Clive Cussler - Atlantis Found

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.

Christine Mender-Husted could have passed for anyone's grandmother. She was as spry as they came, white-haired, with a hospitable smile, angelic facial features, and twenty pounds on the plump side. Her movements came as quick as her sparkling hazel eyes. She greeted Perlmutter with a firm handshake and nodded when he introduced his friend.

"Please come right in," she said sweetly. "I've been expecting you. May I offer you some tea?"

Both men accepted and were led to a high-ceilinged, paneled library and motioned to sit in comfortable leather chairs. After a young girl, who was introduced as a neighbor's daughter who helped out around the house, served the tea, Christine turned to Perlmutter.

"Well, St. Julien, as I told you over the phone, I'm still not ready to sell my family's treasures."

"I admit the hope has never left my mind," said Perlmutter, "but I've brought Dirk for another reason." He turned to Pitt. "Would you like to show Mrs. Mender-Husted what you have in the box?"

"Christine," she said. "My maiden and married names together are a mouthful."

"Have you always lived in Virginia?" asked Pitt, making conversation while opening the latches on the wooden box containing the skull from the Pandora Mine.

"I come from six generations of Californians, many of whom still live in and around San Francisco. I happened to have had the good fortune of marrying a man who came from Virginia and who served under three presidents as special adviser."

Pitt went silent, his eyes captivated by a black obsidian skull that was sitting on the mantel above the flickering fire. Then slowly, as if in a trance, he opened the crate. Then he removed his skull, walked over, reached up, and placed it beside its double on the mantel.

"Oh my!" Christine gasped. "I never dreamed there was another one."

"Neither did I," Pitt said, studying the two black skulls. "As far as I can tell by the naked eye, they're perfect duplicates, identical in form and composition. Even the dimensions appear to be the same. It's as if they came out of the same mold."

"Tell me, Christine," said Perlmutter, a cup of tea in one hand, "what ghostly tale did your great-grandfather pass down about the skull?"