“A Vergelegen Chardonnay and a pair of red varietals from De Toren.” He examined the labels with delight. “Outstanding selections. Shall we?”
He wasted no time in finding a corkscrew and pouring the Chardonnay.
“I am, of course, distressed to hear of your father’s absence. May he be in safe port,” he said, raising his glass.
While discussing Pitt’s disappearance, they dined on pork loin in chipotle sauce, fingerling potatoes, and baked asparagus. Fresh Georgia peaches in a cream-and-brandy sauce were devoured for dessert. The host’s French cook and housekeeper had the night off, so Summer and Dirk helped Perlmutter clear the table and wash the dishes before sitting back down at the table.
“The wine was delicious, Summer, but don’t toy with me,” Perlmutter said. “You know what I really want to get my hands on.”
“I thought you’d never ask.” She opened her travel bag and pulled out the carefully wrapped journal from the beached life raft. “The log of the Barbarigo,” she said.
“So that’s what this is all about,” Dirk said. “And here I thought you were just happy to see us.”
Perlmutter laughed with a roar that echoed through the house. A longtime friend of their father, he had readily taken to Pitt’s twin children as a sort of kindly uncle.
“My boy, your company is welcome anytime.” He opened and poured another of Summer’s bottles. “But a good nautical mystery is sweeter than wine.”
Perlmutter took the package and carefully unwrapped its oilskin covering. The leather-bound journal showed signs of wear, but was otherwise undamaged. He gently opened the cover and read the title page, written by hand in bold lettering.
“Viaggio di Sommergibile Barbarigo, Giugno 1943. Capitano di corvetta Umberto de Julio.” Perlmutter looked up at Summer and smiled. “That’s our submarine.”
“Submarine?” Dirk asked.
“The raft on the beach,” Summer said. “It contained the remains of crewmen from a World War Two Italian submarine.”
“The Barbarigo, a large boat of the Marcello class,” Perlmutter said. “She had an illustrious record in the Atlantic early in the war, sinking six vessels and downing an aircraft. But she lost her teeth in 1943 when she was assigned to a project with the code name of Aquila.”
“Latin for ‘eagle,’” Dirk said.
Summer gave her brother a suspicious look.
“Astronomy,” he explained. “I remember it from a constellation near Aquarius.”
“Mule would have been a more befitting name,” Perlmutter said. “The Germans were concerned over their high loss of surface ships while trading war materials with Japan, so they convinced the Italians to convert eight of their largest, and somewhat outdated, submarines to transport duty. The interiors were gutted and most of their armaments removed so they could carry a maximum amount of cargo.”
“Sounds like dangerous duty,” Dirk said.
“It was. Four of the vessels were sunk outright, one was scuttled, and the other three captured in Asia before completing a round-trip. Or at least that’s what the history books say.” Perlmutter began scanning the pages, examining the dates.
“So what happened to the Barbarigo?” Summer asked.
“Designated Aquila Five, she departed Bordeaux on June 16, 1943, bound for Singapore with a cargo of mercury, steel, and aluminum bars. Radio contact was lost a few days later, and it was presumed she was sunk somewhere near the Azores.”
He skipped ahead to the last page. “My Italian is deplorable, but I read the last entry as November 12, 1943.”
“Nearly five months later,” Dirk said. “Something doesn’t figure.”
“I have the answer, I hope, right here.” Summer pulled out a sheaf of printed pages. “I had Hiram scan the logbook into his computer system. He claimed it was child’s play to translate it into English and gave me the output right before we left.”
She began passing the pages around the table, letting Dirk and Perlmutter devour them like a pair of hungry coyotes.
“Here we go,” Dirk said. “It says here that they were spotted and attacked by two aircraft in the Bay of Biscayne shortly after leaving port but safely eluded them. Their radio mast was damaged, which prevented them from communicating with central command.”
Via the journal, they followed the Barbarigo’s voyage around the Cape of Good Hope and across the Indian Ocean. The submarine off-loaded its cargo in Singapore and then was diverted to a small Malaysian port near Kuala Lumpur.
“‘On 23 September, we took on 130 tons of oxidized ore called Red Death by the locals,’” Summer read. “‘A German scientist named Steiner oversaw the loading and joined the crew for the return voyage.’”
“The first officer later wrote that Steiner stayed holed up in his cabin with a stack of physics books for the rest of the trip,” Dirk said.
“Red Death?” Perlmutter said. “I wonder if it is something like Edgar Allan Poe’s plague of the same name. I’ll have to take a look at that—and this fellow Steiner. Certainly a curious cargo.”
The trio flipped through several weeks of entries describing the submarine’s return across the Indian Ocean. On the ninth of November, the handwriting turned hurried, and the pages showed saltwater stains.
“This is where they got into trouble, while off the coast of South Africa,” Perlmutter said. He read aloud a terse description of the Barbarigo diving to avoid a nighttime air attack. After eluding several bombing runs, the crew believed they had escaped the attack—only to discover that the sub’s propeller had been disabled or blown off entirely.
Dirk and Summer sat silently as Perlmutter read of the resulting tragedy. With no propulsion, the sub remained submerged for twelve hours, fearing that additional aircraft had been called to the scene. Surfacing at midday, they found themselves in an empty sea, drifting to the southeast. Carried past the shipping lanes and without a long-range radio, the officers feared they might drift to their deaths in the Antarctica. Captain De Julio ordered the crew to abandon ship, and they took to the four life rafts stowed beneath the forward deck, saluting their beloved vessel as they left her side. In a mix-up of orders, the last officer off failed to prime the scuttle charges and sealed the main hatch. Rather than sinking before them, the Barbarigo drifted off toward the horizon.
Perlmutter stopped reading and raised his eyebrows like a pair of drawbridges. “My word,” he said quietly. “That is most curious.”
“What happened to the other three boats?” Summer asked.
“The log entries become spottier at this point,” Perlmutter said. “They attempted to reach South Africa and were within sight of land when a storm struck. The boats were dispersed in the rough seas, and Captain De Julio said the men in his boat never again saw the other three. During the ordeal they lost five men, all their food and water, and their sail and oars. The raft was carried east, drifting away from shore with the coastal current. Eventually the weather turned hot and dry. With no fresh water, they lost two more crewmen, leaving only the captain, the first officer, and two engineers.”
“Ravaged by thirst, they eventually spotted land again and were able to paddle closer. High winds and huge swells carried them ashore and tossed them onto the beach,” Perlmutter said. “They found themselves in a hot desert, desperate for water. The last entry states the captain went off alone in search of water, as the others were too weak to walk. The journal ends, ‘God bless the Barbarigo and her crew.’”
“We can attest to the barrenness of the region,” Summer said after a time. “What a tragedy that they nearly made it safely to South Africa and ended up a thousand miles away in Madagascar.”
“They fared slightly better than the crewmen in the other three boats,” Dirk said.
Perlmutter nodded, though he appeared lost in thought. He rose from his seat and padded in
to the living room, then returned a few minutes later with an armful of books and an inquisitive look. “Congratulations, Summer. It would appear as if you have solved two enduring mysteries of the sea.”
“Two?” she asked.
“Yes, the fate of the Barbarigo and the identity of the South Atlantic Wraith.”
“I’ll buy the former,” Dirk said, “but what’s this Wraith?”
Perlmutter opened the first book and flipped through its pages. “From the logbook of the merchant ship Manchester, off the Falkland Islands, February 14, 1946. ‘Light seas, winds out of the southwest three or four. At 1100, the first officer reported an object off our starboard beam. Appeared at first to be a whale carcass, but believe it is a man-made vessel.’”
He closed the book and opened another. “The freighter Southern Star, April 3, 1948, near Santa Cruz, Argentina. ‘Unknown object, possible sailing vessel, spotted adrift two miles distant. Black hull, small superstructure amidships. Appears abandoned.’”
Perlmutter picked up a third book. “Accounts of a South Georgia Whaling Station. In February of 1951, the whaler Paulita arrived with a kill of three mature gray whales. Captain reports spotting a ghost ship, low black hull, small sail amidships, drifting one hundred miles north. Crew called it the South Atlantic Wraith.”
“You think the Barbarigo is this Atlantic Wraith?” Summer asked.
“It’s entirely possible. For a period of twenty-two years, there were sightings of a supposed ghost ship adrift in the South Atlantic. For one reason or another, no one seemed to get a close view, but the descriptions are all similar. It seems to me that a bottled-up submarine could drift about an empty sea for quite a while.”
“At those southerly latitudes, the sub’s conning tower could easily ice over,” Dirk said, “so from a distance it resembled a sail.”
“That might be confirmed in the last recorded sighting.” Perlmutter opened the final book. “It was in 1964. An endurance sailor named Leigh Hunt was making a solo round-the-world voyage when he saw something unusual. Ah, here it is,” he said, and began reading aloud the passage,
“‘While approaching the Magellan Straits, I encountered a horrific storm, brutal even for these waters. For thirty hours, I battled twenty-foot seas and raging winds that tried with all their fury to drive me onto the rocks around Cape Horn. It was in the midst of this duel that I caught glimpse of the South Atlantic Wraith. I thought it a berg at first, for it was encrusted in ice, but I could see the dark, sharp edges of steel beneath. She washed by me quickly, carried with the winds and waves, toward a sure death on the shores of Tierra del Fuego.”
“Wow,” Summer said, “still afloat in 1964.”
“But apparently not for long, if Hunt’s account is accurate,” Perlmutter said.
“Is Hunt still alive?” she asked. “Perhaps we could talk to him.”
“I’m afraid he was lost at sea a few years ago. But his family might still possess his logbooks.”
Dirk finished his glass of wine and looked at his sister.
“Well, Summer, I guess you are still leaving us with two enduring mysteries to solve.”
“Yes,” Summer said, finishing his thought. “Where the Barbarigo sank and what she was carrying.”
54
DIRK AND SUMMER LEFT PERLMUTTER’S HOUSE satiated with good food and wine and piqued by the Barbarigo’s strange fate. The dinner had been a welcome respite from their worries about their father, which returned the minute they said their good-byes.
“We best get back and see if Rudi and Hiram have had any luck with the port authorities,” Dirk said.
“I’ve been thinking we should reexamine the possibility that the Adelaide traveled west.”
As they walked to the street, they heard a car door shut, and Dirk noticed two men sitting in a white van a few spaces behind the Packard. Dirk fired up the Packard with the first press of the starter and flipped on the headlamps. While the Woodlites looked great by daylight, their nighttime performance didn’t match the rest of the car. Easing away from the curb, he drove slowly down the street, watching in the rearview mirror as the van’s lights flicked on when they reached the end of the street.
Dirk turned right and mashed down the accelerator, speeding down a tree-lined street. A few seconds later, the van screeched around the same corner.
Summer noticed Dirk’s focus on the mirror and glanced over her shoulder. “I don’t want to sound paranoid,” she said, “but that same van may have been parked in the NUMA lot when we left the building.”
“One better,” Dirk said. “I think it was also parked next to Dad’s hangar this morning.” He meandered through the wealthy Georgetown neighborhood, turning down O Street and heading west. The van followed his every move, staying a dozen lengths behind.
“Who would be following us?” Summer asked. “Someone related to the people in Madagascar?”
“I can’t imagine. It might be someone interested in Dad. Maybe we should just ask them?”
He slowed the car as they approached a cross street. Just beyond was a pillared and gated pedestrian entrance to Georgetown University. Portable barricades were normally in place to prevent vehicles from entering the gateway, but they had been removed for a delivery truck exiting the campus. As the truck pulled clear, Dirk hit the gas and skirted around it through the open gate.
A security guard gaped as the antique Packard zipped by. A few seconds later, he had to jump back as the white van barreled through in pursuit. Dirk followed the road across the grounds a short distance to a circular drive. A statue of the university’s founder, John Carroll, sat at its center, facing the entrance gate. Footlights illumined the statue in a yellow haze, lending a lifelike aura to the long-dead bishop.
Dirk wheeled the Packard around the back of the statue and slowed, double-clutching and dropping into first gear. He watched for the lights of the van as it hurried onto campus and turned onto the circular drive. Dirk turned off the Packard’s Woodlites and gunned the engine. The old car leaped forward as he turned the wheel hard, shifting into second while keeping the accelerator pinned to the floorboard.
While the van was slowing, the roadster shot around the circle. Rather than exit back toward the gate, Dirk held the wheel tight, curving around the loop. The van’s taillights appeared in front of them, and Dirk had to brake to avoid rear-ending it. Summer reached over and turned the Woodlites back on, signaling to the pursuers that the game was up.
The van’s driver hesitated, unsure what had happened until he recognized the pale yellow beams of the Packard behind him. Not prepared for a confrontation, he stomped on the gas. The van’s tires chirped as it shot forward, turning off the circular drive. He took the first road he could, a straight lane that ran behind a stately structure called Healy Hall and into the center of campus.
“Go after him,” Summer said. “I didn’t get his plate number.”
Dirk shoved the Packard into gear and took off. A fast car in its day, the Packard was powered by a straight-eight engine that boasted 150 horsepower. The van might have left the old car behind on an open highway but not in the tight confines of the college campus.
The van sped past the large stone building. Only a few students were about, and those in the street quickly cleared way for the speeding van. The lane abruptly turned left into a side building complex, but it was blocked by a campus policeman in a patrol car who had stopped to chat with a student.
Unable to turn, the van’s driver continued straight, bounding up and onto a concrete walkway that bisected a grass courtyard. A girl on a bicycle screamed as she narrowly missed getting flattened. The Packard followed a few yards behind, inciting an eruption of flashing lights from the patrol car.
“I think we’re out of danger and into trouble,” Summer said, noting the lights behind.
Dirk tightened hi
s grip on the wheel as the roadster bounded over the uneven surface. He followed the van along the walkway until it dropped off a curb into the parking lot of a student dormitory. Just ahead, two freshmen were smuggling a beer keg into the building when the van charged at them. The students dove for safety as the van sped by, just clipping the keg.
The aluminum keg skittered across the parking lot and bounced off a retaining wall. A short distance behind, Dirk braked hard but couldn’t avoid the keg. The front bumper caught it first, gouging a hole in the aluminum before the right fender knocked the keg aside. The shaken beer exploded in a foamy fountain that doused the side of the car—and Summer inside.
“Dad’s not going to like that,” Dirk said.
She wiped the suds from her face. “You’re right, he won’t. It’s light beer.”
The van and the Packard accelerated through the parking lot, pushed faster by the pursuing patrol car. The van skidded out of the parking lot and onto a cross street. Unable to decide which way to turn, the driver went straight, bouncing onto a sloping gravel road that stretched ahead. The road dipped down a small hill and turned onto the university’s football field. In the middle of a practice, the men’s lacrosse team was forced to scatter as the van bounded across the artificial turf.
Seeing the old Packard and the police in pursuit, several players fired lacrosse balls at the van, ringing its side with dents. A few took aim at the Packard until they were disarmed by a wave and smile from the beer-drenched Summer.
The van opened a sizable gap on the Packard as it sped off the opposite side of the field and passed through an open gate. The driver turned left on the facing street, following a sign that directed them toward the university’s exit on Canal Road. “C’mon, we can lose them,” the van’s passenger said.
Fifty yards behind, Dirk heard a similar appeal from Summer. “Don’t lose them, I still haven’t gotten the full plate number.”
Dirk turned onto the road in pursuit, but had to slow for a trio of coeds crossing the street to a tennis court. Behind him, the campus police had nearly caught up.
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