Free The Company of the Dead by David Kowalski Page B

only think of one man to turn to: Rear-Admiral Lloyd. The officer who had organised his honourable discharge from the Royal Navy and facilitated his assignment to the Titanic late last year.
    He smoked another cigarette to calm his nerves before dialling the number that would connect him to the offices of the Admiralty. Discretion could go fuck itself.

II
    Joseph Kennedy stood before an open window, hands clasped behind his back. He considered the message he’d just received, trying to make sense of it in the hidden augury of the street. His glance rose to the houses opposite, bland replicas of the brownstone he’d leased a month ago. He turned and his eyes fell on the sparse decoration of the room. An oval kitchen table occupied one corner. Three folding chairs, now collapsed, were arranged against the chipped surface. A pre-Secession flag, the stars and stripes, hung on otherwise bare walls. Its worn material, seemingly cut from the same cloth as the curtain, held his gaze.
    The news was from Saffel, a freelance operative assigned to the German embassy at Project Camelot’s inception. Having no direct affiliation with the CBI, he provided Kennedy with intelligence that was free of Bureau censorship; he provided the means of keeping watch on the watchmen. Usually, his monthly reports were read and dismissed over a quick coffee. This morning’s report had been read twice and slowly. It had been shredded to fine strips of paper and torched, the burnt remains now smouldering on the kitchen table.
    Project Camelot was the reconciliation of the Confederate and Union states by covert means. It was a long shot; its chances of success slim, its price incalculable. Kennedy had come to understand that even before he’d met Hardas and learnt the truth in Red Rock. Yet for a brief time it had borne a promise that he’d clung to with the faith of an agnostic who secretly desires the Kingdom of Heaven. Pipe dream though it was, however, its sheer audacity held an appeal that had enamoured the leaders of three nations: Germany, the Union and the Confederacy.
    Yet if Saffel’s report was in any way accurate, Camelot was doomed. Its veil of lies would be torn away, leaving Kennedy’s true agenda exposed.
    Martin Shine entered the room. He’d changed out of the staff uniform he’d worn earlier to deliver Lightholler’s breakfast at the Waldorf. He sniffed at the air and gave the table a swift glance before fixing on Kennedy with a perplexed look. After a moment, he spoke up.
    “Major, Commander Hardas is calling in. I’m scrambling the line.”
    “I’ll take it next door,” Kennedy said, dismissing him with a nod.
    He reached for Lightholler’s dossier and considered adding it to the ashed residue on the kitchen table. Instead, he thumbed through the document. The text blurred before his eyes. All he saw were the white bones and coiling black smoke of the vision bequeathed to him at Red Rock, Nevada.
    “You played me for a fool, Captain,” he murmured.

III
    Lightholler was treated to an earful of static as Admiral Lloyd obtained a secure phone line.
    “Ah, that’s better. Now, you were saying, John?”
    “I was saying, Admiral, that I’ve just been informed that I’m now on leave from the White Star Line.” Lightholler had difficulty suppressing his anger.
    “It doesn’t sound as if it was handled very well, and I can imagine how you must feel, John. My understanding is that the Titanic may now be required for other duties.”
    “Duties that don’t include me, it would seem.”
    “True. As far as the White Star Line is concerned, you’ve been recalled to active service in the Royal Navy.”
    “But why am I only hearing this now, sir? Why was I not consulted?”
    “We couldn’t tell you anything ourselves until we were certain that you had been properly contacted.”
    “That is another of my concerns, sir. Though it was issued by the crown, the commission I received this morning was given to me by agents of