“That's right. According to the Associated Press article.”
“Hmm. Well, anyhow, this waiter said he saw an armored truck being robbed as the ship was going down.”
“A robbery!”
“That's right. A group of armed men. The truck was in the hold of the ship.”
“That's incredible! What else did he say?”
“Nothing. The story just slipped out as he was telling the reporter how he went into the hold of the ship looking for a car jack to free one of the victims. I called the guy who interviewed him. Charlie Flynn. A real war horse. He's retired now. He tried to pry more info from the guy Thought he could make this the lead. The untold story. Sinking ship. Masked men. Drama below decks and that sort of thing. But he said the guy dammed up. Wouldn't talk about it. Changed the subject. Got very upset. Asked Charlie not to use this in the story.”
“He went ahead and did it anyhow?”
“That's the way it was in the old days. What you said got in the paper. Not like today with libel lawyers breathing down your neck. It was buried, though, way down at the' bottom of the story. Copy editor probably thought it was too thin on the facts to use up in the lead but interesting enough as a tidbit. Charlie talked to a few Daria survivors to see if he could get the story through another source. Nobody had ever heard anything about it.”
“What was the crewman's name?”
“I'll fax you the clip, but hold on. Here it is. He was Italian. His name was Angelo Donatelli.”
“Do you have an address for him?”
“He was living in New York at the time. Charlie says he ran a fancy restaurant there. That's all he knew about the guy. Say Dr. Kirov, is there a story here?”
“I'm not sure, Kay Tee. You'll be the first to know if there is.”
“That's all I ask. Call me anytime.”
After she hung up Nina stared off into space for a few minutes, trying to connect a massive stone artifact from the time of Columbus with a disaster at sea, an armed robbery, and a Moroccan massacre. It was no use. It would be easier linking Sumerian cuneiform with Minoan Linear B writing. She gave up and called Kurt Austin.
Washington, DC
Serpent
31
ANGELO DONATELLI WAS SUPRISINGLY easy to trace. Austin simply looked up his name on the Internet and found fifteen references; including a Business Week article that described the rags-to-riches rise from lowly cocktail lounge waiter to owner of one of New York's most fashionable restaurants. The picture of Donatelli conferring with his head chef showed a silver-haired and middle-aged man who looked more like a distinguished European diplomat than a restaurateur.
Austin called directory assistance in Manhattan, and a minute later he was talking to the restaurant's friendly assistant
“Mr. Donatelli is not in today,” she said.
“When is the best time to get him?”
“He's due back from Nantucket tomorrow. You can try calling here after three PM.”
Nantucket. Austin knew the island off the Massachusetts coast well, having stopped there several times while sailing to Maine. He tried to get a Nantucket phone number for Donatelli. It was unlisted. A few minutes later he was talking to a Lieutenant Coffin at the Nantucket Police Department. Austin identified himself as being with NUMA and said he wanted to get in touch with Angelo Donatelli. He was banking on the fact that small-town police know everything and everybody in their community.
The police officer confirmed that Donatelli had a summer home on the island, but he was wary. “What's the National Underwater and Marine Agency want with Mr. Donatelli?”
“We're pulling together some historic stuff on collisions at sea. Mr. Donatelli was aboard the Andrea Doria when it was hit.”
“I've heard that. Met him a couple of times. Nice guy.”
. “I've tried calling him, but his number is unlisted.”
“Yeah, most of the people out where he lives kinda like it that way. They built those big houses so they can have their privacy.”
“I may try to get a flight to the island later today and take my chances on hooking up with him.”
“Tell you what. When you get on island drop by the police station on Water Street and ask for me. I can show you where he lives on a map.”
Good cop, Austin thought. He wasn't about to dispense information on one of the island's well-to-do property owners without checking Austin out in person.
Austin never dreamed Nina would track down a lead so quickly.
With Zavala in Texas and Trout in the Yucatan, maybe Austin could squeeze in a quick interview with Donatelli. He used his government clout to get a seat with a small commuter airline that ran regular shuttles between Washington and Nantucket. A couple of hours later he was on a puddle-jumper flying northeast.
The flight gave him time to look over the file Yaeger had dropped on his desk as Austin was leaving his NUMA office. Austin had asked the computer whiz to scour, his electronic marvels for information on the Brotherhood, the sixteenth century secret society he and Perlmutter had discussed over lunch. And to run down any links Los Hermanos might have had to Christopher Columbus. Austin glanced out the window at the ocean sparkling far below, then opened the file and read Yaeger's note:
Hi, Kurt.
I think I've got it! I've been wading through secret societies up to my eyeballs, but the Columbus angle narrowed it down. I followed up one of those stray facts that go floating across your monitor screen from obscure sources. A one-sentence footnote that Columbus was said to be associated with an outfit called the Brotherhood of the Holy Sword of Truth. (They liked long titles back then.) Can't confirm if he was a member. Probably not.
The Brotherhood was formed in the 1400s during the Spanish Inquisition by an archdeacon named Hernando Perez, head of a powerful monastery known for its extreme beliefs. Heavily into self-flagellation and hair shirts. Perez was slightly to the right of Torquemada, who was the head honcho of the Inquisition. Perez picked the most fanatical of his followers from his monastery. The brothers made up the trusted core of his outfit.
Perez was mad as a hatter, unswerving in his convictions, quite happy to use violence and murder to achieve his ends. He declared absolution for his guys no matter how much blood they shed for his cause, which was to wipe out heretics. And get rich doing it, by the way. They split loot plundered from their victims with the Inquisition. The Brotherhood worked behind the scenes, identifying the unfaithful so they could be fed into the Inquisitions murder machine. Sometimes it sent out its own hit squads. Or for a price it might see that you were spared. As long as they could bleed you of money.
Heresy covered a lot of ground. Which brings in another angle. Back then you could be burned at the stake for saying Columbus discovered America! The Scriptures never said anything about the American Continents. It messes with the whole idea of Adam and Eve. So when Columbus claimed that he reached India or China, the powers that be backed him up.
The real reasons were political, though. Church and state were the same thing. When somebody questioned church dogma it threatened the throne. Once doubts set in about the church's teachings on geography the hoi polloi might start asking why they were starving and the bishops and kings were all well fed, and before long the mobs would be marching on the palace.
Millions were at stake as well. Spain wanted the riches o' the New World to herself If other countries could prove Columbus wasn't the first to discover India, rivals of Spain like Portugal might claim the new lands and riches. Gold meant new warships and raising armies, so we're really falling about European domination. That's why the Inquisition, which was the terror instrument of the Spanish state, made it heresy, punishable by burning, to believe there was a continent with separate civilizations and that they had contact with the Old World before Columbus.
To show you how dangerous the idea was, Amerigo Vespucci was sent on a secret mission by the king to check out the Columbus discoveries. When Vespucci demonstrated Columbus had not
discovered a short route to India, that he'd found a new continent and may not have been the first to go there, he was called a heretic and warned to recant. By making this a capital crime, the Spanish were admitting tacitly that there had indeed been prior contact. Torquemada was a sly old devil. He said that even if the Indians had received a visitor from the west whom they named Quetzalcoatl, the stranger must have been white and Spanish. That meant Spain had dibs on the new lands even before Columbus was born.
I verified that five sailors died after eating at Columbus's house. Can't prove the Brotherhood had anything to do with it. Could have been food poisoning. I couldn't find anything on the Brotherhood after the 1600s. Maybe they went out of business with the Inquisition. Source material enclosed. Hope this helps.
The rest of the file contained source documents. Austin read through the pile of papers and decided the computer genius had done a good job encapsulating his findings. The account of the Brotherhood was fascinating particularly in its mission to suppress knowledge of contact between the New and the Old Worlds. One problem. The Brotherhood went out of business more than three hundred years ago.
The pilot's voice announced that the plane was passing near Martha's Vineyard. Nantucket's porkchop shape was visible to the east of the Vineyard. An ocean fog nibbled at the windswept moors and long white strands that edged the island. It was easy to see why the island attracted the peg-legged Captain Ahab and real-life Quaker whaling captains and ship owners who made their fortunes in the whaling trade. Nantucket had at its doorstep a saltwater highway that would take its whaling vessels to all the seven seas on voyages that often lasted years.
Austin rented a car at Tom Nevers Airport and drove into town, past stately brick houses built with riches made from whale oil, the car bumping over the wide main street that was paved with cobblestones once used for ballast in the old sailing ships, then along Water Street bordering the harbor until he came to the police and fire station.
Lieutenant Coffin was a tall stringbean of a man with high cheekbones and a prominent bony nose that had seen too much sun. His mouth dropped open in surprise when Austin identified himself.
“You got here in a hurry,” he said, sizing up the husky man with the prematurely white hair. “You NUMA guys have private jets?”
“Some of us do.. I lucked out in catching a flight. It was a good excuse to get out of Washington.”
“Can't blame you for that. The island's awfully pretty this time of year. You're missing the crowds, too.” The hazel eyes narrowed. “Just so you'll know, I called NUMA back after I talked to you.”
“Can't blame you for that.”
Coffin smiled. “Seems like you're on the up-and-up. We're pretty easygoing, but we can't be too careful. Nantucket's got a lot of rich folks who own big houses and pay major taxes. Don't see a burglar asking the police where the house is he plans to rob, but you never know. Good thing you called. People out there kinda look after each other. They'd give you directions to the other side of the island. I'll show you how to get to his house,” He slid a tourist map across the counter. “Take the Polpis Road till you get to a sand driveway with a ship on the mailbox” Coffin drew the route with a yellow marker.
Austin thanked the police officer and followed his directions out of town to a narrow winding mad that ran through scrub pine forest and past farms and cranberry bogs. At the mailbox, which was surmounted by a metal rendering of a black-and-white ocean liner; Austin turned onto the sand road and drove through stunted forest that turned into rolling headland. The strong smell of the sea was carried on the ropy tendrils of fog he had seen from the air.
The big house loomed suddenly from the fog. It looked deserted. No vehicles outside, no lights in the windows even though darkness was falling. Austin left the car in the horseshoe-shaped crushed shell driveway, followed a walkway bordered by an expansive and wellmanicured lawn to the wide open porch, and rang the front doorbell. Chimes echoed inside. No answer. Maybe the restaurant manager had it wrong. Or perhaps Donatelli changed his plans and went back to New York earlier than expected.
Austin frowned. This could be a time-wasting wild goose chase. He'd known from the start that he was grasping at a straw, .trying to connect a robbery at sea decades before with the killings of archaeologists. He wondered if he could catch a flight back to DC. Oh, hell. He'd get home just as fast if he stayed the night and flew out first thing in the morning. With his decision made, Austin decided to explore the grounds. He left the veranda and walked around the house.
Nantucket had become afflicted with a plague of “trophy houses,” so big they looked like small hotels, built by wealthy people who saw square footage as a way of one-upping their neighbors. Donatelli's place was large, and the builder had managed to incorporate Italianate architectural features in with the more traditional silver-gray shingles and white trim, but it was all done in good taste.
Behind the house was a fairsized vegetable garden and a children's swing and slide set. Austin followed the sound of the breaking surf across a wide lawn to the edge of a sandy cliff and stood for a moment at the top of a weatherbeaten stairway that led down to the beach. The beach was obscured and ocean sound muffled by the fog, but he could hear distant rollers slapping against the shore. He turned and looked back at the house. In the fog and waning light he could barely see the place.
Figuring he had done all he could, Austin returned to the car and wrote a note that included his telephone number, asking Donatelli to call him as soon as possible. He trudged back to the front door. Low-tech communication, but it might work. He would follow it up with a phone call when he got back to his office.
He climbed onto the broad porch and tucked the rolled-up note under the ornate door knocker, thinking the brass weight would keep the paper ..from blowing away. He realized he had more important things than the wind to worry about. Hard cold metal pressed against the back of his neck Then came the unmistakable click of a very large gun being cocked. Until then there had been no sound, not even a footfall.
“Hands up,” a harsh voice said. “Don't turn around.” The man spoke with an accent.
Austin slowly lifted his hands. “Mr. Donatelli?”
“Don't talk,” the man said, emphasizing his order with a hard jab to the neck A practiced hand frisked Austin, deftly slipping his wallet out of his pocket. Satisfied Austin carried no weapon, the man ordered him to climb the outside stairs leading from the porch to a second story deck that wrapped around three sides of the house. The fog had closed in with a vengeance, and in the dimming light Austin would not have seen the figure leaning against a railing if his attention had not been caught by the orange glow of a cigarette and the smell of strong tobacco.
“Sit,” said the man with the gun. Austin did as he was told, plunking into a deck chair that was damp with moisture. Keeping his gun leveled at Austin, the man spoke in Italian to the smoker. They conferred for a minute.
The figure in the fog spoke. “Who are you?”
“My name is Kurt Austin, and I'm with the National Underwater and Marine Agency.”
Pause. “You're consistent, anyhow. That's the same story you gave lieutenant Coffin.” The voice had an accent, but it wasn't as thick as that of the gun carrier.
“You talked to Coffin?”
“Of course. The police try to keep their summer residents happy Especially those who are big contributors to their equipment fund. I've requested that he let me know if anyone ever asks for me. He even offered to come out here with you. I told him I could handle the situation by myself.”
“Then you are Mr. Donatelli.”
I ask the questions.“ Another sharp jab in the spine. ”Who are you really?"
“My wallet has identification.”
“Identification can be forged.”
Donatelli was going to be a tough sell. “Lieutenant Coffin called NUMA and verified that I am who I said I am.”
“I have no doubt you are who you claim. It's what you really are that
interests me.”
Austin's patience was eroding. “Make believe I don't understand what you're talking about, Mr. Donatelli.”
“Why would a big government agency like NUMA want to tally to me? I run a restaurant in New York. The only thing I have to do with the ocean is the seafood I buy from Fulton Fish Market.”
Reasonable question. “You were on the Andrea Doria. ”
“Lieutenant Coffin said you mentioned the Doria. That's old news, isn't it?”
“We were hoping you might have some information bearing on a case we're working on.”
“Tell me about this case, Mr. Austin. You may put your hands down, but remember that my cousin Antonio is from Sicily, and, like most Sicilians, he trusts nobody. He is quite good with the lupara especially at close range.”
Lupara was the sawed-off shotgun that used to be the choice of the Sicilian Mafia before they went to automatic weapons and car bombs. An antique but still deadly.
“Before I start,” Austin said evenly, “I'd appreciate it if you told Cousin Tony that if he doesn't stop sticking me in the neck, his lupara is going to end up where the sun don't shine.”
Austin had no way to carry out his threat, but it had been a long day and he was tired of getting jabbed. Donatelli translated for the gunman. Antonio stepped away and stood off to one side, the gun still leveled at Austin. A slit that could have been a mouth opened into what might have been a smile.
A cigarette lighter flared in the darkness, showing Donatelli's deep-set eyes. “Now, tell us your story, Mr. Austin.”
So he did. “The whole thing started in Morocco,” Austin began From there he worked his way to the present, explaining how the trail had led to Donatelli. “One of our researchers came access your name in a newspaper article. When I read that you had seen an armored truck robbery on the ship, I wanted to talk to you.”