Raise the Titanic! by Clive Cussler

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.
    â€œMix 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?”
    â€œKGB 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.
    â€œVery well.” Prevlov sighed. “Continue.”
    â€œIt 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?”
    â€œI…I thought perhaps it was important,” Marganin stammered.
    â€œNaturally.” 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?”
    â€œIt 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.”
    â€œI…I only thought—”
    â€œPlease leave the thinking to me, Lieutenant.” He tightened the sash on his robe. “Now, if you have run out of harebrained witch hunts, I would like to get back to bed.”
    â€œBut if the Americans are looking for something—”
    â€œYes, 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.
    â€œYou 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.”
    â€œYes,” 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 gangsters.”
    â€œIf you had done your homework…” Prevlov yawned “…you’d have discovered it’s called the Mafia.”
    â€œThere is also a musical ensemble that refer to themselves as the Sicilian Stilettos.”
    Prevlov offered Marganin a glacial stare.
    â€œThen there is a large food processor in Wisconsin who manufactures a Sicilian salad oil.”
    â€œEnough!” 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