“Not exactly a well-lit highway we're following,” Zavala said. “What if I flew down to San Antonio and checked out Time-Quest personally?”
"Might be worth a looksee. I'd be interested in Time-Quest's financial backing.
A soft knock came at the door. Trout entered, ducking his head under the jamb. He had a serious look on his face, but this was standard with Trout.
“Sorry I'm late, guys. I've been talking to the Nereus about Gamay.”
Clearly worried about his wife, Trout had called NUMA frequently as they flew across the country, to see if Gamay had checked in.
“Any word?” Austin asked.
Trout settled his lanky form into a chair and shook his head. “They confirmed that she got a ride to shore from the ship. That she rented a Jeep. That she left word she was going to meet Professor Chi, the museum anthropologist she's been eager to. see. And that she'd be back that evening.”
“Did she and this Dr. Chi ever get together?”
Trout shifted uneasily. “I don't know. The folks down there are still trying to get a hold of Chi. Seems he spends a lot of time out in the field, so they said. not to worry. But it's not like Gamay to stay out of touch.”
“What do you want to do, Paul?”
“I know you need me here,” Trout said apologetically, “but I'd like to get back to the Yucatan for a few days to check things out. It's tough trying to follow Gamay's track based on second or thirdhand accounts.”
Austin nodded. “Joe's heading down to Texas for a look at Time-Quest. I'll be in Washington working up a report on the Arizona fiasco. Why don't you take forty-eight hours to see what you can learn? If you need more time I'll 'smooth things with Sandecker.”
“Thanks, Kurt,” Trout said, brightening. “I've lined up a flight that will get me down there early tonight. I've got a couple of hours before then I can spare for the team”
Any ideas lurking behind that broad intellectual forehead?"
Trout wrinkled his brow “The one thing we've solidly established is that the trigger in all of these incidents is the discovery of pre-Columbian artifacts.”
“Yes, that's a given,” replied Austin, “but we don't know why.”
Zavala murmured, “In fourteen hundred and ninety-two, Columbus sailed the ocean blue.”
Austin, who'd been deep in thought, looked up with a bemused expression. “What did you say?”
“The first line of a poem from grade school. You probably had to learn the same rhyme.”
“I did, and I don't remember the rest of it any better than you do.”
“I wasn't trying to get an A in poetry,” Zavala said. "I was thinking. Maybe pre-Columbian isn't the key. Maybe it's Columbus.'
“Good point,” Trout said.
“It is?”'Zavala replied. Even he wasn't so sure.
“Paul is right,” Austin said. “You can't have pre-Columbian without Columbus.”
Zavala grinned. “In fourteen hundred and ninetytwo . . .”
“Exactly. That dumb rhyme pretty much sums up what most of us know about Columbus. The date he sailed and the fact we get a three-day weekend in October because of him. But what do we really know about old Chris? Especially as it might apply to these murderous attacks.”
Trout's analytical brain was at work “I think I see where you're headed. We know there's an indirect link between Columbus and these incidents. Ergo . . .”
“Keep on ergoing,” Zavala encouraged.
“Ergo the question: Is there a direct link?”
They exchanged glances.
“Perlmutter,” they uttered in unison.
Austin grabbed the phone and punched out a number. In a spacious Georgetown carriage house the private line gave off a ring like a ship's bell. The receiver was plucked from its cradle by a plump hand belonging to a man who was not quite as wide as a barn door. He wore plummy purple pajamas under a red and gold paisley robe. He sat in a chair reading one of the thousands of books that seemed to fill every cubic inch of every room.
“St. Julien Perlmutter here,” he said through a magnificent gray beard. “State your business in a brief manner.”
“Christopher Columbus,” Austin said. “Is that brief enough for you?”
“My God, is that you, Kurt? I heard you've been fighting pirates off the Barbary Coast.”
“Just a humble government servant doing my job. Somebody has to keep the seas safe for American shipping.”
“Live and learn, my friend. I was unaware: that the U.S. Navy had been disbanded in favor of NUMA.”
“We've decided to give them another chance to shape up. As you know, pirates aren't NUMA's usual business.”
“Ah, yes. So you're interested in the Admiral of the Ocean Sea? You know, it's a wonder he ever made it west of the Canary Islands.”
“Bad navigation?”
“Heavens, no. Dead reckoning was adequate for the task at hand. It would have been hard for him to have missed two continents connected by an isthmus even though that's what happened. I'm talking about the crew's food. Did you know that the basic ration was a pound a day of hard biscuit, salt meat, salt fish, and olive oil? Beans and chickpeas, of course, with almonds and raisins for dessert,” he said with horror in his voice. “The only bright spot was the availability of fresh fish.”
Austin sensed Perlmutter was drifting off onto a dissertation on fine food and wines, his burning passion for which was equaled only by his interest in ships and shipwrecks. Perlmutter was the classic gourmand and bon vivant. Weighing in at nearly four hundred pounds, his corpulent figure was a familiar and awe-inspiring sight at the most elegant restaurants, where he often hosted sumptuous dinners.
“Don't forget the weevils that developed in their food,” Austin said, trying to move Perlmutter away from his favorite subject.
“I can't imagine what weevils would be like. I've tried locusts and grubs in Africa. Good sources of protein, I'm told, but if I want something that tastes like chicken, I'll eat chicken. You'll have to tell me precisely what you want to know. Why are you so curious about Columbus, if I may ask?”
Perlmutter listened quietly, his encyclopedic mind absorbing every detail, as Austin summarized the story, from the Moroccan murders to the blunted sting.
“I think I see what you need. You want to know why Columbus would inspire anyone to kill. It wouldn't be the first time Columbus excited tempers. He was an incredible survivor. He was wrong about discovering America, yet that is what he is famous for. To his dying day he claimed to have discovered China. He never acknowledged the existence of an entire continent. He started the slave trade in the Americas and brought the terrible glories of the Spanish Inquisition to the New World. He was obsessed with gold. He was either a saint or a scoundrel, depending on your point of view.”
“That was then. I'm talking about now Why would somebody murder to prevent his discoveries from being discredited? All I need is one link.”
“His voyages have produced tons of written material and millions of pages. What has been written about the old boy could fill an entire library.”
“I'm aware of that, which is why I called. You're the only one I know who could brush away the dross.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere . . .”
“I'll repay your work with dinner at a restaurant of your choice.”
. . . But food will. How could any man resist twin seductions of his ego and appetite? I'll start digging right after I have lunch.".
Serpent
22
PERLMUTTER CHEWED OVER AUSTIN'S request along with succulent breast of duck stuffed with grapes on focaccia, left over from 'dinner the night before, complemented with a rare Marcassin Chardonnay. Austin would rue the day Perlmutter tempted him with food. There was a new French restaurant in Alexandria he was dying to try. A bit pricey perhaps, but a deal was a deal. His blue eyes danced merrily in his ruddy round face in anticipation. Austin would get his money's worth: Perlmutter knew without turning a page that a
n ocean of literature had been written on the subject of Christopher Columbus. Too vast to simply jump in and start swimming. He would need a guide, and there was none better he could think of.
After tidying up from lunch he pawed through his card file and dialed an overseas number.
“Buena dies,” came a deep voice on the other end.
“Good morning, Juan.”
Ah Julien! What a pleasant surprise. All goes well with you?"
“Very well. And you, my old friend?”
“Older than the last time. we talked,” the Spaniard said with a chuckle, “but let us discuss more agreeable subjects. I trust you called to inform me that you have tried my recipe for cordonices emhoja de parra.”
“The quail in grape leaves was superb. As you advised I stuffed each quail with a fresh fig instead of the thyme and lemon zest. The results were spectacular. I also used mesquite wood in the grill.”
Perlmutter had met Juan Ortega in Madrid at a convocation of rare book collectors. They discovered that in addition to an obsession with antique volumes, they shared a gourmand's fondness for fine dining. They tried to get together at least once a year to indulge their gustatory yearnings and traded recipes in between.
“Mesquite! A stroke of genius. I should expect nothing less. I'm glad the recipe pleased you. No doubt you have something for me to try.” Perlmutter could almost hear Ortega licking his lips.
“Yes, in a moment. But there is another reason for my call. I must request the use of your skills not as a master chef but as Juan Ortega, the greatest living authority on Christopher Columbus.”
“You are too kind, my friend,” Ortega ducked. “I am only one of many historians who have written books on the subject.”
“But you're the only scholar who is astute enough to help me with a most unusual problem. The ghost of Senor Columbus seems to be at the center of some rather odd goings on. Allow me to explain.” Perlmutter outlined the highlights of the situation as Austin had given it to him.
A strange story,“ Ortega said at the end of the recitation. ”Especially in view of a recent incident. Several weeks ago we had a crime here in Seville that had to do with Columbus. A theft of Columbus papers from the Biblioteca Columbina in the great cathedral of Seville. A coincidence perhaps?"
"Perhaps yes. Perhaps no. What was stolen?
“A letter pertaining to the fifth voyage of Columbus. It was written to his patrons, King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella. The king, really, the queen having died by then.”
A shame to lose such a valuable document."
“Not really. Columbus did not take a fifth voyage.”
“Of course, I should have remembered. But I don't understand this letter.”
A hearty laugh issued over the phone from three thousand miles away. A forgery, amigo. A fraud. How do you say it? The papers were phony"
How do you know it was a forgery? From the handwriting?“ ”Oh no, the handwriting is quite good. So authentic an expert could not tell the difference."
“Then how do you know the writing was forged?”
“Simple. Columbus died May 20, 1506. The log is dated after that date.” .
Perlmutter paused for a moment, thinking. “Could there have been a mistake about the date of his death?”
“The house on Calle de Cristobal Colon, where he expired, has been preserved. There is controversy about when he is buried, however. His remains are said to lie in Seville or Santo Domingo or Havana. At least eight different funeral urns supposedly contain his ashes.” Omega sighed heavily. “When you are dealing with this man, you swim in murky waters.”
“I remember in your book Discoverer or Demon? you said no one is even certain where he was born.”
“Yes, that is correct. We don't know for sure whether he was Spanish or Italian. He said he was born in Genoa, but Columbus was not known for his honesty. Some even contend that he came from the Greek island of Chios. The official version says he was an Italian weaver's apprentice. Ethers maintain this was not so, that he was actually a Spanish mariner named Colon. We know he married the daughter of a Portuguese aristocrat and need in royal circles, which world have been a difficult feat for the mere son of a weaver. There are no authentic portraits: A true man of mystery. Which is the way he preferred it. He did everything he could to obscure his identification.”
“That has always puzzled me.”
“Those were turbulent times, Julien. Wars. Intrigue. The Inquisition. Maybe he was on the wrong side of a royal controversy. He may have served a country at war with Spain or one that would be taken over by Spain. There were reasons of heredity as well, evidence he was born the bastard son of a Spanish prince. Hence Cristobol Colon, the name he was known by later in life.”
“Truly fascinating, Juan. We must discuss it over glasses of sangria when next we meet. But I'm interested in knowing more about this stolen document.”
“You know of the monk Las Casas?”
“Yes, he transcribed parts of the original Columbus log.”
“Cornet. Columbus presented the log of his first voyage to his patron Queen Isabella. In turn she commissioned an exact replication which she gave to Columbus. Upon the admiral's death, this Barcelona copy, as it was called, was inherited by his son Diego along with charts, books, and manuscripts. These in turn went to Fernando, who was the illegitimate child of Columbus by his mistress. He reminds me very much of you, Julien.”
“It's not the first time I've been called a bastard, nor will it be the last.”
“I did not mean to sully your birthright, my friend. I meant that he was an archivist and a scholar, a lover of books who assembled one of the finest libraries in Europe. When he died in 1539 his possessions, books, and Columbus papers went to Luis, the son of Diego. His mother removed Most of Fernando's possessions to a monastery here in Seville. When she died in 1544 it was a tragedy for the world.”
“Why is that, Juan?”
"She had managed for twenty three years to keep the collection from her son Luis. Now he had everything. It was a disaster.
He rifled the collection for papers he could sell to support his debauched lifestyle. The Barcelona copy disappeared and was lost forever, probably sold to the highest bidder."
“It would fetch quite a price now if it were to turn up, I would imagine.” ,
“Indeed, but perhaps not in our lifetime. Fortunately before it disappeared it was seen by a friend of the' family, the Dominican friar named Las Casas who produced a handwritten abstract of the log. He was very protective of Columbus, omitting anything that embarrassed him, but overall it is a good synopsis.”
“I'm not sure what this has to do with the stolen document.”
“Patience, my friend. This document of the so called fifth voyage was also said to have been transcribed by Las Casas. Again it is an abstract, excerpting portions of a longlost log.”
“You've seen it?”
“Oh yes, it was considered a curiosity. I even went so far as to compare it to the original Las Casas manuscript which is in the Biblioteca Nacional in Madrid. It is an excellent forgery. Except for the content, I would be ninety-nine percent certain it was written by Las Casas.”
“Do you remember the subject matter?”
“Unforgettable. 'It read like one of the fantastic stories of long lost cities that were so popular in Spain in the fifteen hundreds. Columbus had sailed his fourth and final voyage in 1502. It followed a series of disasters, disappointments, and a nervous breakdown. The royals considered him a crank by then but thought he might stumble onto something useful. He was still convinced he had found Asia, that he would discover vast resources of gold and this voyage would restore his tarnished reputation.”
And did .it?"
“The opposite! His fourth voyage was a disgraceful failure. He lost four ships and was marooned on Jamaica suffering from malaria and arthritis. Yet the account that was stolen says he went back to Spain, secretly outfitted a ship with his own money, and returned to th
e New World to make that final search for the incredible treasure in gold he had heard about from his very first voyage.”
“This log, does it say what happened?”
“The forger, used a very clever literary device to keep the reader guessing. At a certain point the narration is taken over by a crewman. Then this narrative ends abruptly We are never told whether the ship succeeds in its mission. Or if it returned to Spain at all.”
“Of course, the. ship could have been lost and the log found by other voyagers.”
“Yes, so you see what a lovely tale of the imagination it is.”
“What if it isn't a madeup story, Juan?”
Again the deep laughter. “What makes you say that?”
“A number of things. Why would somebody make such an excellent forgery?”
A simple explanation. To use an analogy from your country, if you were to sell someone the Brooklyn Bridge, it would be to your advantage to have a deed with many official seals and signatures on it."
A persuasive argument, Juan. But if I found an idiot stupid enough to give me money for that which I clearly did not own, I could sign the deed in my own hand and walk away with the cash. Forging official signatures would be unnecessary work."
“This document would be submitted to far more scrutiny than your mythical bridge deal.”
“Exactly my point. The document is superbly done, as you say. As a comparison, if you knew the bridge belonged to Brooklyn, no amount of official paperwork would persuade you it was for sale. Similarly you wouldn't have to be an expert to know the document was a fraud if you knew it was dated after Columbus's death.”
Another possibility presents itself,“ Ortega said. ”That the hand of Las Cases actually transcribed this document, but the monk did so knowing it was a forgery."
“Why would Las Casas go through all that tedious labor knowing it was a fake? You said Las Casas was very protective of Columbus's ravings. Would someone of that mindset want to give further circulation to a document that conveys the last words of Columbus as the ravings of a wild man?”