“A divine revelation, I hope.”
PART IV
MANIFEST DESTINY
86
ST. JULIEN PERLMUTTER HAD JUST SETTLED INTO AN OVER size leather armchair when the phone rang. His favorite reading post was custom-built, as it had to be to accommodate his nearly four-hundred-pound frame. He glanced at a nearby grandfather clock, noting it was nearly midnight. Reaching past a tall glass of port parked on a side table, he answered the phone.
“Julien, how are you?” came a familiar voice over the line.
“Well, if it isn’t the savior of Constantinople,” Perlmutter replied in a booming voice. “I’ve read with glee about your exploits in the Golden Horn, Dirk. I hope you weren’t injured in the affair?”
“No, I’m fine,” Pitt replied. “And by the way, they call it Istanbul these days.”
“Bilgewater. It was Constantinople for sixteen hundred years. Ridiculous to change it now.”
Pitt had to laugh at his old friend, who spent most of his waking hours living in the past. “I hope I didn’t catch you in bed?” he asked.
“No, not at all. I was just sitting down with a copy of Captain Cook’s papers from his first voyage to the Pacific.”
“One of these days, we’ll have to go find what’s left of the Endeavor,” Pitt said.
“Aye, a noble mission that would be,” Perlmutter replied. “So where are you, Dirk, and why the late call?”
“We just docked at Limassol, Cyprus, and I have a mystery I could use your help with.”
The large bearded man’s eyes twinkled at hearing the words. As one of the world’s foremost marine historians, Perlmutter had a hunger for nautical enigmas that exceeded his appetite for food and drink. Having associated with Pitt for years, he knew that when his friend called he usually had something beguiling.
“Pray tell,” Perlmutter said in his deep bassoon voice.
Pitt proceeded to tell him about the Ottoman wreck and its Roman-era artifacts, then he sprang the story of the Manifest and its list of contents.
“My word, that’s an epic cargo,” Perlmutter said. “A pity that little, if any of it, would survive after two millennia under the sea.”
“Yes, the ossuary might be the best that could be hoped for.”
“You would surely stir a hornet’s nest with that,” Perlmutter said.
“If any of it still exists, it deserves to be found,” Pitt replied.
“Absolutely. Even without the cargo, an intact Roman galley would be a gem to discover. Do you have a starting point to conduct the search?”
“The purpose of my call,” Pitt said. “I’m hoping that you might know of some unidentified ancient wrecks off the southern Cyprus coast. Any data on the historic trade routes around the island would probably be helpful, too.”
Perlmutter thought for a moment. “I have a few resources on the shelf that might be of assistance. Give me a couple of hours, and I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks, Julien.”
“Say, Dirk,” Perlmutter added, before hanging up. “Were you aware that Cyprus was known to produce the best wines in the Roman Empire?”
“You don’t say.”
“A glass of Commandaria, I’ve heard, tastes as it did two thousand years ago.”
“I’ll be sure and find you a bottle, Julien.”
“You’re a good man, Dirk. So long.”