Celtic Empire (Dirk Pitt 25)

“No, it was her.”

“She drove away in a silver Audi. I think it was the same car on the bridge.”

Dirk gave a troubled nod. “I came to the same conclusion. She was the only one who knew we were headed to Portmagee. Almost got us killed. I’m sorry for not seeing it.”

“You’re not the only one who missed it. At least now we know.”

Dirk gave her a pat on her good shoulder and exited the plane. He joined Pitt, Brophy, and Giordino and watched the jet take off into an overcast sky. The four men climbed into an SUV Giordino had rented and drove to Portmagee, this time without incident.

A fishing village across from a large island called Valentia, Portmagee sat on a protected inlet two miles from the open ocean. Dirk easily found the waterfront and parked near the town pier, which held under a dozen boats. Brophy led them across the dock to a wide-beamed workboat, stopping alongside it to light his pipe.

“She’s fueled and ready to go,” he said, “but I’m not sure we’ll want to be in a hurry to leave the dock.”

“Why’s that?” Dirk asked.

“Force 5 to 6 winds are in the offshore forecast.” He waved his pipe down the inlet toward the Atlantic. “Aside from the rollers, it’s also liable to be soggy. Too rough for the tour boats, they’re all staying home today.”

“Is there a place to tie up on the island?” Giordino asked.

“There’s a small pier at the east landing. Might still be rough there.”

“The boat looks stout.” Pitt hopped aboard. “Let’s go have a look.”

He stepped into the wheelhouse and started the inboard motor. Brophy stared at him with trepidation.

Dirk approached and braced his arm. “Come along, Professor, you heard the man. No time to be afraid of a little white water.”

They climbed onto the boat as Giordino cast off the mooring lines. Pitt tapped the throttle and eased them toward the inlet. He turned the boat west and increased speed. The sailing was smooth until they reached the open ocean.

The Atlantic was dark and frenzied as a stiff breeze kicked up the swells. The boat was soon pitching and rolling, but Pitt held the wheel steady.

“Are those the Skelligs?” He turned to Brophy and pointed at a rocky pair of steep islands eight miles to the southwest.

“Yes, Little Skellig is to the left and Skellig Michael to the right,” Brophy said, gripping a side rail as the boat wallowed through a wave.

“What can you tell us about the island?” Dirk asked.

“Skellig Michael is a well-known place in Irish lore. As I said, skellig means ‘steep rock’ or ‘splinter of pointed stone.’ You’ll see why when we get closer. Michael, of course, refers to the archangel. On this island, according to legend, Saint Michael appeared to help Saint Patrick banish the snakes into the sea.”

“We should have had him with us in Scotland,” Giordino joked.

“But the lore of the island goes back much further,” Brophy continued. “I told you about Meritaten and her husband losing two sons in a shipwreck. One supposedly died at sea, while the other was buried on the island.”

“Has the island been inhabited?” Dirk asked.

“That’s what it’s best known for. The early Christians founded a monastery there, around the sixth century. Those hearty souls lived on the rock for several centuries before the settlement was abandoned, possibly on account of Viking raiders. Remains of the monastery still exist, and people come here on pilgrimages to this day.”

Pitt scanned the horizon. “They couldn’t have picked a more remote spot.”

“It was isolation that they were seeking. The sect was believed to be followers of Anthony the Great of Egypt.”

“Egypt?” Giordino asked.

Brophy nodded. “One of the first Christian monks. In Egypt he practiced asceticism alone in the desert.”

“That’s an intriguing connection,” Dirk said.

They pitched and swayed past the rocky island of Little Skellig and a mile later approached the shores of Skellig Michael. The island towered out of the ocean like a slate pyramid, rising over seven hundred feet into the sky.