'And if I deny it?'
'Who would believe you? I venture to say that your name is already on the Soviet liquidation list.'
'Then what's to become of me now?'
'You have two choices. One, we can set you free after a proper period of time.'
'I wouldn't last a week. I am well aware of the KGB assassin network.'
'Your second choice is to cooperate with us.' Nicholson paused, hesitated, then looked directly at Prevlov. 'You're a brilliant man, Captain, the best in your field. We don't like to let good brains go to waste. I don't have to paint you a picture of your value to the Western intelligence community. That's why it's my intention to set you up in charge of a new task force. A line of work you should find right up your alley.'
'I suppose I should be grateful for that,' Prevlov said dryly.
'Your facial appearance will be altered, of course. You'll get a cram course in English and American idioms along with our history, sports, music, and entertainment. In the end, there won't be the slightest trace of your former shell for the KGB to home in on.'
Interest began to form in Prevlov's eyes.
'Your salary will be forty thousand a year, plus expenses and a car.'
'Forty thousand dollars?' Prevlov asked, trying to sound casual.
'That will buy quite a bit of Bombay Gin.' Nicholson grinned like a wolf sitting down to dinner with a wary rabbit. 'I think that if you really try, Captain Prevlov, you might come to enjoy the pleasures of our Western-style decadence. Don't you agree?'
Prevlov said nothing for several moments. But the choice was obvious constant fear versus a long and pleasurable life. 'You win, Nicholson.'
Nicholson shook hands and was mildly surprised to see tears welling in Prevlov's eyes.
74
The final hours of the long tow brought a clear and sunny sky with a wandering wind that gently nudged the long ocean swells shoreward and brushed their green curving backs.
Ever since dawn, four Coast Guard ships had been busy riding herd on the huge fleet of pleasure craft that darted in and out vying for a closer look at the sea-worn decks and superstructure of the hulk.
High over the crowded waters, hordes of light aircraft and helicopters swarmed like hornets, their pilots jockeying to give photographers and cameramen the perfect angle from which to shoot the Titanic.
From five thousand feet higher, the still listing ship looked like a macabre carcass that was under attack from all sides by armadas of gnats and white ants.
The Thomas J. Morse reeled in her tow wire from the bow of the Samuel R. Wallace and fell back to the derelict's stem, here she attached a hawser and then eased astern to assist steering the unwieldy bulk through the Verrazano Narrows and up the East River to the old Brooklyn Navy Yard. Several harbor tugs also appeared and stood by to lend hand, if called upon, when Commander Butera gave orders to shorten the main tow cable to two hundred yards.
The pilot boat arrived within inches of the bulwarks of the Wallace and the pilot leaped aboard. Then it passed on by and thumped against the rusty plates of the Titanic, separated only by worn truck tires that hung along the smaller boat's freeboard. Within half a minute, the New York Harbor Chief Pilot had clutched a rope ladder and was scrambling up to the cargo deck.
Pitt and Sandecker greeted him and then led the way up to the port bridge wing, where the chief pilot placed both hands on the railing as though he were part of it and solemnly nodded for the tow to carry on. Pitt waved and Butera punched his whistle in reply. Then the tug commander ordered 'slow ahead' and aimed the bow of the Wallace into the main channel under the Verrazano Bridge that arches from Long Island to Staten Island.
As the strange convoy probed its nose into Upper New York Bay, Butera began pacing from one side of the tug's bridge to the other, studying the hulk, the wind and the current, and the tow cable with the dedication of a brain surgeon who is about to perform a delicate operation.
Since the night before, thousands of people had lined the waterfront. Manhattan had come to a standstill, streets emptied and office buildings suddenly became silent, as workers crowded the windows in hushed awe as the tow crawled up the harbor.
On the shore of Staten Island, Peter Hull, a reporter from The New York Times, began his story:
Ghosts do exist. I know, I saw one in the mists of morning. Like some grotesque phantom that had been rejected from hell, she passed before my unbelieving eyes. Surrounded by the invisible pall of bygone tragedy, shrouded in the souls of her dead, she was truly an awesome relic from a past age. You could not lay your eyes upon her and not sense pride and sorrow together ....
A CBS commentator expressed a more journalistic view 'The Titanic completed her maiden voyage today, seventy-six years after departing the dock at Southampton, England . . . .' By noon the Titanic was edging past the Statue of Liberty and a vast sea of spectators on the Battery. No one on shore spoke above a whisper, and the city became strangely silent; only an occasional toot from a taxi horn gave any hint of normal activity. It was as though the whole of New York City had been picked up and placed in a vast cathedral.
Many of the watchers wept openly. Among them were three of the passengers who had survived the tragic night so long ago. The air seemed heavy and hard to breathe. Most people, describing their feelings later, were surprised to recall nothing but an odd sense of numbness, as though they had been temporarily paralyzed and struck dumb. Most that is, except a rugged fireman by the name of Arthur Mooney.
Mooney was the captain of one of the New York Harbor fireboats. A big, mischief-eyed Irishman born of the city, and a seagoing fire-eater for nineteen years. He slammed a massive fist against the binnacle and shook off the spell. Then he shouted to his crew.
'Up off your asses, boys. You're not department store dummies.' His voice carried into every corner of the boat. Mooney hardly ever required the services of a bullhorn. 'This here's a ship arrivin' on her maiden voyage, ain't she? Then let's show her a good old-fashioned traditional New York welcome.'
'But skipper,' a crew member protested, 'it's not like she was the QE II or the Normandie comin' up the channel for the first time. That thing is nothin' but a wasted hulk, a ship of the dead.'
'Wasted hulk, your ass,' Mooney shouted. 'That ship you see there is the most famous liner of all time. So she's a little delapidated, and she's arrivin' a tad late. So who gives a damn? Turn on the hoses and hit the siren.'
It was a re-enactment of the Titanic's raising all over again, but on a much grander scale. As the water spouted in great sheets over Mooney's fireboat, and his boat whistle reverberated off the city's skyscrapers, another fireboat followed his example, and another. Then whistles on docked freighters began to scream. Then the horns of cars lined up along the shores of New Jersey, Manhattan, and Brooklyn joined the outpouring of noise followed by the cheers and yells from a million throats.
What had begun with the insignificant shrill of a single whistle now built and built until it was a thunderous bedlam of sound that shook the ground and rattled every window in the city. It was a moment that echoed across every ocean of the world.
The Titanic had made port.
75
Thousands of greeters jammed the dock where the Titanic was tied up. The swarming antlike mass was made up of newspeople, national dignitaries, cordons of harried policemen, and a multitude of uninvited who climbed the shipyard fence. Any attempt at security was futile.
A battery of reporters and cameramen stormed up the makeshift gangplank and surrounded Admiral Sandecker, who stood like a victorious Caesar, on the steps of the main staircase rising from the reception room on D Deck.
This was Sandecker's big moment and a team of wild horses couldn't have dragged him off the Titanic this day. He never missed an opportunity to snatch good publicity in the name of the National Underwater and Marine Agency, and this was one occasion where he was going to milk every line of newsprint, every second of national television, for all they were worth. He enthralled the reporters with highly colored exploits of the salvage crew and stared at the mobile camera units, and smiled and smiled and smiled. The Admiral was in his own paradise.
Pitt could have cared less about the fanfare; his idea of paradise at the moment was a shower and a clean, soft bed. He pushed his way down the gangplank to the dock and melted into the crowd. He thought he'd
