Free Raise the Titanic! by Clive Cussler Page B

cup of coffee, Mr. Donner?”
    â€œI’d prefer something with a little more snap.”
    â€œSpoken like a man from the big city.” Jensen stood up and walked over to a mirrored bar from which he produced a bottle of Chivas Regal. “You’ll find Denver quite gauche. A bar in an office is generally frowned upon here. The locals’ idea of entertaining visiting firemen is to treat them to a large Coca-Cola and a lavish lunch at the Wienerschnitzel. Fortunately for our esteemed out-of-town customers, I spent my business apprenticeship on Madison Avenue.”
    Donner took the offered glass and downed it.
    Jensen looked at him appraisingly and then refilled the glass. “Tell me, Mr. Donner, just what is it you expect to find?”
    â€œNothing of importance,” Donner said.
    â€œCome now. The government wouldn’t send a man across half the country to itemize seventy-six-year-old sales records strictly for laughs.”
    â€œThe government often handles its secrets in a funny way.”
    â€œA classified secret that goes back to 1911?” Jensen shook his head in wonder. “Truly amazing.”
    â€œLet’s just say we’re trying to solve an ancient crime whose perpetrator purchased your great-grandfather’s services.”
    Jensen smiled and courteously accepted the lie.
    A black-haired girl in long skirt and boots swiveled into the room, threw Jensen a seductive look, laid a Xerox paper on his desk, and retreated.
    Jensen picked up the paper and examined it. “June to November must have been a recession year for my ancestor. Sales for those months were slim. Any particular entry you’re interested in, Mr. Donner?”
    â€œMining equipment.”
    â€œYes, this must be it…drilling tools. Ordered August tenth and picked up by the buyer on November first.” Jensen’s lips broke into a wide grin. “It would seem, sir, the laugh is on you.”
    â€œI don’t follow.”
    â€œThe buyer, or as you’ve informed me, the criminal…,” Jensen paused for effect, “…was the U.S. government.”

12
    The Meta Section headquarters was buried in a nondescript old cinderblock building beside the Washington Navy Yard. A large sign, its painted letters peeling under the double onslaught of the summer’s heat and humidity, humbly advertised the premises as the Smith Van & Storage Company.
    The loading docks appeared normal enough: packing crates and boxes were piled in strategic locations, and to passing traffic on the Suitland Parkway, the trucks parked around the yard behind a fifteen-foot-high chain-link fence looked exactly as moving vans should look. Only a closer inspection would have revealed old derelicts with missing engines and dusty, unused interiors. It was a scene that would have warmed the soul of a motion-picture set designer.
    Gene Seagram read over the reports on the real-estate purchases for the Sicilian Project’s installations. There were forty-six in all. The northern Canadian border numbered the most, followed closely by the Atlantic seaboard. The Pacific Coast had eight designated areas, while only four were plotted for the border above Mexico and the Gulf of Mexico. The transactions had gone off smoothly; the buyer in each case had gone under the guise of the Department of Energy Studies. There would be no cause for suspicion. The installations were designed, to all outward appearances, to resemble small relay power stations. To even the most wary of minds, there was nothing to suspect on the surface.
    He was going over the construction estimates when his private phone rang. Out of habit, he carefully put the reports back in their folder and slipped it in a desk drawer, then picked up the phone. “This is Seagram.”
    â€œHello, Mr. Seagram.”
    â€œWho’s this?”
    â€œMajor McPatrick, Army Records Bureau. You asked me to call you at this number if I came up with