Текст книги "Raise the Titanic"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

Соавторы: Clive Cussler
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    "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."

    Kemper sighed. "I had hoped I'd gotten rid of you once and for all when you retired from the service. Now it seems you've come back to haunt me as a goddamned feather merchant."

    "I understand they were dancing in the corridors of the Pentagon when I left."

    "Let's just say there were no tears shed at your departure." Kemper slowly reeled his lure in. "Okay, Jim, I've known you too many years not to smell a squeeze play. What do you and Mr. Seagram have on your minds?"

    "We're going after the Titanic, " Sandecker replied casually.

    Kemper went on reeling. "Indeed?"

    "Indeed."

    Kemper cast again. "What for? To take a few photographs for publicity's sake?"

    "No, to raise her to the surface."

    Kemper stopped reeling. He turned and stared at Sandecker. "You did say the Titanic?"

    "I did."

    "Jim, my boy, you've really slipped your moorings this time. If you expect me to believe-"

    "This isn't a fairy tale," Seagram interrupted. "The authority for the salvage operation comes straight from the White House."

    Kemper's eyes studied Seagram's face. "Then am I to assume that you represent the President?"

    "Yes, sir. That is correct."

    Kemper said, "I must say you have a rather strange way of doing business, Mr. Seagram. If you will give me the courtesy of an explanation . . ."

    "That's why we're here, Admiral, to explain."

    Kemper turned to Sandecker. "Are you in the game too, Jim?"

    Sandecker nodded. "Let's just say that Mr. Seagram speaks softly and carries one hell of a big stick."

    "Okay, Seagram, the podium is yours. Why the subterfuge and why the urgency to raise an old derelict?"

    "First things first, Admiral. To begin with, I am head of a highly secret department of the government called Meta Section."

    "Never heard of it," Kemper said.

    "We are not listed in any journal on federal offices. Not even the CIA, the FBI, nor the NSA has any records of our operation."

    "An undercover think-tank," Sandecker said curtly.

    "We go beyond the ordinary think-tank," Seagram said. "Our people devise futuristic concepts and then attempt to construct them into successful functioning systems."

    "That would cost millions of dollars," Kemper said.

    "Modesty forbids me to mention the exact amount of our budget, Admiral, but ego compels me to admit that I have slightly over ten figures to play with."

    "My Lord!" Kemper muttered under his breath. "Over a billion dollars to play with, you say. An organization of scientists that nobody knows exists. You stir my interest, Mr. Seagram."

    "Mine too," Sandecker said acidly. "Up until now, you've sought NUMA's assistance through White House channels by passing yourself off as a Presidential aide. Why the Machiavellian Routine?"

    "Because the President ordered strict security, Admiral, in the event of a leak to Capitol Hill. The last thing his administration needed was a congressional witch hunt into Meta Section's finances."

    Kemper and Sandecker looked at each other and nodded. They looked at Seagram, waiting for the rest of it.

    "Now then," he continued, "Meta Section has developed a defense system with the code name of the Sicilian Project . . . ."

    "The Sicilian Project?"

    "We named it after a chess strategy known as the Sicilian Defense. The project is devised around a variant of the maser principle. For example, if we push a sound wave of a certain frequency through a medium containing excited atoms, we can then stimulate the sound to an extremely high state of emission."

    "Similar to a laser beam," Kemper commented.

    "To some degree," Seagram answered. "Except a laser emits a narrow beam of light energy, while our device emits a broad, fanlike field of sound waves."

    "Besides breaking a bevy of eardrums," Sandecker said, "what purpose does it serve?"

    "As you recall from your elementary-school studies, Admiral, sound waves spread in circular waves much like ripples in a pond after a pebble is dropped in it. In the instance of the Sicilian Project, we can multiply the sound waves a million times over. Then, when this tremendous energy is released, it spreads out into the atmosphere, pushing air particles ahead of its unleashed force, condensing them until they combine to form a solid, impenetrable wall hundreds of square miles in diameter." Seagram paused to scratch his nose. "I won't bore you with equations and technical details concerning the actual instrumentation. The particulars are too complicated to discuss here, but you can easily see the potential. Any enemy missile launched against America coming into contact with this invisible protective barrier would smash itself into oblivion long before it entered the target area."

    "Is . . . is this system for real?" Kemper asked hesitantly.

    "Yes, Admiral. I assure you it can work. Even now, the required number of installations to stop an all-out missile attack are under construction."

    "Jesus!" Sandecker burst out. "The ultimate weapon."

    "The Sicilian Project is not a weapon. It is purely a scientific method of protecting our country."

    "It's hard to visualize," Kemper said.

    "Just imagine a sonic boom from a jet aircraft amplified ten million times."

    Kemper seemed lost by it all. "But the sound-wouldn't it destroy everything on the ground?"

    "No, the energy force is aimed into space and builds during its journey. To someone standing at sea level it would merely have the same harmless impact of distant thunder."

    "What does all this have to do with the Titanic?"

    "The element required to stimulate the optimum level of sound emission is byzanium, and therein lies the grabber, gentlemen, because the world's only known quantity of byzanium ore was shipped to the United States back in 1912 on board the Titanic."

    "I see." Kemper nodded. "Then salvaging the ship is your last-ditch attempt at making your defense system operational?"

    "Byzanium's atomic structure is the only one that will work. By programming its known properties into our computers, we were able to project a thirty-thousand-to-one ratio in favor of success."

    "But why raise the entire ship?" Kemper asked. "Why not just tear out its bulkheads and bring up the byzanium."

    "We'd have to blast our way into the cargo hold with explosives. The danger of destroying the ore forever is too great. The President and I agree that the added expense of raising the hull far outweighs the risk of losing it."

    Kemper tossed out his lure again. "You're a positive thinker, Seagram. I grant you that. But what makes you think the Titanic is in any condition to be brought up in one piece. After seventy-five years on the bottom, she may be nothing but an immense pile of rusty junk."

    "My people have a theory on that," said Sandecker. He put his fishing pole aside, opened his tackle box and pulled out an envelope. "Take a look at these." He handed Kemper several four-by-five photographs.

    "Looks like so much underwater trash," Kemper commented.

    "Exactly," Sandecker answered. "Every so often the cameras on our submersibles stumble on debris tossed overboard from passing ships." He pointed to the top photo. "This is a galley stove found at four thousand feet off Bermuda. Next is an automobile engine block photographed at sixty-five hundred feet off the Aleutians. No way to date either of these. Now, here is a Grumman F4F World War II aircraft discovered at ten thousand feet, near Iceland. We dug up a record on this one. The plane was ditched in the sea without injury by a Lieutenant Strauss when he ran out of fuel on March 17, 1946. "

    Kemper held out the next photo at arm's length. "What in hell is this thing?"

    "That was taken at the moment of discovery by the Sappho I daring the Lorelei Current Expedition. What at first looked like an ordinary kitchen flannel turned out to be a horn." He showed Kemper a shot of the instrument taken after Vogel's restoration.

    That's a cornet," Kemper corrected him. "You say the Sappho I brought this up?"

    'Yes, from twelve thousand feet. It had been lying on the bottom since 1912."

    Kemper's eyebrows raised. "Are you going to tell me it came from the Titanic?"

    "I can show you documented evidence."

    Kemper sighed and handed the pictures back to Sandecker. His shoulders sagged, the weary, fatigued droop of a man no longer young, a man who had been carrying a heavy burden for too long a time. He pulled a beer from the fish net and popped the tab. "What does any of this prove?"

    Sandecker's mouth tightened into a slight grin. "It was right in front of us for two years-that's how long ago the aircraft was discovered-but we completely overlooked the possibilities. Oh sure, there were remarks about the plane's excellent condition, yet none of my oceanographers really grasped the significance. It wasn't until the Sappho I brought up the horn that the true implications came home."

    "I'm not following you," Kemper said tonelessly.

    "First of all," Sandecker continued, "ninety per cent of that F4F is made out of aluminum, and as you know, salt water eats the hell out of aluminum. Yet that plane, after sitting down there in the sea for over forty years, looks like the day it came out of the factory. Same with the horn. It's been underwater crowding eighty years, and it shined up like a newborn baby's ass."

    "Have you any explanation?" Kemper asked.

    "Two of NUMA's ablest oceanographers are now running data through our computers. The general theory at the moment is that it's a combination of factors the lack of damaging sea life at great depths, the low salinity or salt content of bottom water, the freezing temperatures of the deep, and a lower oxygen content that would slow down oxidation of metal. It could be any one or all of these factors that delays deterioration of deep-bottom wrecks. We'll know better if and when we get a look at the Titanic. "

    Kemper thought for a moment. "What do you want from me?"

    "Protection," Seagram answered. "If the Soviets get wind of what we're up to, they'll try everything short of war to stop us and grab the byzanium for themselves."

    "Put your mind at rest on that score," Kemper said, his voice suddenly hard. "The Russians will think twice before they bloody their noses on our side of the Atlantic. Your salvage operations on the Titanic will be protected, Mr. Seagram. You have my iron-clad guarantee on that."

    A faint grin touched Sandecker's face. "While you're in a generous mood, Joe, what're the chances of borrowing the Modoc?"

    "The Modoc?" Kemper repeated. "She's the finest deepwater salvage vessel the Navy's got."

    "We could also use the crew that comes with her," Sandecker pushed on.

    Kemper rolled the beer can's cool surface across his sweating forehead. "Okay, you've got yourselves the Modoc and her crew, plus whatever extra men and equipment you need.

    Seagram sighed. "Thank you, Admiral. I'm grateful."

    "You're straddling an interesting concept," Kemper said. "But one fraught with problems."

    "Nothing comes easy," Seagram replied.

    "What's your next step?"

    Sandecker answered that one. "We send down television cameras to locate the hull and survey the damage."

    "God only knows what you'll find-" Kemper stopped abruptly and pointed at Sandecker's jerking bobber. "By God, Jim, I believe you've caught a fish."

    Sandecker leaned lazily over the side of the boat. "So I have," he said smiling. "Let's hope the Titanic is just as cooperative."

    "I am afraid that that hope may prove to be an expensive incentive," Kemper said, and there was no answering smile on his lips.

    Pitt closed Joshua Hays Brewster's journal and looked across the conference table at Mel Donner. "That's it then."

    "The whole truth and nothing but the truth," Donner said.

    "But wouldn't this byzanium, or whatever you call it, lose its properties after being immersed in the sea all these years?"

    Donner shook his head. "Who's to say? No one has ever had a sufficient quantity in their hands to know for sure how it reacts under any conditions."

    "Then it may be worthless."

    "Not if it's locked securely in the Titanic's vault. Our research indicates that the strong room is watertight."

    Pitt leaned back and stared at the journal. "It's a hell of a gamble."

    "We're aware of that."

    "It's like asking a gang of kids to lift a Patton tank out of Lake Erie with a few ropes and a raft."

    "We're aware of that," Donner repeated.

    "The cost alone of raising the Titanic is beyond comprehension," Pitt said.

    "Name a figure."

    "Back in 1974 the CIA paid out over three hundred million dollars just to raise the bow of a Russian submarine. I couldn't begin to fathom what it would run to salvage a passenger liner that grosses forty-six thousand tons from twelve thousand feet of water."

    "Take a guess then."

    "Who bankrolls the operation?"

    "Meta Section will handle the finances," Donner said. "Just look upon me as your friendly neighborhood banker. Let me know what you think it will take to get the salvage operation off the ground, and I'll see to it the funds are secretly transferred into NUMA's annual operating budget.

    "Two hundred and fifty million ought to start the ball rolling."

    "That's somewhat less than our estimates," Donner said casually. "I suggest that you not limit yourself. Just to be on the safe side, I'll arrange for you to receive an extra five."

    "Five million?"

    "No." Donner smiled. "Five hundred million."

     After the guard passed him out through the gate, Pitt pulled up at the side of the road and gazed back through the chain-link fence at the Smith Van and Storage Company. "I don't believe it," he said to no one. "I don't believe any of it." Then slowly, with much difficulty, as if he were fighting the commands of a hypnotist, Pitt dropped the shift lever into "Drive" and made his way back to the city.

29

    It had been a particularly grueling day for the President. There were seemingly endless meetings with opposition party congressmen; meetings in which he had struggled, vainly in most cases, to persuade them to support his new bill for the modification of income-tax regulations. Then there had been a speech at the convention of near hostile state governors, followed later in the afternoon by a heated session with his aggressive, overbearing secretary of state.

    Now, just past ten o'clock, with one more unpleasant involvement to reckon with, he sat in an overstuffed chair holding a drink in his right hand while his left scratched the long ears of his sad-eyed basset hound.

    Warren Nicholson, the director of the CIA, and Marshall Collies, his chief Kremlin security adviser, sat opposite him on a large sectional sofa.

    The President took a sip from the glass and then stared grimly at the two men. "Do either of you have the vaguest notion of what you're asking of me?"

    Collies shrugged nervously. "Quite frankly, sir, we don't. But this is clearly a case of the end justifying the means. I personally think Nicholson here has one hell of a scheme going. The payoff in terms of secret information could be nothing less than astonishing."

    "It will cost a heavy price," the President said.

    Nicholson leaned forward. "Believe me, sir, the cost is worth it."

    "That's easy for you to say," the President said. "Neither of you has the slightest hint as to what the Sicilian Project is all about."

    Collies nodded. "No argument there, Mr. President. Its secret is well kept. That's why it came as a shock when we discovered its existence through the KGB instead of our own security forces."

    "How much do you think the Russians know?"

    "We can't be absolutely certain at this point," Nicholson answered, "but the few facts we have in hand indicate the KGB possesses only the code name."

    "Damn!" the President muttered angrily. "How could it have possibly leaked out?"

    "I'd venture to guess that it was an accidental leak," Collies said. "My people in Moscow would smell something if Soviet intelligence analysts thought they were onto an ultrasecret American defense project."

    The President looked at Collies. "What makes you sure it has to do with defense?"

    "If security surrounding the Sicilian Project is as tight as you suggest, then a new military weapon emerges as the obvious theory. And there is no doubt in my mind that the Russians will soon come up with the same conclusion."

    "I would have to go along with Collies' line of thinking," Nicholson concurred.

    "All of which plays right into our hands."

    "Go on."

    "We feed Soviet Naval Intelligence data on the Sicilian Project in small doses. If they take the bait . . ." Nicholson's hands gestured like the closing of a trap, ". . . then we literally own one of the Soviets' top intelligence-gathering services."

    Bored by the human talk, the President's basset hound stretched out and peacefully dozed off The President looked thoughtfully at the animal for several moments, weighing the odds. The decision was a painful one. He felt as though he was stabbing all his friends from Meta Section in the back.

    "I'll have the man who is heading the project draw up an initial report," he said finally. "You, Nicholson, will tell me where and how you want it delivered so the Russians do not suspect the deception. You will go through me, and only me, for any further information concerning the Sicilian Project. Is that clear?"

    Nicholson nodded. "I will arrange the channels myself." The President seemed to wither and shrink into the chair. "I don't have to impress upon you gentlemen," he said wearily, "the sorry fact that if we're found out, we'll all be branded as traitors."

30

    Sandecker leaned over a large, contoured map of the North Atlantic Ocean floor, his hand toying with a small pointer. He looked at Gunn, then at Pitt standing on the other side of the miniaturized seascape. "I can't understand it," he said after a moment's silence. "If that horn is any indication, the Titanic doesn't lie where she's supposed to."

    Gunn took a felt-tipped pen and made a tiny mark on the map. "Her last reported position just before she sank was here, at 41°46'N-50°14'W."

    "And you found the horn where?"

    Gunn made another mark. "The exact position of the Sappho I's mother ship on the surface at the time we discovered Farley's cornet put us here, about six miles to the southeast."

    "A six-mile discrepancy. How is that possible?"

    "There was a conflict of evidence concerning the position of the Titanic when she went down," Pitt said. "The skipper of one of the rescue ships, the Mount Temple, put the liner much farther to the east, and his reading was based on a sun-sighting, far more accurate than the dead-reckoning position figured by the Titanic's fourth officer right after she struck the iceberg."

    "But the ship that picked up the survivors, the Carpathia, I believe it was," Sandecker said, "steamed on a course toward the position given by the Titanic's wireless operator and came in direct contact with the lifeboats within four hours."

    "There is some doubt that the Carpathia actually traveled as far as her captain assumed," Pitt replied. "If so, the sighting of the wreckage and the lifeboats could have occurred several miles southeast of the Titanic's wirelessed position."

    Sandecker idly tapped the pointer against the map railing. "This puts us between the devil and the deep blue sea, so to speak, gentlemen. Shall we conduct our search efforts in the exact area of 41°64'N-50°14'W? Or do we bet our money on Graham Farley's horn six miles to the southeast? If we lose, God only knows how many acres of Atlantic Ocean real estate we'll have to drag underwater television cameras over before we stumble on the wreck. What do you say, Rudi?"

    Gunn did not hesitate. "Since our search pattern with the Sappho I failed in and around the Titanic's advertised position, I say we drop the TV cameras in the vicinity where we picked up Farley's cornet."

    "And you, Dirk?"

    Pitt was silent a few moments. Then he spoke, "My vote goes for a delay of forty-eight hours."

    Sandecker stared across the map speculatively. "We can't afford one hour, much less forty-eight."

    Pitt stared back at him. "I suggest that we skip the TV cameras and leapfrog to the next step."

    "Which is?"

    "We send down a manned submersible."

    Sandecker shook his head. "No good. A TV camera sled towed by a surface vessel can cover five times the area in half the time it would take a slow-moving submersible."

    "Not if we pinpoint the gravesite in advance."

    Sandecker's expression darkened. "And how do you propose to pull off that minor miracle?"

    "We gather every shred of knowledge concerning the Titanic's final hours-glean all records for speed, conflicting position reports, water currents, the angle she slid beneath the waves, throw in the cornet's resting place– everything, and program it through NUMA's computers. With luck, the readout data should point directly to the Titanic's front yard."

    "It's the logical approach," Gunn admitted.

    "In the meantime," Sandecker said, "we lose two days."

    "We lose nothing, sir. We gain," Pitt said earnestly. "Admiral Kemper has loaned us the Modoc. She's docked at Norfolk right now, fitted out and ready to sail."

    "Of course!" Gunn blurted. "The Sea Slug. "

    "Precisely," Pitt replied. "The Sea Slug is the Navy's latest-model submersible, designed and constructed especially for deep-water salvage and rescue, and she's sitting on the Modoc's afterdeck. In two days, Rudi and I can have both vessels over the general area of the wreck, ready to begin the search operation."

    Sandecker rubbed the pointer across his chin. "And then, if the computers do their job, I feed you the corrected position of the wreck site. Is that the picture?"

    "Yes, sir, that's the picture."

    Sandecker moved away from the map and eased into a chair. Then he looked up into the determined faces of Pitt and Gunn. "Okay, gentlemen, it's your ball game."

31

    Mel Donner leaned on the doorbell of Seagram's house in Chevy Chase and stifled a yawn.

    Seagram opened the door and stepped out onto the front porch. They nodded silently without the usual early morning pleasantries and walked to the curb and Donner's car.

    Seagram sat and gazed dully out the side window, his eyes ringed with dark circles. Donner slipped the car into gear.

    "You look like Frankenstein's monster before he came alive," Donner said. "How late did you work last night?"

    "Actually came home early," Seagram replied. "Bad mistake; should have worked late. Simply gave Dana and me more time to fight. She's been so damned condescending lately, it drives me up the wall. I finally got pissed and locked myself in the study. Fell asleep at my desk. I ache in places I didn't know existed."

    "Thank you," Donner said, smiling.

    Seagram turned, puzzled. "Thank you for what?"

    "For adding another brick under my determination to remain single."

    They were both silent while Donner eased through Washington's rush-hour traffic.

    "Gene," Donner said at last, "I know this is a touchy subject; put me on your shit list if you will, but you're beginning to come across like a self-tortured cynic."

    There was no reaction from Seagram, so Donner forged ahead. "Why don't you take a week or two off and take Dana to a quiet, sunny beach somewhere. Get away from Washington for a while. The defense-installation construction is going off without a hitch, and there's nothing we can do about the byzanium except sit back and pray that Sandecker's boys at NUMA salvage it from the Titanic."

    "I'm needed now, more than ever," Seagram said flatly.

    "You're only kidding yourself into an ego trip. At the moment, everything is out of our hands."

    A grim smile touched Seagram's lips. "You're closer to the truth than you can imagine."

    Donner glanced at him. "What do you mean?"

    "It's out of our hands," Seagram repeated vacantly. "The President ordered me to leak the Sicilian Project to the Russians."

    Donner pulled over to the curb and looked at Seagram dumbfounded.

    "My God, why?"

    "Warren Nicholson over at CIA has convinced the President that by feeding bits of hard data on the project to the Russians, he can get control of one of their top intelligence networks."

    "I don't believe a word of it," Donner said.

    "It makes no difference what you believe," Seagram said brusquely.

    "If what you say is true, what good will the Russians get out of bits and scraps? Without the necessary detailed equations and calculations, it would take them at least two years to put a workable theory on paper. And without byzanium, the whole concept is worthless."

    "They could build a working system within thirty months if they get their hands on the byzanium first."

    "Impossible. Admiral Kemper would never permit it. He'd send the Russians packing in a hurry if they tried to pirate the Titanic. "

    "Suppose," Seagram murmured softly, "just suppose Kemper was ordered to lay back and do nothing."

    Donner leaned over the wheel and rubbed his forehead in disbelief. "Are you asking me to believe the President of the United States is working with the Communists?"

    Seagram shrugged wearily and said, "How can I ask you to believe anything when I don't know what to believe myself?"

32

    Pavel Marganin, tall and authoritative in his white naval uniform, took a deep breath of the evening air and turned into the ornate lobby of the Borodino Restaurant. He gave his name to the maitre d' and followed him to Prevlov's customary table. The captain sat there reading a thick sheath of papers bound in a file folder. His eyes came up briefly and acknowledged Marganin with a bored glance before they flicked back to the contents of the file.

    "May I sit down, Captain?"

    "Unless you wish to place a towel over your arm and clear away the dishes," Prevlov said, still engrossed in his reading. "By all means."

    Marganin ordered a vodka and waited for Prevlov to initiate the conversation. After nearly three full minutes, the captain finally laid the file aside and lit a cigarette.

    "Tell me, Lieutenant, have you followed the Lorelei Current Drift Expedition?"

    "Not in detail. I merely scanned the report before passing it along to your attention."

    "A pity," Prevlov said loftily. "Think of it, Lieutenant, a submersible capable of moving fifteen hundred miles along the ocean floor without surfacing once in almost two months. Soviet scientists would do well to be half as imaginative."

    "Frankly, sir, I found the report rather dull reading."

    "Dull reading, indeed! If you had studied it during one of your rare fits of conscientious dedication, you would have discerned a strange course deviation during the expedition's final days."

    "I fail to see a hidden meaning in a simple course change."

    "A good intelligence man looks for the hidden meaning in everything, Marganin."

    Properly rebuked, Marganin nervously checked his watch and stared in the direction of the men's room.

    "I think we should investigate whatever it is the Americans find so interesting off the Newfoundland Grand Banks," Prevlov continued. "Since that Novaya Zemlya business, I want a close look into every operation undertaken by the National Underwater and Marine Agency, beginning six months ago. My intuition tells me the Americans are up to something that spells trouble for Mother Russia." Prevlov motioned to a passing waiter and pointed at his empty glass. He leaned back and sighed. "Things are never what they seem, are they? We are in a strange and baffling business when you consider that every comma, every period on a scrap of paper can possess a vital blueprint to an extraordinary secret. It is the least obvious direction that holds the answers."

    The waiter came with Prevlov's cognac and he emptied the glass, swishing the liquor around in his mouth before downing it in one swallow.

    "Will you excuse me a moment, sir?"

    Prevlov looked up and Marganin nodded in the direction of the men's room.

    "Of course."

    Marganin stepped into the high-ceilinged, tiled bathroom and stood in front of the urinal. He was not alone. A pair of feet with the trousers draped about the ankles showed under a toilet stall. He stood there, taking his time, until he heard the toilet flush. Then he moved over to the washbasin and rinsed his hands slowly, watching in the mirror as the same fat man from the park bench hitched up his belt and approached him.

    "Pardon me, sailor," the fat man said. "You dropped this on the floor."

    He handed Marganin a small envelope.

    Marganin took it without hesitation and slipped it into his tunic. "Oh, how careless of me. Thank you."

    The fat man then leaned over the basin as Marganin turned away for a towel. "You have explosive information in that envelope," said the fat man softly. "Do not treat it lightly."

    "It will be handled delicately."

33

    The letter was resting neatly centered on Seagram's desk in the study. He turned on the lamp, sagged into the chair, and began reading.

Dear Gene,

    I love you. It must seem like a banal way to begin, but it is true. I still love you with all my heart.

    I have tried desperately to understand and comfort you during these months of stress. How I have suffered waiting for you to accept my love and attention, hoping for nothing in return except a small sign of your affection. I am strong in many respects, Gene, but I do not have the strength and patience to fight indifferent neglect. No woman does.