Raise the Titanic! by Clive Cussler Page A

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.”
    â€œDoes the name Isaak Boleslavski mean anything to you?”
    â€œNo, sir.”
    â€œIsaak 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. “Now, if you will excuse me. You may let yourself out. Good day, Lieutenant.”
    Once outside, Marganin made his way around the rear of Prevlov’s apartment building. The door to the garage was locked, so he glanced furtively up and down the alley and then tapped a side window with his fist until it splintered. Carefully, he picked out the pieces until his hand could grope inside and unlatch the lock. One more look down the alley and he pushed up the window, climbed the sill, and entered the garage.
    A black American Ford sedan was parked next to Prevlov’s orange Lancia. Quickly, Marganin searched both cars and memorized the numbers on the Ford’s embassy license plate. To make it look like the work of a burglar, he removed the windshield wipers—the theft of which was a national pastime in the Soviet Union—and then unlocked the garage door from the inside and walked out.
    He hurried back to the front of the building and he had only to wait three minutes for the next electric bus. He paid the driver and eased into a seat and stared out the window. Then he began to smile. It had been a most profitable morning.
    The Sicilian Project was the furthest thing from his mind.

PART 2
The Coloradans

AUGUST 1987
9
    Mel Donner routinely checked the room for electronic eavesdropping equipment and set up the tape recorder. “This is a test for voice level.” He spoke into the microphone without inflection. “One, two, three.” He adjusted the controls for tone and volume, then nodded to Seagram.
    â€œWe’re ready, Sid,” Seagram said gently. “If it becomes tiring, just say so and we’ll break off until tomorrow.”
    The hospital bed had been adjusted so that Sid Koplin sat nearly upright. The mineralogist appeared much improved since their last meeting. His color had returned and his eyes seemed bright. Only the bandage around his balding head revealed that he had been injured. “I’ll go until midnight,” he said. “Anything to relieve the boredom. I hate hospitals. The nurses all have icy hands and the color on the goddamned TV is always changing.”
    Seagram grinned and laid the microphone in Koplin’s lap. “Why don’t you begin with your departure from Norway.”
    â€œVery uneventful,” Koplin said. “The Norwegian fishing trawler Godhawn towed my sloop to within two hundred miles of Novaya Zemlya as planned. Then the captain fed the condemned man a hearty meal of roast reindeer with goat-cheese sauce, generously provided six quarts of aquavit, cast off the tow-hawser, and sent yours truly merrily on his way across the Barents Sea.”
    â€œAny weather problems?”
    â€œNone—your meteorological forecast held perfect. It was colder than a polar bear’s left testicle, but I had fine sailing weather all the way.” Koplin paused to scratch his nose. “That was a sweet little sloop your Norwegian friends fixed me up with. Was she saved?”
    Seagram shook his head. “I’d have to check, but I’m certain it had to be destroyed. There was no way to take it on board the NUMA research vessel, and it couldn’t be left to drift into the path of a Soviet ship. You understand.”
    Koplin nodded sadly. “Too bad. I became