Clive Cussler dp-6 Page 6

  Essex's face remained impassive as he studied the enlargements. After several moments he looked up. "What is it you're fishing for, Commander?"

  "The North American Treaty," she replied. "There is no hint of it in State Department records or historical archives. I find it incredible that all trace of such an important document can be so thoroughly lost."

  "And you think I can enlighten you?"

  "The man in the picture with William Jennings Bryan is Richard Essex, your grandfather. I traced your family tie in the hope that he may have left you papers or correspondence that might open a door."

  Essex offered a tray of cream and sugar Heidi took two lumps. "I'm afraid you're wasting your time. All of his personal papers were turned over to the Library of Congress after his death, every scrap."

  "Never hurts to try," Heidi said dejectedly.

  "Have you been to the library?"

  "I spent four hours there this morning. A prolific man, your grandfather. The volume of his posthumous papers is overwhelming."

  "Did you conduct a search of Bryan's writings also?"

  "I drew a blank there too," Heidi admitted. "For all his religious integrity and inspiring oratory, Bryan was not a prodigious author of memoranda during his service as secretary of state.

  Essex thoughtfully sipped his tea. "Richard Essex was a meticulous man, and Bryan leaned on him like a crutch to draft policy and prepare diplomatic correspondence. Grandfather's papers reflect an almost pathological attention to detail. Little passed through the State Department that didn't have his mark on it."

  "I found him to be an obscure sort of person." The words came out before Heidi knew she had spoken them.

  Essex's eyes clouded. "Why do you say that?"

  "His record as undersecretary for political Affairs is well documented. But there's no accounting for Richard Essex the man. Of course I found the usual condensed Who's Who type of biography, listing his birthplace, parents and schools, all in neat chronological order. But nowhere did I see a definitive description of his personality or character, his likes and dislikes. Even his papers are written in the third person. He's like the subject of a portrait the artist forgot to flesh out."

  "Are you suggesting he did not exist?" Essex asked sarcastically.

  "Why, no," Heidi said sheepishly. "Quite obviously you're the living proof."

  Essex stared into his teacup as though seeing a vague picture on the bottom. "It's true," he said finally. "Besides his day-today observations of State Department procedure and a few photos in the family album, little remains of my grandfather's memory."

  "Can you recall him from your childhood?"

  Essex solemnly shook his head. "No, he died a young man of forty-two, the same year I was born."

  "Nineteen fourteen."

  "May twenty-eighth, to be exact."

  Heidi shot him a stunned look. "Eight days after the treaty signing at the White House."

  "Think what you will, Commander," Essex said patiently. "There was no treaty."

  "Surely you can't discount the evidence?"

  "Bryan and my grandfather paid innumerable visits to the White House. The scribbling on the back of the photograph is undoubtedly an error. As to the letter, you've merely misconstrued its meaning."

  "The facts check out," Heidi persisted. "The Sir Edward that Wilson writes of was Sir Edward Grey, Britain's foreign secretary. And a loan to Britain one week prior to the date on the letter for one hundred and fifty million dollars is a matter of record."

  "Granted that was a,large sum at the time," Essex said knowledgeably. "But prior to World War One, Great Britain was grappling with a program of social reform while purchasing armaments for the approaching conflict. Simply put, she needed a few bucks to tide her over until laws for higher taxation could be passed. The loan can hardly be called irregular. By today's international standards it would be considered a rather routine negotiation.

  Heidi stood up. "I'm sorry to have troubled you, Mr. Essex. I won't take up any more of your afternoon."

  The twinkle returned in his eyes. "You can trouble me anytime."

  At the door Heidi turned. "One other thing. The library has a complete set of your grandfather's monthly desk diaries except the final one for May. It appears to be missing."

  Essex shrugged. "No great mystery. He died before he completed it. Probably lost in the shuffle when they cleaned out his office.

  Essex stood at the window until Heidi's car disappeared into the trees. His shoulders drooped. He felt very tired and very old. He walked over to an ornately carved antique credenza and twisted the head of one of the four vacant-eyed cherubs adorning the corners. A small, flat drawer swung out from the bottom edge, a bare inch above the carpet. Inside rested a thin leather bound book, its engraved cover cracked with age.

  He sank into an overstuffed chair, adjusted his spectacles and began reading. It was a ritual, performed at varied intervals over the years. His eyes no longer saw the words on the pages; he had memorized them long ago.

  He was still sitting there when the sun was gone and the shadows had stretched and melted into blackness. He clutched the book to his breast, his soul agonized by dread, his mind torn by indecision.

  The past had caught up with a lonely old man in a darkened room.

  Lieutenant Ewen Burton-Angus slipped his car into a parking stall at the Glen Echo Racquet Club, hoisted his tote bag from the passenger seat and hunched his shoulders against the cold. He hurried past the empty swimming pool and snow-coated tennis courts toward the warmth of the clubhouse.

  He found the club manager seated at a table beneath a glass case stacked with rows of trophies. "Can I help you?" asked the manager.

  "Yes, my name's Burton-Angus. I'm a guest of Henry Argus."

  The manager scrutinized a clipboard. "Right, Lieutenant Burton-Angus. Sorry, sir, but Mr. Argus called and said he couldn't make it. He told me to tell you he tried to catch you at the embassy, but you'd already left."

  "A pity," said Burton-Angus. "As long as I'm here, do you have a racquetball court available where I can practice?"

  "I had to reshuffle the reservations when Mr. Argus canceled. However, there is another gentleman who is playing alone. Perhaps you can pair up."

  "Where can I find him?"

  "He's seated in the bar. His court won't be free for another half hour. His name is Jack Murphy."

  Burton- Angus found Murphy nursing a drink by a picture window overlooking the Chesapeake Canal. He introduced himself. "Do you mind awfully having an opponent?"

  "Not at all," said Murphy with an infectious smile. "Beats playing alone, providing you don't smear the court with me."

  "Small chance of that."

  "You play much racquetball?"

  "Actually, squash is more my game."

  "I'd guess that from your British accent." Murphy gestured to a chair. "Have a drink. Plenty of time before our court is free."

  Burton- Angus welcomed the opportunity to relax and ordered a gin. "Beautiful countryside. The canal reminds me of one that runs near my home in Devon."

  "Travels through Georgetown and into the Potomac River," Murphy said in his best tour-guide fashion. "When the water freezes in winter the local residents use it for skating and ice fishing."

  "Do you work in Washington?" asked Burton-Angus.

  "Yes, I'm the Senate historian. And you?"

  "Aide to the naval attachd for the British embassy."

  A detached expression crossed Murphy's face and it seemed to Burton-Angus that the American was staring right through him.

  "Is something wrong?"

  Murphy shook his head. "No, not at all. You being navy and British reminded me of a woman, a commander in the U.S. Navy who came to me searching for data concerning a treaty between our two countries."

  "No doubt a trade treaty."

  "I can't say. The strange part is that except for an old photograph, there is no record of it in Senate archives."

  "A photog
raph?"

  "Yes, with a notation about a North American Treaty."

  "I'd be happy to have someone probe the embassy files for you."

  "Please don't bother. It's not that important."

  "No bother at all," insisted Burton-Angus. "Do you have a date?"

  "On or about May twentieth, nineteen fourteen."

  "Ancient history."

  "Probably only a proposed treaty that was rejected."

  "Nonetheless, I'll have a look," said Burton-Angus as his drink arrived. He held up the glass. "Cheers."

  Sitting at his desk in the British embassy on Massachusetts Avenue, Alexander Moffat looked and acted like the archetype of a government official. With his hair trimmed short with an immaculately creased left-hand part, a ramrod spine and precise correctness in speech and mannerism, he and thousands of counterparts throughout the foreign service could have been stamped from the same cookie cutter. His desk was barren of all clutter; the only objects resting on its polished surface were his folded hands.

  "I'm dreadfully sorry, Lieutenant, but I find nothing in the records department mentioning an Anglo-American treaty in early nineteen fourteen."

  "Most peculiar," said Burton-Angus. "The American chap who gave me the information seemed reasonably certain such a treaty either existed or at least had been in the talk stage."

  "Probably has his year wrong."

  "I don't think so. He's the Senate historian. Not the type to muck up his facts and dates."

  "Do you wish to pursue the matter?" asked Moffat in an official tone.

  Burton- Angus clasped his hands thoughtfully. "Might be worth a check with the Foreign Office in London to clear the fog.

  Moffat shrugged indifferently. "A vague clue to an unlikely event three-quarters of a century ago would hardly have a significant bearing on the present."

  "Perhaps not. Still, I promised the fellow I'd see what I could find. Shall I make a formal request for an inquiry, in writing?"

  "Not necessary. I'll phone an old school chum who heads up the signals department and ask him to have a run at the old records. He owes me a favor. Should have an answer this time tomorrow. Don't be disappointed if he fails to turn up anything."

  "I won't," said Burton-Angus. "On the other hand, you never can tell what might be buried in Foreign Service archives."

  Peter Beaseley knew more about the Foreign Office than any other man in London. As chief librarian in charge of records for over thirty years, he considered the entire history of British international affairs his private domain. He made a specialty of ferreting out policy blunders and scandalous intrigues, by diplomats past and present, that had been swept under the carpet of secrecy.

  Beaseley ran a hand through a few strands of white hair and reached for one of several pipes littering a large circular tray. He sniffed at the official-looking paper on his desk as a cat might sniff at an uninviting meal.

  "North American Treaty," he said aloud to the empty room. "Never heard of it."

  In the minds of his staff it would have been a pronouncement from God. If Peter Beaseley had never heard of a treaty, it obviously did not exist.

  He tit the pipe and idly watched the smoke. The year 1914 signaled the end of vintage diplomacy, he mused. After World War I the aristocratic elegance of international negotiation was replaced by mechanical maneuvers. It had become a shallow world indeed.

  His secretary knocked and poked her head around the door. "Mr. Beaseley."

  He looked up without really seeing her. "Yes, Miss Gosset."

  "I'm going to lunch now."

  "Lunch?" He took his watch from a vest pocket and gazed at it. "Oh yes, I'd lost all track of time. Where are you going to eat? Do you have a date?"

  The two unexpected questions in sudden succession caught Miss Gosset by surprise. "Why, no, I'm eating quite alone. I thought I would try that new Indian restaurant on Glendower Place."

  "Good, that settles it," Beaseley grandly announced. "You're lunching with me."

  The invitation was a rare honor and Miss Gosset was surprised.

  Beaseley caught her blank expression and smiled. "I have an ulterior motive, Miss Gosset. You may consider it a bribe. I need you to assist me in searching for an old treaty. Four eyes are faster than two. I don't want to waste too much time on this one."

  She barely had time to slip on her coat before he hustled her outside and waved down a taxi with his umbrella.

  "Sanctuary Building, Great Smith Street," Beaseley instructed the driver.

  "With five buildings scattered about London crammed with old Foreign Office records," she said, adjusting a scarf, "it's a mystery to me how you know where to look."

  "Correspondence dealing with the Americas during the year nineteen fourteen are shelved on the second floor of the east wing in the Sanctuary Building," he stated flatly.

  Properly impressed, Miss Gosset remained silent until they reached their destination. Beaseley paid the driver, and they entered the lobby, showing their official credentials and signing in with the commissionaire. They took a rickety old elevator to the second floor. He walked unerringly to the correct section. "You check April. I'll take May."

  "You haven't told me what we're looking for," she said inquiringly.

  "Any reference to a North American Treaty."

  She felt there was more she needed to know, but Beaseley had already turned his back and was poring through a huge leather binder that held reams of yellowed official documents and department memoranda. She resigned herself to the inevitable and tackled the first volume of April 1914, wrinkling her nose at the musty odor.

  After four hours, to the accompaniment of Miss Gosset's protesting stomach, they had turned up nothing. Beaseley replaced the binders and looked thoughtful.

  "Excuse me, Mr. Beaseley, but about lunch?" He looked at his watch. "I'm dreadfully sorry. I paid no attention to the time. Will you allow me to make that dinner?"

  "I gratefully accept," sighed Miss Gosset.

  They were signing out when Beaseley suddenly turned to the commissionaire.

  "I'd like to examine the official secrets vault," he said. "My clearance allows me entry."

  "But not the young lady," said the uniformed commissionaire, smiling politely. "Her pass only covers the library."

  Beaseley patted Miss Gosset on the shoulder. "Please be patient a little longer. This shouldn't take but a few minutes."

  He followed the commissionaire down three flights of stairs to the basement and up to a large iron door in a concrete wall. He watched as a pair of heavy brass keys turned the oiled tumblers of two immense antique padlocks without the least sound. The commissionaire pushed the door open and stood aside.

  "I'll have to lock you in, sir," he said, parroting the book of regulations. "There is a telephone on the wall. Just ring three two when you wish to leave."

  "I'm aware of the procedure, thank you."

  The file containing classified matter from the spring of 1914 was only forty pages thick and held no earth-shattering revelations. Beaseley was reinserting it in its slot when he noticed something odd.

  Several of the files on each side protruded nearly half an inch from the rest of the neatly spaced row. He pulled them out.

  Another file had somehow been shoved behind the others, keeping them from fitting evenly. He opened the cover. Across the title page of what looked to be a report were the words "North American Treaty."

  He sat down at a metal table and began to read.

  Ten minutes later, Beaseley had the look of a man who had been tapped on the shoulder in a cemetery at midnight. His trembling hands could scarcely punch out the correct telephone call buttons.

  Heidi checked her boarding pass and looked up at the television monitor displaying the departure time of her flight.

  "Another forty minutes to kill," she said.

  "Time enough for a farewell drink" Pitt replied.

  He steered her across the busy lobby of Dulles Airport to the cocktail lounge
. Businessmen with loosened collars and wrinkled suits packed every corner. Pitt scrounged a small table and ordered from a passing waitress. "I wish I could stay," she said wistfully.

  "What's to stop you?"

  "The navy frowns on officers who jump ship."

  "When is your leave up?"

  "I have to report to the Naval Communications Station in San Diego by noon tomorrow for assignment to sea duty."

  He looked into her eyes. "It seems our romance is a victim of geography."

  "We didn't give it much chance, did we?"

  "Perhaps it was never meant to be," said Pitt.

  Heidi stared at him. "That's what he said!"

  "Who?"

  "President Wilson in a letter."

  Pitt laughed. "I'm afraid you've lost me."

  "I'm sorry." She waved away the thought. "It was nothing."

  "Sounds to me like your research is getting to you."

  "Complications," she said. "I was sidetracked. It happens in research. You delve into one subject and find a fascinating bit of information that takes you on a totally different course."

  The drinks came and Pitt paid the waitress. "You're sure you can't request an extension."

  She shook her head. "If only I could. But I've used up all my accumulated leave time. It will be six months before I'm eligible again" Then suddenly her eyes came alive. "Why don't you come with me? We could have a few days together before I sail."

  Pitt took her hand. "Sorry, dear heart, but my schedule won't permit it. I'm leaving myself, for a project in the Labrador Sea."

  "How long will you be gone?"

  "A month, maybe six weeks."

  "Will we see each other again?" Her voice became soft.

  "I'm a firm believer that good memories should be relived."

  Twenty minutes later, after finishing their second drink, Pitt escorted Heidi to her boarding gate. Already the waiting area had cleared and the attendant behind the check-in counter was announcing the final call.

  She set her purse and cosmetic case on a vacant chair and looked up at him through expectant eyes. He responded by kissing her. Then he tilted back his head and grinned. "There goes my macho reputation."