“It is a contradictory phrase,” she said.
“Please explain,” requested Yaeger.
“Kobluna is an Inuit term for ‘white man.’ Hence it is a mixed translation of ‘black white man.’ ”
“Contradictory, indeed,” Yaeger said. “Perhaps it means a white man dressed in black or vice versa.”
“Possibly,” Pitt said. “But that was a remote section of the Arctic. I’m not sure a white or black man had even set foot there by that point in time. Isn’t that true, Max?”
“You are nearly correct. Initial exploration and mapping of the Canadian Arctic came in a British-inspired quest for a northwest passage to the Pacific Ocean. A large portion of the western and eastern regions of the Canadian Arctic had been well charted by the mid-nineteenth century. The middle regions, including a number of passages around Adelaide Peninsula, were in fact some of the last areas charted.”
Pitt glanced at his notes from the Miners Co-op. “The record indicates that the Inuit recovered the ruthenium in or around 1849.”
“The historical record shows that an expedition under the guise of the Hudson’s Bay Company surveyed a region of North American coastline in the vicinity between 1837 and 1839.”
“That’s a little too early,” Yaeger remarked.
“The next known forays were made by John Rae in 1851, during his search for survivors of the Franklin Expedition. He was known to have traveled along the southeast coast of Victoria Island, which is still approximately a hundred miles from the Adelaide Peninsula. It was not until 1859 that the area was reached again, this time by Francis McClintock, who visited nearby King William Island, just north of Adelaide, during another search for Franklin.”
“That’s a little late in the game,” said Yaeger.
“But there’s Franklin,” Pitt said, searching his memory. “When did he sail into those waters and where was he lost?”
“The Franklin Expedition sailed from England in 1845. They wintered the first year at Beechey Island, then traveled south until becoming trapped in the ice off King William Island. The expedition ships were abandoned in the spring of 1848, with the entire crew later dying onshore sometime later.”
Pitt mulled the dates in his head, then thanked Max for the information. The holographic woman nodded and turned aside, resuming her software test calculations.
“If Franklin’s men left their ships in 1848 well north of the peninsula, it doesn’t figure they would be lugging some minerals around with them,” remarked Yaeger.
“It’s possible that the Inuit erred in the date,” Pitt replied. “The other point to consider is Max’s comment about the Adelaide Peninsula being an Inuit migration stop. Just because the Inuit were known to camp on the peninsula doesn’t mean that it’s where they acquired the mineral.”
“Good point. Do you think there’s a connection with the Franklin Expedition?”
Pitt nodded slowly. “Might be our only real link,” he said.
“But you heard what Max said. The entire crew perished. That would seem to eliminate any hope of finding an answer there.”
“There’s always hope,” Pitt said, with a glint to his eye. He looked at his watch, then rose to leave. “As a matter of fact, Hiram, I fully expect to be on the right path just this afternoon.”
41
Pitt borrowed an agency jeep and picked up.
Loren on Capitol Hill, then drove across downtown D.C.
“You have time for a long lunch?” he asked, sitting at a stop-light.
“You’re in luck, I have no hearings scheduled for today. I’m just reviewing some draft legislation. What did you have in mind? ”
“A side trip to Georgetown.”
“To my condo, for a little afternoon delight?” she asked coyly.
“A tempting proposition,” he replied, squeezing her hand, “but I’m afraid we have a lunch reservation that can’t be canceled.”
The noontime traffic clogged the streets until Pitt maneuvered onto M Street, which led to the heart of Georgetown.
“How’s Lisa coming along?” he asked.
“She’s being released from the hospital today and is anxious to get back to work. I’m arranging a briefing with the White House Office on Science and Technology once she has the chance to document and summarize her findings. That might take a few weeks, though. Lisa called me this morning a little upset — her lab assistant has apparently taken another position out of state, just quit on her without notice.”
“Bob Hamilton?”
“Yes, that’s his name. The one you don’t trust.”
“He’s supposed to talk to the FBI later this week. Something tells me he won’t be leaving for that new job anytime soon.”
“It started out as such a promising breakthrough, but it’s certainly turned into a mess. I saw a private report from the Department of Energy which forecasts a much bleaker environmental and economic impact from global warming than anybody else is letting on. The latest studies indicate the atmospheric greenhouse gases are growing at an alarming rate. Do you think a source of ruthenium can be found quickly enough to make the artificial-photosynthesis system a reality?”
“All we’ve got is a tenuous historical account of a long forgotten source. It might turn up empty, but the best we can do is track it down.”
Pitt turned down a quaint residential street lined with historic mansions that dated to the 1840s. He found a parking spot beneath a towering oak tree, and they made their way to a smaller residence constructed from the carriage house of an adjacent manor. Pitt rapped a heavy brass knocker, and the front door flew open a moment later, revealing a colossal man clad in a red satin smoking jacket.
“Dirk! Loren! There you are,” St. Julien Perlmutter boomed in a hearty voice. The bearded behemoth, who tipped the scales at nearly four hundred pounds, gave them each a spine-crushing hug as he welcomed them into his house.
“Julien, you are looking fit. Have you lost some weight?” Loren said, patting his ample belly.
“Heavens, no,” he roared. “The day I stop eating is the day I die. You, on the other hand, look more ravishing than ever.”
“You’d best keep that appetite of yours focused on food,” Pitt threatened with a grin.
Perlmutter leaned down to Loren’s ear. “If you ever get tired of living with this adventuresome old cuss, you just let me know,” he said, loud enough for Pitt to hear. Then rising like a bear, he pounded across the room.
“Come, to the dining room,” he beckoned.
Loren and Pitt followed him past the entryway, through a living room, and down a hallway, all of which were filled to the ceiling with shelved books. The entire house was similarly cluttered, resembling a stately library more than a personal residence. Within its walls was the largest single collection of historic maritime books and journals in the world. An insatiable collector of nautical archives, Perlmutter himself stood as a pre-eminent expert on maritime history.
Perlmutter led them to a small but ornate dining room, where only a few piles of books were discreetly stacked against one wall. They took their seats at a thick mahogany table that featured legs carved in the shape of lion paws. The table had come from the captain’s cabin of an ancient sailing ship, one of many nautical antiques tucked among the legion of books.
Perlmutter opened a bottle of Pouilly-Fumé, then poured each of them a glass of the dry white wine.
“I’m afraid I already finished off that bottle of airag that you sent me from Mongolia,” he said to Pitt. “Marvelous stuff.”
“I had plenty while I was there. The locals consume it like water,” he replied, recalling the slightly bitter taste of the alcoholic drink made from mare’s milk.