36

STAIRWELL BETWEEN DECK F AND DECK Z.

SUNDAY, APRIL 14, 1912. 11:47 P.M.

“Could that have been another vessel, Captain?” Andrews asked.

“I know what it feels like to collide with another ship. That was ice, sure as fate, and what lurks under the waterline is far more dangerous than what’s seen floating above,” replied Smith.

The four men got back to their feet in the stairwell. Captain Smith nodded to the architect. “Change in plans, Mr. Andrews. We must head below and assess the damage.”

“Titanic is safe, Captain, that I can assure you,” said Andrews definitively. He freely admitted ignorance and doubt about many things, but his faith in the ship’s design was resolute. “Even if we’ve struck ice, as you say, it would have to be a more violent collision than the one we just felt. Besides, the watertight doors are already lowered. She’ll make it to New York, I’ll wager. You’re better served up top where—”

“You and I are going below,” the captain retorted.

“Yes, Captain,” said Mr. Andrews. “Of course.”

Smith turned to Weiss. “And you, Mr. Weiss, must delay your search. I need to enlist your services. Mr. Andrews, your notebook.”

Andrews handed the captain his notebook and pen. Smith thumbed his way to an empty page, scribbled a command, and signed it.

Weiss’s face collapsed. “Respectfully, Captain,” said Weiss, “I believe my focus should be recovering the vial of the Toxic.”

“By the time you find that needle, this haystack could be at the bottom of the ocean. Locate Mr. Murdoch on the bridge and deliver this order. I want lifeboats prepared as a precaution. He should expect to hear from me soon. Once this message is delivered, then you and Mr. Hargraves are free to search for your thief.”

Weiss agreed reluctantly. “Yes, Captain.”

“Very good,” said Smith. “Mr. Andrews?”

Andrews nodded, summoning the will to plunge yet again into the unknown. “Below we go.”

Neither Weiss nor Hargraves spoke as they made their way up the stairs. Following Mr. Andrews’s directions, they were to proceed to Deck Z, down a narrow hallway, then straight up a series of hatches directly to the bridge. Weiss was happy to have Hargraves along in case of more monsters, but even more to help with the thief. He could prove more dangerous than Weiss could handle alone.

As they ran, the adrenaline that had fueled Weiss through the previous twenty-four hours quickly gave way to fatigue and an overwhelming guilt. The child’s accusations cut deep, and his wounded shoulder throbbed with each step. Weiss was sure he’d never been on his feet so long without rest, and his thigh muscles ached.

Weiss looked over to Mr. Hargraves, who appeared nearly as exhausted. His fine clothes were ripped and stained, and the gentleman’s hair was wild. I can only pray that none of us have been infected through a scratch, doomed like all these poor souls. Then Weiss’s thoughts ran to the first person he’d known to die from the plague—his sister, Sabine.

Six days after their twelfth birthdays, he fell ill with fever, chills, and muscle cramps. It was the bubonic plague. The doctors were never sure how he survived; they only said that some percentage always did. But Theodor was certain that he infected Sabine. She simply would not leave her brother alone and allow him to be sick all by himself.

The twins drew each other pictures from their sick beds—the two of them flying over mountains or taming lions—but the fun lasted only two days before they succumbed to painful swellings and dreadful aches. After more than a week passed, Theodor felt his strength begin to return, though he remained far from whole.

Theodor wasn’t allowed to hold Sabine’s hand. Instead, he stood outside her door and whispered encouragement, knowing that somehow she would hear. He could feel Sabine succumbing to the fever. He could hear her breathing, ragged and labored as the disease ravaged inside her. He filled his own lungs with air, trying to breathe for his twin.

As he felt her slip away, he promised to cure the sickness. Theodor imagined Sabine smiling at the sound of his words. There was nothing else he could do.

How would Sabine judge him now? He remained so far away from keeping his promise.

“According to Mr. Andrews, here’s where we veer off for the bridge,” said Hargraves.

“Yes, of course,” Weiss said. “To the bridge.”

Weiss and Hargraves made their way along the narrow Deck Z corridor that led to the hatches. They scanned their surroundings constantly, alert for sounds or signs of movement. Pipes painted bright white hung overhead, reflecting the light and making the hallway appear longer than the others. Weiss caught his breath and wiped his face with a ragged sleeve. Pull yourself together, he told himself. There’s still a chance.

Weiss and Hargraves suddenly heard the pounding of feet running toward them. Not shuffling, but running. They stopped and prepared to meet whoever it was. Around a corner up ahead a man emerged. It was Emil Kaufmann. He was carrying a gun.

Kaufmann stopped running and smiled—a tight, smug grin—then approached confidently. “You’re a hard man to track down, Herr Weiss,” said Kaufmann. He raised his gun and trained it on Weiss’s forehead. “But surely you knew there was no real chance of escape to America. It’s time to end this. The Kaiser would like the Toxic back, if you please.”

Weiss stared blankly at Kaufmann. “I … I don’t have the Toxic, of course. You took it from me.”

Hargraves set down his ax and reached inside his coat.

He must have one of the captain’s guns, Weiss thought desperately. The odds are even.

But Hargraves did not withdraw a gun. He produced a stainless-steel cylinder, ten inches long, and slightly bigger than the glass vial it contained. “I have the Toxic,” he said in fluent German.

“You? You have the Toxic?” asked Weiss in shock.

“Ah, so it’s you,” said Kaufmann. “Excellent. This will be even easier.” Kaufman chuckled. “From the looks of you, I can see why you’ve had difficulty reporting to Herr Moltke.”

Hargraves slipped the cylinder back into his jacket, joining the laughter. “I’ve had an eventful voyage.” Then he swiped the knife-stick from a stunned Weiss and threw it behind them, back into the stairwell.

“Please, both of you, listen to reason,” pleaded Weiss. “Don’t take the vial back to Germany! Mr. Hargraves or whoever you are, you’ve seen its horrors firsthand!”

The Agent ignored Weiss and addressed Kaufmann. “May I have the honor of silencing this traitor with your pistol?”

Kaufmann considered the request, then handed his revolver to the Agent with a nod. “Certainly. You’ve earned the right. Let justice be served.”

The Agent took the gun and promptly shot Kaufmann in the chest. Kaufmann’s eyes went wide and his mouth opened to speak, but only a gurgling sound emerged as he slumped to the floor.

“But …” Words failed Weiss. Nothing made sense.

“Herr Moltke has different ideas than I about how to use your discovery. I have certain needs that must come before Germany’s. We are both traitors in our own way, Herr Weiss. We are both interested in doing what is … right.”

Weiss still didn’t understand, but he knew the Kaiser’s man meant him ill. Weiss glanced down the corridor to the hatch that led, eventually, to the bridge. He could make a break for it, but he would be gunned down inside of ten steps.

“I need to conserve my ammunition, Herr Weiss,” said the Agent, sliding the revolver inside his jacket. As his hand emerged, it held a familiar tool, the corridor lights glinting off its needle-nosed tip.

“Since you have fought bravely beside me, I will try to make this quick.”