“Kurt, can you come up to my office?”
“Can this wait, Admiral?” Austin said, trying to hold on to his thought.
“Of course, Kurt,” Sandecker said magnanimously. “Is five minutes sufficient?”
The notion withered and died like a flower in the sun. Sandecker must have been the original irresistible force. The admiral’s mind operated at warp speed, and consequently his sense of time tended to be compressed.
“I’ll be there in two minutes.”
“Splendid. I think you’ll find it worth your while.”
When Austin walked into Sandecker’s tenth-floor office he expected to see the director of NUMA behind the immense desk made from a hatch taken from a Confederate blockade runner. Instead the admiral sat off to the side in one of the comfortable dark leather chairs reserved for visitors. He was chatting with a woman who sat with her back to Austin. Sandecker, who was wearing a navy blazer with gold anchors embroidered over the breast pocket, rose to greet Austin.
“Thank you for coming, Kurt. There’s someone here I’d like you to meet.”
The woman stood, and Austin’s preoccupation with his Alaskan puzzle evaporated in a single glance.
She was tall and slim, with Eurasian high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes. In contrast to her exotic looks she was dressed conservatively in a long burgundy skirt and matching jacket. Her dark blond hair was tightly woven into a single braid down to her shoulder blades. Something about her went beyond natural beauty. She had the erect carriage of someone born to royalty, but at the same time she walked with the lithe easiness of a panther as she came over to shake hands. The deep brown eyes with gold flecks seemed to radiate a tropical heat. Maybe it was his imagination, but her musky scent made Austin think of the throb of distant drums. It suddenly dawned on him who the woman was.
“You’re Dr. Cabral?”
Austin would not have been surprised if she had answered with a soft purr. In a low, mellow voice she said, “Thank you for coming to see me, Mr. Austin. I hope I haven’t interrupted anything important. I asked Admiral Sandecker if I might have the chance to thank you personally for your help.”
“You’re very welcome, but Gamay and Paul did all the hard work. I simply answered the phone and pushed a couple of buttons.”
“You are far too modest, Mr. Austin,” she said with a smile that could have melted ice cubes. “If not for your quick action I’m afraid my head and those of your colleagues would be decorating a village thousands of miles from these comfortable surroundings.”
Sandecker stepped between them and guided Francesca back to her chair. “On that happy note, Dr. Cabral, would you mind if we imposed and asked you to tell us your story from start to finish?”
“Not at all,” she replied. “Talking to someone about my experience has therapeutic value, and I also find myself remembering details I had forgotten.”
Sandecker motioned for Austin to sit, then slipped into his desk chair and lit up one of the ten custom-made cigars he smoked each day. He and Austin listened with rapt attention as Francesca narrated the gripping tale of the hijacking, the crash and her brush with death, her ascension as a white goddess. She went into great detail about the public works projects in the Chulo village that she took so much pride in. She ended with an account of the arrival of the Trouts, their mad flight, and their rescue by helicopter.
“Fascinating,” Sandecker said, “absolutely fascinating. Tell me, what became of your friend Tessa?”
“She stayed on with Dr. Ramirez. Her knowledge of medicinal plants will be invaluable in his research. I talked by phone to my parents to make sure they are well. They wanted me to come home, but I decided to stay in the U.S. I need more of a decompression time before I insert myself back into the São Paulo social whirl. Beyond that, I am determined to carry on the task that was interrupted ten years ago.”
Sandecker contemplated the stubborn set of Francesca’s jaw. “I firmly believe past is not only present but also future. It would help to know what lies ahead if you told us something about the events that led to your plane trip.”
Francesca stared into the distance as if she could see through time. “It goes back to my childhood. I became aware at a very early age that I come from a privileged background. Even as a girl I knew I lived
in a city with appalling slums. As I grew older and traveled I learned that my city was a microcosm for the world. Here in one place were the haves and the have-nots. I also discovered that the difference between rich and poor nations is the earth’s most plentiful substance: water. Fresh water lubricates development. Without water there is nothing to eat. Without food there is no will to live, to raise one’s standard of living. Even the oil-rich countries use much of their petroleum revenues to buy or produce water. We take it for granted that when we turn on the tap water will flow, but that will not always be the case. The competition for water has become greater than ever.”
“The U.S. is no stranger to water disputes,” Sandecker said. “In the old days range wars were fought over water rights.”
“That will be nothing compared with the troubles of the future,” Francesca said darkly. “In this century wars will not be fought over oil, as in the past, but over water. The situation is becoming desperate. The world’s water is strained by the population growth. There is no more fresh water on the earth than two thousand years ago when the population was three percent of its current size. Even without the inevitable droughts, like the current one, it will get worse as demand and pollution increase. Some countries will simply run out of water, sparking a global refugee crisis. Tens of millions of people will flood across international borders. It means the collapse of fisheries, environmental destruction, conflict, lower living standards.” She paused for a moment. “As people who deal with the ocean you must see the irony. We are facing a shortage on a planet whose surface is covered two-thirds with water.”
“Water, water, everywhere, nor any drop to drink,” Austin said, quoting the Samuel Taylor Coleridge poem.
“Precisely. But suppose the Mariner had a magic wand he could wave over a bucket of seawater, changing it into fresh.”
“His ship would have survived.”
“Now extend that analogy to millions of buckets.”
“The global water crisis would be over,” Austin said. “Nearly seventy percent of the world’s population lives within fifty miles of the ocean.”
“Exactly,” Francesca said, her mood lightening.