Titanic 2012 Part 3

"Oh, come on, Julia," I said, laughing. "You know me better than that."

"Do I?"

I took her by the shoulders and turned her to face me.

"You know I care for you. Very much."

"I know...." Her eyes were like two bottomless lakes, cold and unfathomable. "But do you love me, Trev?"

I felt a rush of anger. I'd been boxed into a corner by a professional, and I resented it. Yet, I knew she was hurting, and I wanted to ease her pain. The issue, however, was a th.o.r.n.y one. If I simply told her what she wanted to hear, I would be no better than some low-rent Lothario eager to bed a woman at any price. And I knew I couldn't live with that. The other choice-living without her-was just as bad. I'd grown comfortable being with her. Then again, perhaps being comfortable was the problem. We'd become complacent, at least I had.

When I didn't answer right away, I saw her withdraw into herself, like a light dimming in a room, deepening the shadows.

"I think you should leave, Trevor," she said, in a voice barely above a whisper.

"Julia...."

"Just go, dammit."

No longer angry, and feeling adrift, I picked up my jacket off the couch and headed for the door, turning to look at her one last time.

She'd gone to the window, and now stood there staring out at the lights, her back to me, arms clasped around her chest, as if to keep herself from flying apart.

"I'll call you," I said.

"Please...don't."

I left.

Outside, the air was chilly, and I saw thick dark nimbostratus clouds hovering on the western horizon. It would be raining by morning.

I turned up my collar and began the long hike down the hill, my mind churning. I'd been a heel, or at least I felt like one. And yet, lying to her about my feelings was never an option. Maybe, in time, she would come to appreciate that. Right now, however, I knew we were finished.

I picked up a cab in front of the Red Line station and during the ride home, kept remembering what she'd said about t.i.tanic's vanished world, how no amount of money could ever bring it back. And while I harbored my own doubts about Harlan and his crazy dream, I also knew-without a shred of doubt-I wanted to be on that great s.h.i.+p when she sailed.

3.

The news of Harlan's extravagance broke that morning. I was revising the middle section of my book for what seemed to be the hundredth time, trying to tighten up the pace, when my screen suddenly went blank.

"You have a news alert," the computer said.

Annoyed, I reached for the "Escape" key. "Not now, Millie."

Although it was considered to be unnecessary, I'd given the computer a name. I think the Artificial Intelligence program-a gift from Ken-responded better as a result, then again, maybe it was just my over-fertile imagination.

Millie's voice took on a note of urgency. "The news item concerns subject: Harlan Astor."

That changed everything. "Put it on."

I sat back in my ergonomic chair, adjusting it for pa.s.sive viewing, while Millie brought up CNN. "Engaging surround sound," she said.

The wireless speakers mounted on the walls behind me crackled to life and the picture on the screen faded up on the CNN newsroom. The anchor, a young Asian beauty I'd never seen before, was reading off the TelePrompTer with studied irony.

"...We now have confirmation the rumors swirling around New York real estate tyc.o.o.n, Harlan Astor, are true. For the past two and a half years, the semi-reclusive Astor has been involved in a secret construction project in Poland, known-until now-as 'Project X.'

"Sources in that country have revealed the incredible news that Astor has been employing a vast army of fifteen thousand laborers to rebuild the t.i.tanic, the grandest ocean liner of all time, which tragically sank one hundred years ago, taking over fifteen hundred lives. Our correspondent, Rita Newton, is standing by in Gdansk with more of the story."

The scene s.h.i.+fted to a stark industrial landscape: soot-streaked brick buildings, steel gantries, smokestacks, and cranes jutted skyward, all of which combined with the gray featureless sky overhead to make the young blonde reporter, standing in the glare of the lights clutching her microphone, appear pale and washed out-like a ghost.

My pulse was pounding and my hands ached from clenching the armrests of the chair. The reporter began speaking, her voice and demeanor earnest.

"This is the Gdansk s.h.i.+pyards, one of the largest and busiest centers for s.h.i.+pbuilding in the world. Behind me, shrouded in its own building to s.h.i.+eld it from the prying eyes of the world, lies the nearly completed hull of what many are calling: Astor's Folly.

"At a cost of nearly six hundred million dollars, Harlan Astor has spared no expense to recreate the t.i.tanic, the most famous s.h.i.+p ever built. And while there have been numerous others since that have been larger, none has ever achieved the magical allure of that ill-fated vessel.

"No pictures have been made available, nor were our cameras allowed anywhere near the forbidding black hangar where the great s.h.i.+p lies in its slipway awaiting launch.

"As for more details, a spokesman from Mr. Astor's European headquarters in London informed us that a press conference would be convened on March twenty-first, six weeks from today. Until then, no further information would be forthcoming. And that leaves the world asking, why? Why would a man spend a fortune to rebuild a tragic symbol of a century many would like to forget? For an answer, we will all have to wait. This is Rita Newton, CNN, Gdansk, Poland."

I rose from my chair and went into the kitchen where I pulled out a root beer. "Millie, turn to NBC."

"Executing...."

The channel switched to Brian Williams's report and gave pretty much the same coverage, though the correspondent in Gdansk seemed angrier, more contemptuous of Harlan's audacity, as well as his silence.

The other networks were evenly divided in their coverage between those who saw Harlan as insane and wasteful and those who saw his rebuilding the t.i.tanic as a metaphor for redemption. And just like CNN, none of them had any footage of the s.h.i.+p. I smiled. Like P. T. Barnum at his peak, good old Harlan was going to make them wait. By the time of his March twenty-first press conference, the press and the rest of the world would be at fever pitch.

I overrode Millie's voice commands and switched off the news manually, going back to my book. Harlan called half an hour later.

He looked haggard on the screen, but his face glowed with an inner light, as if he were plugged into a wall socket. Either that, or he was on something.

"Hey, Trev! How are you? Bet you forgot all about me, huh?"

"Out of sight, out of mind," I replied, grinning.

"You always were a lousy liar, kiddo. That's why your books are so d.a.m.ned good. They're honest."

"Well at least you saved yourself some money," I said, referring to the now-forfeited secrecy bonus.

Harlan's smile widened. "Yeah, there's that, too."

"What happened?"

"Oh, h.e.l.l, some riveter got drunk on too much vodka and blabbed to a roomful of people. Somebody with an itch for network money heard him and put it out on the wire. What can you do?" He shrugged again. "I never expected to pay it, anyway. All I wanted to do was buy myself some peace and quiet for as long as possible."

"How does she look?"

Harlan leaned closer to the screen, his eyes glittering. "I can't wait for you to see her, Trev. She's everything she was...." He turned and nodded to someone offscreen, then turned back toward me. "We're launching her at the end of March-"

"Yeah, I heard about the press conference. Ought to be a real party."

"I'm counting on it, kiddo. This time the old girl's going to get a proper christening! And I want you here with me when she goes. What do you say?"

"Christ, Harlan, I'm in the midst of revising my book. I've got a deadline breathing down my neck and a publisher who's ready to blow a gasket if they're late to press. I can't just drop everything."

He gave me a sly look.

"You seriously expect me to believe you'd miss the biggest story in twenty years?"

He knew me too well.

I sighed, glancing out my window toward Old Ironsides where she lay permanently moored. She was a great s.h.i.+p, but her days of greatness were past. Now, another s.h.i.+p would get a second chance. And I wanted to be a part of it.

"What's it going to be, Trev?"

I turned back from the window and fixed him with what I thought was a sober expression.

"All right. I'll talk to my agent. Maybe, if he doesn't think I'm out of my mind, he'll talk to my publisher. Maybe he can convince those pirates this c.o.c.kamamie idea of yours would make a h.e.l.luva book."

"Now, you're talking. Hey, listen, I've got to go. I'll see you here on the twenty-first!"

The screen went blank and I collapsed back in my chair, breathless.

The sonofab.i.t.c.h had really done it. He'd gone and rebuilt the grand old tub. And in a little less than two months I would be seeing her in all her glory.

It took me a solid hour to calm down, and I used the time to formulate a pitch. It had to be more than just a recounting of Harlan's dream, it had to touch people. A moment later, I had it. Excited now, I called my agent, Marty Scott, and told him I would meet him at the 21 Club at noon the next day.

Like any good agent, Marty was curious; and he could sense excitement in my voice. "You've got something, don't you?" he asked, his voice betraying his own excitement.

"Yes, I've got something. And you'll just have to wait until I see you, okay?"

Marty shook his bald head and smiled ruefully. "I never could stand to be in suspense. How the h.e.l.l I ended up selling mystery and suspense novels, I'll never know." He chuckled. "What the h.e.l.l, it's a living. See you tomorrow."

I couldn't stay in that night, so I opted for a prime rib dinner at Durgin Park. I loved that old Boston landmark with its communal tables, simple food prepared to perfection, and its no-nonsense waitresses, none of whom were under forty.

The only sour note in the evening occurred when I thought I'd spotted Julia with another man at a table across the room. It turned out to be someone else, but I couldn't help feeling a twinge of jealousy.

h.e.l.l, she had every right to find someone else, and yet my wounded ego persisted in gnawing at my heart. It took all of my will not to pull out my cell phone right then and call her. I still had her programmed into my speed dial.

I finished the evening in a little neighborhood dive down the street from my condo. The crowd was always full of regulars, friendly blue-collar types who had enough common sense to leave you alone if they sensed you needed to be. I sat in a booth near the jukebox and drank enough cheap sangria to put me into a deep, dreamless sleep later that night.

In the morning, I had the barest of hangovers, which I soon dispelled with a hot shower, a homemade cappuccino, and two fat extra-strength Tylenols.

Throwing on a chambray s.h.i.+rt and some khaki Dockers I hadn't worn in a while, I grabbed my leather A-2 jacket off the coat stand and left. I caught the ten o'clock shuttle at Logan and made it to 21 by 11:45.

Marty, as usual, was already seated at his customary corner table, yakking away on his cell phone, an ice-cold martini sitting in front of him, dripping with condensation. He spotted me weaving through the tables and waved. When I drew closer, I caught the tail end of his conversation. It was pure Marty.

"...and I don't give a d.a.m.n if he is the CEO. He doesn't know jack about publis.h.i.+ng. He and his board forked over two hundred million for the company and now they're d.i.c.king around trying to run it," he paused and winked at me, then motioned for me to sit down. I complied, gratified to see he'd ordered me an iced tea instead of my customary wine cooler. After last night's binge, I had no desire for anything alcoholic for awhile. I took a sip and waited while he continued.

"...that's right. I told Fran she was going to get her royalties on time for a change, and I always come through for my clients. I don't lie to them. And I sure as h.e.l.l won't be lied to. Is that understood? Okay, call me later, we'll talk turkey." He clicked the phone closed, placed it on the table and clapped me on the shoulder. "How's it hanging, Trevor?"

"Fine, Marty. Trouble in paradise?" I said, nodding toward his phone.

He shot me an "are you crazy" look, dismissing my question with a casual flick of his hand. "Just some lousy pencil pusher," he said. "Most of the time they do their jobs. But sometimes they screw up-big time. And that's when I gotta play hardball. You watch, I'll have her check by the end of the week." He aimed a finger pistol at me and fired, then took a sip of his martini. The gla.s.s looked like a toy in his hand. I've always thanked the G.o.ds for the day that Marty Scott agreed to be my agent. Like all of them, he couldn't make miracles, he couldn't sell the unsaleable. But he was a tireless advocate for his clients; and someone you didn't want to cross.

"So what's the big deal?" Marty asked, "or did you just want a free lunch?"

I suppressed a smile. It was kind of fun to be the one with the information, for a change. "Have you watched the news the last couple of days?"

Marty shrugged. "Unless it has something to do with my clients, I don't pay much attention. What about it?"

I told him about Harlan and the t.i.tanic, and true-to-form, Marty watched me with a deadpan, almost apathetic expression on his jowly face.

"So, what's the hook?" he asked when I'd finished.

I leaned forward. "Harlan's invited me on the maiden voyage. What I'm proposing is to write a sort of s.h.i.+pboard diary, sprinkled with interviews of a random group of pa.s.sengers, get their take on why they wanted to sail on the new t.i.tanic. Was it the movie, the s.h.i.+p herself, or something else? We can serialize it for the Net, as well as make it a full-blown book eventually."

I waited, my palms damp with nervous sweat, while Marty swallowed the rest of his martini. "I don't see it."

"Come on, Marty, it's a natural. Every April they show the film on TV. It's a G.o.dd.a.m.ned tradition, just like the Wizard of Oz and It's a Wonderful Life. h.e.l.l, Cameron's even going to re-release it in 3D to coincide with the centennial of the sinking. Harlan's voyage will be the capper, and I'll be right there."

I sat back and swirled my iced tea. Marty still had the same inscrutable expression on his face, and I was beginning to feel the first tendrils of doubt creeping into my thoughts. Maybe the idea was a clinker, and I was just too swept up in it-too blind to see it.

My fears eased when I spotted the twinkle in his eyes, the clear indication he was seeing dollars signs. "You know, kid," he said, signaling the bartender for another round, "you just might have something there. h.e.l.l, I always liked that movie, myself."

Too nervous to eat, I stayed and watched while he picked up his phone and called the editor-in-Chief of Mannheim Books, a personal friend.

"Ronnie, how ya doing...? Great, can't complain.... Hey, that's great to hear.... Say, listen, Ronnie, my client, Trevor Hughes, just clued me into a great idea for a book you're gonna love...."

Mannheim Books bought the pitch on the spot with a promise of a high six-figure advance. Not only did they want to do the book, they loved the idea of putting it out on the web, a sort of "Dispatches at Sea" sort of thing. Marty was effusive for the remainder of our lunch date, even picking up the tab. That surprised me. I loved the guy, but he was a notorious tightwad.

I spent the next six weeks polis.h.i.+ng the final draft of Conrad's Revenge and e-mailed it off to Marty on the nineteenth of March. Harlan's press conference was two days away.

Everywhere I went, people were talking about the t.i.tanic, wondering what my friend was going to say, or if it was all some grand joke. I remembered what Ken had said back at our reunion about Harlan's penchant for wacky presents.

Every Christmas, without fail, Harlan mailed each of us a gift. Always useless in the extreme, it was nevertheless a gift guaranteed to bring a smile to the recipient's lips. They were always different, and almost always expensive, like the time he sent me a s.h.i.+ny new set of Black & Decker electric hedge clippers, along with a card that said: Bring 'em to their knees, kiddo! He knew I lived in a condo, with nary a hedge in sight, yet he'd sent it, anyway. That was Harlan. I ended up mounting it to the wall of my study with a blow-up of his card. It was both my inspiration and my taskmaster.

These thoughts ran through my mind during the long flight over the North Atlantic. Lulled by the quiet thrum of the engines, I gazed out the window at the great expanse of blue water below. Not so much ice as there used to be. Still, I couldn't help thinking that somewhere two miles below that smooth, cerulean surface lay the rusting hulk of the original t.i.tanic, swathed in eternal darkness, unaware of her impending rebirth.

The sleek 777 landed in Warsaw at 8:00 p.m. local time on March twentieth. Rain gouted from out of low roiling clouds, and I said a little prayer that tomorrow's events would have more favorable weather. I tried not to think of it as some kind of omen, as if my friend had somehow offended the G.o.ds.

After I'd cleared customs I took a cab to the train station and boarded an express for the coast. a.s.suming there were no downed trees from the storm or any other unforeseen mishaps so common to the Polish rail system, I would be in Gdansk by midnight.