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

by J. Robert Kennedy

  Unknown Assembly Facility

  Present Day

  Jerry Sparks sat, quaking in a chair, his hands cuffed behind his back, a hood over his head. Beyond the sound of his own rapid breathing against the cloth, he heard nothing.

  Except footsteps.

  Slow, deliberate footsteps, pacing around and around him.

  No voices, no other sounds like traffic or the hustle and bustle of a city.

  Not even the sounds of an HVAC system keeping wherever he was cool.

  It was more terrifying than anything he could imagine.

  He had been escorted out of his office within minutes of the security alert appearing on his computer, the Military Police taking him to their offices and holding him there, the Sergeant apologetic.

  “Just following orders.”

  They had chitchatted for almost half an hour before two men in suits and dark glasses appeared, IDs flashed, cuffs slapped on his wrists. He had been placed in the back of an SUV, the hood pulled over his head, then driven in silence for about fifteen minutes.

  He had heard nothing but the sound of the engine.

  He had been led to wherever he was now, only a couple of minutes’ walk from the vehicle, and still nothing had been said.

  Just a hand shoving him into a chair then silence.

  Until the footsteps.

  “Do you know why you are here?”

  He nearly jumped from the sound, a woman’s voice, slightly deep, confident—German perhaps—echoed, the room he was in apparently large.

  “N-no,” he replied, his stomach flipping, his heart racing. “Because of the records search?”

  “Very good. Why did you execute that search?”

  The footsteps continued to circle him, the questions coming at him from all directions, his head spinning to follow. “I-I was doing someone a favor.”

  “Who?”

  Tell him! If he knows you were doing it for a Congressman, then maybe everything will be okay.

  “Congressman Mahoney.”

  The footsteps stopped for a moment, then resumed.

  That must have surprised her.

  “And why was he asking you to conduct this search?”

  He shrugged. “I’m not sure. I got the impression it was a favor for a friend. Maybe a constituent?”

  “And the name of this friend or constituent?”

  “I have no idea, but I think they might have been related to Captain Wainwright.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He shrugged, the hood rubbing on his nose. “No, just a hunch.”

  She was behind him now, the sound of her shoe scraping as she turned, distinct. “Thank you, you’ve been very helpful.”

  Two steps sounded on the floor then stopped directly behind him.

  There was a click.

  A loud bang.

  A moment of searing pain.

  Then nothing.

  North Atlantic Ocean

  United States Naval Vessel—Identity Classified

  April 15, 1912

  “Captain, I’m receiving a CQD signal from the RMS Titanic. They’re sinking.”

  Captain Johnathan Wainwright spun toward his communications officer. “Repeat that.”

  “CQD signal from the RMS Titanic, Captain. They report they are taking on water and are sinking fast.”

  Unbelievable!

  “Location?”

  “Fifteen nautical miles due east.”

  Wainwright frowned. His orders were clear. He was to make best speed to his coordinates then hold position until ordered to get underway again. He had to admit they were the strangest orders he had ever received in his time as captain, and in all the years he had been in the navy, he couldn’t recall a ship simply sailing into the middle of the North Atlantic and stopping for no reason.

  Then ordered to Darken Ship.

  They were a massive hunk of floating metal in the middle of commercial shipping lanes.

  It simply didn’t make sense.

  But as had been made abundantly clear to him by Admiral Coolidge, he wasn’t in charge.

  Commander Whitman was.

  Whoever the hell he is.

  Whitman had boarded in Norfolk with five other men, disappearing to segregated quarters, their equipment isolated in the hold until several hours ago when it had been ordered moved to the deck.

  He still didn’t know who they were or what department of the government they worked for. Their uniforms had no insignia, though they had the bearing of military when they arrived. He had spoken to Whitman for all of two minutes when he had been delivered his sealed orders.

  And that was it.

  But his orders be damned, there was a civilian ship sinking, thousands of lives were at stake, and he would not be left sitting here in the dark, waiting for only God knew what.

  “Send a message to the RMS Titanic that we are responding, ETA one hour.”

  “Yes, Captain!”

  “Belay that order.”

  Wainwright spun toward the voice as his comm officer froze.

  It was Whitman.

  “She’s sinking, Commander. It is our duty to provide aide.”

  “Negative. This mission is Top Secret. Our being here can never be known.” He turned to the comm officer. “Who beyond this room knows of the CQD transmission?”

  “Only the radioman.”

  Whitman turned to Wainwright. “I remind you, Captain, that every one of your crew are sworn to secrecy. Should anyone reveal what is about to happen, they will be subject to court-martial, and possibly the death penalty.”

  The entire bridge crew looked at Wainwright, some of these men barely in their twenties.

  The fear on their faces enraged him.

  Yet Whitman was correct. The orders from the Admiral were clear. Whitman was in charge. The mission was highly classified. And no matter what was seen or heard, none of it was to ever be repeated.

  In fact, the entire crew had been ordered below decks upon their arrival, only essential personnel topside during this phase of the operation.

  Wainwright breathed through his nose, his lips pressed tightly together. “What are your orders, Commander?”

  “Maintain radio silence and Darken Ship conditions. Make best speed for their coordinates, stopping two nautical miles from their position.”

  Wainwright’s eyes narrowed. “Why two miles? If we’re to render assistance, we should be much closer.”

  Whitman looked at the Captain. “We will not be rendering assistance of any sort.”

  Wainwright’s chest tightened, his blood beginning to boil. “Then why for the love of God are we going there?”

  “Because, Captain, our mission is aboard that vessel, and I have every intention of completing it, whether the Titanic is sinking or not.”

  Saint Paul’s University, St. Paul, Maryland

  Present Day

  “Thanks for seeing us on such short notice, Professor.”

  Professor James Acton extended his hand, greeting Steve Wainwright, his wife and his sister. Greg Milton, Acton’s best friend and boss, sat in his wheelchair nearby, his back still giving him troubles, but troubles he would gladly deal with considering the doctors had told him he would most likely never feel a thing below his waist again.

  They had been proven wrong, and though he could now walk, he fatigued easily, and as the hours passed, he would find himself in need of his chair, his back threatening to give out.

  Acton always felt a twinge of guilt every time he saw his friend in his chair. Though Milton had never blamed him, and called him a fool for doing so, he had never been able to forgive himself for getting his friend involved in his troubles. He had been pursued by America’s elite Delta Force operating under false intel indicating he was the leader of a domestic terrorist cell, their orders to eliminate him and his followers.

  Too many had died before the soldiers had discovered the truth and refused to carry out their illegal orders.

  By then his friend ha
d been shot and left for dead.

  Ever since those events, the men of Bravo Team, the Delta unit that had taken so much from him, had made it their mission to help him whenever he or a loved one got into trouble, and that seemed to happen more often than it should, though he had no regrets. Once he had moved past those events, he had realized how great these men were and now even considered them friends, though not necessarily good friends, the nature of their job so secretive, it wasn’t like they got together on vacation or went to each other’s homes for barbecues.

  Though he had a feeling if he were to show up, he’d be welcomed with open arms.

  He had met the love of his life, Professor Laura Palmer, during those initial events. She had risked her life to help save a man she had only read about in magazines and their love had been forged under fire, a type of love that quite often flamed out fast, but not for them. Perhaps because they found themselves in adrenaline-fueled firefights so often, the spark was kept alive.

  Acton looked at his watch and frowned. “My wife is supposed to—”

  “Hello, sorry I’m late!”

  Acton grinned as Laura entered the room, tossing her satchel onto a table near the door. “This is my much better half, Professor Laura Palmer. She’s an archeologist and anthropologist at the Smithsonian in DC,” explained Acton as Laura shook hands. “I’ve asked her to join us as she was on one of the teams that examined some of the artifacts brought up from the Titanic.”

  Laura gave Milton a cheek kiss and looked about, Acton recognizing the excitement in her face. “So, where is it?”

  Steve Wainwright held up a tube, about five feet long. Acton almost cringed as he thought of the damage that could have been done to what might actually be a priceless work of art.

  “May I?” he asked.

  Wainwright nodded, handing it over. Acton pulled the top off as Laura snapped on gloves. He handed her the tube then did the same. She carefully extracted the canvas and began to unroll it on the lab table without forcing it flat, the material demanding to return to the shape it had come to know over decades, perhaps a century.

  It would take time to flatten it safely, though it could be done.

  He frowned, pointing at several pronounced creases before even looking at the painting itself. “It looks like it was folded up at some point, into a square.”

  “Tsk-tsk,” clicked Laura, shaking her head. “Who would do such a thing?”

  “Someone who didn’t know any better?” suggested Milton as he rolled to the table. “So, is it the painting?”

  Acton held the top open, Laura the bottom as one of his grad students, Mai Lien Trinh, snapped photos. “Cursory examination suggests it is La Circassienne au Bain by Merry-Joseph Blondel. We’ll need to do a lot more testing to confirm it, however.” He gently let the canvas roll back up, Laura doing the same. He turned to Steve Wainwright. “You found this in your grandfather’s basement?”

  Steve nodded.

  Acton took a seat, motioning for the others to do the same, he always feeling a little odd looking down at Milton. He nodded toward the painting. “Let’s assume that it’s real. If it is, it should be on the bottom of the Atlantic. That painting was not one of the artifacts recovered in recent years, and even if it were, for you to have it would be impossible. On the black market it would go for millions, and from what I understand, your grandfather and father were not exactly in the stolen arts business.”

  Steve chuckled. “Nooo, definitely not.” He motioned toward the painting with his chin. “What can you tell us about it?”

  “It was painted in 1814 by Merry-Joseph Blondel,” explained Laura. “It’s a life size oil painting, a portrait of a Circassian woman at a bathhouse. Initially it wasn’t too popular, considered rather bland, but prints of the painting proved popular with the public and Blondel himself began to gain stature so the painting’s value began to increase. It eventually ended up in the hands of…” She pulled out her cellphone, tapping a few keys. “Sorry, the name escapes me…ah, here it is, Mauritz Hakan Bjornstrom-Steffansson. He was a passenger on the Titanic, heading to the United States on a chemical engineering scholarship.”

  “And he owned a painting like that?” asked Judy, her narrowed eyes suggesting disbelief.

  “His father was quite wealthy, wood pulp apparently.”

  “Oh.”

  Steve leaned forward. “So this Steffansson character, did he die with the others?”

  Laura shook her head. “No, he was one of the survivors.”

  “Must be nice to have money, allows you to claim you’re a child or don’t have a penis when they call women and children first.”

  “Steve!” Sally slapped her husband’s shoulder.

  “Sorry,” mumbled Steve, Acton suppressing a smile.

  I wonder if we’ll be like that at their age.

  He glanced at his wife, thanking God she was still alive, her recent gunshot wound to the stomach now healed, but her body still not fully recovered.

  She looks tired.

  She was getting better, her stamina slowly building, though she hadn’t been back to work yet, this her first academic outing since the shooting and the subsequent events in Paris that had almost seen them killed along with everyone else at the American Embassy.

  We’re home. Nothing will happen to us here.

  He looked at the painting.

  Yeah, right.

  “Mr. Steffansson filed what was the largest insurance claim of the voyage, one hundred thousand dollars,” continued a smiling Laura, she not bothering to suppress her delight in the elderly couple’s interplay.

  “Doesn’t sound like much,” said Judy, clearly unimpressed.

  “That would be over two million dollars today,” said Milton.

  “Oh.”

  “And because it was thought lost on the Titanic, and for it to have actually survived, however that happened, it is probably worth much more now since pretty much anything from the Titanic goes for ridiculous prices.” Acton nodded toward the painting. “If it’s real, I’m sure it would go at auction for millions.”

  Sally exchanged an excited glance with her husband. “So what you’re saying is we’re rich?” he asked.

  Acton shook his head. “No. Since it clearly didn’t belong to your grandfather, it would most likely be considered stolen, so would probably be returned to the family.”

  “Or the insurance company who paid out the claim,” said Laura.

  Acton nodded. “Never thought of that. Either way, I doubt you’d be allowed to keep it.” He leaned forward slightly. “What I want to know is how could your grandfather have possibly got his hands on this? This painting until today was thought to be on the bottom of the Atlantic.”

  Steve shook his head. “I have no idea. He was a US Navy captain at the time, I know that, but I always thought the only ship in the area was civilian and it arrived too late.”

  Acton pursed his lips, his eyebrows rising slightly. “Well, that’s not actually entirely accurate.”

  Steve narrowed his eyes, joining the puzzled expressions in the room. “What do you mean?”

  “There was actually at least one other ship, close enough to save everyone on board.”

  North Atlantic Ocean

  United States Naval Vessel—Identity Classified

  April 15, 1912

  It was heartbreaking.

  The panicked screams, the cries for help, the desperation of those perishing before Captain Johnathan Wainwright’s eyes was overwhelming. He considered himself a man, tough as nails, and had never shed a tear in his life, not even when his son had died from smallpox.

  Yet today it was everything he could do to keep from weeping openly.

  Instead he let it turn to rage.

  A rage he had no outlet for.

  The night sky was lit up, flares launched at irregular intervals, the generators located in the stern still providing power to most of the doomed ship, her lights for the most part still on as she seemed to
be sinking from the bow.

  Which meant he and the bridge crew had a clear view of the horrors.

  Several lifeboats were in the water, but too few. He could see they were having trouble deploying many of them, and some successfully launched were inexplicably half-full, if that.

  What is going on over there?

  There were few people in the water at this point, most wisely staying on the deck for now. Those in the water wouldn’t last long, the cold of the Atlantic would be claiming their souls far too soon.

  And he was powerless to save them.

  It wasn’t right.

  He adjusted his view, catching sight of the small boat being rowed by Commander Whitman’s team as it sliced calmly through the water, their mission a mystery.

  A flare screeched into the sky, an errant shot sent at an angle, directly toward them. It burst low above the water, the intense light unsteady as it burned, long shadows cast across the deck for a full minute before it hit the water, bathing them in darkness again.

  Shouts rolled over the waves and he peered through the binoculars, a pit forming in his stomach.

  They had been spotted.

  Saint Paul’s University, St. Paul, Maryland

  Present Day

  “Huh?”

  Acton delighted in stunning people with a little bit of history. It was one of the many reasons he loved his chosen profession. History was fascinating. The problem was it was too often presented in forms so boring to children, that by the time they became adults, they usually hated it.

  Which was why he tried to keep his lectures as engaging as possible, his classes very popular, especially since he had gained a little notoriety over the years.

  And they don’t know the half of it!

  “The Carpathia was the ship that responded to the CQD signal from the Titanic, but it was too far away to save those who couldn’t get into the lifeboats.”

  “CQD?” asked Judy. “Is that like an SOS?”

  “Yes,” replied Laura. “SOS was relatively new at the time so a CQD signal was sent, then they began to alternate between the two. Both are considered a mayday call.”