“I know that,” Kurt said. “How do we stop it?”
“Stop it?”
“There has to be a weakness we can exploit. A way to counteract it.”
Millard looked off into the distance. “It wasn’t there . . . They must have . . . We didn’t find it . . .” After this, Millard coughed, said something unintelligible and began to drift.
“Stay with me,” Kurt said, “or I’ll leave you here on the ship.”
“No,” Millard said, grasping onto Kurt with renewed energy. “The ship is going to explode. We have to get off.”
The doctor put her hand on Kurt’s shoulder. “Mr. Austin, you must finish quickly.”
Kurt nodded. “I’ll get you out. Tell me about the bacteria. Tell me how to destroy it.”
Millard shook his head from side to side. “They knew how . . . but they’re gone . . . poor souls . . . drowned . . . They never got out . . .”
More rambling followed. Kurt decided to ask something simpler. “Where can I find Tessa?”
“She never comes to see us anymore . . . not down here . . .”
“She left Bermuda in the Monarch,” Kurt said. “Where does she go when she’s not in Bermuda?”
“No one knows,” Millard said. “She’s always gone, these days. And we never see the daylight.”
Millard’s condition made it difficult to know what to ask. “Is there another lab? Another production facility? Someplace where we might find records of how you created the bacteria?”
“Pas moi,” Millard whispered, gulping at the dry air and shaking his head. “Le Dakar . . .”
“Dakar?” Kurt replied.
Millard nodded weakly. “Les Français,” he added. “They were there. They never got out . . . Pour souls, they all drowned.” With that, he clutched at Kurt again. “We have to get off the ship . . . It’s going to explode.” The next words caught in his throat and Millard sank back into a coma.
The doctor turned on Kurt. “That’s it,” she said. “No more. He’s staying under until the swelling in his brain has subsided.”
Kurt picked up the recorder, switched it off and put it in his pocket.
“Who is he?” she asked.
“I can’t tell you that,” Kurt said. “But I can tell you he’s partially responsible for dozens of fatalities and that he may have the knowledge we need to avert a worldwide crisis. So, treat him well, but don’t forget whose side he’s on.”
The doctor said nothing in return and Kurt walked out, his mind already focused on finding a genetics lab in Dakar.
46
WASHINGTON, D.C.
“THERE’S NO SIGN of a genetics lab in Dakar.”
These were the first words Kurt heard upon waking up from several hours of desperately needed sleep.
After leaving Bethesda, he’d returned to his boathouse on the Potomac and fallen onto his couch. He’d closed his eyes, intending only to rest for a moment, but surrounded by the familiar scents and sounds of his own home—the aroma of varnish that wafted up from the workshop below, the hum of the oversized filter in the tropical fish tank—he was asleep before he knew it.
The phone call from Rudi had shocked him back to consciousness several hours later.
“Are you sure?” he asked. “Millard was pretty clear about the location.”
Rudi didn’t waver. “Both the CIA and NSA insist there is zero possibility of a genetics lab in Dakar. I had a search run for anything that would indicate Tessa’s company or any subsidiaries acting in the region, but there’s nothing to suggest she’s ever been connected to that part of the world, let alone Dakar itself.”
“What about Millard or any of his known associates?”
“Nothing there either,” Rudi said.
Kurt could hardly believe what he was hearing. “What’s the confidence level on this?”
“High,” Rudi said. “There’s a CIA unit specifically tasked with tracking genetic threats. Millard has been on their watch list for years. He’s split his time between France, Bermuda and the UK. He’s never set foot on African soil.”
“What about other places named Dakar?” Kurt asked.
“Plenty of them,” Rudi said. “One in Syria, three others in Africa, one in India. There’s even a small city in the heart of Russia named Dakar. But there’s nothing to indicate Tessa, or Millard, has ever been to any of them.”
Kurt stared at the ceiling. There was no point arguing. “What about the French language portion of the recording? Have the interpreters come up with anything from it?”
“Most of it was unintelligible,” Rudi said, “though Millard’s voice was clear when insisting that he didn’t create the bacteria and when he offered a statement near the end, stating, ‘the French were there also.’”
“Is it possible to wake him up again?” Kurt asked.
“I checked on that,” Rudi replied. “He’s gone into a deeper coma. The doctors said trying to wake him now would probably kill him. And considering the head trauma, they’re not sure what his cognitive state will be when he finally does wake up. It’s a miracle you got from him what you did.”
“Then, we’ll just have to listen some more and figure out what he meant,” Kurt said. “Not to change the subject, but what about the Monarch?”
“If we’d found it,” Rudi said, “I’d have told you already.”
“Sorry,” Kurt said. “Keep me posted.”
Rudi promised to do just that and hung up.
Kurt stood and walked to the kitchen. He switched the coffeepot on and left the lights off. Waiting for the coffee to brew, he went over Millard’s words in his head.
Millard had been utterly clear about Dakar. He’d even mentioned that the French were there—and the French had controlled Dakar, and the region of Senegal where it is located, for centuries.
Picking up the recorder, he listened to Millard’s words again, playing it section by section, stopping and rewinding repeatedly, until he’d gone through it several times.
Between the weakness of Millard’s voice, his labored breathing and the background noise of the hospital room, it was hard to make out everything, but after listening to the same words over and over Kurt realized something small that he’d overlooked.
“Le Dakar,” he said, speaking Millard’s words. “The . . . Dakar.”
Millard was referring not to a place but to a thing—and when he heard Millard mention that the poor souls had drowned, Kurt became certain just what that thing was.
He sat at his computer and checked the NUMA database, quickly finding what he was looking for. But the information was cursory, not much better than what was available publicly.
Rarely was that the case.
If he wanted anyone to take his theory seriously, he was going to need more. And if the information wasn’t going to be found in the computers of the world, he’d have to seek out a different storehouse of knowledge. One made of flesh and blood.
Grabbing his keys, Kurt ran out the front door. He climbed into his Jeep and sped off toward Georgetown, heading for St. Julien’s.
47
GEORGETOWN
ST. JULIEN’S wasn’t a church, a university or a hospital. It was St. Julien Perlmutter, an expert in all things nautical. A friend of NUMA, he’d spent decades collecting books, charts and other sources of information about the sea. If it was rare and unique, he searched it out and often paid top dollar to get it. In addition to auctions and private sales, Perlmutter had a network of contacts spread across the globe who would reach out to him if they found something of interest or if a rumor crossed their desk regarding any mysteries hidden in the oceans.
Kurt arrived at Perlmutter’s home and pulled into the driveway, which ran between the ivy-covered walls of the neighboring houses that guarded the entrance to St. Julien’s like the battlements of a walled cit
y.
Beyond them lay a spacious carriage house with more land around it than any home in Georgetown had a right to. It even had a large courtyard that St. Julien had roofed over and later enclosed completely so he could store more of his treasures.
Kurt stepped from the Jeep and shut the door. It had been a while since he’d visited and he’d never arrived so late in the evening and unannounced. And yet before he could take a step toward the door, it swung open, spilling light onto the grounds.
Most of that light was immediately blocked by the imposing shape of a four-hundred-pound man in a silk robe.
“Kurt Austin darkening my door,” a deep voice boomed. “What have I done to deserve this?”
Kurt grinned at the welcome, noticing that Perlmutter hadn’t trimmed the long beard or changed the style of the mustache that covered his lip and twisted at the ends.
“St. Julien,” Kurt said. “It’s great to see you. But do you ever sleep?”
“Every chance I get.”
“Then how is it you’re always waiting at the door when I arrive? Cameras? Alarm system? Sixth sense you’ve never told us about?”
“Yes to all of the above,” St. Julien replied. “And in your case, Fritz knows the sound of your Jeep. He wags his tail incessantly the moment you pull into the driveway.”
Kurt laughed. Fritz was Perlmutter’s dachshund. The moment his name was spoken, he appeared in the doorway. He’d been a puppy the first time Kurt met him, though he was fully grown now and becoming rotund like his master.
“You see?” Perlmutter said. “He’s awfully fond of you, which doesn’t say much for his breeding.”
The joke didn’t offend Kurt in the least. In fact, he laughed. This was how St. Julien greeted his true friends. If he’d been polite and proper, Kurt would have been worried.
“I’m sorry to bother you so late,” Kurt said. “Can I bend your ear for a moment?”
“Certainly,” Perlmutter said, waving Kurt in.
Kurt followed Perlmutter through the doorway and into the large but crowded house. They passed stacks of books five feet tall, tables covered with charts six inches deep and shelves filled with journals, logbooks, records and diaries from the owners, passengers and crew of long-defunct steamship lines.
Kurt marveled at it all. “How many books do you have now?”
“I stopped counting at ten thousand,” Perlmutter said.
St. Julien had long ago filled his official library and since then had turned every room, closet and nook in the home into an extension of that library. The only space completely free of books was the expansive kitchen, where he spent his time creating sumptuous dishes that would have earned him a Michelin star or two had his home been a restaurant. Even now, the aroma was enticing.
“Cognac or port?” Perlmutter said, arriving at a bar that was stocked from his personal wine cellar.
“Don’t waste the good stuff on me,” Kurt said. “I’m only here for information.”
“Nonsense,” Perlmutter said. He filled two balloon snifters with golden brown cognac from an aged bottle and passed one to Kurt.
“Now,” Perlmutter said, “what is it you’re searching for?”
“Information on the INS Dakar.”
Perlmutter’s memory was as quick and accurate as any computer’s. He rattled off the basic facts. “The Dakar was an Israeli vessel, purchased from the British. Lost with all hands in the Mediterranean, January of ’68.” Perlmutter raised an eyebrow. “A bad year for submarines, really. That same year, the French lost the Minerve, we lost the Scorpion and the Russians lost the K-129. Some people thought a secret war had broken out. As for the Dakar, its disappearance was considered mysterious due to conflicting time and position reports from the Israeli Navy and an emergency buoy that washed up near Gaza a year later. Repeated Israeli searches failed to locate wreckage and the ship’s whereabouts remained unknown until ’99, when a joint U.S.–Israeli team found the ship several hundred miles east of Crete. End of story.”
“That’s the public information,” Kurt said. “I need the hidden truth. I have reason to believe that submarine was involved in something clandestine, but I’ve nothing to back that up.”
Perlmutter’s mustache twitched as he considered this. “Common sense would suggest that’s highly unlikely.”
“Why?”
“She was on a shakedown cruise when she vanished,” Perlmutter said. “Her crew were mostly new recruits. They’d spent a month in England, training with the Brits. Nothing outlandish about that. Also, she was in the process of being delivered. Unlikely that she would be on a secret mission before she’d ever reached Israel to be fitted out.”
“And yet the erroneous position reports suggest something was going on,” Kurt said.
Perlmutter tugged thoughtfully on his beard. “I must admit there have always been rumors about that vessel. The sinking, the disappearance, even the search for it, were controversial. At one point, a high-ranking Israeli officer claimed the government had deliberately misled those who’d been looking for her because they didn’t want the wreck to be found.”
“But it was discovered,” Kurt questioned. “And the Israelis had parts of the ship salvaged, including the bridge, right?”
Perlmutter nodded. “There was talk of bringing the whole ship up, but it was too costly and complicated an endeavor, especially as the wreck lies so deep.”
Kurt said, “The question I have is, why consider it at all? We’ve salvaged a few ships in our time. No one goes to that expense unless there’s an incredibly important—even singular—reason for doing so. Usually something on the sunken vessel that a government wants or something they don’t want anyone else to have. Which makes me think the Dakar was carrying something the Israeli government wanted kept secret.”
Perlmutter looked slightly out of sorts. He shifted in his chair and took another sip of the cognac and then placed the glass down slowly. “I have roughly thousands of volumes of various types here, Kurt, and I can assure you there’s nothing in any of them to support your theory.”
“I’ll accept that,” Kurt said. “But there are other forms of information, including word of mouth, and I know you speak with people who talk off the record. And honoring those commitments, I know you’ve never written a single word of it down. But you have it all stored”—Kurt tapped the side of his head—“up here.”
Perlmutter’s frame stiffened. “Talk and innuendo are dangerous things to trade in, especially when one is grasping at straws. You never know who will hand you a few, only to watch you fall. I imagine this has something to do with Joe and Ms. Priya disappearing?”
“It does,” Kurt admitted. He brought St. Julien up to speed on everything that had happened, filling him in on the link to the oil crisis and to what Millard had told him. “Right now, I have nothing else to go on. I have no way to stop what we’re dealing with, no way to track down the people who took Priya and no chance of bringing them to justice for what happened to Joe. If straws are all that are left, I’m reaching for them with both hands. So, if you have any information suggesting the Dakar was involved in a clandestine mission and carrying a secret cargo when she went down, I need to hear it.”
“There have always been rumors about that vessel,” Perlmutter admitted. “Most are frivolous, but there is one I’ve heard that may interest you. Several years ago—almost a decade now—I was in France having dinner at a wonderful gastropub with a colleague from the French Military Historical Society. We were on our second bottle of wine when the subject of missing vessels came up. I told him a few stories from NUMA’s list of great discoveries—nothing classified, I assure you. Suitably impressed, he tried to match me, story for story. Eventually, he asked if I’d heard the true story of the Dakar.
“Naturally intrigued, I told him I had not. He agreed to enlighten me but spoke in the vaguest of terms. At any ra
te, his intimation was that the French Air Force had sent the Dakar to the bottom, not a malfunction or accident.”
Kurt narrowed his gaze. “The French Air Force? Why would they sink an Israeli sub?”
Perlmutter stroked his beard. “My friend wouldn’t say, but he offered a possible answer in the form of another rumor. This one suggested the French and Israelis had jointly developed a new weapon. Something to be used in the event of another Arab invasion. He told me others thought it might be a hydrogen bomb—which is logical, as the French were helpful in the creation of the Israeli nuclear program—but he personally thought it was something more sinister. He described it as being a doomsday weapon.”
“Doomsday?”
“My friend is fond of dramatic terms,” Perlmutter said. “Upon later explanation, I understood him to mean a weapon that couldn’t be stopped once it was unleashed. Not even at the border.”
“Biological,” Kurt said.
Perlmutter nodded. “All too common today, but rare back then. According to my friend, the two nations had designed this weapon together before they began fighting over it. The French were afraid, insisting a countermeasure be developed. The Israelis were firmly against this but finally acquiesced. Once the weapon and its antidote had both been perfected, the Israelis stole the whole kit and caboodle, loaded it aboard the Dakar and sailed for Israel. Unwilling to lose what they believed to be their rightful creation, the French hunted the Dakar down and sank it.”
Kurt knew he was onto the truth now. He took another sip of the cognac, reached down to scratch Fritz on the head and then stood.
“You’re going?”
“You’ve given me what I need,” Kurt replied.
“I’ve given you a rumor,” Perlmutter corrected, “and only because you asked me to. You must know that particular friend has a fairly suspect record when it comes to veracity.”
“I think your friend told you the truth,” Kurt said. “What’s more, he might have given us the key to prevent this oil shock from becoming a lasting crisis. I have to go. Keep well. I’ll stay longer next time and we’ll drink the rest of that bottle.”
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