Havana Storm (Dirk Pitt 23)

“Yes. Maybe they have your stone. I know they have cold beer,” Samuel said with a grin. “I live in the next village over.”

The bar was empty, save for a black dachshund sleeping in the corner. To Dirk’s and Summer’s surprise, the interior was filled with nautical artifacts. Rusting anchors, cannonballs, and porcelain dishes adorned the walls, while a dusty fishing net covered the ceiling. A high wooden shelf sagged under dozens of pieces of green obsidian identical to those they had found on the wreck site.

“These artifacts must be from the Oso Malo,” Dirk said, examining a pewter plate stamped with a three-towered castle beneath a crown—a Castilian mark.

The sound of clinking bottles emanated from a back room, and an old man emerged with a case of beer. His hair and beard were dusted white, but he moved spryly in a loud aloha shirt.

“Afraid I didn’t hear you come in,” he said. “What can I get you kids to drink?”

“Two Red Stripes, and a daiquiri for the lady,” Samuel said, smiling at Summer.

“Works for me,” she said.

They moved to the bar as the man mixed Summer’s drink and passed chilled bottles of Red Stripe beer to Dirk and Samuel. They smiled when the old man opened a third beer for himself.

Taking a sip of the Jamaican brew, Dirk motioned toward a barnacle-encrusted sword mounted over the bar. “We were on the wreck of the Oso Malo today, but it looks like you beat us to it.”

The bartender’s eyes lit up. “I haven’t heard her called by that name in years. She was always known locally as the Green Stone wreck, or the Emerald Wreck, although, of course, there were no emeralds on her.”

“What do you know of the green stones she was carrying?” Summer asked.

“Simply green obsidian. It’s a pretty rock, but there’s nothing inherently valuable about it. Of course, the sixteenth-century Spaniards may have felt differently. It was apparently prized in Mexico, so they loaded up a ship with the stuff. Unfortunately for us,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, “they sent the gold and silver in another direction.”

“We understand,” Dirk said, “the ship was sailing from Veracruz to Cádiz when it ran afoul of a hurricane.”

“That’s right. She blew aground just off White Bay. Despite being so close to shore, most of the crew drowned. Only four men made it ashore alive, later finding refuge at a Spanish settlement called Melilla.”

“Did the Spaniards salvage the wreck?” Dirk asked.

“Not as far as anyone knows. It took three years before the survivors even made it back to Spain. By then, the ship was all but forgotten, since she wasn’t carrying gold or silver. She lay there undisturbed for almost four hundred years until discovered by an American archeologist around the turn of the century.”

“An American?” Summer asked.

“Ellsworth Boyd was his name. He had excavated a number of early Taíno Indian sites on the island. He was conducting an excavation in the area when the locals told him about the stones fishermen pulled up in their nets. He came to the bay and hired Jamaican free divers to pull up what they could.” He waved a hand toward the rock-laden shelves. “Lots of green obsidian.”

“Do you know what became of the other artifacts they recovered?”

“You’re looking at most of them. Boyd shipped a few items to the Yale Peabody Museum in New Haven but the bulk remained here. This stuff would have probably gone, too, but Boyd died shortly after the excavation. Some of his associates, my great-uncle included, decided to establish a museum here in his honor. It became a bit neglected over the years, but after inheriting ownership, I’ve done what I can to keep it going.”

Dirk revealed their interest in the ship. “Do you have any recollection of a large semicircular stone with Mesoamerican inscriptions that may have come off the wreck?”

The bartender gazed at the ceiling. “No, I can’t say that rings a bell. But you might want to take a gander at Boyd’s journal of the excavation.”

Summer’s eyes widened. “He left a record of his work on the Oso Malo?”

The bartender nodded. “Yes, it’s quite detailed.”

He stepped into the back room and emerged a minute later with a thin leather-bound book caked with dust. “Been sitting on the shelf awhile,” he said, “but you’re welcome to borrow it.”

Summer cracked the cover and read aloud the handwritten title page: “‘A record of the excavation of a Spanish shipwreck in White’s Bay, Jamaica, November 1897–January 1898, by Dr. Ellsworth Boyd.’”

She flipped through the pages, finding detailed entries and elegant hand-drawn images from each day of the excavation.

She gasped. “This is fabulous. If he found the stone, he surely would have recorded it in this journal.”

Samuel leaned over Summer’s shoulder to view the journal. “This your lucky day.”

Dirk drained his beer and slapped the empty bottle on the bar. “Let’s order some dinner and see what the good doctor has to tell us.”