Текст книги "Fire Ice"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Dodson's eyes twinkled with merriment. "I'm prepared I to tell you everything you want to know, young man."

"Pardon?" Zavala had hoped to excavate a few nuggets and hadn't expected Dodson to offer him the whole gold mine.

After Mr. Perlmutter called, I gave this matter a great deal of thought. In my grandfather's will, he left his papers to Guildhall, to be made available to the public at the end of the century. Even I had never seen them. They were in my father's possession and became my responsibility after his death. They were being held by the law firm that handled my grandfather's will, and I didn't get around to actually reading them until they were at the library. I pulled them back after I came across my grandfather's narrative explaining his part in all this. Now, however, I've decided to honor his wishes, despite the consequences. Damn the torpedoes. Full speed ahead."

“Admiral Farragut at the battle of Mobile Bay."

"You're something of a naval historian yourself."

"It's hard not to be in my business."

"Which brings up a question of my own. Exactly what is NUMA's interest in this matter?"

"One of our survey ships found the wreck of an old freighter named the Odessa Star in the Black Sea."

Dodson sat back in his chair and shook his head. "The Odessa Star. So that’s what happened to her. Father thought she was caught in one of the dreadful storms that can plague those bloody waters."

"Not exactly. She was sunk by gunfire." Dodson couldn't have looked more startled if Zavala had thrown the glass of iced tea in his face. He composed himself. "Excuse me. I'll give you some material to read." He disappeared into the house and came back with what looked like a thick manuscript. "I'm going into the village to pick up some heirloom plantings for my garden. You should have plenty of time to absorb this. We can talk about it on my return. Jenna will keep you well supplied with tea or something stronger if you wish. Just ring this little bell."

Zavala watched Dodson's battered truck jounce down the driveway. He was surprised Dodson had entrusted the manuscript to a complete stranger. On second thought, Jenna looked capable of restraining him if he made one step toward his rental car with packet in hand. He untied the thick black ribbon that bound the pages of lined pale yellow paper and riffled through the manuscript. The letters were gracefully executed by someone who had studied penmanship, but the strokes were thick and wild, slanting forward, as if the writer was in a great hurry. Attached was evidently an English translation of the transcript.

The first page contained a short paragraph: "This is the journal of Major Peter Yakelev, captain in the tsar's Royal Cossacks Guard. I swear to God on my oath as an officer that all I'm about to tell you is true. " Zavala turned a page. "Odessa, 1918. As I sit in my humble room writing with fingers crippled by frostbite, I think of all I have endured in the past weeks. Bolshevik treachery, unspeakable cold and starvation have killed most of my sontia, the band of loyal Cossacks originally one hundred strong, only a handful of brave men remain. But the history of this valiant band will be written in blood, as saviors of Mother Russia, guardians of the flame of Peter the Great. Our own privations are nothing compared to those suffered by the gracious lady and her four daughters who, by the grace of God, have come into our care. God save the tsar! Within hours we leave our country forever and will set sail across the sea to Constantinople. This is the end of one story and the beginning of anothr:… "

Zavala became totally engrossed in the pages. The captain tended toward rhetorical flourishes, but he told a compelling story that took Zavala away from the sunlight playing on the English countryside to the bleak Russian winter. Blizzards howled across the steppes, death lurked in the dark forest, and treachery lay in wait in the humblest shack. He almost shivered with cold as he read of the hardships the captain and his men endured as they traveled through a dangerous and unforgiving land toward the sea. A shadow fell across the pages. Zavala looked up and saw Dodson standing there, a bemused smile on his face.

"Fascinating, isn't it?"

Zavala rubbed his eyes, then checked his watch. Two hours had passed. "It's incredible. What does it all mean?"

The Englishman picked up the bell and rang it. “Teatime."

The housekeeper brought out a steaming teapot and a tray of cucumber sandwiches and scones. Dodson poured their cups full, then leaned back in his chair and tented his fingers.

"My grandfather was undersecretary in King George's Foreign Office in 1917. He and the king had been drinking and womanizing companions in their youth. He was well acquainted with all the royal heads of Europe, including Tsar Nicholas, who was George's cousin. Nicholas was a short, slight man, although his ancestors had been a race of giants, and his limitations went beyond the physical. My father used to say that Nick wasn't a bad sort but a bit of a dim bulb."

“That description could fit half the political leaders in the world today."

"No argument there. Nicholas was even more inept than most, totally unsuited by intelligence and temperament for the job. Yet he had absolute authority over a hundred and thirty million people. He was entitled to the revenue from a million square miles of Crown lands and gold mines. Technically speaking, he was the richest man in the world. He owned eight magnificent palaces and was worth an estimated eight to ten billion dollars. In addition, he was the head of the church and, in the eyes of the peasantry, one step removed from God."

"That would have been a crushing responsibility for anyone."

"Quite so. He couldn't govern worth a damn, hated being tsar except for the chance to play soldier, and would have preferred living out his days in an English country house like this one. Unfortunately, it wasn't to be."

"The Russian Revolution came along."

"Precisely. You probably know much of what I'm about to say, but let me pull it all together for you. The conservatives in his court wanted him out even before the revolution. They worried that Russia's battering in World War I would trigger an uprising, and they hated the mad monk Rasputin because he had his hooks into the tsarina. There were demonstrations, food shortages, rampant inflation, strikes, refugees and anger over the millions of young Russians killed in this senseless war. Like the autocrat he was, Nicholas overreacted to the protests, his troops turned against him and he abdicated after being told it was in the best interests of the country. The Provisional Government arrested him, and he and his family were kept prisoner in their palace outside Saint Petersburg. The Provisional Government was overthrown by the well-organized Bolsheviks under Lenin, and Russia began its long, tragic experiment with Marxism."

"So Lenin and the communists inherited the tsar and his family."

"That's a good way of putting it. Lenin had the royal family and some servants and retainers moved to a mansion in Ekaterinburg, a gold-mining center in the Urals. And there, in July of 1918, they were supposedly all shot and bayoneted. Lenin was under pressure from his hard-liners, who wanted the entire family eliminated, and his people were talking to the Germans, who insisted on the safety of the women, but regarded the death of the tsar as an internal Russian affair. Lenin ordered the limited killings, then shifted the blame from his people to leftist revolutionaries. The story was generally accepted."

"What was your father's role at the time?"

"The king had ordered him to keep a close watch on events. King George and the tsar were cousins, after all. My father dispatched a trusted Russian-speaking agent named Albert Grimley to determine what had happened. You might say Grimley was the James Bond of his day. He arrived in Ekaterinburg shortly after the White Army chased the communists out and talked to the army officer investigating the murders. He found bullet holes and blood – but no bodies. The officer confided to Grimley that at most only two of the Romanovs had been murdered: the tsar and his son, who was heir to the throne. The officer's superiors suppressed his findings."

"Why would they do that?"

"The Whites were commanded by a reactionary monarchist general on a divine mission to save Russia from ruin.

He wanted the public to believe that the Bolsheviks murdered women and children. The family were more valuable to his cause as martyrs than as living people."

"What happened to the women?"

"It's all in Grimley's report. He suggested that the Bolsheviks moved the tsarina and the four girls before the male Romanovs were disposed of. The communists were in military trouble, and Lenin may have wanted the family as bargaining chips in case he got himself into a hash. Some researchers think the tsarina and her daughters were taken to a city called Perm, and stayed there until Perm came under attack by the Whites. Witnesses say the family was moved out with treasure and gold bullion that the communists had accumulated, and they and their treasure supposedly vanished from the official record on a train trip to Moscow. The Soviets clamped the lid down on all further information. It would have tarnished Lenin's halo if it got out that he was dealing with the Germans over the fate of the Romanovs."

"What happened to the Romanov treasure?"

"Only a small fraction of it was ever found."

"Your father reported his agent's findings to the king?"

"He filed a report saying that the mother and girls were probably alive and asked for help in putting together a rescue scheme. King George washed his hands of the affair, although he and Nicholas were related. Remember that the hated kaiser was cousin to George and Nicholas as well. Family loyalty only went so far among the royals. The king was afraid that he'd stir up the British left if he gave the women asylum. The tsarina was German by birth, and Germany was the enemy."

"So no attempt was made to rescue them."

"A rescue scheme was hatched by some Englishmen, but it didn't go anywhere because the family was moved. There were a couple of attempts by Cossacks, supported by Germans who wanted a restoration of Russia's imperial house. The kaiser may have felt guilty about inflicting Lenin on the tsar to take pressure off the Eastern Front. The most interesting plot was a scheme to kidnap the family and spirit them through German-occupied Ukraine, then across the Black Sea in a neutral ship."

"Why did it fail?"

"It didn't, actually."

"They were rescued?"

"Yes, but not by the Germans. The Cossacks didn't trust Germany. Somewhere along the way, possibly during that trek to Moscow, the intrepid band of Cossacks who had failed to save them once before managed to kidnap the family and fought their way to the Black Sea."

Zavala picked up the manuscript. "Major Yakelev?"

Dodson smiled. "The Cossack officer must have been extremely resourceful and determined. Yakelev is vague about exactly how the women came under his protection. He was saving that for when he got out of Russia. The journal was to be published when the Romanovs made their appearance in Europe. This manuscript was to go to Europe by a neutral ship and would garner them the instant sympathy of the world. It came into the possession of my grandfather, and when the family failed to arrive, he kept it for want of anything better to do."

"Do you have any idea who might have sunk the ship?"

"This is where it gets dicey," Dodson said, with a frown.

"Especially in light of what you said about the ship having been sunk by gunfire." He took a deep breath. "As my father recounts it in his papers, the family were to be taken secretly to Turkey, where a German U-boat would be waiting to spirit them out of the country. Turkey was allied with Germany. Britain was told of the plan and agreed not to attack the V-boat on its way to Europe."

"That was generous of the British." Dodson guffawed. "Oh, they were a wily bunch in the good old days. Their generosity was based on the assumption that the family would be captured by the Bolsheviks."

"That was quite a gamble."

"Not really. England told Lenin and his thugs that the family were escaping on the Odessa Star."

"Your grandfather knew of this?"

"He argued strenuously against it, but was overruled."

"By whom?"

"By King George."

Zavala's eyes narrowed. "I see why you were reluctant to make this information public. Some people might not like learning that the king was a traitorous informant and accessory to a multiple murder."

"I don't know if I'd go so far as to identify the king as a criminal, though what he did was morally reprehensible. It was naivete on his part, but George never dreamed that Lenin would be so ruthless as to order them assassinated. My father said the king assumed the women would be kept in a convent. The Bolsheviks may have given the impression that no harm would come to them."

They sat in silence for a few moments, alone with their thoughts, listening to the trill of the birds.

Zavala shook his head in puzzlement. "There's something I don't get. A few years ago, the Russians dug up some bones that were supposedly identified as those of the Romanov family."

"The Soviet government was masterful at fabricating evidence. I would assume that they passed along that skill to their successors. There may be some truth to the story of the tsar's bones, but even so, the remains of the boy, Alexis, and his sister the Grand Duchess Maria were never found."

"Maria?"

"Yes, she was the second youngest. Why?"

Zavala went out to his car and returned with the Perlmutter file. He leafed thorough the contents and pulled out the book excerpt on the little mermaid, which he handed to Dodson. The Englishman donned a pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses. As he pored over the file, his expression grew grave.

"Astounding! If this is accurate, the Romanov line didn’t die out! Maria, or Marie as she's called here, went on to marry and have children."

"That's my take on it."

"Do you know what this means? Somewhere there may be a legitimate heir to the tsar's throne." He ran his fingers through his hair. "My God, what a catastrophe!"

"I'm not sure I understand."

Dodson composed himself. "Russia is in the midst of great turmoil. It is still seeking its identity. Beneath this bubbling cauldron is a fire of nationalism. Those who would go back to the days of Peter the Great and the tsars have touched a yearning in the Russian people, but all they have had to sell is a memory of a forgotten time. With an actual heir to the tsar, their cause would have focus. It is a country that still controls weapons of mass destruction and a major share of the world's natural resources. It will not be safe for the world if Russia lapses into a civil war and follows the lead of the worst kind of demagogue. British complicity in the plot against the tsar will stir up all those paranoid feelings against the West." He affixed Zavala with a steely gaze. "Tell your superiors that they must be discreet. Otherwise no one may be able to control the consequences."

Zavala was bowled over by the emotional reaction from this reserved Englishman. "Yes, of course, I'll tell them what you said."

But Dodson seemed to have forgotten that Zavala was even there. "The tsar is dead," he murmured. "Long live the tsar."

26

WASHINGTON, D.C.

LEROY JENKINS CAUGHT his breath as he stepped from the wilting Washington heat into the cool interior of the thirty-story green glass tower overlooking the Potomac. The exterior of the tall tubular building was impressive enough, but nothing could have prepared him for his first glimpse inside NUMA headquarters. He craned his neck to gaze up to the top of the atrium lobby, then swept his eyes around the tumbling waterfalls and aquaria filled with exotic fish, taking in the huge globe of the world that rose from the center of the sea-green marble floor.

Smiling like a child in a toy shop, he started across the giant lobby, threading his way among the gaggles of tourists who trailed behind impeccably uniformed guides. An attractive woman in her twenties, one of several receptionists at a long information desk, saw Jenkins approach and beamed him in with a pleasant smile.

"May I help you?" Jenkins was struck dumb. On the flight from Portland, he'd rehearsed what he would say when he got to NUMA. Now his tongue seemed glued to the roof of his mouth. He was overcome by awe at being in the heart of the biggest ocean science agency in the world. He felt like Fred Flintstone visiting the Jetsons. As an oceanographer, he had long contemplated a trip to the Holy Grail of ocean science, but his teaching duties had intervened and later he was consumed by his wife's illness. Now, he'd reached the point where he didn't like to leave Maine, because, as he joked, his gills would close up if he ventured too far from the sea.

The air seemed to crackle with electrical energy. Every nontourist in view clutched a laptop computer. No one carried anything remotely resembling the battered tan briefcase in his sweaty hand. Jenkins was uncomfortably aware of his wrinkled khaki pants, his worn Hush Puppies and the faded blue chambray work shirt, damp from the heat. He removed the tan fisherman's cap and wiped the sweat off his forehead with a red bandanna, immediately regretting the move because it made him look even more like a hick. He stuffed the bandanna back into his pocket.

"Someone in particular you'd like to see?"

"Yes, but I'm not sure who it might be." Jenkins offered a weak grin. "Sorry to be so vague."

The receptionist was familiar with the symptoms. "You're not the first person who's been vague. This place can be a bit overwhelming. Let's see what we can work out. Could you tell me your name?"

"Sure, it's Roy Jenkins. Dr: Leroy Jenkins, I mean. I taught oceanography at the University of Maine before I retired a few years ago."

"That narrows it down. Would you like to speak to someone in the oceanography division, Dr. Jenkins?"

Hearing the title before his name gave him courage. He said, "I'm not sure. I've some questions of a specialized nature."

"Why don't we start in oceanography and go from there?"

The young woman picked up the phone, pressed a button and spoke a few words. "Go right up, Dr. Jenkins. The receptionist on the ninth floor is expecting you." She flashed her fabulous smile again and directed her eyes to the next person in line.

Jenkins made his way toward the ranks of elevators off to one side of the lobby. Still wondering if he had come all this way to make a fool of himself in front of some young Ph.D. with a pocket protector and a condescending attitude, he stepped into an elevator and pushed a button. Too late now, he thought as the elevator whisked him skyward.

ON THE TENTH floor of the NUMA building, Hiram Yaeger sat in front of a horseshoe-shaped console and stared at an immense computer monitor that looked as if it were suspended in space. Displayed on the screen was the image of a narrow-faced man with beetling brows bent over a chessboard. Yaeger watched the man move the white rook two spaces. He studied the board a moment and said, "Bishop to queen five. Check and checkmate."

The man on the screen nodded and tipped his king over with a forefinger. In a thick accent, he said, "Thank you for the game, Hiram. We must play again." The screen went blank except for a pale green afterglow.

The middle-aged man sitting next to Yaeger said, "Very impressive. Victor Karpov isn't exactly a slouch."

"I cheated, Hank. When I programmed all of Karpov's games into Max's data banks, I set up an array of responses based on Bobby Fischer's strategy. Fischer simply overrode any dumb move I made."

"It all sounds like magic to me," Hank Reed replied. "Speaking of vanishing acts, I wonder where our pastrami sandwiches are." He licked his lips. "I think I'd work for NUMA even if they didn't pay me, just so I could use the cafeteria."

Yaeger nodded in agreement. "Let's get back to work. If the delivery guy doesn't arrive in five minutes, I'll call again."

"Sounds good," Hank said. "Did Austin ever say why he wanted this stuff?"

Yaeger chuckled knowingly. "Kurt's the ultimate poker player. He never shows his cards until he lays down his hand."

Austin had called Yaeger earlier in the day with a cheery "Good morning." Getting right to the point, he'd said, "I need some help from Max. Is she in a good mood?"

"Max is always in a good mood, Kurt. As long as I ply her with electronic cocktails, she'll do anything I ask." In a stage whisper, he said, "She thinks I want her for her mind and not her body."

"I didn't know Max had a body."

"She has her pick of bodies. Mae West. Betty Grable. Marilyn Monroe. Jennifer Lopez. Whatever I program in."

"Please soften her up with a few drinks and ask her to dig up what she can on the subject of methane hydrates."

Austin had been thinking about methane hydrates since the Trouts had told him Ataman Industries was attempting to mine them from the ocean floor.

"I'll have a package for you later today, if that's okay."

"Fine. I'll be pretty much tied up with Admiral Sandecker this morning."

Yaeger made no attempt to ask when Austin wanted the information. If Austin wanted it, it was important. And if it was important, he wanted it immediately.

People who met Yaeger for the first time sometimes found it difficult to reconcile the scruffy-Levis-and-T-shirt look with his reputation as a computer whiz. It only took a few minutes of watching him at work to see why Admiral Sandecker had made him the head of NUMA's oceans data center. From his console, he had access to vast resources of data on ocean technology and history and every related bit of information on and under the seas.

Finding his way through the massive amount of data at his command required a deft hand. Yaeger knew that if Max searched out every mention of methane hydrates recorded, he would drown in the digital deluge. He needed someone to point the way. Hank Reed immediately came to mind.

Reed was in his lab when Yaeger called. "Hi, Hank. I could use your geochemical expertise. Any chance you could break away from your Bunsen burners for a few minutes?”

"Don't tell me NUMA's resident computer whiz needs the help of a mere human being. What's wrong, did your know-it-all machine blow a fuse?"

"Nope. Max truly does know it all, which is why I need someone on the slow side to bird-dog the data. Tell you what, I'll buy lunch."

"Flattery and food. An irresistible combination. I'll be right up."

Reed walked into the data center wearing a warm smile. Despite their playful insults, they were the best of friends, bound by their eccentricities. With his graying ponytail and wire-rimmed granny glasses, Yaeger looked like he belonged in the cast of Hair: Dr. Henry Reed had a round cherub's face and a high thatch of wheat-colored hair that added a few inches to his five-foot height and looked like it could have been combed with a pitchfork. The thick round glasses perched on his small nose gave him the expression of a benign owl. He took the chair Yaeger offered and rubbed his pudgy hands together.

"Plunk your magic twanger, Froggy."

Yaeger looked over the tops of his granny glasses. "Huh?"

"It's from an old program, I can't remember which it was. Froggy was a – Never mind. You probably never even heard of radio."

Yaeger grinned. "Sure I have. My grandmother told me about it. Television without pictures." He leaned back in his chair with his hands behind his head and said, "Max, say hello to my pal, Dr. Reed."

A feminine voice purred through the speakers placed strategically around the room.

"Hello, Dr. Reed. How nice to see you again…"

AS THE DOORS hissed shut behind him, Roy Jenkins thought it strange that he was the only one getting off the elevator. He looked at the numerals on the wall and swore to himself. He'd become the absentminded professor he had always scorned. The receptionist had said the ninth floor. Preoccupied with his thoughts, he had pushed the button for the tenth.

Instead of the standard office architecture of hallways, cubicles and offices, a vast glass-enclosed area took up the entire floor. Jenkins should have turned back to the elevator, but scientific curiosity got the best of him. He walked past banks of blinking computers, glancing from left to right, listening to the electronic whisperings. He could have landed on an alien planet peopled only by machines. With some relief he came upon the two men behind the large glowing console at the center of the computer complex. They were looking at a large screen that seemed to hang by invisible wires, and was dominated by the image of a woman in vivid color. She had topaz brown eyes, auburn hair and the bottom of the monitor barely hid her ample cleavage.

The woman was talking, but even more odd, one of the men, who wore his long hair in a ponytail, was talking back to her. Thinking he had stumbled into a showing of a very private nature, Jenkins was about to back out, but the other man, who sported a hairdo like a wheat plant gone to seed, saw him and grinned.

"At last, our pastrami sandwiches," he said.

"Pardon me?"

Reed saw that Jenkins was carrying a briefcase instead of f a white paper bag, studied Jenkins's weathered and tanned face and then took in the workshirt and cap.

"Guess you're not from the cafeteria," he said sadly.

"My name is Leroy Jenkins. I'm sorry to bother you. I got off at the wrong floor and sort of wandered in here." He looked around. "What is this place?"

"NUMA's computer center," said the ponytailed man. He was boyish, clean-shaven face with a narrow nose and gray eyes. "Max can answer just about any question you throw her way."

"Max?"

Yaeger gestured to the screen. "I'm Hiram Yaeger. This is Hank Reed. That lovely lady up there is a holographic illusion. Her voice is a feminine version of my own. I used my own face originally, but I got tired of looking at myself and dreamed up a pretty woman, my own wife."

Max smiled. "Thank you for the compliment, Hiram."

"You're welcome. Max is smart as well as beautiful. Ask her any question you'd like. Max, this is Mr. Jenkins."

The image smiled and said, "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Jenkins."

I've been in the wilds of Maine for too long, Jenkins thought. "Actually, it's Dr. Jenkins. I'm an oceanologist." He drew a breath in. "I'm afraid my questions are rather complicated. They've got to do with methane hydrates."

Yaeger and Reed looked at each other, then at Jenkins.

Max said, with a sigh that was more than human, "Is it really necessary to repeat myself?"

"Nothing personal, Dr. Jenkins. Max has been working on the same subject for the last hour or so," Yaeger said. He punched out the cafeteria number on the phone and turned to Jenkins. "We'd like you to join us for lunch."

Reed leaned forward. "I recommend the pastrami. It's an existential experience."

THE SANDWICH WAS as tasty as promised. Jenkins realized that with the exception of the bag of peanuts he'd had on the plane, his stomach was empty. He took a swig of root beer to wash his lunch down and looked at the other men, who were waiting expectantly.

"This is going to sound crazy," he said.

"Crazy is our middle name," Yaeger said. Reed nodded his head in agreement. Although the two men looked like an overaged hippie and a munchkin with a Don King hairdo, they appeared very bright. More important, they were interested in hearing his story.

"Don't say I didn't warn you," he said. "Okay," he began. "I retired from teaching college a few years ago and bought a lobster boat in Rocky Point, my hometown."

"Aha! A fisherman," Reed said. "I knew it."

Jenkins smiled, then resumed. "You probably read about the tsunami that hit there not too long ago."

"Yes, it was an awful tragedy," Reed said.

"It could have been worse." Jenkins explained his role in warning the town.

"Lucky you were there," Yaeger said. "Something puzzles me, though. First time I've heard of something like that happening. New England isn't at the edge of a major fault like Japan or California."

"The only comparable precedent I found was the big wave caused by the Grand Banks earthquake in 1929. The quake's epicenter was under the ocean on the continental slope south of Newfoundland and east of Nova Scotia. The tremor was felt in Canada and New England, but the source was two hundred and fifty miles from the nearest land, so damage was negligible. Roads were blocked by landslides, chimneys broken and dishes rattled. Otherwise, the shock had little impact. The biggest effect was on the sea."

"In what way?" Reed said.

"There were two ships near the epicenter. The vibrations were so violent they thought they'd lost a propeller or hit an uncharted wreck or sandbar. The quake created a great wave that struck the south coast of Newfoundland three hours later, running up into rivers and inlets in the little fishing villages along sixty miles of coastline. The worst damage was at a wedge-shaped bay on the Burin Peninsula. The tsunami rose to thirty feet at the apex of the bay, damaged docks and buildings and killed more than twenty-five people."

"Very similar to what happened at Rocky Point."

"Almost a mirror image. The fatality and injury rate was lower in my town, thank goodness. There was another important similarity. Both waves seem to have been caused by huge underwater slides. There was no doubt that an earthquake caused the Grand Banks disaster. The oceanic cables were broken in dozens of places." He paused. "Here's where they were different: The Rocky Point slide seems to have been caused without a quake."

"Interesting. Were there any seismic readings?"

"I checked with the Weston Observatory outside of Boston. The Grand Banks quake had a magnitude of 7.2. So we know something of that magnitude will cause a tsunami. The Rocky Point readings were more muddled." He paused. "There was a shock, but it didn't fit the classic pattern for a quake."