Fire Ice (NUMA Files 3)

The message left with the sole survivor made it clear that the raid was payback: Austin called NUMA headquarters and asked that a warning be issued to all the agency’s vessels, especially those in the Mediterranean area. He felt responsible despite Zavala's argument that no one could have anticipated the savage attack on the Sea Hunter: He could barely keep his anger under control. Zavala recognized the cold, distant expression on Austin's face, and he knew the contest between Austin and the killers had become intensely personal. If he hadn't seen what Boris and his minions bad done on the NUMA ship, he might have felt sorry for them.

The trip back to Istanbul on the navy cruiser was uneventful. Austin and Zavala arrived at their Istanbul hotel in the wee hours of the morning. An overnight FedEx packet from the States awaited Austin at the front desk. He took it up to his room and smiled as he read the note inside the envelope; "Herewith is enclosed information on the Odessa Star. Will forward more as unearthed. Haven't you forgotten you owe me something? P." Austin called the hotel concierge and said a large tip would be forthcoming if he could dig up a recipe for imam bayidi and forward it to Perlmutter. Then he scanned the material on the Odessa Star.

The Lloyd's record was enlightening, but Austin didn't know what to make of the story of the little mermaid and filed it in the back of his mind. Perlmutter's description of the strange conversation with Dodson caught his attention. Curious. Why would the English lord hang up on Perlmutter? For an old derelict, the Odessa Star elicited strong reactions. At the mere mention of the vessel, Dodson had rolled down a curtain of silence.

Austin picked up the phone and called Zavala's room. "Cool your jets, my friend. I'm almost packed," Zavala said.

"I'm happy to hear that. How would you like to take a slight detour through England? I need you to talk to somelone. I'd do it myself, but Rudi and I have to get back to Washington to fill Sandecker in." Austin was also aware of his own impatience and sometimes intimidating physical presence and reasone

d that the soft-spoken Zavala might fare better with a reluctant source.

"No problem. I may look up a lady friend in Chelsea – "

"She'll be devastated when she learns you won't have time for socializing. This won't wait," he said, his voice serious. "I'm bringing you something I'd like you to read." Austin went next door to Zavala's room. While Zavala dove into the material from Perlmutter, Austin called the concierge again and asked him to find a seat for Joe on the next flight to London. The concierge said he had finished faxing the recipe to Perlmutter and would do his best. Austin knew there were at least two ways of getting things done in Istanbul, the official route and the unofficial way, which relied on a network of family and friends and the leverage of IOUs for old favors. The concierge was apparently well connected because he found the last seat on a plane leaving within two hours.

Zavala finished reading the material. After conferring with Austin, he got on the phone and called Dodson. Identifying himself as a researcher for NUMA, he said he would be in London the following day and asked to talk to Dodson about his family's historical involvement in Britain's naval history and service to the Crown. It was a thinly veiled excuse that wouldn't get past a kindergarten teacher, but if Dodson suspected the subterfuge, he didn't let on. He said he would be available all day and gave directions to his house.

AS THE BRITISH Airways jet began the final approach to Heathrow Airport, Zavala looked off toward London with longing in his soulful eyes. He wondered if the auburn-haired journalist he had dated still lived in Chelsea and thought how nice it would be to catch up on old times over tandoori at a favorite Indian restaurant on Oxford Street. With Herculean resolve, he pushed the thought from his mind. Prying an old family secret out of a reluctant British aristocrat would be hard enough without feminine distractions.

Zavala breezed through customs, picked up his rental car and headed for the Cotswolds, the historic Gloucestershire countryside a few hours' drive from London. He hoped none of the bean counters back at NUMA would have a heart attack when they saw the bill for renting a Jaguar convertible. Zavala rationalized that the small luxury helped compensate for the dent NUMA was putting in his love life. At this rate, he ruminated grimly, he'd be joining a monastery.

Turning off the main highway, he drove briskly along meandering narrow roads, some no wider than cow paths, doing his best to stay to the left. The picturesque landscape looked like pictures from a calendar. The rolling hills and pastures were almost unnatural in their greenness. Sturdy houses of honey-brown stone clustered in the villages and dotted the unspoiled countryside.

Lord Dodson lived in a tiny hamlet that looked like a village in one of those British mysteries, the ones in which everyone is suspected of the vicar's murder. Dodson's house stood off by itself on a winding lane slightly wider than the car. Zavala followed a gravel drive hemmed in by hedgerows and pulled up next to a vintage Morris Minor pickup truck. The truck was parked in front of a substantial two-story structure of warm brown stone and dark tile roof. The cottage was nothing like the manor Zavala had imagined an English lord would live in. A stone wall ringed the house, enclosing colorful flower gardens. A man dressed in patched cotton slacks and a faded work shirt was knee-deep in blossoms.

Assuming the man was the gardener, Zavala got out of the car and said, "Excuse me. I'm looking for Sir Nigel Dodson."

A white stubble covered the man's chin. He removed his soiled cotton work gloves and extended his hand in a firm grip. "I'm Dodson," he said, to Zavala's surprise. "You must be the American gentleman who called yesterday."

Zavala hoped Dodson didn't see his embarrassment. After hearing the upper-class accent on the phone, Zavala had pictured a craggy-chinned Englishman in tweeds with a bushy upturned mustache decorating a stiff upper lip. Dodson was actually a small, slim, balding man. He was probably in his seventies, but he looked as fit as a man twenty years his junior.

"Are those orchids?" Zavala asked. His family's adobe house in Santa Fe was surrounded by flower beds.

“That's right. These are frog orchids. Spotted here, pyramidal there." Dodson raised an eyebrow in a hint that his own stereotype of Americans had been shattered. "I'm surprised you recognized them. They don't look like those big meaty plants everybody thinks about when you mention orchids."

"My father was crazy about flowers. Some of those blossoms looked familiar."

"Well, I'll have to show you around after we're done. Now, you must be thirsty after your trip, Mr. Zavala. You said you were in Istanbul? Haven't been there in years. Fascinating city." He invited Zavala to follow him around behind the house to an expansive flagstone patio. Dodson called in through the open French doors to his housekeeper, a stout ruddy-faced woman named Jenna. She eyed Zavala as if he were an insect her employer had picked off one of his orchids and brought them tall glasses of iced tea. They sat under an oriental pergola laced with ivy. The broad lawn, as well manicured as a golf course, sloped down to a slow- flowing river and extensive marshes. A boat was tied up at a small dock.

Dodson sipped his tea and gazed out at the vista. "Paradise. Sheer paradise." His piercing blue eyes turned to his guest. "Well, Mr. Zavala. Has this something to do with the telephone call I received a few days ago from Mr. Perlmutter?"

"Indirectly."

"Hmm. I've made some inquiries. It seems Mr. Perlmutter is highly respected in marine-history circles. How may I help you?"

"Perlmutter was doing some research for NUMA when he came across a reference to your grandfather. He was puzzled about why you were reluctant to talk about Lord Dodson's papers. And so am I."

"I'm afraid I was abrupt with Mr. Perlmutter. Please offer him my apology if you see him. His query caught me off-guard." He paused and let his eyes sweep over the roof of his cottage. "Do you have any idea how old this house is?”

Zavala studied the weathered stones and massive chimneys. "I'll take a stab at it," he said with a smile. "Old?"

"I see you're a man of caution. I like that. Yes, it is very old. This village dates back to the Iron Age. The original Dodson manor, beyond those trees where you can't see goes back to the seventeenth century. I have no children to pass the property along to and couldn't afford to maintain the old ark in any case, so I turned it over to the National Trust and retained this cottage. It rests on a foundation placed here at the time of Augustus Caesar; I could show you the Roman numerals carved in the cellar stones. The house itself is one of four that have occupied the site for over two thousand years. The present structure dates back to the fourteen hundreds, just about the time your country was being discovered."

"I'm not sure I understand what this has to do with my question."

Dodson leaned forward like an Oxford don instructing a dim student. "This country doesn't think in terms of decades or even centuries, as in America, but in millennia. Eighty years is a mere tick of the clock. There are powerful families who could still be embarrassed by the revelations in my grandfather's papers."

Zavala nodded. "I respect your wishes and won't press you, but is there anything that you can tell me?"