"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, and 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 Donner 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 west-bound 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?"

    "Oh my, that does go back." She twisted her lips. "I can give you a photocopy, but the original issues are at the State Historical Society."

    "I only need to see page three."

    "If you care to wait, it'll take about fifteen minutes to track down the film of November 17, 1911, and run the page you want through the copy machine."

    "Thank you. By the way, would you happen to have a business directory for Colorado?"

    "We certainly do." She reached under the counter and laid a booklet on the smudged plastic top.

    Donner sat down to study the directory as the girl disappeared to search out his request. There was no listing of a Guthrie and Sons Foundry in Pueblo. He thumbed to the T's. Nothing there either for the Thor Forge and Ironworks of Denver. It was almost too much to expect, he reasoned, for two firms still to be in business after nearly eight decades.

    The fifteen minutes came and went, and the girl hadn't returned, so he idly leafed through the directory to pass the time. With the exception of Kodak, Martin Marietta, and Gates Rubber, there were very few companies he'd heard of. Then suddenly he stiffened. Under the J listings his eyes picked out a Jensen and Thor Metal Fabricators in Denver. He tore out the page, stuffed it in his pocket, and tossed the booklet back on the counter.

    "Here you are, sir," the girl said. "That'll be fifty cents."

    Donner paid and quickly scanned the headline in the upper-right-hand corner of the old newsprint's reproduction. The article covered a mine disaster.

    "Is it what you were looking for?" the girl asked.

    "It will have to do," he said as he walked away.

    Jensen and Thor Metal Fabricators was situated between the Burlington-Northern rail yards and the South Platte River; a massive corrugated monstrosity that would have blotted any landscape except the one that surrounded it. Inside the work shed, overhead cranes shuffled enormous lengths of rusty pipe from pile to pile, while stamping machines pounded away with an intolerable clangor that made Donner's eardrums cringe from the attack. The main office sat off to one side behind sound-proofed aggregate concrete walls and tall arched windows.

    An attractive, large-breasted receptionist escorted him down a shag-carpeted hall to a spacious paneled office. Carl Jensen, Jr., came around the desk and shook hands with Donner. He was young; no more than twenty-eight and wore his hair long. He had a neatly trimmed mustache and wore an expensive plaid suit. He looked for all the world like a UCLA graduate; Donner couldn't see him as anything else.

    "Thank you for taking the time to see me, Mr. Jensen."

    Jensen smiled guardedly. "It sounded important. A big man on the Washington campus and all. How could I refuse?"

    "As I mentioned over the telephone, I'm checking on some old records."

    Jensen's smile thinned. "You're not from the Internal Revenue, I hope."

    Donner shook his head. "Nothing like that. The government's interest is purely historical. If you still keep them, I'd like to check over your sales records for July through November of 1911."

    "You're putting me on." Jensen laughed.

    "I assure you, it's a straight request."

    Jensen stared at him blankly. "Are you sure you've got the right company?"

    "I am," Donner said brusquely, "if this is a descendant of the Thor Forge and Ironworks."

    "My great-grandfather's old outfit," Jensen admitted.

    "My father bought up the outstanding stock and changed the name in 1942 "

    "Would you still have any of the old records?"

    Jensen shrugged. "We threw out the ancient history some time ago. If we'd saved every receipt of sale since great granddaddy opened his doors back in 1897, we'd need a warehouse the size of Bronco Stadium just to store them."

    Donner pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the beads of sweat from his face. He sagged in his chair.

    "However," Jensen continued, "and you can thank the foresight of Carl Jensen, Sr,, we have all our past records down on microfilm."

    "Microfilm?"

    "The only way to fly. After five years, we film everything. Efficiency personified, that's us."

    Donner couldn't believe his luck. "Then you can provide me with sales for the last six months of 1911?"

    Jensen didn't answer. He leaned over the desk, spoke into his intercom, and then tilted back in his executive chair. "While we wait, can I get you a cup of coffee, Mr. Donner?"

    "I'd prefer something with a little more snap."

    "Spoken like a man from the big city." Jensen stood up and walked over to a mirrored bar from which he produced a bottle of Chivas Regal. "You'll find Denver quite gauche. A bar in an office is generally frowned upon here. The locals' idea of entertaining visiting firemen is to treat them to a large Coca-Cola and a lavish lunch at the Wienerschnitzel. Fortunately for our esteemed out-of-town customers, I spent my business apprenticeship on Madison Avenue."