Raise the Titanic! (Dirk Pitt 4)

"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.

"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?"