'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?'
Marganin shook his head.
'Mix it with the right ingredients,' Prevlov muttered, 'as the Americans do, and you have an excellent cure for a hangover.' He took a sip of the tomato juice and made a face. 'Now then, what do you want?'
'KGB received a communication from one of their agents in Washington last night. They had no clues as to its meaning and hoped that perhaps we might throw some light on it.'
Marganin's face reddened. The sash on Prevlov's robe had loosened and he could see that the captain wore nothing beneath it.
'Very well.' Prevlov sighed. 'Continue.'
'It said, `Americans suddenly interested in rock collecting. Most secret operation under code name Sicilian Project.''
Prevlov stared at him over his Bloody Mary. 'What sort of drivel is that?' He finished the glass in one gulp and slammed it down on the sink counter. 'Has our illustrious brother intelligence service, the KGB, become a house of fools?' The voice was the dispassionate, efficient voice of the official Prevlov-cold, and devoid of all inflection except bored irritation. 'And you, Lieutenant? Why do you bother me with this childish riddle now? Why couldn't this have waited until tomorrow morning when I'm back in the office?'
'I . . . I thought perhaps it was important,' Marganin stammered.
'Naturally.' Prevlov smiled coldly. 'Every time the KGB whistles, people jump. But veiled threats don't interest me. Facts, my dear Lieutenant, facts are what count. What do you feel is so important about this Sicilian Project?'
'It seemed to me the reference to rock collecting might tie in with the Novaya Zemlya files.'
Perhaps twenty seconds elapsed before Prevlov Spoke. 'Possible, just possible. Still, we can't be certain of a connection'
'I . . . I only thought-'
'Please leave the thinking to me, Lieutenant.' He tightened the sash on his robe. 'Now, if you have run out of here-brained witch hunts, I would like to filet back to bed.'
'But if the Americans are looking for something-'
'Yes, but what?' Prevlov asked dryly. 'What mineral is so precious to them that they must look for it in the earth of an unfriendly country?'
Marganin shrugged.
'You answer that and you have the key.' Prevlov's tone hardened almost imperceptibly. 'Until then, I want solutions. Any peasant bastard can ask stupid questions.'
Marganin's face reddened again. 'Sometimes the Americans have hidden meanings to their code names.'
'Yes,' Prevlov said with mock solemnity. 'They do have a penchant for advertising.'
Marganin plunged forward. 'I researched the American idioms that refer to Sicily, and the most prevalent seems to be their obsession with a brotherhood of hooligans and-'
'If you. had done your homework' Prevlov yawned, ' you'd have discovered it's called the Mafia.'
'There is also a musical ensemble that refer to themselves as the Sicilian Stilettos.'
Prevlov offered Marganin a glacial stare.
'Then there is a large food processor in Wisconsin who manufactures a Sicilian salad oil.'
'Enough!' Prevlov held up a protesting hand. 'Salad oil, indeed. I am not up to such stupidity so early in the morning.' He gestured at the front door. 'I trust you have other projects at our office that are more stimulating than rock collecting.'
In the living room he paused before a table on which was a carved ivory chess set and toyed with one of the pieces. 'Tell me, Lieutenant, do you play chess?'
Marganin shook his head. 'Not in a long time. I used to play a little when I was a cadet at the Naval Academy.'
'Does the name Isaak Boleslavski mean anything to you?'
'No, sir.'
'Isaak Boleslavski was one of our greatest chess masters,' Prevlov said, as if lecturing a schoolboy. 'He conceived many great variations of the game. One of them was the Sicilian Defense.' He casually tossed the black king at Marganin who deftly caught it. 'Fascinating game, chess. You should take it up again.'
Prevlov walked to the bedroom door and cracked it. Then he turned and smiled indifferently to Marganin.
