Havana Storm (Dirk Pitt 23)

“I’m afraid we don’t serve food here,” the bartender said, “but there’s a good seafood joint down the road called Mabel’s. Their grilled snapper is a winner. You can take the journal with you.”

“Thank you,” Summer said. “That’s very kind of you, Mr . . . uh . . .”

“My name’s Clive, but most people call me Pops,” he said with a wink. “Keep the book for as long as you like. I ain’t going anywhere.”

Samuel paid for the drinks, and the trio stepped outside into the fading glow of the late-afternoon sun.

“Join us for dinner, Samuel?” Dirk asked.

“No, must get home before the wife gets angry.” He shook Dirk’s hand, then gave Summer a hug. “Good-bye, my friends. I hope you find what you are searching for.”

“Need a lift?” Summer asked as he started to stride away.

“No thanks. I walk from here. Good-bye.”

Dirk and Summer waved as they climbed into their car.

“To Mabel’s?” Dirk asked.

Summer nodded, clutching Boyd’s journal tightly in her hands. “Let’s hope the grilled snapper there is served on a stone platter.”

28

Slightly larger than a walk-in closet, Mabel

’s Café was an open-air diner shaded by a high thatched roof. An early dinner crowd of locals had already infiltrated the place, forcing Dirk and Summer to scramble to find an empty table facing the ocean. A brassy waitress with braided hair brought them a couple of Red Stripes and they both ordered the house snapper. While they waited, Summer opened the journal and began devouring its contents.

“Boyd writes that he was searching for the remains of an early Spanish settlement on the Martha Brae River when he was told of the Green Stone Wreck. With the help of some local fishermen, he located the site. He says a large portion of the hull was visible from the surface, which he attributes to the force of a hurricane that struck the island a few months earlier and uncovered the wreck.”

“He’s probably right,” Dirk said. “Little of the wreck would have survived in these warm waters if exposed to the elements for four hundred years.”

“Boyd didn’t have the resources to hire hard-hat divers, so he relied on local free divers to excavate the site. Working through the winter, they retrieved and cataloged over a thousand artifacts.”

Summer turned the page to find a drawing of the wreck as Boyd found it. The entire keel and crossmember supports were visible, as were several sections of the hull.

Dirk eyed rows of ballast rock and noted a small coral outcropping near the stern. “Looks nothing like that today. At that point, the coral was just encroaching the site.”

“A lot can change in a hundred years,” Summer said.

The waitress arrived with their plates of grilled snapper, accompanied by a side of boiled okra and festival, a cylindrical blob of fried dough. Summer dug in with a fork in one hand while continuing to scan the journal.

The succeeding pages described the daily results of the excavation, with occasional drawings of the more interesting artifacts. Aside from the ship’s heavy iron fittings, including anchors, chains, and a pair of small cannon, the bulk of the raised artifacts were chunks or carved pieces of the Mexican green obsidian.

Near the end of the journal, Summer turned the page and nearly choked on a mouthful of okra. In the center of the page was a rough rendering of a large carved stone in the shape of a semicircle.

“He found it!” she gasped.

Dirk gazed at the drawing and smiled.

“Looks like a perfect match to the stone you found at Zimapán. Unfortunately, he didn’t make a very detailed drawing.”

Summer nodded. Aside from the partial image of a bird, Boyd had depicted no detail from the stone. She flipped ahead to the last page but found no additional illustrations.

“No luck,” she said. “He must have known it was Mesoamerican. I wonder why he didn’t devote more attention to it.”

“What does the narrative say?”

Summer recited the remaining text.