Titanic 2012 Part 4

Harlan had thought of everything. Aside from the pricey first-cla.s.s airline ticket, an extravagance I fully enjoyed, he'd booked me a private compartment on the train. I liked European trains, for though they were as sleek and as modern as any in the United States or j.a.pan, they still retained the quaint modular design, whereby each compartment opened onto the platform. As for the compartment itself, it boasted standard seating for four (both seat backs folded down to beds), two fold-down writing desks the size of postage stamps, each replete with a data port, and a well-stocked mini-bar. Unfortunately, the only beverages offered were thimble-sized bottles of mediocre vodka and cans of a local soft drink, the name of which I could not decipher. In any event, it was cozy and didn't smell too bad.

Sitting down, I propped my feet up on the swing-out footstool, sighing when the soft plush of the seat molded itself around me. That, and the clackety-clack of the wheels, began to calm me. I fell into a fitful sleep, awakening only twice, once for the conductor asking for my ticket, and once to use the tiny closet of a bathroom. Aside from that, no one bothered me during the entire trip.

A frigid wind was howling in off the Baltic when my train pulled into the Gdansk station. I'd somehow managed a cramped shower and changed my clothes. The train hissed to a stop, and I grabbed my bag, stepping out onto the platform. This late in the evening, the station was deserted, with only a handful of maintenance workers on-hand to greet my fellow pa.s.sengers and me. Even after my long nap, I was still tired, and my neck ached, as if twisted by some s.a.d.i.s.tic chiropractor. All I wanted was to get the h.e.l.l out of there and grab a cab to the hotel. As usual, Harlan had me covered.

Outside the station, I dashed for the line of cabs idling at the curb. The blast of a car horn startled me; I turned and spotted Harlan standing up through the sunroof of a stretch Mercedes limo, grinning from ear to ear. He looked thinner than he had on my computer screen six weeks before; and there were dark circles under his eyes, but if anything, his enthusiasm had only increased.

Leaping out of the Mercedes, he encircled me in a bear hug. "It's great to see you, Trev. Come on, there's lots to tell."

While the limo wound its way through the city's darkened and desolate streets, Harlan filled me in on the upcoming schedule of events.

"The press conference tomorrow is scheduled for 11:00 a.m. Immediately after that, we'll move out to the hangar for the christening and the launch. You'll never guess who I've got to wield the champagne."

I shrugged.

"Kate Winslet."

"You're kidding. I heard she was in the middle of shooting a picture in South Africa."

"She is. But I paid off the producers, the cast and crew, and gave them all a week off. Besides, only a great woman like Kate should christen a s.h.i.+p like this."

He laughed, and I had to admit I envied him his ability to think so big-and his wherewithal to bring it off.

"The press know anything, yet?"

Harlan cracked a sly grin. "Those sonsab.i.t.c.hes are practically foaming at the mouth, if you can believe that."

"Oh, I believe it. After I hit the bestseller list the third time, my publisher had me on a signing tour for two months straight. And everywhere I went those bozos asked the same dumb questions." I shook my head remembering the inanity of it all.

After a ride of twenty minutes, the limo pulled up in front of our hotel, a soot-blackened pile of rock that looked as if it had been through a war. Then I realized that it had been through at least two.

Inside, the grand old dowager had retained much of her dignity and appointments, enough to make it seem as if I were in one of New York's or London's lesser hostelries.

After I checked in, we had coffee in the restaurant. I was surprised to see the place was busy at one o'clock in the morning. Harlan read my mind.

"Most of these people don't eat dinner until ten o'clock at night, some even later," he said, shaking his head. "I don't know why they don't all end up with acid reflux disease. Then again, I'll bet they sell lots of TUMS here."

He laughed and ran a hand through his hair. I noticed it was a lot grayer than at our reunion nine months before.

"I've been meaning to ask you something, Harlan."

"Shoot."

"You told us back in June why you wanted to do this. But, now that you're almost there, has it been worth it?"

He stared back into my eyes with the kind of look I can only describe as prophetic. Not in the way most people use that word, but as in a prophet of the Old Testament: intense, with a touch of divine madness. It thrilled me and scared the h.e.l.l out of me all at once.

"Ask me that after tomorrow," he said, picking up his espresso.

"Then again, you won't." The crazed look was gone, replaced by one of tired satisfaction. "She's really a beaut, kiddo, a real knockout."

"You have many pa.s.sengers booked?"

"About two hundred, so far," he said, staring into his cup. "I've decided to limit the pa.s.senger list to five hundred for this trip. I'm sure I'll have the rest by sailing day. As it is, I've had to turn a lot of people away...."

"Why?" I asked, puzzled. "Surely not the money?"

Harlan shook his head, a distracted look creeping into his eyes.

"No, money isn't the main criterion on this voyage. I'm just being very selective."

After a few more minutes of small talk, we called it an evening and I took the elevator up to my suite. Again, Harlan had surprised me by booking me into the Presidential Suite: A master bedroom, a sprawling sitting room and a smaller, but no less extravagant bedroom adjoining.

In all, over two-thousand square feet of bygone opulence. I was mortified.

"Jesus Christ, Harlan," I said to myself, "you're spending it as if someone were about to take it all away from you." I shook my head and went to the phone, intent on calling down to the front desk to request a room change. It rang before I reached it.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"How do you like it, kiddo?"

"Harlan, it's wonderful. I feel like the Sultan of Brunei, but I don't need it. It's way too expensive."

He laughed. "You're saying that to a guy who just spent six hundred million on a boat?"

"My point exactly."

"I've got news for you, Trev. My lawyers and accountants are setting up a foundation. It's piling up faster than I can spend it. So, relax and enjoy it. You're only here for one night, anyway."

I sighed. It was no use arguing over it, plus I was beat. And the wide king-size bed did look inviting. "All right. You win."

"Naturally," he said, chuckling. "Oh, I've sent up a little room service, too. Enjoy."

"Harlan, I'm not hungry-"

He hung up before I could say anymore. Two seconds later there was a knock on the door.

"Yeah?"

"Room service," came the heavily-accented reply.

I opened the door to find a uniformed waitress standing behind a cart draped with white linen and silverware. In the center was a champagne bucket covered by a folded napkin, the top of the bottle poking out. Next to the bucket was a plate filled with caviar-topped canapes. Never one to refuse a gift (it obviously didn't do any good, anyway), I waved the young lady in.

She pushed the cart into the middle of the room and presented me with a bill. I signed it then reached for the bottle.

I almost dropped it when I saw the label: Dom Perignon 1912. A note was attached: Just a little something to get you in the mood. It's great having you here. Harlan.

It was then I noticed the waitress was still there, and there were two champagne flutes on the cart. I turned to let her know everything was fine and nearly dropped the bottle again.

She was stark naked, and breathtaking.

"I am to please," she said, her voice low and throaty, eyes downcast.

I swallowed, my throat having gone dry. "Uhh, excuse me?"

"I am to please," she repeated, a flush spreading across her ample chest and up her long, slender neck.

"I got that. Did Mr. Astor arrange this little tete-a-tete?"

She bit her pouty lips. "I do not-"

I shook my head. "Sorry. Did Mr. Astor pay you?" I rubbed my thumb and forefinger together.

The girl's face lit up. "Yes! Big dollars!"

"Oh, brother," I said, placing the champagne back in the bucket. I started to reach for the phone to call Harlan. During our initial conversation on the ride to the hotel, I'd mentioned Julia and I were no longer an item. He'd obviously arranged this-in his own inimitable way-to help me get her out of my system, but when I neared the phone, the girl became hysterical.

"Please, do not call police!" She trembled with terror, and I felt sorry for her. To tell the truth, she was d.a.m.n attractive. But I was dog-tired and not really in the mood.

"All right, you can stay. But no hanky-panky."

"No panky-hanky?"

"No."

She shrugged her shoulders and began putting on her scattered clothes. On impulse, I decided to throw caution to the wind and opened the champagne, pouring a gla.s.s for each of us. It was marvelous, somehow both drier and more subtle than I would have expected from a century-old bottle of champagne.

Between the two of us, we polished it off in twenty minutes, and then we went to bed-me in the master bedroom, her in the other. An hour later, I awakened, feeling her slide into the bed, her smooth cool skin tingling my backside. A moment later she kissed my neck and reached for me.

I didn't refuse her.

The next morning, I awoke to the sun streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. My bedmate was gone, as were the remnants of the champagne and caviar. For a fleeting moment I wondered if I'd dreamed the whole affair. Then I saw the condom's empty foil wrapper lying on the floor, and I caught a whiff of her perfume on the pillow next to mine.

Lavender. A curious scent for one so young.

Smiling, I glanced at the clock.

9:45.

In a little over two hours, I would be seeing the s.h.i.+p for the first time. A thrill ran through me while I showered and dressed in the one good suit I'd brought. Harlan wanted us all to look our best for the press. All the better for them to pillory us, I thought.

Downstairs, I asked the desk clerk to ring up Harlan's suite. "Mr. Astor has already left, sir. However, he asked me to inform you his car is at your disposal."

"Thank you," I said, shaking my head in wonderment. If this kept up, I'd be spoiled rotten. Too nervous to eat, I left the hotel and found the Mercedes limo waiting at the curb, a cloud of exhaust pluming in the morning chill.

The uniformed chauffeur, a young Pole with a Ches.h.i.+re cat grin on his face, leaped out of the driver's seat and held open the rear door. I climbed in, and a moment later the limo sped away.

The closer we drew to the Gdansk s.h.i.+pyards, the heavier the traffic became. The chauffeur, still grinning, expertly threaded the ungainly vehicle through the streets. We finally reached the gates at 10:30. The guard, a stolid type with a shaved head and a face full of freckles, eyed the papers proffered by the chauffeur and waved us through.

Late in the last century, when Poland was still communist, the s.h.i.+pyards were state-owned-one giant monolithic operation. Now, years after going private, the yards were home to dozens of firms, all of whom competed. Harlan told me the slipways-where the s.h.i.+ps were actually constructed-were shared and had to be reserved far in advance. "I had to pull a lot of strings to get this project ahead of all the others," he'd said. I could only imagine it meant more money, no doubt greasing the palms of former apparatchiks who'd mastered the art of capitalistic graft in short order.

The Mercedes traveled the central road toward the water, and I noticed dozens of news vans lining both sides, their satellite dishes pointing skyward on the end of long telescoping poles. Aside from CNN, all the U.S. networks were represented, plus news organizations from nearly every major country in the world.

We came to the end of the street and turned the corner. More news vans were parked in front of the main building at the far end, and a crowd-perhaps numbering in the hundreds-choked the road, milling about in a state of nervous excitement. There appeared to be a lot of families, too, possibly those of the workers.

The black hangar enshrouding the s.h.i.+p dominated the entire length of the street on the quayside. Set out about fifty feet into the harbor, and reached by a wide concrete jetty, it looked even more monolithic than it had from the shots I'd seen on the MacBook's screen.

Smooth walls towered over three hundred and seventy-five feet in the air and stretched a thousand feet in length-enough room for both the s.h.i.+p and the overhead gantry needed to construct it. When we drove past, I saw the entire structure was mounted on rails, no doubt motorized, allowing it to unsheathe the s.h.i.+p for launching. A large flag-draped reviewing stand stood right up against it. The flags were the red-and-white swallow-tailed burgees of the now-defunct White Star Line.

The chauffeur pulled up in front of the main building and held open the door for me. I climbed out, my eyes searching for Harlan.

"Mr. Hughes?"

I turned and saw a young bespectacled woman walking toward me, her hand outstretched. "Hi, I'm Trina McCloskey, Mr. Astor's a.s.sistant," she said, gripping my hand firmly.

While not unattractive, she wore little makeup, and was dressed in a dark, conservative pinstriped suit, her hair pulled back from a lean triangular face. Her light brown eyes appeared to be magnified through the thick lenses of her wire-rimmed gla.s.ses.

"Nice to meet you, Trina. Where's Harlan?"

She indicated that we should start walking and led me toward the building. "He's in a meeting with the owners of the yard. Settling accounts."

I smiled, imagining the wide-eyed gleam in those men's eyes while they watched Harlan sign a six-hundred-million dollar check. Of course, I knew things were not done that way, but it made for an amusing image.

"Where are we going?"

"Mr. Astor requested I take you into the press room. We're almost ready to start."

The "press room" turned out to be a cavernous chamber painted an inst.i.tutional green, and looked to be a hastily converted cafeteria.

Row after row of folding chairs had been set up facing a raised platform at the far end of the room. In the center of the platform stood a podium bathed in television lights and bristling with a profusion of microphones. Hi-Def cameras on tripods lined both sides of the room and filled the back; and every one of the folding chairs held a member of the world's press, chattering away with his or her neighbor. The noise level gave me an instant headache.

"Can I get you anything?" Trina yelled, her voice shrill.

"How about some aspirin?"

She smiled for the first time, revealing a mouthful of capped teeth.

"I know what you mean."

"I'll be fine, that is if I can find a place to sit." I said.

"Your seat is at the extreme right," she said, pointing to the makes.h.i.+ft stage and the row of chairs lined up behind the podium. No doubt these were reserved for the VIPs accompanying Harlan.

"If that's okay, I think I'll wait for Harlan." I said, nodding to the reporters. I had no intention of being the first on the dais and have all those newshounds staring at me.

Trina seemed to understand. She returned my nod and then left the room. I found a place near the back wall behind one of the camera crews and waited. Five minutes later, the doors opened up and Harlan marched in, Trina at his elbow, followed by a retinue of about a dozen people. I suspected they were the owners of the yard and others of Harlan's staff. I followed them onto the dais and took my seat where Trina had indicated. Harlan took his place behind the podium, a self-satisfied smile curling his lips.

I reached into my pocket, pulled out my iPod touch, switched on the video mode and framed the podium in a medium shot.