“Couldn’t they have been created by the Indians?”
“American Indians rarely produced stone sculptures and built few, if any, monuments out of stone. Mining engineers, after studying the ancient excavations, estimate that over seven hundred million pounds of copper were removed and transported away. No one believes the Indians were responsible, because the copper that has been found by archaeologists amounts to only a few hundred pounds’ worth of beads and baubles. The early Indians worked very little metal.”
“But no indication of underground chambers with enigmatic inscriptions?”
Perlmutter paused. “None that I’m aware of. The miners of prehistory left few signs of pottery or extensive records of inscriptions. Only some logographs and pictographs that are for the most part unreadable. We can only guess at them being, perhaps, Egyptians, Phoenicians, Norsemen, or possibly even an earlier race. There is evidence in the southwest of Celtic mines, and in Arizona it is claimed that Roman artifacts were found outside of Tucson just after the turn of the century. So who can say? Most archaeologists are unwilling to go out on a limb and sanctify pre-Columbian contact. They simply refuse to buy diffusion.”
“A spread of cultural influence from one people to another through contact.”
“Precisely.”
“But why?” asked Pitt. “When there is so much evidence?”
“Archaeologists are a hardheaded bunch,” replied Perlmutter. “They’re all from Missouri. You have to show them. But because early American cultures did not find a use for the wheel, except for toys, or develop the potter’s wheel, they refuse to believe in diffusion.”
“There could be any number of reasons. Until the arrival of Cortez and the Spanish, there were no horses or oxen in the Americas. Even I know it took the idea of the wheelbarrow six hundred years to travel from China to Europe.”
“What can I say?” Perlmutter sighed. “I’m only a marine history buff who refuses to write treatises on subjects I know little about.”
“But you will search your library for any account of underground chambers with indecipherable inscriptions in what would have been remote corners of the world four thousand years ago?”
“I shall do my best.”
“Thank you, old friend. I can’t ask for more.” Pitt had total faith in his old family friend who used to sit Pitt on his lap when he was a little boy and tell him sea stories.
“Is there anything else you haven’t told me about this chamber of yours?” queried Perlmutter.
“Only that it came with an artifact.”
“You’ve been holding out on me. What kind of artifact?”
“A life-size skull carved out of pure black obsidian.”
Perlmutter let that sink in for a few moments. Finally, he said, “Do you know its significance?”
“None that is obvious,” answered Pitt. “All I can tell you is that without modern tools and cutting equipment, the ancient people who cut and smoothed such a large chunk of obsidian must have taken ten generations to produce such an exquisitely finished product.”
“You’re quite right. Obsidian is a volcanic glass formed by rapid cooling of liquid lava. For many thousands of years, man used it to make arrowheads, knives, and spearheads. Obsidian is very brittle. It’s a remarkable feat to have created such an object over the course of a century and a half without shattering or cracking it.”
Pitt glanced over at the crate strapped in the seat. “A pity you can’t be here to see it, St. Julien.”
“No need for that. I already know what it looks like.”
Pitt smelled a rat. Perlmutter was famous for toying with his victims when he was about to display his intellectual superiority. Pitt had no choice but to sail into the trap. “You’d have to see it with your own eyes to appreciate its beauty.”
“Did I forget to tell you, dear boy,” said Perlmutter, his tone dripping with mock innocence, “I know where there is another one?”
11
THE CESSNA ULTRA V touched down on the east runway of Andrews Air Force Base and taxied to the hangars leased by the Air Force to various governmental agencies. NUMA’s aircraft and transportation buildings were located on the northeast part of the base. A NUMA van with two security guards was waiting to take Giordino to his condo in Alexandria, Virginia, and Pat to the safe house where her daughter waited.
Pitt carefully carried the wooden box containing the obsidian skull from the aircraft and set it on the ground. He did not accompany Pat and Giordino, but remained behind.
“You’re not coming with us?” asked Pat.
“No, a friend is picking me up.”
She gave him a penetrating look. “A girlfriend?”
He laughed. “Would you believe my godfather?”
“No, I don’t think I would,” she said sarcastically. “When will I see you again?”
He gave her a light kiss on the forehead. “Sooner than you think.”
Then he closed the door and watched as the van drove off toward the main gate of the base. He relaxed and sat on the ground with his back against one wheel of the landing gear, as the pilot and copilot departed. The spring air of Washington was crisp and clear, with temperatures rising unseasonably into the low sixties. He had waited only ten minutes when a very elegant two-tone green-and-silver automobile rolled whisper-quiet to a stop beside the aircraft.
The chassis of the Rolls-Royce Silver Dawn had gone from the factory assembly line to the coach builders of Hooper & Company in 1955, where it had been fitted with a body designed to flow gracefully from the front fenders to the rear, with smooth sides over the fender skirts. The overhead six-cylinder, 263-cubic-inch engine could propel the stately car to a top speed of eighty-seven miles an hour, with only the sound of the rustling from the tires.
Hugo Mulholland, St. Julien Perlmutter’s chauffeur, stepped from the driver’s side of the car and stuck out his hand. “A pleasure to see you again, Mr. Pitt.”
Pitt grinned and shook the chauffeur’s hand. The greeting was given without the barest hint of cordiality, but Pitt took no offense. He’d known Hugo for more than twenty years. The chauffeur and able aide to Perlmutter was really warmhearted and considerate, but he had the stone face of a Buster Keaton, and rarely smiled or showed signs of congeniality. He took Pitt’s duffel bag and laid it in the trunk of the Rolls, then stepped back as Pitt eased the wooden crate alongside the duffel bag. Then Mulholland opened the rear door and stood aside.
Pitt ducked into the car and settled into the backseat, which was two-thirds taken by Perlmutter’s ample bulk. “St. Julien, you look fit as a fiddle.”
“More like a bass viol.” Perlmutter took Pitt’s head between his two hands and kissed him on both cheeks. The huge man wore a Panama hat over his gray hair. His face was red, with a tulip nose complemented by sky-blue eyes. “It’s been too long. Not since that pretty little Asian girl with the Naturalization and Immigration Service fixed dinner for us in your hangar apartment.”
“Julia Marie Lee. That was about this time last year.”
“What became of her?”
“Last I heard, Julia was on assignment in Hong Kong.”
“They never stay long, do they?” Perlmutter mused.
“I’m not exactly the kind of guy women take home to meet their mother.”
“Nonsense. You’d make a great catch if you’d ever settle down.”
Pitt changed the subject. “Do I smell food?”
“When was the last time you ate?”
“I had coffee for breakfast and a soft drink for lunch.”
Perlmutter lifted a picnic basket from the floor and set it in his great lap. Then he pulled down the burled walnut trays from their hiding place on the back of the front seat. “I’ve prepared a small repast for the drive to Fredericksburg.”
“Is that where we’re going?” asked Pitt, looking forward with great anticipation to the gourmet goodies inside the basket.
Perlmutter simply nodded as he held up a bottle o
f Yellow Label Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin Brut Champagne. “All right?”
“My favorite,” Pitt acknowledged.
After Mulholland was waved through the main gate, he turned left onto the Capital Beltway and drove east across the Potomac River, until he reached Springfield, where he turned south. Inside the rear passenger compartment, Perlmutter laid out silver and china on the trays, then began passing out the various dishes, beginning with crepes filled with mushrooms and sweetbreads, grilled and breaded oysters, several pâtés and cheeses, and ending with pears poached in red wine.
“This is a real treat, St. Julien. I seldom eat this extravagantly.”
“I do,” said Perlmutter, patting his huge stomach. “And that’s the difference between us.”
The sumptuous picnic was finished off with a small thermos of espresso. “No cognac?” asked Pitt facetiously.
“It’s too early in the day for a man in his sixties to partake of heavy spirits. I’d doze away the afternoon.”
“Where is this second obsidian skull you mentioned?”
“In Fredericksburg.”
“I assumed that.”
“It belongs to a very nice old lady by the name of Christine Mender-Husted. Her great-grandmother obtained the skull when her husband’s whaling ship was trapped in winter ice in Antarctica. A gripping story. According to family history, Roxanna Mender became lost on the ice pack one day. When her husband, Captain Bradford Mender, master of the whaler Paloverde, and his crew rescued her, they discovered a derelict English East Indiaman sailing ship. Intrigued, they boarded and searched the ship, finding dead crew and passengers. In a storeroom, they found a black obsidian skull and other strange objects, which they had to leave behind because the ice pack began to break up and they had to rush back to their ship.”
“Did they save the black skull?”
Perlmutter nodded. “Yes, Roxanna herself carried it off the derelict ship. It’s been a family heirloom ever since.”
Pitt stared idly through the window of the Rolls at the green, rolling countryside of Virginia. “Even if the two skulls are identical, without markings they tell us nothing of who created them or why.”
“Comparing the skulls is not why I set up an appointment to meet with Mrs. Mender-Husted.”
“So what’s your scheme?”
“For ten years I’ve been trying to buy the Mender family letters pertaining to Captain Mender’s whaling days. Included are the logbooks of the ships he served aboard. But the pièce de résistance of the collection, the object I’d give my few remaining teeth to get in my hands, is the log of the derelict they found in the ice.”
“The Mender family has it?” Pitt asked, his curiosity rising.
“My understanding is that Captain Mender took it when they made their dash across the ice pack.”
“Then you have an ulterior motive for this trip.”
Perlmutter smiled like a fox. “I’m hoping that when Mrs. Mender-Husted sees your skull, she might relent and sell me hers along with the family archival collection.”
“Don’t you feel ashamed when you look at yourself in the mirror?”
“Yes.” Perlmutter laughed diabolically. “But it soon passes.”
“Is there any indication in the derelict ship’s log where the skull came from?”
Perlmutter shook his head. “I’ve never read it. Mender-Husted keeps it locked away.”
Several seconds passed, Pitt lost in his thoughts. He couldn’t help wondering how many other obsidian skulls were hidden around the world.
MOVING silently along at the posted speed, the Rolls-Royce made the trip to Fredericksburg in an hour and a half. Mulholland steered the majestic car onto a circular drive that led to a picturesque colonial house on the heights of the town above the Rappahannock River, overlooking the killing field where 12,500 Union soldiers fell during one day in the Civil War. The house, built in 1848, was a gracious reminder of the past.
“Well, here we are,” said Perlmutter, as Mulholland opened the door.
Pitt went around to the rear of the car, raised the trunk lid, and lifted out the crate containing the skull. “This should prove interesting,” he said, as they walked up the steps and pulled a cord that rang a bell.
Christine Mender-Husted could have passed for anyone’s grandmother. She was as spry as they came, white-haired, with a hospitable smile, angelic facial features, and twenty pounds on the plump side. Her movements came as quick as her sparkling hazel eyes. She greeted Perlmutter with a firm handshake and nodded when he introduced his friend.
“Please come right in,” she said sweetly. “I’ve been expecting you. May I offer you some tea?”
Both men accepted and were led to a high-ceilinged, paneled library and motioned to sit in comfortable leather chairs. After a young girl, who was introduced as a neighbor’s daughter who helped out around the house, served the tea, Christine turned to Perlmutter.
“Well, St. Julien, as I told you over the phone, I’m still not ready to sell my family’s treasures.”
“I admit the hope has never left my mind,” said Perlmutter, “but I’ve brought Dirk for another reason.” He turned to Pitt. “Would you like to show Mrs. Mender-Husted what you have in the box?”
“Christine,” she said. “My maiden and married names together are a mouthful.”
“Have you always lived in Virginia?” asked Pitt, making conversation while opening the latches on the wooden box containing the skull from the Pandora Mine.
“I come from six generations of Californians, many of whom still live in and around San Francisco. I happened to have had the good fortune of marrying a man who came from Virginia and who served under three presidents as special adviser.”
Pitt went silent, his eyes captivated by a black obsidian skull that was sitting on the mantel above the flickering fire. Then slowly, as if in a trance, he opened the crate. Then he removed his skull, walked over, reached up, and placed it beside its double on the mantel.
“Oh my!” Christine gasped. “I never dreamed there was another one.”
“Neither did I,” Pitt said, studying the two black skulls. “As far as I can tell by the naked eye, they’re perfect duplicates, identical in form and composition. Even the dimensions appear to be the same. It’s as if they came out of the same mold.”
“Tell me, Christine,” said Perlmutter, a cup of tea in one hand, “what ghostly tale did your great-grandfather pass down about the skull?”
She looked at him as if he had asked a dumb question. “You know as well as I do that it was found on a ship frozen in the ice called the Madras. She was bound from Bombay to Liverpool with thirty-seven passengers, a crew of forty, and carrying a varied cargo of tea, silk, spices, and porcelain. My great-grandparents found the skull in a storeroom filled with other ancient artifacts.”
“What I meant was, did they find any indication of how the artifacts came to be onboard the Madras?”
“I know for a fact the skull and other oddities did not come on board the ship in Bombay. They were discovered by the crew and passengers when they stopped for water at a deserted island during the voyage. The details were in the logbook.”
Pitt hesitated and, fearing the worst, repeated, “You say were in the log?”
“Captain Mender did not keep it. The dying wish of the Madras’s captain was that it be forwarded to the owners of the ship. My great-grandfather dutifully sent it by courier to Liverpool.”
Pitt felt as if he had run against a brick wall in a dead-end alley. “Do you know if the Madras’s owners sent an expedition to find the derelict and backtrack its course to the artifacts?”
“The original ship’s owners, as it turns out, sold the trading company before Captain Mender sent the log,” explained Christine. “The new management sent out a two-ship expedition to find the Madras, but they vanished with all hands.”
“Then all records are lost,” Pitt said, discouraged.
Christine’s eyes flashed. “I never sai
d that.”
He looked at the elderly lady, trying to read something in her eyes. “But—”
“My great-grandmother was a very sharp lady,” she cut him off. “She made a handwritten copy of the Madras’s log before her husband sent it off to England.”
To Pitt, it was as if the sun had burst through black clouds. “May I please read it?”
Christine did not immediately answer. She walked over to an antique ship captain’s desk and gazed up at a painting hanging on the oak-paneled wall. It depicted a man sitting in a chair with his arms and legs crossed. But for a great beard that covered his face, he might have been handsome. He was a big man, his body and shoulders filling the chair. The woman who stood behind him with one hand on his shoulder was small in stature and stared through intense brown eyes. Both were dressed in nineteenth-century clothing.
“Captain Bradford and Roxanna Mender,” she said wistfully, seemingly lost in a past she had never lived. Then she turned and looked at Perlmutter. “St. Julien, I think the time has come. I’ve held on to their papers and letters out of sentiment for far too long. It’s better they be remembered by others who can read and benefit from the history they lived. The collection is yours at the price you quoted.”
Perlmutter came out of the chair as lightly as if he had the body of an athlete, and hugged Christine. “Thank you, dear lady. I promise all will be properly preserved and stored in archives for future historians to study.”
Christine came over and stood beside Pitt at the mantel. “And to you, Mr. Pitt, a gift. I place my obsidian skull in your trust. Now that you have a matching pair, what do you intend to do with them?”
“Before they go to a museum of ancient history, they’ll be studied and analyzed in a laboratory to see if they can be dated and tied to a past civilization.”
She looked at her skull for a long time before exhaling a long sigh. “I hate to see it go, but knowing it will be properly cared for makes it much easier. You know, people have always looked at it and thought it was a precursor of bad luck and tragic times. But from the minute Roxanna carried it over the melting ice pack to her husband’s ship, it has brought nothing but good fortune and blessings to the Mender family.”
Atlantis Found (A Dirk Pitt Novel) Page 13