“Was it really worth it?” Blankenship asked.
Had he known Pitt better, he wouldn’t have posed the question. Dirk Pitt looked over to where the archeologists were swarming around their prize find. This wasn’t something he’d done for them—or even for himself, really—this was about preserving the past so someone in the future could look at the Turtle and find inspiration to make the world a better place. Pitt looked him square in the eye. “Absolutely.”
Three hours later, Pitt stepped from the hotel bathroom with a plush robe wrapped around his body and splashed more room service tequila into a glass. He’d been interviewed by the police for the better part of two hours. Blankenship had driven Thom Gwynn back to his office and returned with some dry clothes he’d picked up at an outlet store. After the police were done with him, Pitt spoke to a few reporters for no other reason than to get some good press for NUMA, fudging that his presence at the archeological site had been official. He had no desire to spend hours on a train back to D.C., so he’d managed to extend his stay at his hotel near the UN. Outside, the skyline was jeweled by a million lights, as the storm had cleared, leaving the air clean and fresh.
Pitt sat himself in one of the club chairs. Too much adrenaline was still pumping in his blood to sleep. The paperwork generated at the conference held no interest, so instead he removed Isaac Bell’s typewritten notes from their plastic sleeve.
Not one to dwell on his own past, he didn’t think about his role in discovering and salvaging the Titanic. Instead, he thought about a miner named Joshua Hayes Brewster and how he had driven himself mad in his quest to get his cargo back to the United States. Pitt recalled that when he’d pieced together Brewster’s story, there had been some nagging questions about parts of the tale. He remembered thinking it was too fantastic that a miner from Colorado could have pulled off one of the greatest capers in history and yet the evidence of Brewster’s success was undeniable. But maybe, Pitt thought, he hadn’t sussed out the whole story. Maybe Bell’s version would shed some light on what had really taken place more than a hundred years earlier.
Pitt adjusted the lamp and started reading.
1
Denver, Colorado
November 18, 1911
Jim Porter was a big man, thick through the gut and neck, with the florid complexion of a person whose heart is beating far too hard to get blood through his fat body. His doctor repeatedly told him that he had to lose weight or suffer the consequences, but Porter liked food far too much to worry about some potential problem when he was in his sixties or seventies.
He ate most every morning at a small restaurant across from the post office branch where he was the manager. The place was cozy, just six tables, and the husband/wife team that owned it took good care of their customers. For Jim Porter, this meant serving him his bacon extra soft. He was just bringing two pieces speared on a fork to his mouth when the restaurant’s front door opened to the tinkling chime of its attached bell. He recognized the first man right away. They had known each other since they were schoolboys. Billy McCallister was a detective now with the Denver Police, and many figured he’d be running the whole department before too long. Behind him and coming in the rear were two men Porter didn’t know, and like they were bookends for the two strangers was Billy’s partner, Jack Gaylord.
Billy scanned the room and focused in on the heavyset postal worker. Knowing he’d done nothing wrong, Porter was nonplused and finished shoving the limp strips of bacon into his mouth.
“Morning, Jim,” the police detective said, removing his hat and taking a seat opposite his old friend.
“Billy,” Porter said between bites. “What can I do for you?”
One of the strangers took out official credentials and held them out for Porter’s inspection. Porter’s eyes widened when he read them, and he suddenly wished he were anyplace other than there. “As you can see,” the stranger said, “I’m from the Postmaster General’s Office in Washington, D.C. My name is Bob Northrop. And what you can do for us is help end a crime spree.”
While the two cops looked like police—big, grim-faced, and competent—and Northrop had the look of a bureaucrat out of his element but still filled with purpose, it was the fourth man that held Porter’s attention. The other three had taken the last chairs at the table, so the stranger stood behind them with his hands clasped in front of him, his long fingers holding his hat by the brim. He wore a suit of good quality and cut and a black overcoat so long it almost swept the ground like a cape. He had bright blond hair and blue eyes with a world-weariness in them that gave him a timeless look. Once Porter had seen those eyes, he recognized that the innocent pose was a disguise and that this man was far more than he seemed.
“Crime spree?” Porter repeated, unsettled and needing to refocus on the conversation.
Detective McCallister replied, “Yes, a crime spree. At least four robberies so far, and, if Mr. Bell is right, a fifth took place last night. Oh, sorry. Jim, this is Isaac Bell of the Van Dorn Agency.”
Bell leaned forward with his hand outstretched. “Nice to meet you,” he said affably.
Porter wasn’t fooled. Bell was probably a nice enough fellow, but there was an edge to him that he did not share with the outside world. Bell was doubtless a dangerous man, but also one who hid it behind polish and poise.
Porter suddenly understood what was happening, and some of his normal flush waned as his face went a little pale. He tossed his napkin on the table and was about to rise.
“Hold on a second,” McCallister said.
“You’re implying my branch was robbed last night. Right? That’s why you’re here now. We have to go check right away.”
“No, Mr. Porter,” Bell said, and the postmaster froze. “There’s an accomplice coming today. It will make everyone’s job easier if we can catch him in the act rather than having to make a deal with the actual thief.”
Porter looked to his friend for confirmation. McCallister nodded. Porter relaxed back into his chair.
“There’s no rush just yet,” Bell continued. “We want everything to look as normal as possible when the accomplice comes to pick up the three trunks he shipped to you yesterday.”
Porter knew exactly which three the private detective meant. Two were about the bulk of large suitcases and quite heavy for their size. The other was a monogrammed steamer trunk that looked like it had been around the world several times. “You know who owns them, then?”
“Yes,” Bell said. “I watched him mail them yesterday. I had already briefed Mr. Northrop from the Postmaster General’s Office and Detective McCallister on my idea of putting an end to the crooks’ activities.”
McCallister checked the time on a silver half hunter he had chained to his vest pocket. He turned to Bell. “We still have twenty minutes before the branch is to open. I’m sure you told Mr. Northrop here how you broke the case, but do you mind telling me the story from the beginning?”
Bell nodded. “Certainly. The thieves started in Des Moines, where they hit a hotel storage room, before they moved to Omaha, where another hotel was robbed. Next came a railroad depot in Topeka. That’s where I was brought in on the case. The railroad’s owner is a friend of my boss. During my initial investigation, research informed me of the earlier robberies in Iowa and Nebraska. Next up was a robbery in Cheyenne. This time, they hit another railroad storage depot, though not the same line as my boss’s friend.