“I am taking it.”
Astor smiled. “I’m not referring to the money, I’m referring to the opportunity. Take the opportunity to change your life.” He paused, glancing at Jones’ left hand. “I see you’re not married.”
Jones looked at Astor. “Standard operating procedure would be to remove all identifiable jewelry, so I wouldn’t jump to any conclusions.”
Astor smiled. “You have tanned hands, mister, with no tan line on your ring finger.”
Jones glanced at his hand and chuckled. “You’re a sharp man, Colonel.”
“Thank you, sir. And I’m sharp enough to know you have someone important to you in your life.”
Jones frowned, unsure of how the man could possibly know that.
He’s playing for time.
“You wonder how I know that.”
Jones said nothing.
“You work for The Assembly.”
Jones’ eyebrows popped almost imperceptibly.
“You seem surprised.”
Almost imperceptibly.
Again he said nothing.
“Then let me enlighten you, sir. The Assembly is an ancient organization, no one really knows how old as it is very secretive, but let us say at least many centuries. The members are few, only a dozen, and change only through death or murder. They are usually succeeded by family members, or when that isn’t possible, by a unanimously agreed upon new member, welcomed into the fold of unthinkable wealth and power. These men control the lives of millions, millions who have no clue they are being controlled. And those millions, good sir, include you.”
Jones still said nothing, his mind soaking up all the forbidden knowledge. He knew there was big money behind whoever had been hiring him, and their targets were always political or financial, so they were powerful.
But he had, for some reason, always assumed he was working for the United States government, some sort of top secret spy, working for some even more secretive agency.
It had never occurred to him that he was working for a private group, centuries old, that was manipulating world events for their own benefit.
Though if he were truly honest with himself, he had known he wasn’t really working for the government. His government wouldn’t kill its own citizens for financial gain.
No, he had always known he was working for bad people.
Incredibly powerful, bad people.
He inhaled deeply, yet still said nothing.
“I can tell from your demeanor, sir, that you knew how dangerous your employers were, though you didn’t know who they were.” Astor pointed to the safe. “Yet, despite knowing how dangerous these people are, you took the money and jewels. A man like you would only do that for one reason.”
Jones felt his chest tighten.
“You are looking to escape this life.”
The man was good. Too good. He seemed to be able to read him like a book, and it was making him uncomfortable.
Shoot him already!
Water washed over his feet, the icy Atlantic reminding him of the time constraint they were all under. He glanced at a clock on the mantle.
Time to go.
He aimed his weapon at young Mr. Dodge. “Your copy of the papers.”
Dodge looked at Astor, who nodded slightly. He reached into his pocket and produced an envelope, handing it over to Jones. Jones glanced inside then placed it in his breast pocket.
“You have what you came for, now why not leave us to die in peace?”
Jones looked at Astor, a bemused smile spreading across his face. “You are indeed remarkable.” He looked at a picture of Astor and a young woman on the mantle, beside the clock. He motioned toward it with his chin. “Your wife?”
“Yes.”
“Beautiful woman.”
Astor said nothing.
And she was a beautiful woman. Jones recalled hearing about the scandal when Astor had married her, barely eighteen, he almost fifty and only two years since his divorce. It had been the talk of the gossip columns for months leading the newlyweds to flee the country on an extended honeymoon in Europe and Egypt, accompanied by one of their few supporters, Margaret Brown.
She reminded him of Margo.
And he made a decision.
“Colonel, you are a man of honor.”
Astor bowed slightly.
“And you swear you are not going to attempt to save yourself by taking the berth of someone else.”
“I swear.”
Jones turned to Dodge. “And you, sir?”
“I swear.”
Jones returned his weapon to its holster, patting the envelope. “Then as far as my employers are concerned, I killed you after I retrieved the papers.” He turned toward the door then paused. “And gentlemen, should you think rescue is on its way, and you may yet be saved by an arriving ship, I am truly sorry to tell you that it is not. The Carpathia will arrive far too late to save you.” He bowed slightly. “Good evening, gentlemen, and may God have mercy on your souls.”
Jones quickly left the room, striding with purpose, his feet working against the icy cold water that now reached his ankles. His mind was racing with what he had done. Or hadn’t done. It was the first time he had betrayed his employers, the first time he hadn’t fulfilled his mission.
And if these two men didn’t die tonight, he’d be dead for certain.
His feet were blocks of ice by the time he returned to the First Class Purser’s office. He rapped on the door three times. It opened slightly, the sliver revealing the eye of one of his team, the door jerking open to allow him inside.
“Status?” asked Commander Whitman as he rifled through the contents of the safe, looking for Astor’s papers.
“The mission was successful,” he replied, holding up the envelope. “I encountered Mr. Henry Dodge and he kindly provided me with his copy.”
Whitman nodded, continuing his search then stopped, yanking an envelope out of the pile. Jones looked about the room, the three safes opened, their contents spilled on the floor, mostly letters and wads of cash. In one corner sat a stack of paintings, probably priceless—or at least fabulously out of his budget. One stood aside, as if it were more valuable than the rest, of a naked woman with a cloth wrapped around her back, standing in front of what might have been a stone archway.
She reminded him of Margo.
Whitman shook the envelope triumphantly. “This is it. Let’s go.”
Jones caught sight of a cloth bag sitting on the floor, its contents spilled open, gems of spectacular color twinkling at him. Whitman left the room, the others following, and Jones made a split second decision as the door swung shut from the tilt of the ship.
He picked up the bag, shoving the spilled gems inside, then the bag into his pocket. He stepped to the door, looking back at the painting.
It is Margo!
He pulled his knife, his heart pounding with the foolishness of what he was about to do.
Saint Paul’s University, St. Paul, Maryland
Present Day
“The entire idea is preposterous,” said Milton. “A US Navy ship that just stood by and did nothing while the Titanic sank?” He shook his head. “I can’t believe it.”
Acton pressed his lips together, his head bobbing in agreement. “I can’t believe it either. There’s no way a navy ship would stand by and watch as over one thousand people died.”
“The Californian did,” said Judy.
Laura shook her head. “That was a civilian ship holding position in iceberg filled water with arguably an idiot for a captain. I doubt the same could be said for a military ship.” She sighed. “It just doesn’t make sense.”
“If the ship were there, then they must have been under orders that prevented them from helping,” said Milton. “That’s the only thing that makes sense.”
“But orders that would include letting so many innocent people die?” Steve shook his head. “I refuse to believe my grandfather was such a man.” He wiped a tear away before it
escaped.
“But we know it’s true,” whispered Judy, putting a hand on her brother’s shoulder.
“What do you mean?” asked Acton.
“Show him.”
Steve frowned, giving his sister a look that at once conveyed anger and resignation. He removed a file from a satchel he had been gripping in his lap all along. “We found this with the painting,” he said, handing it to Acton.
Acton opened the folder and found photocopies of several documents. “What am I looking at?”
“The first page is his suicide note.”
“May God forgive me for what I did,” read Acton for the benefit of the others. He flipped the page.
“And that was found with a manifest of the passengers that died.”
“We could have saved them all.”
Acton leaned back in his chair, his eyes wide as he exchanged looks with Laura and Milton. He closed the file. “It seems to me that this confirms he was there. It doesn’t explain why, though.”
“Or why they didn’t help,” said Milton. “There was no way they could know the Titanic was going to sink. If they—”
“Unless they did it!” cried Sally, who had been quiet for most of the meeting. “Could he have, Steve, could he?” She dropped her head into her hands. “What kind of a monster would do such a thing!”
Acton leaned forward, lowering his voice. “No, there’s no way the Titanic was sunk in any other way than what history recorded. The expeditions to the wreck have proven it was torn open by an iceberg. A torpedo or other type of weapon would have left a distinctly different hole in the hull. There’s no way Captain Wainwright was responsible for the sinking.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.”
Sally sat up, wiping a few tears away with her fingertips. “I’m sorry. This is all just so overwhelming. I just keep picturing that movie and how those poor people died. So terrified. So helpless.” She shivered. “So cold.”
“Don’t believe everything Hollywood tells you,” said Steve, putting an arm over his wife’s shoulders.
“Actually, that movie was fairly accurate when it came to the sinking,” said Acton. “These people died horrible deaths, there’s no question about that.” He nodded toward the painting. “Here’s the thing. If your grandfather was in the area with his ship, and he had this painting in his basement, I can think of only two reasonable ways for that to have happened.” He held up his index finger. “One, he did pick up at least one survivor, who had the painting with him. That explanation would only make sense if that survivor then died, since all known survivors were rescued by the Carpathia, though I guess there’s a chance they could have survived and been sworn to secrecy.”
“Tough secret to keep,” said Milton. “The manifest of those taken aboard the Carpathia was thoroughly checked. There’s no way someone could pop up later and say they were on board and missed.”
“Which is why I don’t believe that’s what happened,” said Acton. “What are the chances of one survivor being found, alone, with an eight-foot by four-foot painting? The mystery ship was too far away to swim to, so I just can’t see it happening.”
“And the second possibility?” asked Steve.
“That someone from your grandfather’s ship went aboard and stole it.”
North Atlantic Ocean
United States Naval Vessel—Identity Classified
April 15, 1912
Captain Johnathan Wainwright watched as the team was hauled aboard. He had been forced to steam away a short distance, the survivors having spotted their silhouette on the horizon.
It had been heartbreaking.
It went against everything he had been taught to believe in as a mariner, it went against the accepted code of conduct that governed his kind for centuries, and it was completely un-American.
With the last man retrieved and Commander Whitman entering the bridge with a satisfied expression on his face, he gave the order he had been dying to give. “Prepare to take on survivors.”
“Belay that order!”
Wainwright spun toward Whitman. “You’ve completed your mission?”
“Yes.”
‘Successfully?”
“Yes.”
“Then there’s no longer a reason to let these people die.” He was about to reissue his order when Whitman stepped closer, his weapon drawn, held tight to his side so it wasn’t obvious to the rest of the crew.
“In order for the mission to succeed, no one must know we were ever here.”
Wainwright glanced at the weapon then glared at Whitman. “But it is completely believable that we’d be in the area. We can render assistance and no one will know why we were here. No one will know your men are on board.”
“Captain, the biggest ocean liner in the world is sinking out there. This will be the biggest story on both sides of the Atlantic for weeks if not months. Questions will be asked as to why this ship was in the vicinity, then why it failed to respond to the distress call, and then why it sat several miles away, dark, doing nothing, for almost an hour.” Whitman shook his head. “No, Captain, too many questions will be asked.” He leaned in closer. “And remember, Captain, since you were never supposed to be here, these people would have died anyway.” He stepped back, raising his voice slightly. “We have our orders, Captain. Make best speed for Norfolk.”
He turned to face forward, his weapon now holstered, hands clasped behind his back. Wainwright reluctantly issued the orders, several of his men looking at him questioningly, no one comfortable with the situation, but after a moment’s allowed hesitation, the ship was under way.
And the screams of the desperate and dying faded with the sound of the engines as they put distance between them and their unforgiveable sin.
Saint Paul’s University, St. Paul, Maryland
Present Day
“That doesn’t make any sense,” said Steve. “If they went aboard the ship, then wouldn’t that mean that was the mission all along?”
Acton threw up his hands. “I know, it sounds ridiculous, but doesn’t it fit the facts? Your grandfather was a US Navy Captain. His suicide note and the note found with the list of the victims suggests he feels he could have saved them. If he had any hope of saving them, then he had to be in the area. If he was in the area for anything but a secret mission, he would have ordered his crew to save the passengers, but he didn’t. There were witness accounts suggesting another mystery ship, and that it seemed to keep its distance from those rowing toward it. A painting thought to be on the bottom of the ocean is found in your grandfather’s basement, with no plausible way for it to have come into his possession outside of that night in 1912.” Acton shook his head. “The only thing I can think of is that his ship had to be there to meet the Titanic, because there’s no way a US Navy ship, on a covert mission, would stop to steal a painting from a sinking ship, while watching over a thousand people die. They had to be rendezvousing with that ship.”
“That might explain why the captain of the Titanic was steaming at full speed even though there had been icebergs reported in the area,” said Milton, his foot tapping in excitement.
Acton smiled slightly at the sight of what once couldn’t move.
“Are we really saying what I think we’re saying?” asked Steve.
“I think so,” said Acton. “I think the United States Navy sent a ship on a highly classified mission to rendezvous with the Titanic in order to retrieve something or someone on board. During that mission, the Titanic struck an iceberg, the Navy ship steamed to the location, sent a team aboard to execute their mission, then left. While on board, one or more of the team stole this painting, and perhaps other items.”
Steve shook his head. “I can’t believe my grandfather was a thief.”
“Neither can I,” said Acton, “and Captains wouldn’t accompany a team like that, so if I had to guess someone took it upon themselves to steal it. The real question now is what were they after?”
Steve shrugged. “I don’t know, but whoever was behind it I think knows I’m looking into it.”
Acton’s eyes narrowed, the hair on the back of his neck standing up as the other shoe was about to drop. “What do you mean?”
“When I was with Congressman Mahoney, the clerk who was searching the database for my grandfather’s records said there was some sort of security alert on his computer and then the line went dead.”
Acton looked at Laura, concern on her face. “A search of your grandfather’s records a century later triggered a security alert?” Acton leaned back in his chair, slowly nodding.
“What?” asked Laura, looking at him.
“I think this proves that our theory is correct.”
Milton shifted in his chair. “And somebody wants to keep it a secret.”
Laura frowned. “I wonder how far they’re willing to go.”
North Atlantic Ocean
United States Naval Vessel—Identity Classified
April 15, 1912
Captain Johnathan Wainwright sat in his cabin, debating what to write in his log, and at the moment could think of nothing. The wireless operator had been busy monitoring the signals being bounced around and the news was horrific.
Over one thousand dead at last estimate.
And we could have saved them all.
The Carpathia had arrived as quickly as it could, yet hours after the ship sank below the surface. Hundreds had frozen in the water, the lifeboats too few.
His fist clenched into a ball and he slammed the top of his small desk.
I have to know why.
He leapt to his feet, exiting his cabin, the guard snapping to attention. Storming through the cramped corridors, he quickly made his way to the area repurposed to hold the team he had been ordered to transport.
He was about to knock when he cursed and threw the door open.
He surveyed the shocked faces, Commander Whitman not among them.
“Where’s your commander?”
“Up top, Captain,” replied one of the men as they all struggled to their feet. It made him think they were all military men, which made what had happened even more appalling in his mind. That military men could follow orders that would leave so many dead was unthinkable.
Sins of the Titanic (A James Acton Thriller, #13) Page 7