Koplin nearly passed out from the pain. He felt as though he'd been dragged through the snow for miles when actually it was only a distance of fifty yards. That was as far as they'd got when a vague figure appeared through the storm. It was blurred by the wall of swirling white. Through the dim haze of near unconsciousness, Koplin felt the soldier stiffen.
A soft "plop" sounded over the wind, and the massive komondor fell noiselessly on its side in the snow. The Russian dropped his hold on Koplin and frantically tried to raise his gun, but the strange sound was repeated and a small hole that gushed red suddenly appeared in the middle of the soldier's forehead. Then the eyes went glassy and he crumpled beside the dog.
Something was terribly wrong; this shouldn't be happening, Koplin told himself, but his exhausted mind was too far gone to draw any valid conclusions. He sank to his knees and could only watch as a tall man in a gray parka materialized from the white mist and gazed down at the dog.
"A damned shame," he said tersely.
The man presented an imposing appearance. The oak tanned face looked out of place for the Arctic. And the features were firm, almost cruel. Yet it was the eyes that struck Koplin. He had never seen eyes quite like them. They were a deep sea-green and radiated a penetrating kind of warmth, a marked contrast from the hard lines etched in the face.
The man turned to Koplin and smiled. "Dr. Koplin, I presume?" The tone was soft and effortless.
The stranger pushed a handgun with silencer into a pocket, knelt down to eye level, and nodded at the blood spreading through the material of Koplin's parka. "I'd better get you to where I can take a look at that." Then he picked Koplin up as one might a child and began trudging down the mountain toward the sea.
"Who are you?" Koplin muttered.
"My name is Pitt. Dirk Pitt."
"I don't understand . . . where did you come from?"
Koplin never heard the answer. At that moment, the black cover of unconsciousness abruptly lifted up, and he fell gratefully under it.
3
Seagram finished off a margarita as he waited in a little garden restaurant just off Capitol Street to have lunch with his wife. She was late. Never in the eight years they had been married had he known her to arrive anywhere on time. He caught the waiter's attention and gestured for another drink.
Dana Seagram finally entered and stood in the foyer a moment searching for her husband. She spotted him and began meandering between the tables in his direction. She wore an orange sweater and a brown tweed skirt so youthfully it made her seem like a coed in graduate school. Her hair was blond and tied with a scarf, and her coffee-brown eyes were funny and gay and quick.
"Been waiting long?" she said, smiling.
"Eighteen minutes to be precise," he said. "About two minutes, ten seconds longer than your usual arrivals."
"I'm sorry," she replied. "Admiral Sandecker called a staff meeting, and it dragged on later than I'd figured."
"What's his latest brainstorm?"
"A new wing for the Maritime Museum. He's got the budget and now he's making plans to obtain the artifacts."
"Artifacts?" Seagram asked.
"Bits and pieces salvaged from famous ships." The waiter came with Seagram's drink and Dana ordered a daiquiri.. "It's amazing how little is left. A life belt or two from the Lusitania, a ventilator from the Maine here, an anchor from the Bounty there; none of it housed decently under one roof."
"I should think there are better ways of blowing the taxpayer's money."
Her face flushed. "What do you mean?"
"Collecting old junk," he said diffidently, "enshrining rusted and corroded bits of non-identifiable trash under a glass case to be dusted and gawked at. It's a waste."
The battle flags were raised.
"The preservation of ships and boats provides an important link with man's historical past." Dana's brown eyes blazed. "Contributing to knowledge is an endeavor an asshole like you cares nothing about."
"Spoken like a true marine archaeologist," he said.
She smiled crookedly. "It still frosts your balls that your wife made something of herself, doesn't it?"
"The only thing that frosts my balls, sweetheart, is your locker-room language. Why is it every liberated female thinks it's chic to cuss?"
"You're hardly one to provide a lesson in savoir-faire," she said. "Five years in the big city and you still dress like an Omaha anvil salesman. Why can't you style your hair like other men? That Ivy League haircut went out years ago. I'm embarrassed to be seen with you."