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"Not at all. Everything was in its place. The bunks in a side chamber were made, the kitchen was cleared up, all the utensils were still on the shelves. Even the mules used to haul the ore cars had been taken to the working chamber and efficiently shot; their skulls each had a neat round hole in its center. No, I'd say the departure was very methodical.
"You have not yet explained your conclusion as to the Coloradans' identity," Donner said flatly.
"I'm coming to it now." Koplin fluffed a pillow and turned gingerly on his side. "The indications were all there, of course. The heavier equipment still bore the manufacturers' trademarks. The ore cars had been built by the Guthrie and Sons Foundry of Pueblo, Colorado; the drilling equipment came from the Thor Forge and Ironworks of Denver; and the small tools showed the names of the various blacksmiths who had forged them. Most had come from Central City and Idaho Springs, both mining towns in Colorado."
Seagram leaned back in his chair. "The Russians could have purchased the equipment in Colorado and then shipped it to the island."
"Possibly," Koplin said. "However, there were a few other bits and pieces that also led to Colorado."
"Such as?"
"The body in one of the bunks for one."
Seagram's eyes narrowed. "A body?"
"With red hair and a red beard," Koplin said casually. "Nicely preserved by the sub-zero temperature. It was the inscription on the wood above the bunk supports that proved most intriguing. It said, in English, I might add, `Here rests Jake Hobart. Born 1874. A damn good man who froze in a storm, February 10, 1912."'
Seagram rose from his chair and paced around the bed "A name, that at least is a start." He stopped and looked at Koplin. "Were there any personal effects left lying around?"
"All clothing was gone. Oddly, the labels on the food cans were French. But then there were about fifty empty wrappers, Mile-Hi Chewing Tobacco, scattered on the ground. The last piece of the puzzle though, the piece that definitely ties it to the Coloradans, was a faded yellow copy of the Rocky Mountain News, dated November 17, 1911. It was this part of the evidence that I lost."
Seagram pulled out a pack of cigarettes and shook one loose. Donner held a lighter for him and Seagram nodded.
"Then there is a chance the Russians may not have possession of the byzanium," he said.
"There is one more thing," Koplin said quietly. "The top-right section of page three of the newspaper had been neatly snipped out. It may mean nothing, but, on the other hand, a check of the publisher's old files might tell you something."
"It might at that." Seagram regarded Koplin thoughtfully. "Thanks to you, we have our work laid out for us."
Donner nodded. "I'll reserve a seat on the next flight to Denver. With luck, I should come up with a few answers."
"Make the newspaper your first stop, then try and trace Jake Hobart. I'll make a check on old military records from this end. Also, contact a local expert on Western mining history, and run down the names of the manufacturers Sid gave us. However unlikely, one of them might still be in business."
Seagram stood up and looked down at Koplin. "We owe you more than we can ever repay," he said softly.
"I figure those old miners dug nearly half a ton of high-grade byzanium from the guts of that bitch mountain," Koplin said, rubbing his hand through a month's growth of beard. "That ore has got to be stashed away in the world somewhere. Then again, if it hasn't emerged since 1912, it may be lost forever. But, if you find it, make that when you find it, you can say thanks by sending me a small sample for my collection."
"Consider it done."
"And while you're at it, get me the address of the fellow who saved my life so I can send him a case of vintage wine. His name is Dirk Pitt."
"You must mean the doctor on board the research vessel who operated on you."
"l mean the man who killed the Soviet patrol guard and his dog, and carried me off the island."
Donner and Seagram looked at each other thunderstruck.
Donner was the first to recover. "Killed a Soviet patrol guard!" It was more statement than question. "My God, that tears it!"
"But that's impossible!" Seagram finally managed to blurt. "When you rendezvoused with the NUMA ship, you were alone."
"Who told you that?"
"Well . . . no one. We naturally assumed--"
"I'm not Superman," Koplin said sarcastically. "The patrol guard picked up my trail, closed to within two hundred yards, and shot me twice. I was hardly in any condition to outrun a dog and then sail a sloop over fifty miles of open sea."
"Where did this Dirk Pitt come from?"
