"Danielle did not hear the raving of a delirious man. There was a great deal of pain, but my mind was clear when I told her I wanted you to consult Max Roubaix."
"Playing some sort of childish game, Charles?"
Sarveux ignored him. "A very old and dear friend said you would betray my trust and the faith the Canadian people had in you. I could not bring myself to believe you were a traitor, Henri. But I had to be sure. You took the bait and threatened the United States with energy blackmail. A grave mistake on your part, antagonizing a superpower in the next yard."
Villon's mouth tightened in an ugly grin. "So you think you know something. To hell with you and to hell with the United States. As long as Quebec controls the St. Lawrence River and the hydroelectricity from James Bay it will be we who dictate to them and western Canada for a change. The Americans' righteous and holy preaching has made them clowns in the eyes of the world. They sit smug in their stupid morality, caring only about their private assets and bank accounts. America is a fading power on the way out. Inflation will finish their economic system. If they dare try and ram sanctions down Quebec's throat, we'll cut their circuits."
"Brave talk," said Sarveux. "But like so many others, you'll find that underestimating their resolve never pays. When their backs are to the wall, the Americans have a habit of coming out fighting."
"The guts have gone out of them," Villon sneered.
"You're a fool." Sarveux could not suppress the chill that ran through him. "For the good of Canada I will unmask and break you."
"You couldn't break a shop clerk," Villon mocked him.
"You haven't got a shred of solid evidence against me. No, Charles, soon the English-speaking bastards will kick you out of office, and I'll see to it you're not welcome in Quebec. It's about time you woke up to the fact that you're a man without a country." Villon rose and pulled a sealed envelope from his breast pocket and dropped it rudely in Sarveux's lap. "My resignation from the cabinet."
"Accepted," Sarveux said with grim finality.
Villon could not leave without one parting insult. "You're a pitiful creature, Charles. You haven't come to grips with it yet, but you have nothing left, not even your precious Danielle."
At the doorway Villon turned for a last look at Sarveux, expecting to see a man drowning in despair and defeat, his hopes and dreams shattered beyond repair.
Instead, he saw a man who was inexplicably smiling.
Villon went direct to his office in the Parliament building and began cleaning out his desk. He saw no purpose in waiting for morning and suffering through a multitude of goodbyes from men he neither respected nor liked.
His chief aide knocked and entered. "You have several messages-"
Villon waved a hand and cut him off. "I'm not interested. As of one hour ago I am no longer minister of internal affairs."
"There is one from Mr. Brian Shaw that sounded quite urgent. Also, General Simms has been personally trying to reach you."
"Yes, that North American Treaty affair," Villon said without looking up. "They're, probably begging for more men and equipment."
"Actually it's a request for our navy to escort the American ship off the wreckage of the Empress of Ireland."
"Fill out the necessary papers and sign my name to them. Then contact the commanding naval officer of the St. Lawrence District and have him carry out the request."
The aide turned and started for his office.
"Wait!" Villon's French fervor suddenly welled up within him. "One more thing. Instruct General Simms and Mr. Shaw that the sovereign nation of Quebec no longer relishes British meddling in her territory, and they are to cease all surveillance activities at once. Then get a message to our mercenary friend, Mr. Gly. Tell him there's a fat bonus for giving the NUMA ship a rousing farewell party. He'll understand."
They came late the following morning, ensigns flying and half the crew smartly turned out to stare at the Ocean Venturer. The foam fell away from the bow to a gentle wave; the beat of the engines slowed as the Canadian destroyer eased to a stop on a parallel heading two hundred yards to the south.
The radio operator came up to Pitt and Heidi who were standing on the bridge wing. "From the captain of the destroyer H.M.C.S. Huron. He requests permission to board."
"Nice and courteous," mused Pitt. "At least he asked."
"What do you think is on his mind?" asked Heidi.
"I know what's on his mind," replied Pitt. He turned to the radio operator. "Extend my compliments to the captain. Permission to board granted, but only if he honors us by staying for lunch."
"I wonder what he's like?" Heidi murmured.
"Who else but a woman would care?" Pitt laughed. "Probably a spit-and-polish type, cool, precise and very official, who talks in Morse code."
"You're just being nasty." Heidi smiled.
"You wait." Pitt grinned back. "I bet he climbs up the ladder whistling "Maple Leaf Forever."
Lieutenant Commander Raymond Weeks did nothing of the sort. He was a jolly-looking man with laughing gray-blue eyes and a warm face. He had a pleasant ringing voice that came out of a short body with a noticeable paunch. With the right stuffing and a costume he'd have made a perfect department store Santa Claus.
He leaped lightly over the railing and walked unerringly up to Pitt, who was standing slightly off to one side of the welcoming committee.
"Mr. Pitt, I'm Ray Weeks. This is indeed an honor. I was absorbed by your work on the Titanic raising. You might even say I'm a fan of yours."
Charmingly disarmed, Pitt could only mumble, "How do you do."
Heidi nudged him in the ribs. "Spit and polish, heh?"
Weeks said, "Beg your pardon."
"Nothing," Heidi said brightly. "An inside joke."
Pitt recovered and made the introductions. It was, to his way of thinking, a wasted formality. That Weeks had been well briefed was obvious. He seemed to know everything about everybody. He expounded on a marine archaeological project that Rudi Gunn had nearly forgotten, even though he had been its field director. Weeks was especially solicitous to Heidi.
"If all my fellow officers looked like you, Commander Milligan, I might never retire from service."
"Flattery deserves a reward," said Pitt. "Perhaps I can persuade Heidi to give you a tour of the ship."
"I'd like that very-much." Then Weeks' expression turned serious. "You may not be so hospitable when you learn the nature of my visit."
"You've come to tell us the ball game has been called because of political rain."
"Your vernacular is most appropriate." Weeks shrugged. "I have my orders. I'm sorry."
"How much time have we got to retrieve our men and equipment?"
"How much do you need?"
"Twenty-four hours."
Weeks was no fool. He knew enough about salvage to know Pitt was conning him. "I can give you eight."
"We can't bring up the saturation chamber in less than twelve."
"You'd make a good merchant in a Turkish bazaar, Mr. Pitt." Weeks' smile returned. "Ten hours should see you through. "Providing you begin counting after lunch."