White Death nf-4

by Clive Cussler

  "Get a grip on yourself, old man," he muttered, stroking his gray beard as he stared at the spread. "Wouldn't do to starve to death amid all this plenty/'

  At four hundred pounds, Perlmutter was in little danger of wast- ing away. Since arriving in Italy ten days before, he had eaten his way up the Italian boot on a promotional tour for an Italian-American food magazine. He had trudged through wineries, trattorias and smokehouses, posed for photo opportunities in refrigerator rooms full of hanging prosciutto, and delivered lectures on the history of food going back to the Etruscans. He had dined on sumptuous feasts everywhere he stopped. The sensory overload had brought him to his present impasse.

  The cell phone in his suit pocket trilled. Grateful for the distrac- tion from his quandary, he flipped the phone open. "State your busi- ness in a concise and businesslike manner."

  "You're a hard man to find, St. Julien."

  The sky-blue eyes in the ruddy face danced with pleasure at the sound of the familiar voice ofKurt Austin.

  "To the contrary, Kurt m'lad. I'm like Hansel and Gretel. Follow the food crumbs, and you'll find me nibbling at the gingerbread house."

  "It was easier to follow the suggestion of your housekeeper. She told me you were in Italy. How's the tour going?"

  Perlmutter patted his substantial stomach. "It's very fulfilling, to say the least. All goes well in the District of Columbia, I trust?"

  "As far as I know. I just flew back from Copenhagen last night."

  "Ah, the city ofHans Christian Andersen and the Little Mermaid. I remember when I was there some years ago, there was this restau- rant I dined at-"

  Austin cut Perlmutter off before he launched into a course-by- course account of his meal. "I'd love to hear about it. But right now, I need your historical expertise."

  "Always willing to talk about food or history. Fire away." Perl- mutter was often asked to lend his expertise to NUMA queries.

  "Have you ever come across a Basque mariner by the name of Diego Aguirrez? Fifteenth or sixteenth century."

  Perlmutter dug into his encyclopedic mind. "Ah yes, something to do with the Song of Roland, the epic French poem."

  "Chanson de Roland? I struggled through that as part of a high school French course."

  "Then you know the legend. Roland was the nephew of the em- peror Charlemagne. He held off the Saracens at Roncesvalles with the help of his magic sword, Durendal. As he was dying, Roland beat his sword against a rock to keep it out of the hands of his enemies, but it wouldn't break. He blew his horn to summon help. Charle- magne, hearing it, came with his armies, but it was too late. Roland was dead. Through the centuries, Roland became a Basque hero, a symbol of their stubborn character."

  "How do we get from Roland to Aguirrez?"

  "I recall a reference to the Aguirrez family in an eighteenth cen- tury treatise on pre-Columbian voyages to the Americas. Aguirrez was said to have made many fishing trips to North American waters decades before Columbus's voyage. Unfortunately, he ran afoul of the Spanish Inquisition. There were unverified reports he had been en- trusted with the Roland relics."

  "From what you say, the Roland story was not just a legend. The sword and the horn actually existed."

  "The Inquisition apparently thought so. They feared the relics could be used to rally the Basques."

  "What happened to Aguirrez and the relics?" "They both disappeared. There is no record of a shipwreck that I can recall. May I ask what prompts your interest in the subject?" "I met a descendant of Diego Aguirrez. He's retracing the voyage

  of his long-lost ancestor, but he never said anything about sacred relics."

  "I'm not surprised. Basque separatists are still setting off bombs in Spain. Lord knows what would happen if they got their hands on po- tent symbols like this."

  "Do you remember anything else about Aguirrez?" "Not off the top of my head. I'll dig around in my books when I aet home." Perlmutter owned one of the world's finest marine li- braries. "I'll be back in Georgetown in a few days, after a stop-off in Milan."

  "You've been a great help as usual. We'll talk again. Buon ap- petito."

  "Grazier Perlmutter said, clicking off his phone. He turned his

  attention back to the table. He was about to dig in to a plate of marinated artichoke hearts when his host, who owned the villa and the surrounding vineyards, came in with the bottle of wine he had gone for.

  Shock registered on the man's face. "You're not touching your food. Are you ill?"

  "Oh no, Signor Nocci. I was distracted by a telephone call re- garding a question of a historical nature."

  The silver-haired Italian nodded. "Perhaps a taste of the chingali, the wild boar, will help your memory. The sauce was made from truffles found in my woods."

  "A splendid suggestion, my friend." With the dam breached, Perl- mutter dug into the food with his usual gusto. Nocci politely held his curiosity at bay while his guest devoured the repast. But when Perl- mutter dabbed his small mouth and set his napkin aside, Nocci said, I am an amateur historian. It is impossible not to be when one lives in a country surrounded by the remnants of countless civilizations. Perhaps I can help you with your question."

  Perlmutter poured himself another glass of 1997 Chianti and re- counted his conversation with Austin. The Italian cocked his head.

  "I know nothing about this Basque, but your story brings to mind something I came across while doing some research in the Biblioteca Laurenziana.f)

  "I visited the Laurentian Library many years ago. I was fascinated by the manuscripts."

  "More than ten thousand masterpieces," Nocci said, nodding his head. "As you know, the library was founded by the Medici family to house their priceless collection of papers. I have been writing a paper on Lorenzo the Magnificent which I hope to publish some day, although I doubt if anyone will read it."

  "Be assured, / shall read it," Perlmutter said grandly. "Then it will have been worth my labor," Nocci said. "Anyway, one of the hazards of research is the temptation to wander away from the highway, and while I was at the library, I traveled a side road that led to the Medici Pope Leo X. With the death of King Ferdinand in 1516, his seventeen-year-old successor, Charles V, encountered pres- sure to restrict the power of the Inquisition. In the great humanist tradition of the Medici family, Leo favored curtailing the Inquisitors. But Charles's advisors persuaded the young king that the Inquisition was essential to maintain his rule, and the persecution continued an- other three hundred years."

  "A sad chapter in human history. It's comforting to know that

  Aguirrez had the courage to speak out, but the dark forces are strong."

  "And none was darker than a Spaniard named Martinez. He sent a letter to the king urging him to support the Inquisition and expand its powers. As far as I can determine, the letter was forwarded to Leo for his comment and came to the library with the Pope's other pa- pers." He shook his head. "It is the fanatical raving of a monster. Martinez hated the Basques, wanted them wiped from the face of the earth. I remember there was a mention of Roland, which I recall thinking was unusual in this context."

  "What was the nature of this reference?"

  Nocci heaved a great sigh and tapped his head with his forefinger. "I can't remember. One of the consequences of growing old."

  "Perhaps you'll remember after more wine."

  "I trust the wine more than my memory," Nocci said, with a smile. "The assistant curator at the library is a friend of mine. Please relax, and I will make a telephone call." He was back in a few minutes. "She says she would be happy to produce the letter I mentioned for us any time we want to look at it."

  Perlmutter pushed his great bulk back from the table and rose to his feet. "I think perhaps a little exercise would do me some good."

  The trip to Florence took less than fifteen minutes. Nocci usually drove a Fiat, but in expectation ofPerlmutter's visit, he had leased a Mercedes, which more comfortably accommodated his guest's wide girth. They parked near the leather and sou
venir stalls that abounded in the Piazza San Lorenzo and went through an entrance to the left of the Medici family's old parish chapel.

  Passing into the quiet cloisters, they left the bustle of commerce be- hind them and climbed the Michelangelo stairs into the reading room. The sturdy frame that supported Perlmutter's large figure al- lowed more agility than would have seemed possible under the laws of gravity. Still, he was puffing from the exertion of climbing the staircase and gladly agreed when Nocci said that he would fetch his friend. Perlmutter strolled past the rows of carved straight-backed benches, basking in the light that was filtering through the high win- dows as he breathed in the musty odor of antiquity.

  Nocci returned after a minute with a handsome middle-aged Woman, whom he introduced as Mara Maggi, the assistant curator.

  She had the reddish-blond hair and fair Florentine complexion that showed up so often in Botticelli paintings.

  Perlmutter shook her hand. "Thank you for seeing us on such short notice, Signora Maggi."

  She greeted Perlmutter with a radiant smile. "Not at all. It is a pleasure to open our collection to someone of such repute. Please come with me. The letter you wish to see is in my office."

  She led the way to a space whose window overlooked the cloister garden and settled Perlmutter in a small anteroom that had a spare desk and a couple of chairs. Several pages of wrinkled parchment lay in an open vellum-bound wooden box. She left the two men alone and said to call if they needed any help.

  Nocci gingerly lifted the first parchment page from the folder and held it by the edges. "My Spanish is not too bad. If you'll allow me…

  Perlmutter nodded and Nocci began to read. As he listened, Perl- mutter decided that he had seldom heard writing that dripped with so much venom and bloodthirsty hatred. The diatribe was a litany of charges directed at the Basques-witchcraft and Satanism among them. Even the uniqueness of their language was used in evidence. Martinez was obviously a madman. But behind his ravings was a clever political message to the young Medici king: To restrict the In- quisition would diminish the power of the throne.

  "Ah," Nocci said, adjusting his reading glasses, "here is the pas- sage I was telling you about. Martinez writes:

  But it is their tendency to rebellion I fear the most. They are at- tached to relics. They have the Sword, and the Horn, to which they attribute great powers. It gives them the power to rebel. Which will threaten the authority of the church and of your kingdom, my lord.

  There is one among them, a man called Aguirrez, who is at the heart of this sedition. I have vowed to pursue him to the ends of the earth, to reclaim these relics. Sire, if our Sacred Mission is not al- lowed to continue its work until heresy is uprooted from the land, I fear the call of Roland's horn will summon our enemies to battle and that his Blade will lay waste to all we hold dear."

  "Interesting," Perlmutter said, knitting his brow. "First of all, he seems to be saying that the relics are real. And second, that this fel- low Aguirrez has them in his possession. This certainly backs up the legendary accounts of Roland's fall."

  Signora Maggi poked her head in the door and asked if they needed anything. Nocci thanked her and said, "This is a fascinating document. Do you have any more papers authored by this man Mar- tmez.

  "I'm very sorry, but there is nothing I can think of."

  Perlmutter tented his fingers and said, "Martinez comes across in his writings as a man of great ego. I would be surprised if he did not keep a journal of his day-to-day activities. It would be wonderful if such a book existed and we could get our hands on it. Perhaps at the state archives in Seville."

  Signora Maggi was only half-listening. She was reading a sheet of paper that had been tucked into the box with the other records. "This is a list of all the manuscripts in this box. Apparently, one of the doc- uments was taken from this file by a previous curator and sent on to the Venice State Archives."

  "What sort of document?" Perlmutter asked.

  "It is described here as an 'Exoneration of a Man of the Sea,' writ- ten by an Englishman, Captain Richard Blackthorne. It was sup- posed to be returned, but there are more than ninety kilometers of archives covering a thousand years of history, so sometimes things fall through the cracks, as you Americans say."

  "I'd love to read Blackthorne's account," Perlmutter said. "I'm due in Milan tomorrow, but perhaps I can divert to Venice."

  "Perhaps it won't be necessary." She took the file into her office, and they could hear the soft clicking of a computer keyboard. She reap- peared after a moment. "I have contacted the Venice State Archives and asked for a virtual search of the records. Once the document is found, it can be copied and transmitted through the Internet."

  "Well done!" Perlmutter said. "And my heartfelt thanks."

  Signora Maggi kissed Perlmutter on both fleshy cheeks, and be- fore long he and Nocci were driving through the suburbs of Flo- rence. Exhausted by the activities of the day, Perlmutter took a nap and awoke just in time for dinner. He and Nocci dined on the ter- race. He had regained his gustatory equilibrium and had no trouble downing his veal and pasta dishes. After finishing up with a spinach salad and a simple doici of fresh fruit, they watched the sun go down, silently sipping on glasses oflimoncello.

  The phone rang and Nocci went to answer it, while Perlmutter sat in the dark, savoring the smell of earth and grapevines, carried to his tulip nose by a light evening breeze. Nocci appeared a few minutes later and summoned Perlmutter into a small state-of-the-art com- puter room.

  Noting his guest's upraised eyebrow, Nocci said, "Even a business as small as mine must use the latest in communications in order to survive in the global market. That was Signora Maggi," he said, sit- ting down in front of the monitor. "She apologizes for the delay, but the document you requested had to be retrieved from the Museo Storico Navale, the naval museum, where it had been languishing. Here," he said, and rose to give up his seat.

  The sturdy wooden chair creaked in protest when Perlmutter set- tied in. He scanned the title page, on which the author declared the iournal to be "an account of an unwilling mercenary in the service of the Spanish Inquisition."

  Perlmutter leaned forward, stared into the screen and began to read the words that had been written five centuries before.

  22

  THE BEER TRUCK rounded a sharp curve, and the driver slammed on his brakes to avoid hitting the battered wreck in the road. The car that lay on its side a few yards from the edge looked as if it had been dropped from a great height. Two more wrecks smoldered at the bottom of the drop-off hundreds of feet below. The driver hurried from his truck and peered into the car window. He was surprised to discover that the people inside were still alive.

  The trucker called for help on his CB radio. The rescue crew had to use mechanical jaws to extricate the Trouts, and then the couple was taken to a small but well-equipped hospital. Paul suffered from a broken wrist, Gamay had a concussion, and they were both covered with bumps and bruises. They spent the night under observation, went through another exam the next morning and were pronounced fit to go. They were signing out at the front desk, when two men wearing rumpled suits arrived, identified themselves as provincial police and asked to talk with them.

  They settled into an unoccupied visitors' lounge, and the Trouts were asked to tell what happened. The senior man was named Mac- Farlane. In a classic good-cop, bad-cop pairing, he was the friendly one who tut-tutted, while his partner, a man named Duffy, was the belligerent officer who tried to pick holes in their story.

  After replying to a particularly pointed question, Gamay, who could never be mistaken for a shrinking violet, stared at Duffy and gave him a smile. "I may be wrong, Officer, but it sounds as if we're being accused of something."

  MacFarlane fidgeted with his hands. "It's not that, ma'am, but look at it from our point of view. You and your husband arrive in town from out of nowhere. Within twenty-four hours, a fisherman you were seen with goes missing, along with his boat. Then four men are killed
in a very unusual accident."

  "Damned bloody death plague if you ask me," Duffy growled.

  "We've told you everything," Paul said. "We were on vacation, and went out with a fisherman named Mike Neal, whom we met at a waterfront restaurant. You can check with the bartender. Mr. Neal was looking for work and offered to take us out for a cruise."

  "Pretty expensive cruise," Duffy sneered. "The boatyard says you paid offNeal's bill of nearly a thousand dollars."

  "We're both ocean scientists. When we learned about the problems the fishermen had been having with low catches, we asked Mr. Neal to do some survey work."

  "What happened next?"

  "We stayed overnight at a bed and breakfast. The next morning, we learned that Mr. Neal and his boat had been lost. We were con- tinuing our trip, when we were caught between two very bad driv- ers driving two very big cars."

  "From what you said," Duffy said, making no attempt to hide his

  skepticism, "it sounds like these folks were trying to run you off the road."

  "It seems that way."

  "That's what we can't figure," Duffy said, scratching the stubble

  on his chin. "Why would they try to kill a couple of innocent tourists?"

  "You'll have to ask them," Paul said.

  Duffy's ruddy face went an even deeper red. He opened his mouth to respond.

  MacFarlane raised his hand to shush his partner. "Those folks are in no condition to answer questions," he said with a wan smile. "But you see, this presents another problem. The young lady here stopped at a general store and asked about a fish plant in town. The four gentlemen who were killed were all employees of the same plant."