“I guess this means that rubbing you threw into the kitchen at Ronish’s house survived the fire,” Max remarked.
“What can I say? It was a lousy toss. Come on, let’s go check in, then find Dr. Wright. I feel like I’ve got a target pinned to my back, standing out here.”
Despite her antebellum look, the
Natchez Belle
was a modern ship built with every conceivable amenity for the seventy passengers she could handle at a time as she made her way back and forth between St. Louis and New Orleans. Her two tall, spindly stacks were for show, as was the massive red stern wheel that churned the waters rhythmically. Propellers under her fantail would actually move the vessel.
The interior was as decorative and ornate as the outside. Woodwork gleamed under countless rounds of hand polishing, and all the brass looked as bright as gold. The carpet under their feet, as they stepped to the reception desk, was as plush as any aboard the
Oregon.
The duo checked in. Juan was down to his last fake identification thanks to the need to burn their rental in Washington. He asked about Dr. Tamara Wright, but the receptionist, in her hoop-skirt and tight bodice, said they didn’t give out information on other passengers. They would have to find her themselves.
Their wood-paneled cabin was tiny, but at least they had a balcony overlooking the Louisiana side of the river. Max made a comment about the bathroom being smaller than a phone booth, to which Cabrillo replied that they weren’t here to enjoy the cruise. They didn’t unpack their bags and left the cabin quickly.
Before boarding, they had checked the people at the cocktail reception on the quay. Dr. Wright wasn’t among the guests, so the next logical place would either be her cabin or up on the sundeck. They hoped they could find her, convince her that she was in danger, and get her away from the stern-wheeler before the Argentines showed up. If not, they would guard her until the next port of call and make their escape then.
There was a bar at the aft section of the upper deck, overlooking the paddle wheel as it turned idly in the current. It was covered by a large white tarp to ward off the last rays of the setting sun. A few passengers were seated around it, and several others sat in nearby sofas, but none matched Tamara Wright’s description. Farther forward, in the shadow of the
Natchez Belle
’s ersatz smokestacks, was a sunken hot tub big enough to seat ten. Like the bar, it proved popular with passengers, but there was no sign of Dr. Wright.
“What do you think?” Max asked.
“I think we’re going to Natchez,” Juan replied.
“We might as well get dressed for dinner.”
The men hadn’t bothered packing suits, so they made due with fresh shirts and the sports jackets they’d been wearing. By the time they emerged from their cabin, the gangway was being levered into its position along the ship’s flank. An old-fashioned steam whistle—or at least an electronic version of one—signaled that the stern-wheeler was about to get under way.
While many passengers lined the upper rails or stood on their balconies to wave good-bye to Vicksburg, Cabrillo and Hanley scoured the
Natchez Belle
for Tamara or the Argentine hit squad. They found neither.
Both men felt a sense of relief. When the Argentines came, as they no doubt would, it wouldn’t be until they reached their next destination. By then, Tamara Wright would understand the danger she was in, and they’d be able to sneak her off the ship. Cabrillo had already worked out a plan for that.
They sauntered up to the main-deck bar again, where most passengers were enjoying another predinner drink and listening to the house jazz band. A concert by legendary jazz pianist Lionel Couture was scheduled for after the meal.
Max suddenly slapped Juan’s chest with the back of his hand and pointed. “I think I’m in love.”
Most of the people they’d seen were older couples out blowing their children’s inheritances, so Cabrillo didn’t understand what his friend could be talking about. He didn’t think it was the mustached bartender wearing the white suit. At least, he hoped it wasn’t. The bartender shifted position, and Juan had a clear view of the woman sitting on the opposite side.
He got it now.
“That’s her, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Notice the necklace. Just like Perlmutter said.”
Tamara Wright had to have been a ravishing beauty in her day, and, in her mid-fifties, she was still a striking woman. She had unlined café au lait skin and shoulder-length hair that was as shiny black as a raven’s wing. She was smiling at something the bartender said, showing a mouthful of the whitest teeth Juan had ever seen. She wore a patterned spaghetti-strap dress that showed off her toned arms.
He had pictured a cloistered academic when St. Julian first mentioned her and he was delighted to admit how wrong he was.
Juan had to stretch his pace to keep up with Max’s bull-in-a-china-shop charge to get to her.
“Dr. Wright,” Max said with as much gallantry as he could muster. “My name is Max Hanley.”
A puzzled but pleased look set her smile at just the right angle. “I’m sorry. Do we know each other?”
Before Max could start in on what could prove to be a lengthy assault on her virtue, Juan stepped in. “No, ma’am. You don’t know us, but we’re here because St. Julian Perlmutter said you’d be here.”
“You know St. Julian?”
“Yes, we do, and he said you’d have some insight into a Chinese Admiral that he, as much as it pains him to admit, doesn’t.”
Now she was really intrigued. “Who are you?”
“Cabrillo. My name is Juan Cabrillo, and a couple of days ago my associate here and I discovered writing at the bottom of something called the Pine Island Treasure Pit that had been put there by Admiral Tsai Song in 1498.”
Her mouth hung agape for a moment before she realized she was staring. She took a steadying sip of her white wine. Hanley and Cabrillo didn’t look like the types to play a practical joke. They looked deadly serious.
“It really is true?” Her voice was a wonder-filled whisper.
“Yes.” Max said, grinning that he was able to provide her with information she obviously relished.
“Wait,” she said suddenly. “Isn’t Pine Island where some privateer supposedly buried his treasure?”
“The reality is even more amazing than that legend,” Juan told her. He had already decided to get as much out of her as he could before telling her about the Argentine threat. He didn’t want to risk her becoming uncooperative. “Please, what can you tell us about Admiral Tsai?”
“The reason so little is known about him is that when he returned to China, a new Emperor was on the throne, one who didn’t believe his subjects should leave the Middle Kingdom, and he put Tsai and his crew to death so they couldn’t pollute the people with tales of the outside world. One of the men managed to escape, and it’s from him we know about the voyage.” She spoke with a real passion on the subject. And while Juan had asked the question, she was directing most of her attention to Max.
“Tell us about the ship they were forced to leave behind. Tsai wrote that his men were set upon by an evil but didn’t say what really happened.”
“Yes, that was the
Silent Sea.
Tsai was forced to sink her and kill all her crew because they had gone mad.”
“Where did this happen?” Max asked.
“The survivor was a lowly seaman, not a navigator. He only said that where it took place was a land of ice.”
“Curious,” Juan said. “How does—”
“A black woman become an expert on Chinese maritime history?”
“No, I was going to ask how the story was preserved for so long, but since you brought it up . . .”
“My father was an electronics engineer who spent most of his career in Taiwan. I was raised in Taipei. That’s where I got my undergraduate degree. It was only after I finished that we returned to the States. As for how the story persisted, the survivor, Zedong Cho, wrote it down when he was an old man. He lived in Taiwan when it was just anther province. The manuscript was handed down through the family, but by the time a few generations had passed it was seen as a piece of fiction, the fantasy of an old ancestor with a good imagination. I learned about it because my roommate all four years at university was Susan Zedong, Cho’s nine-times-removed granddaughter.
“Of course, there was no way to prove Admiral Tsai ever existed because the Emperor erased all evidence of him and all his men, so the story has remained just that, a story.”
“Until now,” Max reminded.
“Until now,” she smiled at him.
Cabrillo could definitely sense some sparks here, and as much as he’d like to give them time alone, time was a luxury they didn’t have.
“Does he say what caused the madness?” He was thinking about Linda Ross’s report. Coincidence was a four-letter word in their line of work.
“The
Silent Sea
got separated from the other two ships for a month on its way to South America. They stopped at a remote island—please don’t ask which—and they traded for fresh food from the natives. That’s the only deviation from what the other ships encountered, so I’ve always believed the food was tainted somehow.”
“Would you excuse me for a moment,” Juan said, and stepped away. Max couldn’t have been happier.
Juan dialed the
Oregon
and asked to be put through to Dr. Huxley.
“Jules, its Juan.”
“Hey, where are you guys?”
“Believe it or not, on a Mississippi riverboat.”
“It’s warm and sunny, isn’t it?” There was envy in the ship’s medical officer’s voice.
“The sun just set, but it’s still about eighty.”
“And you’re calling to gloat. That’s cold, Chairman, even for you.”
“Listen, have you had a chance to check those samples you asked Murph to bring back from Wilson/George?”
“Not yet.”
“Test them for prions.”
“Prions . . . seriously? You think Andrew Gangle had mad cow disease?”
“A form of it, yes, and I think he got it from the other body. Prions don’t die, right?”
“They’re just proteins, so they aren’t really alive. But, yes, in a sense they don’t die.”
“So someone could become infected if prions are introduced into the bloodstream by, say, accidentally jabbing yourself with the bone of a corpse riddled with them?”
Julia didn’t hesitate. “Theoretically. Where’d this brainstorm come from?”
“A Chinese ship that isn’t where it was supposed to be. Do me a favor and tell Mark and Stoney to quit studying the map. I found the bay.” He left it at that and rejoined Max and Tamara, who was laughing at some joke Hanley had just cracked.
“What was that all about?” Max asked.
“Playing a hunch about what tainted the food aboard the
Silent Sea
.” Cannibalism was a common occurrence on several Pacific islands, and, if he was right, he knew what kind of meat the Chinese had bartered for. “What cargo did the ship carry?”
“She was loaded with everything from gold and spices to silks and jade, all the items that the Chinese held in esteem. They wanted the best in their dealings with natives they met on their voyage, so they brought only their best. What else did Admiral Tsai write?”
“I have a translation down in my cabin. It would be my pleasure to get you a copy.”
It was only because the band had stopped that Juan heard the low throb of powerful engines. He knew what it was even before he sprang to his feet. His sudden action alerted Max.
Juan raced to the side of the stern-wheeler and peered down into the dark waters. There was enough glow left in the sky for him to see that a forty-foot cigarette-style boat had pulled alongside the
Natchez Belle
. In it were four men dressed in dark clothes with ski masks pulled over their faces. So many things gelled in his mind at that moment, so many implications of what their dogged pursuit meant. But he didn’t have time to dwell on them.
Already one of the men had leapt the narrow gap from the cigarette boat to the lowest deck of the lumbering pleasure boat.
They had four men. One would have to stay with their vessel, meaning three would board the
Belle
. Juan and Max had faced worse odds, but he had to consider the other passengers’ safety. From what he’d seen of the Argentines, they weren’t above targeting civilians.
“Max, stay with her. Jump over the side if you have to.”
Hanley hadn’t drawn his pistol but his hand was at the ready in his jacket.
“What’s happening?” Tamara asked, her body sensing the tension in her new companions.
“You’re in danger,” Max said. “You have to trust us.”
“But I don’t—”
Max cut her off. “There isn’t time. Please, trust me.”
Juan had made his way to the main stairwell down to the lower decks when he heard screams coming from below. The Argentines were all aboard now, he guessed, and brandishing weapons. He could see a panicked mob, surging for the stairs. There was no way he’d be able to fight his way down through the mess of clamoring people.
He turned instantly and rushed forward. Next to the hot tub was a peaked skylight made up of dozens of pieces of emerald-cut glass set in a wrought-iron frame. He kicked at a few of the panes, shards of glass cascading onto the dinner table below. More shrieks came from startled early diners who hadn’t heard the commotion.
Cabrillo jumped through the opening he’d created and hit the table a little off center. It collapsed, tossing him to the floor in an avalanche of food, cutlery, and plates. His momentum knocked a matronly woman back in her chair so her thick legs were pointed at the ceiling. They bicycled comically as she tried to right herself.
Juan got to his feet, stinking of wine and collard greens. His ankle gave a slight twinge. It wasn’t sprained, but he’d twisted it in the fall. While some passengers stared, the husband of the woman he’d knocked over started yelling at him. He made to push Cabrillo in the shoulder, but Juan sidestepped his attempt, rotating in place and pushing the man on the back in a maneuver that looked like a matador turning a charging bull.