Piranha

31

Juan had never met St. Julien Perlmutter in person, but he had consulted with him several times during past missions, most recently about a sunken Chinese junk called the Silent Sea. When Tyler Locke mentioned a potential link between Kensit and a ship called the Roraima, Juan’s first call after leaving Pax River was to Perlmutter. The maritime expert was delighted to hear that Juan was in the neighborhood. A noted gourmand as well, he insisted that Juan and Eric join him for a late lunch at his home.

Juan’s second call was to Langston Overholt, who told him that DNA analysis would take several days even if they could find original samples of Kensit and Pearson’s DNA to compare the tissue found at the crash site. In the meantime, they had to operate under the assumption that Locke’s forensic assessment correctly surmised that it was Kensit whose body wasn’t found and that he was still alive.

Other than the ship connection, the only other lead into Kensit’s motives was the German diary the coworker mentioned. After he brusquely ended his consultation with Pearson, Kensit would have had to find someone else to translate the document for him, a company or individual with expertise in scientific terminology. That narrowed down the list of possible translators considerably, and Overholt told Juan he’d get back to them when he had something.

When he reached Perlmutter’s estate on a brick road flanked by hundred-year-old oaks, Juan wheeled their rental car around the circular drive of the three-story manor and parked on the side in front of a carriage house that rivaled the main house in size. Perlmutter had remodeled this building that once housed ten horses and five carriages, as well as upstairs quarters for stable hands and drivers, to accommodate his vast library. He was renowned for owning the world’s most extensive collection of books, rare documents, and private letters about ships and shipwrecks. If there was any record of a German scientist aboard the Roraima when it sank, St. Julien Perlmutter would know of it.

With Eric at his side, Juan reached for the front door’s anchor-shaped knocker, but before he could use it the door flew open, revealing a man who could have been Saint Nick’s larger brother, dressed in a regal purple robe and matching paisley pajamas. His twinkling blue eyes were framed by shaggy gray hair, a full beard with a twisting mustache, and a tulip nose. Although he loomed at a gargantuan six foot four and four hundred pounds, Perlmutter was solid, without a jiggle of flab visible. A tiny dachshund gamboled around their feet, yapping happily.

“Juan Cabrillo!” he cried, grabbing Juan’s hand and giving it a vigorous shake. “What a true pleasure it is to finally meet you!”

“It’s an honor to be invited to your home, Mr. Perlmutter. I only wish I had brought something with me to share. I know you treasure regional delicacies.”

“Where is the Oregon now? Not docked nearby?” Perlmutter was one of the few privy to the Oregon’s true nature and his discretion was unquestioned.

“No, it’s currently in the Dominican Republic.”

“Well, then send me some fresh conch and plantain when you get back. I have a fricassee recipe I’ve been dying to try. And this must be Eric Stone making friends with Fritz.”

Eric was on his knees, rubbing the dog’s belly. He rose and offered a hand. “Sorry. That’s one thing I miss with shipboard life. We had a beagle when I was a child and he had just as much energy as your dog.”

“Not to worry, Mr. Stone.” With the attention gone, Fritz’s barking restarted. “Fritz, behave! Or I will get a cat to set you straight.”

“Please excuse our last-minute call,” Juan said.

“Not at all. You’re just in time to help me try my newest creation, a truffled lobster risotto and Precoce d’Argenteuil asparagus tips served with a bottle of Condrieu Viognier.”

Perlmutter led them through hallways and rooms stacked with books and papers on every available flat surface. Juan knew that administrators in libraries and museums the world over salivated at the thought of acquiring the incredible trove of marine history that made up his unparalleled collection.

Eric gaped at the ancient maps and weathered tomes that seemed to be haphazardly strewn about. “It must be quite a task to catalog all of this. I’d love to see your database.”

Perlmutter tapped his temple. “This is my database, young man. I don’t think in computer language. I don’t even have one.”

Juan was amused to see Stoney’s jaw drop even lower. “You keep track of all this in your head?”

“My boy, I can find any piece of information I want in sixty seconds. Like any good treasure hunter, you just have to know where to look.”

They were escorted into an elegant sandalwood-paneled dining room, which looked decidedly bare as it was the sole room without a single book. They sat down at a thick, round dining table carved from the rudder of the famed ghost ship Mary Celeste and enjoyed the early-afternoon repast while Juan and Eric regaled Perlmutter with sea stories from their adventures, leaving out details that would compromise any classified information. Fritz was kept happy and quiet with regular pieces of lobster fed to him by Perlmutter.

When they were finished, Juan swirled the last of his wine. “Your reputation as an epicure is well deserved. I couldn’t imagine a better lunch.”

Eric nodded in agreement. “Maybe we can convince Mr. Perlmutter to share the recipe with the Oregon’s chef.”

“Happy to! And perhaps he can send me one of his favorites in return.”

“Done,” Juan said.

“Excellent! Now, my cooking is not the only reason you came to see me, is it?”

Juan told Perlmutter about the missing physicist, the German diary he supposedly inherited, the mention of Oz and the Roraima. “Flimsy, I know,” Juan said, “but we were hoping you could point us in the right direction.”

Perlmutter patted his cheek with one finger for a few moments and then leaped up with startling agility and dashed into another room. He returned not thirty seconds later, thumbing through a thick book titled Cyclone of Fire: The Wreckage of St. Pierre.

“The eruption of Mount Pelée was the deadliest volcanic eruption of the twentieth century and it happened on May 8, 1902,” Perlmutter said. “It’s also unique in that we have such a rich historical record of the ships that were sunk in the disaster. I know of no other volcano that resulted in so many wrecked ships that can still be explored. Only one ship survived, the Roddam. Sixteen ships were sunk that day, including the Roraima. Many of them settled upright on the bottom and can still be dived on to this day.”

“Do you think that’s the Roraima we’re looking for?” Juan asked.

“I know it is. This is the only remaining copy of a book that went out of print a hundred years ago. Remember that this was the biggest catastrophe in the Western Hemisphere. All but two people in a town of thirty thousand perished. Scores of books were rushed out about the subject. To take a different angle from the dozens that recounted the horrors visited on the city of Saint-Pierre itself, this one focused on the ships that were in the harbor that day. It was written by a newspaper reporter who took great care in interviewing shipboard survivors and relatives of those who died. Unfortunately, his journalistic thoroughness resulted in a publishing delay, so by the time the book came out the market was saturated. Most of them were pulped.”

“Does it say something about Oz?” Eric asked, incredulous.

“Indeed it does,” Perlmutter said, tapping the page. He read the relevant passage to them.

“Ingrid Lutzen, a German émigré to the United States, lost her brother, Gunther, in the disaster. She sobbed as she recounted how excited he sounded in his final letter to her, sent from the ship’s previous stop in Guadeloupe. He was searching for evidence in the Caribbean to support his postdoctoral research in physics that he was carrying on from his work at Berlin University and had made a recent breakthrough in the new field of radioactivity. Gunther was an avid photographer, even going so far as to convert his stateroom into a makeshift darkroom, and was planning to show her the photos documenting his work. The only keepsake she received was a diary of his scientific research given to her by the Roraima’s first officer, Ellery Scott. He told Ms. Lutzen that her brother’s last words were ‘I found Oz,’ a reference to a favorite story of Gunther’s when she was teaching him English during his last visit with her. It gave her some peace knowing that he died thinking of their shared memory.”

Eric peered at Perlmutter as he processed the paragraph. “Didn’t The Wizard of Oz come out long after this in 1939?”

“The film did,” Perlmutter replied. “The Wonderful Wizard of Oz by L. Frank Baum was published in 1900 as a children’s book. It’s quite likely that foreign immigrants would have used the book to learn our language.”

“But he said, ‘I found Oz,’ as though he’d actually been there,” Juan said.

“Delusional perhaps? A hallucination in his final death throes?”

“Kensit seemed to think it was important. And the book references the diary that he inherited, so it definitely exists.”

“And Lutzen was a physicist,” Eric chimed in, “same as Kensit. But without knowing about the specific research Lutzen was conducting, we have no idea why Kensit would fake his own death to pursue it a hundred years later.”

Nothing about this was adding up for Juan. “What kind of evidence would Lutzen have been searching for? Why would a physicist be scouring the Caribbean for his research?”

“Your answer may lie inside the Roraima,” Perlmutter said. “Lutzen was an avid photographer.”

Eric shook his head. “That film has been bathing in warm salt water for over a hundred years. It’s probably mush by now.”

“Not necessarily,” Perlmutter said. “It’s possible that the glass plate negatives, which he would have used at that time, are still intact if the seals on the container haven’t been compromised. Frank Hurley, the photographer on the Shackleton expedition, saved photos that had been submerged in seawater because they had been stored in zinc-lined cases that had been soldered shut. If Dr. Lutzen was similarly prudent, the photos might have survived.”

“If they’re still there at all,” Juan said. “Martinique isn’t exactly off the beaten path. Divers have been picking over those Saint-Pierre wrecks for decades.”

“Maybe not so thoroughly as you think. The Roraima sits in one hundred and fifty feet of water, below the level of most recreational scuba divers. Bottom times will be limited for all but the most technically adept divers, and few will have fully explored the interior, which is dangerous because of the rusting hull.”

“It’ll take a while to search the ship since we don’t know where his cabin was,” Eric said.

Perlmutter gave him a crafty grin. “I believe I can help you out there as well.” He darted out of the room and came back with a roll of paper that he spread on the table. It was the deck plan for the Roraima.

“Okay, I’m convinced,” Eric said. “No computer needed here.”

Although he couldn’t know which particular cabin Lutzen had occupied, Perlmutter pointed out where the passenger staterooms were located, considerably narrowing the search grid.

“May I take a photo of this?” Eric asked.

“By all means,” Perlmutter said, waving at the plans. “And when I finally get a chance to see that fantastic ship of yours, I expect a guided tour from you.”

“Absolutely.”

When Eric was finished with the snapshots, Perlmutter ushered them to the door. “Do come back someday. And let me know if you find Oz as well.”

“I just hope we don’t run into any flying monkeys,” Juan said with a wink.

“Me neither,” Eric agreed. “They always freaked me out.” When he saw the looks from the other two men, he quickly added, “Back when I was a kid. Not now.”

Perlmutter bellowed a hearty laugh, and after Eric gave Fritz one last scratch, he closed the door behind them.

No sooner were they on the road than Langston Overholt called back.

“Juan, we’ve found the translation firm. Global Translation Services.”

“That was fast.”

“They remembered it because it was such an odd job. Kensit had the translator transcribe the notes by hand so there wouldn’t be a digital record.”

“I’d like to speak to the translator.”

“That’s going to be a problem,” Overholt said ominously.

“Why?”

“He’s dead. Killed in a hit-and-run four months ago.”

Juan grimaced. “That’s not the kind of coincidence I like.”

“Neither do I.”

“Is there anyone else I can talk to there? They might remember something.”

“The translator worked for a man named Greg Horne. He’d be willing to speak with you.”

“Where are they located?”

“Manhattan. Midtown. They do a lot of work for the United Nations.”

Juan checked his watch. “We can be there in two hours.”

“I’ll set it up.”

After alerting Tiny Gunderson to fire up the jet for a New York flight, Juan made sure he had a secure encrypted phone connection before he called Max, who he’d left in charge of the Oregon.

“How are our guests?” Juan asked.

“Mr. Reed is being tended to at the rehab facility by some nurses that are so beautiful, I wish I was the one who had been shot. His fishing boat is fully repaired and ready to sail back to Jamaica when he’s feeling up to it.”

“What about Maria Sandoval?”

“She’s been given our finest guest cabin and has an escort with her at all times to the exercise facilities, the mess hall, and the deck. I think she’s still under the impression that we’re a high-tech smuggling operation.”

“Good. But she’s free to go anytime she wants.”

“I think she’s okay for a few days. A friend told her that her apartment was ransacked, so she thinks laying low for a while is a good idea. So was your talk with Mr. Perlmutter useful?”

“More than we hoped,” Juan said, and told Max about their discoveries concerning the Roraima and the connection between Kensit and the dead translator in New York.

“I think I see where this is going,” Max said when Juan was finished.

“Get the Oregon under way for Martinique. You should be able to be there in twelve hours. When Eric and I are done in Manhattan, we’ll fly directly there to meet you. But don’t wait for us. Start diving as soon as you arrive. Eric will send you the deck plans for the search pattern.”

“Already got them.”

“Good. And don’t tell Overholt where you’re going if he calls. We don’t know how Kensit’s surveillance system works or how deep its reach is.” Eric, Murph, and Hali had completely scrubbed their communications systems, so Juan was confident that no one was listening to this conversation.

“You think he might have penetrated CIA?” Max asked.

“Probably not, but it isn’t a risk I want to take. Those photos in the Roraima could be our only clue to tracking down Kensit. If he learns about them and retrieves them first or destroys them, we may never find him.”