by Scott Cook
“So anything on deck this week so far?” I asked, swiveling.
“No,” Lisa said. “We’d better get a case, soon, too. That check for ten grand Ray gave us isn’t gonna last forever.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Uh-huh,” Lisa teased. “Come on, Marlowe… mama wants a new pair of shoes.”
I scoffed, “You’ve got plenty of shoes.”
Lisa rolled her eyes, “Typical man. Just because I’ve had to take up the entire closet in one of the guest rooms just for my clothing and shoe overflow from our closet, you think that’s sufficient. I’ve only got twenty pairs of shoes… and I’m not really even a shoe girl.”
“Seems like overkill. Do you really need a pair of five-inch bone colored stilettos?”
She tossed her head and waved that off in a poo-pooing gesture, “You mean the ones you made me wear Thursday night? Even though they hardly match anything I own?”
“So what’s the big deal? It wasn’t like you were wearing anything else,” I said with a leer.
“You’re a filthy boy,” She said with her particular patented half devil, half angel grin. “And you have more than one pair of shoes, too.”
“Yeah, I got my good flops, my work flops, my top siders, my good sneaks, my workout sneaks and a pair of Rockport’s,” I commented haughtily. “That’s nearly seven pairs… but hardly what you’d call an obsession.”
“If you want to live in a world of self-delusion, who am I to say otherwise?”
We laughed for a bit and Lisa came over and climbed onto my lap and kissed me.
“What’s that for?” I inquired.
“Just cuz I love you,” She said and sighed. “I missed you. How did it go this weekend anyway?”
I shrugged, “Not bad. Got my pilot’s license, obviously. Much faster than I thought, but I guess that’s the advantage of having dedicated training. Did some infiltration training with the teams, too. Jackie was there as was that Turner guy. I’ve tried, but I don’t think I’m gonna like him.”
Lisa chuckled, “Two alpha lions in the same pen.”
“I guess… but he’s got a chip on his shoulder, I think. At least when it comes to me.”
Lisa laughed, “In some ways, Scott, you’re so… I don’t’ want to say naïve, that’s not really true… maybe unassuming maybe… no, something between innocent and… ah! Guileless. That’s the word. It’s like… just because you don’t have a jealous bone in your body, or you don’t have an inferiority complex or whatever, you don’t seem to get that others do.”
I considered that for a moment, “I know people do. I understand feelings of inferiority or jealousy or low self-esteem… I wouldn’t be able to do my job otherwise.”
She chuckled again, “Yes, intellectually you understand those concepts… yet because of your personality, you don’t really emotionally get them. From the standpoint of relating to such things. Did it ever cross your mind that Turner is jealous of you? Or feels inferior to you or maybe insecure around you?”
I scoffed, “Come on, the guy’s a friggin’ Navy SEAL for God’s sake! The best of the best. He’s a full commander at thirty-five, he’s tall, handsome and smart. Guy’s got nothing to feel jealous about.”
“Oh, for God’s sake…” Lisa laughed. “See what I mean? He’s not you, Superman. And he might feel a little intimidated… and you think he’s handsome? Does this spell the end for lil’ Lisa?”
I laughed, “Well, it’s been three days…”
“Seriously, Scott… not everybody is as purely motivated as you. We aren’t all heroes.”
I chuffed, “Says the girl who’s saved my ass more than once. And I have my doubts, too.”
Lisa sighed, “Yeah, if you can solve the puzzle in time or if you didn’t do enough for somebody or worry that you may have acted a tiny bit selfishly. It’s one of the things I hate about you.”
I laughed out loud, “What!? You hate something about me?”
She scoffed now, “Yeah… friggin’ honor and integrity and loyalty and shit… fuckin’ goody two-shoes…”
We both laughed raucously at that. I kissed the top of her head, “Now, let’s not exaggerate the matter. I may live by certain rules, but I am definitely not pure as the driven snow.”
“Prove it.”
“Gladly.”
I was just about to suggest that we repair to the residence for a mid-day co-mingling of our shameful bits when what might have been a new client opened the outer door. Lisa groaned and got up, moving to sit on the other side of the desk again. I straightened in my chair and tried to look professional and not like a guy who was imagining a variety of acts that might be illegal in some or even all of these here United States.
A tall lean man in his early fifties strode in. He had closely cropped brown hair liberally sprinkled with gray. His face was clean shaven and he was dressed in business casual attire. Khaki slacks, dress loafers and a blue and white striped golf shirt. He wore wire-frame cheaters that gave him the look of an accountant or maybe an off-duty physician.
“Good morning,” He said with just a hint of a Hispanic accent, “I’ve come looking for a Mr. Jarvis.”
I stood and waved him to a chair, “I’m a Mr. Jarvis. How can I help you, sir?”
The man extended a fist to be bumped by both Lisa and myself. He sat in the client chair and pushed his glasses up on his nose a little, “Is this a good time to talk?”
“Certainly,” I said. “It’s what we’re here for.”
He smiled warmly, “Excellent! Thank you for taking the time… my name is Martin Cruz. I’m here visiting from Cartagena with my family. You know, take the children to Disney World and so on. While I was here in town, I thought that I might get in touch with you and see if perhaps you might help me with a research project.”
Lisa and I exchanged glances. I smiled charmingly and said: “I can certainly try, Mr. Cruz… but if you don’t mind me exercising my curiosity… how does a man who lives in Columbia even know to look for me, let alone know I exist?”
He chuckled softly, “Oh, your name is becoming well known even in the wilds of Latin America, senor. I am something of a crime fiction enthusiast, and have read all of your books. However, there is a more mundane explanation. I have a friend in Miami who knows you and speaks well of you. Don Ramon Tavares.”
“Ahhh…” Lisa said sagely.
“Well, that I believe,” I said with a grin. “Rather than that I’m so famous as to draw clients from across the sea. What is it you think I can help you on, Mr. Cruz?”
Cruz laughed politely, “Please call me Martin.”
“Thank you, Martin,” I said. “By the way, this is my associate, Lisa Gonzalez.”
Cruz flashed her a charming smile, “Ah, now that I knew. Such a beautiful and self-possessed young woman could only be the indomitable Lisa.”
“Heroine of tale and song,” She said with a charming smile of her own.
“Well,” Cruz said, getting comfortable in his chair. “I’m a historian. When I’m not teaching history at The University of Cartagena, I run the Museum of Natural History there. We exhibit everything from Columbian cultural history to native cultures to maritime history of the Caribbean since the time of the Conquistadors. My particular focus is on Incan and Musca culture and I have a particular interest in maritime history as well. Specifically the Age of Sail… the American and French Revolution and Napoleonic eras.”
Lisa chuckled, “You’re singing his song, Martin.”
Martin grinned, “I know. That’s one of the reasons I thought you might be able to assist me.”
“I can certainly try,” I said. “Yet I don’t know what I can bring to the table that a professor of history can’t.”
Lisa subtly shook her head at me.
“I’m a book worm,” Cruz said amiably. “The extent of my adventurous spirit is poking around a moldy old temple or pyramid. Also, my research indicates that what I’m interested in is here in the States. And a man wh
o seems as intelligent as he is oriented toward action may be just what’s needed. In addition… I believe that there may even be a family connection. An obscure one, but one I was able to make thanks to the internet.”
My brows rose, “You think my family is somehow connected to Columbian history?”
I caught Lisa’s glance but I managed to keep my face neutral. I knew all too well of a family connection to Columbia. Just over two weeks before I’d handed over the potential title to a huge tract of land in the Andes that might give a drug lord tremendous regional power.
Martin cleared his throat, “Do you know the name Simon Bolivar?”
Lisa’s brows went up now. The name Bolivar had been in both of our minds quite a bit. However, the name he mentioned was a famous one from history.
“Yes… he was one of the leaders of Columbian independence,” I stated. “Born in Venezuela, Bolivar led the final revolution that ousted the Spanish and gave Columbia and then Venezuela final independence sometime around 1820, correct?”
Cruz nodded and smiled, “I thought I had the right man. Yes, a national hero of ours, naturally. Well, it turns out that Senor Bolivar had an interesting visitor right around that time. I won’t bore you with the details, but his wife was a woman called Helena. It seemed that a visiting English post captain met with her and presented her with a gift. A seemingly insignificant bauble. A gold medallion on a gold chain. The medallion was oval in shape and weighed perhaps fifty or sixty grams. It had an unusual design etched into its face in relief. As the story goes, the captain was given the medallion over twenty years earlier by Helena when she was a young woman. The captain kept it and when they met again, happened to have it in her possession.”
Both Lisa and I caught the “her” in his statement. I leaned forward, “Catherine Cook?”
Cruz smiled, “Exactly… your many times great grandmother, apparently. I only know that because of a genealogy search I did on the Cook family to see if there was any kind of connection.”
“I don’t get it, though,” Lisa put in. “If Kate gave Helena Bolivar the necklace back… then why would you do a genealogy search to find her descendants? And for what reason?’
“Ah, we’re coming to that,” Cruz stated, holding up a finger. His tone had that quality of a lecturer. One who probably kept his students’ attention, too. “You see, the medallion was in the Bolivar family’s possession for over a hundred and fifty years… until it disappeared sometime in the early 1970’s. There is no proof, but stories have it that it was given away to a woman during that time. In the grand scheme of the world, it’s very unimportant… but to a historian like myself, it’s a missing piece in a fascinating puzzle of our national history. If I could recover the artifact and learn of its whereabouts and its continued history, it would be a great find and interesting addition to the Bolivar exhibit.”
“Wow,” Lisa said. “And you think that maybe it ended up here in the U.S.?”
Cruz shrugged, “Possibly. I’m sorry I don’t have a better description, photograph or even drawing of the medallion. Yet I think you’d know it if you saw it. In addition to the relief on the outer face, the back has a sort of… raised ridge.”
“Any more rumors?” I asked. “It’s often proven that no matter how fantastic scuttlebutt might be, it proves to hold at least a little water.”
Cruz smiled, “As a matter of fact, there is. It’s possible that the medallion came over here during the Mariel boat lift. Many Cuban refugees fled and carried what few possessions they had. I know it’s a long shot, but I thought with your experience and possibly connections, you might be able to make contact with government officials I can’t. How does the expression go… put the word out on the street, as it were?”
I felt an odd thrill in my belly. Whatever machinations made the universe function, they had a knack of bringing things together in the strangest and most unlikely ways. This man’s visit was no coincidence as far as I was concerned. His words and the idea of some necklace belonging to the Bolivar family was sparking off all sorts of alerts and, as Thomas Magnum would say, my little voice was shouting.
‘I can try, Martin,” I stated calmly. “It’s a tall order, but it’s often true that once you shake enough trees, some interesting things begin to fall. I’d love to know how these rumors of yours got started and by whom.”
He laughed, “So would I. Just talk, whispers, old ladies chatting over their morning cafes… that sort of thing. I know this is a difficult request, but I can offer you two thousand dollars as a retainer to help cover your expenses. Should you find the artifact, my museum will pay handsomely for it. Aside from the intrinsic value of the item, which is perhaps five thousand dollars in gold, the historical value is virtually unlimited. I can assure you of a very substantial finder’s fee.”
“Well, it’s certainly intriguing,” I said. “We’ll be happy to do what we can.”
Cruz placed a wad of cash on my desk, stood and shook Lisa’s hand and then mine very warmly this time, “Gracias! Gracias! You don’t know what this could mean to our country.”
I saw him out and then returned to the inner office. Lisa’s eyes were wide and her face alight, “What the hell…”
“It might be time to go back to Kate’s journals,” I pondered.
“Maybe this is the connection you couldn’t figure out.”
I laughed, “Curiouser and curiouser, Twatson.”
She burst out and shook her head, “Geez… and come on… Oh, I don’t know what a modest down at heel private eye can offer that a history professor can’t… see, this is the kind of crap I’m talking about. Do you have to be so humble?”
I scoffed, “It’s the polite thing. Besides, I can’t help but be humble… I mean I’m so good at it and everything. In fact, it’s safe to say that there’s no one more humbler than I.”
32
October 18th, 1797
It had been represented to Captain Pellew that owing to the number of vessels Indefatigable was escorting into Charleston that he might wish to fly the inferior broad pennant. This pennant was hoisted for a Commodore of the second class, one who commanded a squadron whose other captains were below post rank. Although he briefly entertained the suggestion, Pellew stated that until he was assigned such a command, he would not presume to hoist such a burgee.
It took no small amount of effort to gather the vessels together and man them for the short trip from the scene of the battle and into the American port. Aside from over two hundred French prisoners, Pellew had only his officers and crew in addition to the small number of men that Catherine Cook could provide, which was remarkably few, owing to the fact that she herself was woefully short handed. However, with Lieutenant Albury aboard the French frigate and Braiscirtle in command of the corvette, each with a file of marines and a few dozen men as prize crews, the five vessels were able to traverse the last fifty sea miles to the coast under easy sail and had come in sight of land just before the start of the forenoon watch.
Pellew had offered Kate the command of the frigate, stating that it was her personal daring that had initiated the capture. While the young woman was grateful for Pellew’s good opinion, she submitted that it was Albury’s place as First Lieutenant and that it should be he who had the honor of helming the craft to her moorings. That had come after what had seemed like a heartfelt reunion to Pellew upon Kate appearing for supper the night of the captures.
“Peter!” Kate had exclaimed, her stoic officer-like demeanor vanishing in joyful recognition. She quickly reigned herself in, however, feeling that this wasn’t quite the right tone due to the solemnity of the occasion. She cleared her throat. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Lieutenant Albury. I hope I see you well?”
For Albury’s part, his composure went by the board at the sight of her as well. He’d rushed forward and taken both of her hands, “God’s my life, Katie girl! Look at you! You’re all grown up and tall as an oak tree! I’d heard the scuttlebutt about the lady captain…
I should’ve known. How do you do? Prime, I trust? How come you here!?”
“Main well, Peter,” Kate said warmly and smiled. “I wasn’t aware you was posted to the Indi! Well deserved, I’m sure.”
Albury turned to Pellew, who wore amusement on his features, “Sir, I served in Spitfire with Kate’s father! He and I also served together in the old Renown… I was just a passed mid back then. My word, Kate… I think you were all of twelve the last time I saw you! Look at you now, grown up, pretty as a picture and fresh from taking two French privateers to boot! No… three! Ha ha ha!”
Albury laughed out loud and pointed to the American built schooner. Kate flushed with pleasure and even demurred to make a curtsey.
Everything was set in train then, as in coming within a few miles of land, a small cutter caught the southerly breeze and dashed out to meet the British squadron. Aboard were three men. Two of whom were little more than boys, in truth. The older boy at the tiller and the younger handling the main sheet. The man, evidently their father, was dressed in simple black trousers, a checked shirt and large-brimmed straw hat. The cutter had come alongside Indefatigable’s portside and the man had come up the side briskly. He’d pulled off his hat and announced that his name was Tom Jenkins and that he was a harbor pilot and would be glad to con Sir Edward’s fine ships to their anchorage for a modest fee.
The modest fee having been paid, the little fleet passed between Morris Island to the south and Sullivan’s Island to the north in order to enter Charleston harbor proper. Mr. Jenkins, who had quickly demonstrated that he was a master pilot, was directing the quartermasters around the Shoals and up the channel to the deep water anchorage.
“That Yankee cove seems to know his business,” Observed Perkins Baldrick, captain of the fore top.