DIRK PITT® ADVENTURES BY CLIVE CUSSLER Poseidon’s Arrow (WITH DIRK CUSSLER) Crescent Dawn (WITH DIRK CUSSLER) Arctic Drift (WITH DIRK CUSSLER) Treasure of Khan (WITH DIRK CUSSLER) Black Wind (WITH DIRK CUSSLER) Trojan Odyssey Valhalla Rising Atlantis Found Flood Tide Shock Wave Inca Gold Sahara Dragon Treasure Cyclops Deep Six Pacific Vortex! Night Probe! Vixen 03 Shock Wave Raise the Titanic! Iceberg The Mediterranean Caper FARGO ADVENTURES BY CLIVE CUSSLER WITH THOMAS PERRY The Tombs WITH GRANT BLACKWOOD The Kingdom Lost Empire Spartan Gold ISAAC BELL NOVELS BY CLIVE CUSSLER The Thief (WITH JUSTIN SCOTT) The Race (WITH JUSTIN SCOTT) The Spy (WITH JUSTIN SCOTT) The Wrecker (WITH JUSTIN SCOTT) The Chase KURT AUSTIN ADVENTURES BY CLIVE CUSSLER WITH GRAHAM BROWN The Storm Devil’s Gate WITH PAUL KEMPRECOS Medusa White Death The Navigator Fire Ice Polar Shift Blue Gold Lost City Serpent OREGON FILES ADVENTURES BY CLIVE CUSSLER WITH JACK DU BRUL The Jungle The Silent Sea Corsair Plague Ship Skeleton Coast Dark Watch WITH CRAIG DIRGO Golden Buddha Sacred Stone NONFICTION BY CLIVE CUSSLER Built for Adventure: The Classic Automobiles of Clive Cussler and Dirk Pitt® WITH CRAIG DIRGO The Sea Hunters The Sea Hunters II Clive Cussler and Dirk Pitt Revealed G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS Publishers Since 1838 Published by the Penguin Group Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA USA • Canada • UK • Ireland • Australia New Zealand • India • South Africa • China Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England For more information about the Penguin Group visit penguin.com Copyright © 2013 by Sandecker, RLLLP All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. Published simultaneously in Canada ISBN 978-1-101-59266-3 ENDPAPER AND INTERIOR ILLUSTRATIONS BY ROLAND DAHLQUIST This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Contents Also by Clive Cussler Title Page Copyright Map PROLOGUE BOOK ONE: COAL Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 BOOK TWO: FIRE Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 BOOK THREE: STEAM Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 50 EPILOGUE PROLOGUE A Smoke-filled Room 1912 THE MARMON 32 SPEEDSTER PARKED ON WALL STREET IN A shadow between two lampposts. Roundsman O’Riordan took notice. It was the dead of night. Orders said let no one bother the bigwig politicians and officeholders who were horse-trading upstairs in the Congdon Building. And the auto had a clear shot at the limousines waiting for them at the curb. Its side curtains were fogged by the damp rolling off the harbor. O’Riordan had to get close to see inside. The driver was a pleasant surprise, a beautiful lady with straw-blond hair, and the cop relaxed a little. But all he could see of the gent beside her were steely contours. Still, you couldn’t rap your stick on a Marmon 32 and tell the swells to move along like they were bums on the sidewalk, so with his right hand by his pistol, he tapped the side curtain lightly, like touching his glass to the mahogany to signal the bartender of a classy joint he was ready for another but didn’t mean to be rushing him. A big hand with long, nimble fingers slid the curtain open. O’Riordan glimpsed a snow-white cuff, diamond links, and the black sleeve of a dress coat. The hand seized his in a strong grip. “Paddy O’Riordan. Fancy meeting you here.” Raked by searching blue eyes, the roundsman recognized the gold mane, the thick flaxen mustache, and the no-nonsense expression that could only belong to Isaac Bell—chief investigator of the Van Dorn Detective Agency. He touched his stick to his helmet. “Good evening, Mr. Bell. I didn’t recognize you in the shadows.” “What are you doing out so late?” Bell asked. O’Riordan started to answer before Bell’s grin told him it was a joke. Policemen were supposed to be out late. The detective nodded at the limousines. “Big doings.” “Judge Congdon’s got a special waiting at Grand Central. Tracks cleared to Chicago. And I’m sorry to tell you I have me orders to clear the street. Straight from the captain.” Bell did not seem to hear. “Paddy, I want you to meet my wife— Marion, may I present Roundsman O’Riordan, former scourge of Staten Island pirates back when he was in the Harbor Squad. There wasn’t a wharf rat in New York who didn’t buy drinks for the house the night Paddy came ashore.” She reached across her husband with an ungloved hand that seemed to glow like ivory. O’Riordan took it carefully in his enormous fist and bowed low. “A privilege to meet you, marm. I’ve known your good husband many years in the line of duty. And may I say, marm, that Mrs. O’Riordan and I have greatly enjoyed your moving picture shows.” She thanked him in a musical voice that would sing in his mind for days. Chief Inspector Bell said, “Well, we better not keep you from your rounds.” O’Riordan touched his stick to his helmet again. If a crack private detective chose to canoodle with his own wife in a dark auto on Wall Street in the middle of the night—orders be damned. “I’ll tell the boys not to disturb you.” But Bell motioned him closer and whispered, “I wouldn’t mind if they kept an eye out if I have to leave her alone a moment.” “They’ll be drawin’ straws for the privilege.” • • • BACKSLAPPING POLITICIANS burst from the building and converged on the smaller of the limousines, a seven-passenger Rambler Knickerbocker. Isaac Bell opened the curtain to hear them. “Driver! Straight to Grand Central.” “Don’t love handing the vice presidency to a louse like Congdon, but that’s politics.” “Money talks.” The Rambler Knickerbocker drove off. Senior men emerged next. Moving more slowly, they climbed into the second limousine, an enormous Cunningham Model J, hand-built at great expense to Judge James Congdon’s own
