder. “An academic. Like from the university.”

  Steve snapped his fingers. “I’ll give Greg a call! He’s the dean of St. Paul’s and they’re not that far from here.”

  “Who’s this Greg?” asked Judy.

  “Young guy, forty something, met him at a charity event, fundraising for wheelchairs. He’s in one. Gunshot wound to the spine.” He began to Google the university. “Sharp cookie. He’ll know exactly who we need to show this thing to.”

  “How was he shot?” asked Judy as Steve looked up the number, grabbing the cordless phone off his desk.

  “Not sure,” replied Sally. “It was in New York City, I think. Just wrong place at the wrong time, I guess.”

  Judy shivered. “New York City. I’ll never go there, too violent.”

  “It’s not like it used to be,” said Sally as Steve dialed. “You used to not be able to walk around in Times Square but now it’s family friendly.”

  Judy turned her nose up. “Can’t imagine taking my grandkids there.”

  “M&M’s has a huge store there.”

  Judy’s face brightened. “Really?”

  Steve held up a hand, killing the conversation. “Hi, can I speak to Dean Milton, please?”

  “Who may I ask is calling?”

  “Steve Wainwright. We met at the Wheelchairs for Veterans fundraiser last year.”

  “One moment, please.”

  Muzak of some type began to play and he turned in his chair. “I’m on hold.”

  Suddenly a click had him sitting upright.

  “Steve, Greg here, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Hi Greg, I hate to bother you with this, and if you’re not the right person, just let me know, but, well, we were going through my grandfather’s basement and came across a painting that, well…” His voice trailed off as he looked at the painting, the woman looking off to the side, as if unconcerned she were nude in what might be a private garden.

  “Well?”

  “This is going to sound crazy.”

  “You’d be surprised at what I’ve heard over the years.”

  “I doubt you’ve heard anything as crazy as this.”

  “Just tell him!” urged Judy.

  “Okay, Greg, here’s the thing. We think the painting might have been taken from the Titanic.”

  There was a pause on the other end of the line and Steve began to wonder if their connection had been lost.

  “Do you mean recovered as part of one of the exped—”

  “No,” interrupted Steve. “Taken the night of the sinking.”

  “I see.” There was another pause. “Can you bring the painting in?”

  “Absolutely. When?”

  “How soon can you get here?”

  “We can be there in an hour.”

  “Good. I’ll clear my schedule and have our expert meet you.”

  “Oh, you’re not the expert?”

  Milton laughed. “Ah, no. I’ve got someone on staff here who’s perfect for this type of thing. And I can assure you, he’s seen a lot of strange things in his time, so he won’t be quick to dismiss your story.”

  “Sounds like the right man for the job. Who?”

  “You met him and his fiancée, now wife, at the fundr
aiser last year.”

  “Oh, the archeology professor.” Steve searched his memory. “Sorry, I can’t remember his name.”

  “Professor James Acton.”

  North Atlantic Ocean

  Aboard the RMS Titanic

  April 15th, 1912

  Captain Smith listened to the reports coming in from across the ship, his insides churning with the horror of what was to come, his outward appearance stoic, confident. Flooding had already begun, the water rapidly rising, and the naval architect Thomas Andrews, on board for the maiden voyage, had already informed him of the fatal flaw.

  The watertight bulkheads weren’t high enough.

  The water would fill section after section, pouring over the bulkhead walls until the ship would finally sink.

  It was inevitable.

  “The nearest ship is almost three hours away. The Carpathia.”

  “That’s not enough time!” cried First Officer Will Murdoch.

  “Calm yourself, Mr. Murdoch. We must not panic the junior officers or the passengers.”

  Murdoch squared his shoulders. “Yes, Captain, of course. I apologize.”

  Smith smiled gently. “You’re a good man, Will. Remember your training and you’ll get through this. We all will.”

  Murdoch lowered his voice. “But, Captain. The lifeboats…”

  Smith nodded, knowing exactly what Murdoch was referring to.

  The lifeboats were launching, yet there weren’t enough.

  The Unsinkable Ship.

  Absurd.

  He looked at the chart showing their exact location and frowned.

  They were less than an hour from the coordinates where he was supposed to have stopped.

  His stomach flipped.

  Would the men who held his family show mercy should he die here tonight?

  His finger tapped the location of the planned stop.

  It has to be a rendezvous.

  Which meant there was a ship out there that could save them all if it were big enough.

  But would they ignore the distress call?

  They had so far, the Carpathia the only one to respond.

  What kind of people would stand by while an entire passenger liner sank?