Yaeger set up two laptops and downloaded the images. Everyone went to work, scouring the photos for a large green cargo ship. They worked all through the day, studying image after image, until their eyes burned. Yet hopes were raised as they pegged eleven ships from the sometimes fuzzy and obscured photos that appeared to fit the Adelaide’s profile.
“Three in Long Beach, two in Manzanillo, four to the Panama Canal, and one each to San Antonio, Chile, and Puerto Caldera, Costa Rica,” Yaeger said.
“I can’t imagine any of the Long Beach vessels would be ours,” Dirk said, “unless they ran to another port to off-load first.”
Gunn looked at his watch. “It’s still early out west. How about we break for dinner? When we reconvene, we can begin calling the port authorities at each location. They should be able to confirm if the Adelaidecleared their local facilities.”
“Good thought,” Dirk said, standing and stretching. “I’ve run out of gas on a diet of airline food and coffee.”
“Just a second,” Summer said. “Before we break, I need a quick favor from Hiram, and then I’ll need your help in making a delivery.” She picked up her travel pack, which clinked with the sound of bottles inside.
“I’m pretty hungry. Can we grab a bite on the way?”
“Where we’re headed,” she said, “I can positively guarantee there will be something good to eat.”
53
THE PACKARD ROARED OUT OF THE PARKING garage and skirted past a white van at the edge of the outside lot before merging into the evening rush-hour traffic. Dirk crossed into Georgetown as an evening breeze tousled Summer’s hair in the open car. Turning down a shady residential street filled with elegant homes, Dirk stopped in front of a former carriage house that ages ago had been transformed into a courtly freestanding residence.
They had barely rung the bell when the front door was thrown open by a gargantuan man sporting an overflowing gray beard. St. Julien Perlmutter’s eyes twinkled as he greeted Dirk and Summer and invited them inside.
“I nearly ate without you,” he said.
“You were expecting us?” Dirk asked.
“Of course. Summer e-mailed me with the particulars of your Madagascar mystery. I insisted you both come by for dinner the instant you returned. Don’t you two talk to each other?”
Summer smiled sheepishly at her brother, then followed Perlmutter through a book-infested living room and into a formal dining area, where an antique cherrywood table sat overloaded with food. Perlmutter was a marine historian, one of the best on the planet, but he had a second love as a gourmand. His eyes lit up when Summer opened her bag and offered him three bottles of wine from South Africa.
“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.”