“I have over two thousand people under me. I can’t memorize all their names.”

“Could you check him out? It’s imperative that I talk to him.”

“Seagram,” Sandecker grunted irritably, “you’re a monumental pain in the ass. Did it ever occur to you to call my personnel director during normal working hours?”

“My apologies,” Seagram said. “I happened to be working late and-“

“Okay, if I dig up this character, I’ll have him get in touch with you.”

“I’d appreciate it.” Seagram’s tone remained impersonal. “By the way, the man your people rescued up in the Barents Sea is getting along nicely. The surgeon on the First Attempt did a magnificent job of bullet removal.”

“Koplin, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, he should be up and around in a few days.”

“That was a near thing, Seagram. If the Russians had cottoned onto us, we’d have a nasty incident on our hands about now.”

“What can I say?” Seagram said helplessly.

“You can say good night and let me get back to sleep,” Sandecker snarled. “But first, tell me how this Pitt figures into the picture.”

“Koplin was about to be captured by a Russian security guard when this guy appears out of a blizzard and kills the guard, carries Koplin across fifty miles of stormy water, not to mention stemming the blood flow from his wounds, arid somehow deposits him on board your research vessel, ready for surgery.”

“What do you intend to do when you find him?”

“That’s between Pitt and myself.”

“I see,” Sandecker said. “‘Well, good night, Mr. Seagram.”

“Thank you, Admiral. Good-by.”

Sandecker hung up and then sat there a few moments, a bemused expression on his face. “Killed a Russian security guard and rescued an American agent. Dirk Pitt … you sly son of a bitch.”

<<11>>

United’s early flight touched down at Denver’s Stapleton Airfield at eight in the morning. Mel Dormer passed quickly through the baggage claim and settled behind the wheel of an Avis Plymouth for the fifteen-minute drive to 400 West Colfax Avenue and the Rocky Mountain News. As he followed the westbound traffic, his gaze alternated between the windshield and a street map stretched open beside him on the front seat.

He had never been in Denver before, and he was mildly surprised to see a pall of smog hanging over the city. He expected to be confronted with the dirty brown and gray cloud over places like Los Angeles and New York, but Denver had always conjured up visions in his mind of a city cleansed by crystal clean air, nestled under the protective shadow of Purple Mountain Majesties. Even these were a disappointment; Denver sat naked on the edge of the Great Plains, at least twenty-five miles from the nearest foothills.

He parked the car and found his way to the newspaper’s library. The girl behind the counter peered back at him through tear-shaped glasses and smiled an uneven-toothed, friendly smile.

“Can I help you?”

“Do you have an issue of your paper dated November 17, 1911?”