Atlantis Found dp-15 Read online

  Escorted by a protective ring of deputies, courtesy of Sheriff Eagan, the three of them- Pitt, Giordino, and Pat O'Connell- boarded a NUMA jet and took off for the nation's capital. As the turquoise painted Cessna Citation Ultra V jet banked over the snow-mantled peaks of the San Juan Mountains and set a course northeast, Pat relaxed in her leather seat, reached out, and took Pitt's hand in hers.

  "You're sure my daughter is safe?"

  He smiled and gently squeezed her hand. "For the tenth time, she's in the capable hands of the FBI. You'll have her in your arms in a few hours."

  "I can't picture us living like hunted animals the rest of our lives."

  "Won't happen," Pitt assured her. "Once the lunatic nutcases of the Fourth Empire are rooted out, arrested, and convicted, we'll all be able to live normal lives again."

  Pat looked over at Giordino, who had fallen asleep before the wheels lifted off the runway. "He doesn't waste any time drifting off, does he?"

  "Al can sleep anywhere, anytime. He's like a cat." He held up her hand to his lips and give her fingers a light kiss. "You should get some sleep, too. You must be dead on your feet."

  It was the first display of affection Pitt had offered since they'd met, and Pat felt a pleasurable warmth course through her. "My mind is too busy for me to be tired." She pulled her notebook from her case. "I'll use the flight to begin an initial analysis of the inscriptions."

  "The aircraft has a computer facility in the rear cabin, if it would be of any help."

  "Does it have a scanner to convert my notes onto a disk?"

  "I believe so."

  The fatigue seemed to ebb from her face. "That would be a great help. A pity my film was ruined after being immersed in the water."

  Pitt reached down into his pants pocket, retrieved a plastic packet, and dropped it into her lap. "A complete photo survey of the chamber."

  She was quite surprised as she opened the packet and found six canisters of film. "Where in the world did you get these?"

  "Compliments of the Fourth Empire," he answered casually. "Al and I interrupted their photo shoot in the chamber. They were finishing up when we arrived, so I'm assuming they recorded the entire text. I'll have the rolls developed first thing in the NUMA photo lab."

  "Oh, thank you," Pat said excitedly, kissing him on a cheek thick with stubble. "My notes only covered a smattering of the inscriptions." As if he were merely a passing stranger on a busy street, she turned away from him and hurried toward the aircraft's computer cabin.

  Pitt eased his aching body from his seat and walked forward to the compact little galley, opened a refrigerator, and lifted out a soft drink can. Sadly, to his way of thinking, Admiral Sandecker permitted no alcoholic beverages on board NUMA ships or aircraft.

  He stopped and stared down at the wooden crate that was firmly strapped in an empty seat. The black obsidian skull had not been out of his sight from the time he carried it from the chamber. He could only imagine the empty eye sockets staring at him through the wood of the crate. He sat in a seat across the aisle and raised the antenna of a Globalstar satellite telephone and punched a stored number. His call was linked to one of seventy orbiting satellites that relayed it to another satellite that relayed the signal to earth, where it was connected with a public telephone network.

  Pitt gazed out the port at the passing clouds, knowing the party on the other end seldom answered before the seventh or eighth ring. Finally, on the tenth, a deep voice came through the receiver. "I'm here."

  "St. Julien."

  "Dirk!" St. Julien Perlmutter boomed, recognizing the voice. "If I'd known it was you, I'd have answered sooner."

  "And step out of character? I don't think so."

  Pitt could easily picture Perlmutter, all four hundred pounds of him in his ritual silk paisley pajamas, buried amid a mountain of nautical books in the carriage house he called home. Raconteur, gourmand, connoisseur, and acclaimed marine history authority, with a library collection of the world's rarest nautical books, private letters, papers, and plans on almost every ship ever built, he was a walking encyclopedia of man and the sea.

  "Where are you, my boy?"

  "Thirty-five thousand feet over the Rocky Mountains."

  "You couldn't wait to call me in Washington?"

  "I wanted to shift a research project into first gear at the first opportunity."

  "How can I help you?"

  Pitt briefly explained the mysterious chamber and the inscriptions on the walls. Perlmutter listened thoughtfully, interrupting to ask an occasional question. When Pitt finished, Perlmutter inquired, "What specifically do you have in mind?"

  "You have files you've accumulated on pre-Columbian contact in the Americas."

  "A whole room full of data. Material and theories on all the seafarers who visited North, Central, and South America long before Columbus."

  "Do you recall any tales of ancient seafarers who traveled deep inside other continents and built underground chambers? Built them for the sole purpose of leaving a message for those who came later? Were such acts ever mentioned in recorded history?"

  "I can't recall any off the top of my head. There are any number of accounts of ancient trade between the peoples of the Americas and seafarers from Europe and Africa. It's thought that extensive mining of copper and tin to make bronze took place as far back as five thousand years ago."

  "Where?" asked Pitt.

  "Minnesota, Michigan, Wisconsin."

  "Is it true?"

  "I, for one, believe so," Perlmutter continued. "There is evidence of ancient mining for lead in Kentucky, serpentine in Pennsylvania, and mica in North Carolina. The mines were worked for many centuries before Christ. Then, mysteriously, the unknown miners vanished within a very short time, leaving their tools and other artifacts of their presence right where they were dropped, not to mention stone sculptures, altars, and dolmens. Dolmens are large prehistoric horizontal stone slabs supported by two or more vertical stones."

  "Couldn't they have been created by the Indians?"

  "American Indians rarely produced stone sculptures and built few, if any, monuments out of stone. Mining engineers, after studying the ancient excavations, estimate that over seven hundred million pounds of copper were removed and transported away. No one believes the Indians were responsible, because the copper that has been found by archaeologists amounts to only a few hundred pounds' worth of beads and baubles. The early Indians worked very little metal."

  "But no indication of underground chambers with enigmatic inscriptions?"

  Perlmutter paused. "None that I'm aware of. The miners of prehistory left few signs of pottery or extensive records of inscriptions. Only some logographs and pictographs that are for the most part unreadable. We can only guess at them being, perhaps, Egyptians, Phoenicians, Norsemen, or possibly even an earlier race. There is evidence in the southwest of Celtic mines, and in Arizona it is claimed that Roman artifacts were found outside of Tucson just after the turn of the century. So who can say? Most archaeologists are unwilling to go out on a limb and sanctify pre-Columbian contact. They simply refuse to buy diffusion."

  "A spread of cultural influence from one people to another through contact."

  "Precisely."

  "But why?" asked Pitt. "When there is so much evidence?"

  "Archaeologists are a hardheaded bunch," replied Perlmutter. "They're all from Missouri. You have to show them. But because early American cultures did not find a use for the wheel, except for toys, or develop the potter's wheel, they refuse to believe in diffusion."

  "There could be any number of reasons. Until the arrival of Cortez and the Spanish, there were no horses or oxen in the Americas. Even I know it took the idea of the wheelbarrow six hundred years to travel from China to Europe."

  "What can I say?" Perlmutter sighed. "I'm only a marine history buff who refuses to write treatises on subjects I know little about."

  "But you will search your library for any account of underground chambers
with indecipherable inscriptions in what would have been remote corners of the world four thousand years ago?"

  "I shall do my best."

  "Thank you, old friend. I can't ask for more." Pitt had total faith in his old family friend who used to sit Pitt on his lap when he was a little boy and tell him sea stories.

  "Is there anything else you haven't told me about this chamber of yours?" queried Perlmutter.

  "Only that it came with an artifact."

  "You've been holding out on me. What kind of artifact?"

  "A life-size skull craved out of pure black obsidian."

  Perlmutter let that sink in for a few moments. Finally, he said, "Do you know its significance?"

  "None that is obvious," answered Pitt. "All I can tell you is that without modern tools and cutting equipment, the ancient people who cut and smoothed such a large chunk of obsidian must have taken ten generations to produce such an exquisitely finished product."

  "You're quite right. Obsidian is a volcanic glass formed by rapid cooling of liquid lava. For many thousands of years, man used it to make arrowheads, knives, and spearheads. Obsidian is very brittle. It's a remarkable feat to have created such an object over the course of a century and a half without shattering or cracking it."

  Pitt glanced over at the crate strapped in the seat. "A pity you can't be here to see it, St. Julien."

  "No need for that. I already know what it looks like."

  Pitt smelled a rat. Perlmutter was famous for toying with his victims when he was about to display his intellectual superiority. Pitt had no choice but to sail into the trap. "You'd have to see it with your own eyes to appreciate its beauty."

  "Did I forget to tell you, dear boy," said Perlmutter, his tone dripping with mock innocence, "I know where there is another one?"

  11

  The Cessna Ultra V touched down on the east runway of Andrews Air Force Base and taxied to the hangars leased by the Air Force to various governmental agencies. NUMA's aircraft and transportation buildings were located on the northeast part of the base. A NUMA van with two security guards was waiting to take Giordino to his condo in Alexandria, Virginia, and Pat to the safe house where her daughter waited.

  Pitt carefully carried the wooden box containing the obsidian skull from the aircraft and set it on the ground. He did not accompany Pat and Giordino, but remained behind.

  "You're not coming with us?" asked Pat.

  "No, a friend is picking me up."

  She gave him a penetrating look. "A girl friend?"

  He laughed. "Would you believe my godfather?"

  "No, I don't think I would," she said sarcastically. "When will I see you again?"

  He gave her a light kiss on the forehead. "Sooner than you think."

  Then he closed the door and watched as the van drove off toward the main gate of the base. He relaxed and sat on the ground with his back against one wheel of the landing gear, as the pilot and copilot departed. The spring air of Washington was crisp and clear, with temperatures rising unseasonably into the low sixties. He had waited only ten minutes when a very elegant two-tone green-and-silver automobile rolled whisper-quiet to a stop beside the aircraft.

  The chassis of the Rolls Royce Silver Dawn had gone from the factory assembly line to the coach builders of Hooper & Company in 1955, where had been was fitted with a body designed to flow gracefully from the front fenders to the rear, with smooth sides over the fender skirts. The overhead six-cylinder, 263-cubic-inch engine could propel the stately car to a top speed of eighty-seven miles an hour, with only the sound of the rustling from the tires.

  Hugo Mulholland, St. Julien Perlmutter's chauffeur, stepped from the driver's side of the car and stuck out his hand. "A pleasure to see you again, Mr. Pitt."

  Pitt grinned and shook the chauffeur's hand. The greeting was given without the barest hint of cordiality, but Pitt took no offense. He'd known Hugo for more than twenty years. The chauffeur and able aide to Perlmutter was really warmhearted and considerate, but he had the stone face of a Buster Keaton, and rarely smiled or showed signs of congeniality. He took Pitt's duffel bag and laid it in the trunk of the Rolls, then stepped back as Pitt eased the wooden crate alongside the duffel bag. Then Mulholland opened the rear door and stood aside.

  Pitt ducked into the car and settled into the backseat, which was two-thirds taken by Perlmutter's ample bulk. "St. Julien, you look fit as a fiddle."

  "More like a bass viol." Perlmutter took Pitt's head between his two hands and kissed him on both cheeks. The huge man wore a Panama hat over his gray hair. His face was red, with a tulip nose complemented by sky-blue eyes. "It's been too long. Not since that pretty little Asian girl with the Naturalization and Immigration Service fixed dinner for us in your hangar apartment."

  "Julia Marie Lee. That was about this time last year."

  "What became of her?"

  "Last I heard, Julia was on assignment in Hong Kong."

  "They never stay long, do they?" Perlmutter mused.

  "I'm not exactly the kind of guy women take home to meet their mother."

  "Nonsense. You'd make a great catch if you'd ever settle down."

  Pitt changed the subject. "Do I smell food?"

  "When was the last time you ate?"

  "I had coffee for breakfast and a soft drink for lunch."

  Perlmutter lifted a picnic basket from the floor and set it in his great lap. Then he pulled down the burled walnut trays from their hiding place on the back of the front seat. "I've prepared a small repast for the drive to Fredericksburg."

  "Is that where we're going?" asked Pitt, looking forward with great anticipation to the gourmet goodies inside the basket.

  Perlmutter simply nodded as he held up a bottle of Yellow Label Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin Brut Champagne. "All right?"

  "My favorite," Pitt acknowledged.

  After Mulholland was waved through the main gate, he turned left onto the Capital Beltway and drove east across the Potomac River, until he reached Springfield, where he turned south. Inside the rear passenger compartment, Perlmutter laid out silver and china on the trays, then began passing out the various dishes, beginning with crepes filled with mushrooms and sweetbreads, grilled and breaded oysters, several pates and cheeses, and ending with pears poached in red wine.

  "This is a real treat, St. Julien. I seldom eat this extravagantly."

  "I do," said Perlmutter, patting his huge stomach. "And that's the difference between us."

  The sumptuous picnic was finished off with a small thermos of espresso. "No cognac?" asked Pitt facetiously.

  "It's too early in the day for a man in his sixties to partake of heavy spirits. I'd doze away the afternoon."

  "Where is this second obsidian skull you mentioned?"

  "In Fredericksburg."

  "I assumed that."

  "It belongs to a very nice old lady by the name of Christine Mender-Husted. Her great-grandmother obtained the skull when her husband's whaling ship was trapped in winter ice in Antarctica. A gripping story. According to family history, Roxanna Mender became lost on the ice pack one day. When her husband, Captain Bradford Mender, master of the whaler Paloverde, and his crew rescued her, they discovered a derelict English East Indiaman sailing ship. Intrigued, they boarded and searched the ship, finding dead crew and passengers. In a storeroom, they found a black obsidian skull and other strange objects, which they had to leave behind because the ice pack began to break up and they had to rush back to their ship."

  "Did they save the black skull?"

  Perlmutter nodded. "Yes, Roxanna herself carried it off the derelict ship. It's been a family heirloom ever since."

  Pitt stared idly through the window of the Rolls at the green, rolling countryside of Virginia. "Even if the two skulls are identical, without markings they tell us nothing of who created them or why."

  "Comparing the skulls is not why I set up an appointment to meet with Mrs. Mender-Rusted."

  "So what's your scheme?"


  "For ten years I've been trying to buy the Mender family letters pertaining to Captain Mender's whaling days. Included are the logbooks of the ships he served aboard. But the piece de resistance of the collection, the object I'd give my few remaining teeth to get in my hands, is the log of the derelict they found in the ice."

  "The Mender family has it?" Pitt asked, his curiosity rising.

  "My understanding is that Captain Mender took it when they made their dash across the ice pack."

  "Then you have an ulterior motive for this trip."

  Perlmutter smiled like a fox. "I'm hoping that when Mrs. Mender-Husted sees your skull, she might relent and sell me hers along with the family archival collection."

  "Don't you feel ashamed when you look at yourself in the mirror?"

  "Yes." Perlmutter laughed diabolically. "But it soon passes."

  "Is there any indication in the derelict ship's log where the skull came from?"

  Perlmutter shook his head. "I've never read it. Mender-Husted keeps it locked away."

  Several seconds passed, Pitt lost in his thoughts. He couldn't help wondering how many other obsidian skulls were hidden around the world.

  Moving silently along at the posted speed, the Rolls-Royce made the trip to Fredericksburg in an hour and a half. Mulholland steered the majestic car onto a circular drive that led to a picturesque colonial house on the heights of the town above the Rappahannock River, overlooking the killing field where 12,500 Union soldiers fell during one day in the Civil War. The house, built in 1848, was a gracious reminder of the past.

  "Well, here we are," said Perlmutter, as Mulholland opened the door.

  Pitt went around to the rear of the car, raised the trunk lid, and lifted out the crate containing the skull. "This should prove interesting," he said, as they walked up the steps and pulled a cord that rang a bell.