"A fact nonetheless," Vogel said casually. "I take it, Commander Gunn, that the cornet was discovered by the Sappho I?"
"Yes, near the end of the voyage."
"It would appear that your undersea expedition stumbled on a bonus. A pity you didn't run onto the ship herself."
"Yes, a pity," Gunn said, avoiding Vogel's eyes.
"I'm still at a loss as to the instrument's condition," Sandecker said. "I hardly expected a relic sunk in the sea for seventy-five years to come up looking little the worse for wear."
"The lack of corrosion does pose an interesting question," Vogel replied. "The brass most certainly would weather well, but, strangely, the parts containing ferrous metals survived in a remarkable virgin state. The original mouthpiece, as you can see, is near-perfect."
Gunn was staring at the cornet as if it was the holy grail. "Will it still play?"
"Yes," Vogel answered. "Quite beautifully, I should think."
"You haven't tried it?"
"No . . . I have not." Vogel ran his fingers reverently over the cornet's valves. "Up to now, I have always tested every brass instrument my assistants and I have restored for its brilliance of tone. This time I cannot."
"I don't understand," Sandecker said.
"This instrument is a reminder of a small, but courageous act performed during the worst sea tragedy in man's history," Vogel replied. "It takes very little imagination to envision Graham Farley and his fellow musicians while they soothed the frightened ship's passengers with music, sacrificing all thought of their own safety, as the Titanic settled into the cold sea. The cornet's last melody came from the lips of a very brave man. I feel it would border on the sacrilegious for anyone else ever to play it again."
Sandecker stared at Vogel, examining every feature of the old man's face as if he were seeing it for the first time.
"'Autumn'," Vogel was murmuring, almost rambling to himself. "'Autumn', an old hymn. That was the last melody Graham Farley played on his cornet."
"Not 'Nearer My God to Thee'?'' Gunn spoke slowly.
"A myth," said Pitt. "'Autumn' was the final tune that was heard from the Titanic's band just before the end."
"You seem to have made a study of the Titanic," Vogel said.
"The ship and her tragic fate is like a contagious disease," Pitt replied. "Once you become interested, the fever is tough to break."
"The ship itself holds little attraction for me. But as a historian of musicians and their instruments, the saga of the Titanic's band has always gripped my imagination." Vogel set the cornet in the case, closed the lid, and passed it across the desk to Sandecker. "Unless you have more questions, Admiral, I'd like to grab a fattening breakfast and fall into bed. It was a difficult night."
Sandecker stood. "We're in your debt, Mr. Vogel."
"I was hoping you might say that," the Santa Claus eyes twinkled slyly. "There is a way you can repay me."
"Which is?"
"Donate the cornet to the Washington Museum. It would be the prize exhibit of our Hall of Music."
"As soon as our lab people have studied the instrument and your report, I'll send it over to you."
"On behalf of the museum's directors, I thank you."
"Not as a gift donation, however."
Vogel stared uncertainly at the Admiral.
"I don't follow."
Sandecker smiled. "Let's call it a permanent loan. That will save hassle in case we ever have to borrow it back temporarily."
"Agreed."
"One more thing," Sandecker said. "Nothing has been mentioned to the press about the discovery. I'd appreciate it if you went along with us for the time being."
"I don't understand your motives, but of course I'll comply."
The towering curator bid his farewells and departed.
"Damn!" Gunn blurted out a second after the door closed. "We must have passed within spitting distance of the Titanic's hulk."
"You were certainly in the ball park," Pitt agreed. "The Sappho's sonar probed a radius of two hundred yards. The Titanic must have rested just outside the fringe of your range."
"If only we'd had more time. If only we'd known what in hell we were looking for."
"You forget," Sandecker said, "that testing the Sappho I and conducting experiments on the Lorelei Current were your primary objectives, and on that you and your crew did one hell of a job. Oceanographers will be sifting the data you brought back on deepwater currents for the next two years. My only regret is that we couldn't let you in on what we were up to, but Gene Seagram and his security people insist that we keep a tight lid on any information regarding the Titanic until we're far along on the salvage operation."
"We won't be able to keep it quiet for long," Pitt said. "All the news media in the world will soon smell a story on the greatest historical find since the opening of King Tut's tomb."
Sandecker rose from behind his desk and walked over to the window. When he spoke, his words came very softly, sounding almost as if they were carried over a great distance by the wind. "Graham Farley's cornet."
"Sir?"
"Graham Farley's cornet," Sandecker repeated wistfully. "If that old horn is any indication, the Titanic may be sitting down there in the black abyss as pretty and preserved as the night she sank."
28
To a chance observer standing on the shore or to anyone out for a leisurely cruise up the Rappahannock River, the three men slouched in a dilapidated old rowboat looked like a trio of ordinary weekend fishermen. They were dressed in faded shirts and dungarees, and sported hats festooned with the usual variety of hooks and flies. It was a typical scene, down to the sixpack of beer trapped in a fishnet dangling in the water beside the boat.
The shortest of the three, a red-haired, pinched-faced man, lay against the stern and seemed to be dozing, his hands loosely gripped around a fishing pole that was attached to a red and white cork bobbing a bare two feet from the boat's waterline. The second man simply slouched over an open magazine, while the third fisherman sat upright and mechanically went through the motions of casting a silver lure. He was large; with a well-fed stomach that blossomed through his open shirt, and he gazed through lazy blue eyes set in a jovial round face. He was the perfect image of everyone's kindly old grandfather.
Admiral Joseph Kemper could afford to look kindly. When you wielded the almost incredible authority that he did, you didn't have to squint through hypnotic eyes or belch fire like a dragon. He looked down and offered a benevolent expression to the man who was dozing.
"It strikes me, Jim, that you're not deeply into the spirit of fishing."
"This has to be the most useless endeavor ever devised by man," Sandecker replied.
"And you, Mr. Seagram? You haven't dropped a hook since we anchored."
Seagram peered at Kemper over the magazine. "If a fish could survive the pollution down there, Admiral, he'd have to look like a mutant out of a low-budget horror movie, and taste twice as bad."
"Since it was you gentlemen who invited me here," Kemper said, "I'm beginning to suspect a devious motive."
Sandecker neither agreed nor disagreed. "Just relax and enjoy the great outdoors, Joe. Forget for a few hours that you're the Navy's Chief of Staff."
"That's easy when you're around. You're the only one I know who talks down to me."
Sandecker grinned. "You can't go through life with the whole world kissing your ass. Simply look upon me as good therapy."