the Silent Sea (2010) tof-7

by Clive Cussler

  Fine, sir. Yourself?

  A bit peckish, as the Brits might say. Dinner's still in the oven, and the aroma is mouthwatering. Perlmutter's second-greatest love was food, and to meet him one could see he dined with gusto. Tell me you're here in the States, and I can finally get a tour of your ship.

  Max Hanley and I are here, as a matter of fact, but the Oregon's at sea. There was no reason not to tell Perlmutter where the ship was other than that Juan didn't know if the other man's phones were clean. I was wondering if I could pick your brain.

  Good God, man, you're starting to sound like Dirk. All he ever calls for is information. At least his kids have the decency to bring me a little something when they come to pump their old uncle St. Julian for his knowledge.

  Max and I are in Washington State, we'll send you some of their famous apples.

  Make it Dungeness crab instead, and you have a deal. What do you need to know?

  The Chinese Treasure Fleet.

  Ah, Admiral Zheng. What about it?

  Actually, I'm talking about Admiral Tsai Song.

  I'm afraid that's a myth, Perlmutter started, and then stopped speaking for a moment. Did you find evidence that he really existed? He's real?

  Are you familiar with the Pine Island Treasure Pit?

  Yes, of course, Perlmutter's voice suddenly shot up a couple of octaves. My God. That was Tsai?

  There's a secret chamber off the main shaft. He left a plaque there, giving a hint to where they abandoned one of their other ships.

  So it wasn't pirate loot at all. I never believed it was, but this is fantastic. Tsai Song's voyage was thought to be nothing more than a story, most likely invented in the eighteenth century as a way of claiming national pride when China was in the throes of unrest due to British meddling.

  Kind of 'yLook at us, we once had an empire bigger than yours.'

  Exactly. Listen, Captain Cabrillo

  Juan, please.

  Juan, I'm not really the person you need to be speaking with. All I know is that there was a claim that Tsai sailed to America and back sometime around the end of the 1400s. I am going to put you in touch with Tamara Wright. She's a Chinese history scholar who wrote an excellent book about Admiral Zheng's voyage to India and Africa and has pieced together a history of the Admiral Tsai legend. Can I call you in ten minutes?

  Sure. Juan gave him his cell number and glanced at Max. You just witnessed history, my friend. Dirk Pitt told me that in all the years he's known Perlmutter, he's never been able to stump the man.

  Not knowing St. Julian, Hanley was underwhelmed. I'll mention it next time I'm at NUMA.

  Juan's phone trilled a few minutes later. Bad news, I'm afraid. Tamara's on vacation and won't be back to her office at Dartmouth until next Monday.

  For reasons I can't discuss, Juan said, time might be of the essence. We only need a couple of minutes of her time.

  That's just it. She's unavailable. The grad student who answered at her office said Tamara left her cell phone behind.

  Do you know where she's vacationing? Maybe there's a way we can track her down.

  Is it really that important? Perlmutter asked, and then spoke again before Juan could reply, Of course it is or you wouldn't have asked. She's on a Mississippi River jazz cruise aboard the Natchez Belle. I have no idea where they are right now, but you can probably get that information from the cruise line.

  I'm already logging on to their website, Cabrillo said. Thank you, Mr. Perlmutter.

  You can forget my crab and send me a translation of that plaque, and we'll call it even.

  Done and done.

  So? Max asked.

  Juan spun the laptop so Hanley could see. The image on the screen was a beautiful white paddle wheeler with smoke coming from her two skinny stacks and people waving from her three wedding-cake-like decks. In the background was the famous St. Louis Arch, one of her usual ports of call.

  Up for a little riverboat gambling?

  I left my derringer at the safe house. Max shot his cuffs. But I should be able to find a few spare aces. Where is she now?

  We can catch her in Vicksburg and get back off again in Natchez, Mississippi, Juan said, taking back the computer to book them on the overnight trip and make the flight arrangements to get them there. After that, we'll hook up with the Oregon again in Rio and either head to the assignment in South Africa or see where the Fates blow us.

  You're having fun, aren't you? Max was pleased.

  Apart from getting shot at and left at the bottom of a two-hundred-foot pit for a while, yeah, I am.

  Hanley chuckled. You liked those parts, too.

  Juan just grinned.

  The Silent Sea

  Chapter SEVENTEEN

  THE CLOSEST LARGE AIRPORT TO VICKSBURG WAS IN Jackson, Mississippi, fifty miles to the east. The wall of humidity Cabrillo walked into when he stepped out of the terminal made him think he was back in the Amazon. The air shimmered with heat, and he couldn't seem to fill his lungs. Beads of sweat popped up on the dome of Max's balding head, and he had to mop his brow with a bandanna.

  My God, he said. What is this place, like, ten miles from the sun?

  Eighteen, Juan replied. I read that in the airline magazine.

  What made it worse is that both men had donned jackets after retrieving their pistols from the checked baggage.

  Rather than bother with the formalities of renting another car, they opted to take a cab instead. Once they found a driver and agreed on a price, the bags went into the trunk and the men settled in the arctic comfort of the taxi's air-conditioning.

  With traffic, it took a little over an hour to reach their destination, but they arrived in plenty of time. The Natchez Belle wouldn't leave for its namesake city for another forty minutes.

  She was moored behind a structure made up to look like a side-wheel steamer that housed one of the casinos in the shadow of the Vicksburg Bridges, a pair of skeletal steel spans that stretched across the muddy Mississippi. Her boarding gantry was lowered right onto the parking lot. A white tent had been set up nearby, and the brassy beat of jazz music carried to where the men stood, as the cabbie headed back home again. Dozens of people milled around with plates of hors d'oeuvres and drinks in their hands. A few of the boat's staff were in attendance, dressed in period costumes.

  What do you know, more gambling. Max no longer noticed the heat.

  Forget it, you lost enough in Vegas. You know, it doesn't seem right to me. Vicksburg's the site of one of the most famous battles of the Civil War. I have a hard time putting casinos here. It's like if they put Euro Disney on the Normandy beaches.

  A lot of locals agree, I'm sure, but a lot more are grateful for the revenue and jobs.

  Juan conceded the point with a nod. It just occurred to me. I have no idea what Tamara Wright looks like. He was reaching for his phone to call Perlmutter when it started to ring.

  Chairman, St. Julian here.

  Your ears must have been buzzing because I was just reaching for my phone to call you. We don't know what Professor Wright looks like.

  She's tall, I'd say six feet, and a light-skinned African American. Her hair was straight the last time I saw her, but that was several years ago. The best way to spot her is she always wears a gold Tijitu pendant.

  A what?

  It's the Taoist symbol for yin and yang. One half black, the other white. Listen, that's not important. Her grad student just called me again. She says she had another call last night from a man asking about Tamara. She just thought to call me now.

  Juan's gut tightened. What did she tell this man?

  Everything. She didn't think she was breaking any confidences.

  Did the man identify himself?

  Yes, he said he was a fellow scholar visiting from Argentina and wanted to set up a meeting with Tamara.

  The tightness spread to Cabrillo's chest. He started looking around the small parking lot, expecting to see the Argentine Major at any second.

  Per
lmutter continued, This isn't good, is it?

  No. No, it isn't. It means Professor Wright's life is in danger.

  At hearing this Max Hanley also started scanning faces.

  Thanks for the warning, St. Julian, Cabrillo said, and folded his phone.

  Persistent buggers, aren't they? Max said.

  They've been an hour behind us the whole way.

  How do you think they found out about Professor Wright?

  The same way we would have if I didn't know Perlmutter. I Googled her last night after you went to bed. She's world renowned for her knowledge of ancient Chinese shipping and commerce. If I wanted to learn more about Admiral Tsai, she's the person I'd want to talk to.

  I guess this means that rubbing you threw into the kitchen at Ronish's house survived the fire, Max remarked.

  What can I say? It was a lousy toss. Come on, let's go check in, then find Dr. Wright. I feel like I've got a target pinned to my back, standing out here.

  Despite her antebellum look, the Natchez Belle was a modern ship built with every conceivable amenity for the seventy passengers she could handle at a time as she made her way back and forth between St. Louis and New Orleans. Her two tall, spindly stacks were for show, as was the massive red stern wheel that churned the waters rhythmically. Propellers under her fantail would actually move the vessel.

  The interior was as decorative and ornate as the outside. Woodwork gleamed under countless rounds of hand polishing, and all the brass looked as bright as gold. The carpet under their feet, as they stepped to the reception desk, was as plush as any aboard the Oregon.

  The duo checked in. Juan was down to his last fake identification thanks to the need to burn their rental in Washington. He asked about Dr. Tamara Wright, but the receptionist, in her hoop-skirt and tight bodice, said they didn't give out information on other passengers. They would have to find her themselves.

  Their wood-paneled cabin was tiny, but at least they had a balcony overlooking the Louisiana side of the river. Max made a comment about the bathroom being smaller than a phone booth, to which Cabrillo replied that they weren't here to enjoy the cruise. They didn't unpack their bags and left the cabin quickly.

  Before boarding, they had checked the people at the cocktail reception on the quay. Dr. Wright wasn't among the guests, so the next logical place would either be her cabin or up on the sundeck. They hoped they could find her, convince her that she was in danger, and get her away from the stern-wheeler before the Argentines showed up. If not, they would guard her until the next port of call and make their escape then.

  There was a bar at the aft section of the upper deck, overlooking the paddle wheel as it turned idly in the current. It was covered by a large white tarp to ward off the last rays of the setting sun. A few passengers were seated around it, and several others sat in nearby sofas, but none matched Tamara Wright's description. Farther forward, in the shadow of the Natchez Belle's ersatz smokestacks, was a sunken hot tub big enough to seat ten. Like the bar, it proved popular with passengers, but there was no sign of Dr. Wright.

  What do you think? Max asked.

  I think we're going to Natchez, Juan replied.

  We might as well get dressed for dinner.

  The men hadn't bothered packing suits, so they made due with fresh shirts and the sports jackets they'd been wearing. By the time they emerged from their cabin, the gangway was being levered into its position along the ship's flank. An old-fashioned steam whistle or at least an electronic version of one signaled that the stern-wheeler was about to get under way.

  While many passengers lined the upper rails or stood on their balconies to wave good-bye to Vicksburg, Cabrillo and Hanley scoured the Natchez Belle for Tamara or the Argentine hit squad. They found neither.

  Both men felt a sense of relief. When the Argentines came, as they no doubt would, it wouldn't be until they reached their next destination. By then, Tamara Wright would understand the danger she was in, and they'd be able to sneak her off the ship. Cabrillo had already worked out a plan for that.

  They sauntered up to the main-deck bar again, where most passengers were enjoying another predinner drink and listening to the house jazz band. A concert by legendary jazz pianist Lionel Couture was scheduled for after the meal.

  Max suddenly slapped Juan's chest with the back of his hand and pointed. I think I'm in love.

  Most of the people they'd seen were older couples out blowing their children's inheritances, so Cabrillo didn't understand what his friend could be talking about. He didn't think it was the mustached bartender wearing the white suit. At least, he hoped it wasn't. The bartender shifted position, and Juan had a clear view of the woman sitting on the opposite side.

  He got it now.

  That's her, isn't it? he asked.

  Notice the necklace. Just like Perlmutter said.

  Tamara Wright had to have been a ravishing beauty in her day, and, in her mid-fifties, she was still a striking woman. She had unlined caf+! au lait skin and shoulder-length hair that was as shiny black as a raven's wing. She was smiling at something the bartender said, showing a mouthful of the whitest teeth Juan had ever seen. She wore a patterned spaghetti-strap dress that showed off her toned arms.

  He had pictured a cloistered academic when St. Julian first mentioned her and he was delighted to admit how wrong he was.

  Juan had to stretch his pace to keep up with Max's bull-in-a-china-shop charge to get to her.

  Dr. Wright, Max said with as much gallantry as he could muster. My name is Max Hanley.

  A puzzled but pleased look set her smile at just the right angle. I'm sorry. Do we know each other?

  Before Max could start in on what could prove to be a lengthy assault on her virtue, Juan stepped in. No, ma'am. You don't know us, but we're here because St. Julian Perlmutter said you'd be here.

  You know St. Julian?

  Yes, we do, and he said you'd have some insight into a Chinese Admiral that he, as much as it pains him to admit, doesn't.

  Now she was really intrigued. Who are you?

  Cabrillo. My name is Juan Cabrillo, and a couple of days ago my associate here and I discovered writing at the bottom of something called the Pine Island Treasure Pit that had been put there by Admiral Tsai Song in 1498.

  Her mouth hung agape for a moment before she realized she was staring. She took a steadying sip of her white wine. Hanley and Cabrillo didn't look like the types to play a practical joke. They looked deadly serious.

  It really is true? Her voice was a wonder-filled whisper.

  Yes. Max said, grinning that he was able to provide her with information she obviously relished.

  Wait, she said suddenly. Isn't Pine Island where some privateer supposedly buried his treasure?

  The reality is even more amazing than that legend, Juan told her. He had already decided to get as much out of her as he could before telling her about the Argentine threat. He didn't want to risk her becoming uncooperative. Please, what can you tell us about Admiral Tsai?

  The reason so little is known about him is that when he returned to China, a new Emperor was on the throne, one who didn't believe his subjects should leave the Middle Kingdom, and he put Tsai and his crew to death so they couldn't pollute the people with tales of the outside world. One of the men managed to escape, and it's from him we know about the voyage. She spoke with a real passion on the subject. And while Juan had asked the question, she was directing most of her attention to Max.

  Tell us about the ship they were forced to leave behind. Tsai wrote that his men were set upon by an evil but didn't say what really happened.

  Yes, that was the Silent Sea. Tsai was forced to sink her and kill all her crew because they had gone mad.

  Where did this happen? Max asked.

  The survivor was a lowly seaman, not a navigator. He only said that where it took place was a land of ice.

  Curious, Juan said. How does

  A black woman become an expert on Chinese maritime history?
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  No, I was going to ask how the story was preserved for so long, but since you brought it up . . .

  My father was an electronics engineer who spent most of his career in Taiwan. I was raised in Taipei. That's where I got my undergraduate degree. It was only after I finished that we returned to the States. As for how the story persisted, the survivor, Zedong Cho, wrote it down when he was an old man. He lived in Taiwan when it was just anther province. The manuscript was handed down through the family, but by the time a few generations had passed it was seen as a piece of fiction, the fantasy of an old ancestor with a good imagination. I learned about it because my roommate all four years at university was Susan Zedong, Cho's nine-times-removed granddaughter.

  Of course, there was no way to prove Admiral Tsai ever existed because the Emperor erased all evidence of him and all his men, so the story has remained just that, a story.

  Until now, Max reminded.

  Until now, she smiled at him.

  Cabrillo could definitely sense some sparks here, and as much as he'd like to give them time alone, time was a luxury they didn't have.

  Does he say what caused the madness? He was thinking about Linda Ross's report. Coincidence was a four-letter word in their line of work.

  The Silent Sea got separated from the other two ships for a month on its way to South America. They stopped at a remote island please don't ask which and they traded for fresh food from the natives. That's the only deviation from what the other ships encountered, so I've always believed the food was tainted somehow.

  Would you excuse me for a moment, Juan said, and stepped away. Max couldn't have been happier.

  Juan dialed the Oregon and asked to be put through to Dr. Huxley.

  Jules, its Juan.

  Hey, where are you guys?

  Believe it or not, on a Mississippi riverboat.

  It's warm and sunny, isn't it? There was envy in the ship's medical officer's voice.

  The sun just set, but it's still about eighty.

  And you're calling to gloat. That's cold, Chairman, even for you.