Fire Ice

AS THE BRITISH Airways jet began the final approach to Heathrow Airport, Zavala looked off toward London with longing in his soulful eyes. He wondered if the auburn-haired journalist he had dated still lived in Chelsea and thought how nice it would be to catch up on old times over tandoori at a favorite Indian restaurant on Oxford Street. With Herculean resolve, he pushed the thought from his mind. Prying an old family secret out of a reluctant British aristocrat would be hard enough without feminine distractions.

Zavala breezed through customs, picked up his rental car and headed for the Cotswolds, the historic Gloucestershire countryside a few hours' drive from London. He hoped none of the bean counters back at NUMA would have a heart attack when they saw the bill for renting a Jaguar convertible. Zavala rationalized that the small luxury helped compensate for the dent NUMA was putting in his love life. At this rate, he ruminated grimly, he'd be joining a monastery.

Turning off the main highway, he drove briskly along meandering narrow roads, some no wider than cow paths, doing his best to stay to the left. The picturesque landscape looked like pictures from a calendar. The rolling hills and pastures were almost u

Lord Dodson lived in a tiny hamlet that looked like a village in one of those British mysteries, the ones in which everyone is suspected of the vicar's murder. Dodson's house stood off by itself on a winding lane slightly wider than the car. Zavala followed a gravel drive hemmed in by hedgerows and pulled up next to a vintage Morris Minor pickup truck. The truck was parked in front of a substantial two-story structure of warm brown stone and dark tile roof. The cottage was nothing like the manor Zavala had imagined an English lord would live in. A stone wall ringed the house, enclosing colorful flower gardens. A man dressed in patched cotton slacks and a faded work shirt was knee-deep in blossoms.

Assuming the man was the gardener, Zavala got out of the car and said, "Excuse me. I'm looking for Sir Nigel Dodson."

A white stubble covered the man's chin. He removed his soiled cotton work gloves and extended his hand in a firm grip. "I'm Dodson," he said, to Zavala's surprise. "You must be the American gentleman who called yesterday."

Zavala hoped Dodson didn't see his embarrassment. After hearing the upper-class accent on the phone, Zavala had pictured a craggy-chi

"Are those orchids?" Zavala asked. His family's adobe house in Santa Fe was surrounded by flower beds.

“That's right. These are frog orchids. Spotted here, pyramidal there." Dodson raised an eyebrow in a hint that his own stereotype of Americans had been shattered. "I'm surprised you recognized them. They don't look like those big meaty plants everybody thinks about when you mention orchids."

"My father was crazy about flowers. Some of those blossoms looked familiar."

"Well, I'll have to show you around after we're done. Now, you must be thirsty after your trip, Mr. Zavala. You said you were in Istanbul? Haven't been there in years. Fascinating city." He invited Zavala to follow him around behind the house to an expansive flagstone patio. Dodson called in through the open French doors to his housekeeper, a stout ruddy-faced woman named Je

Dodson sipped his tea and gazed out at the vista. "Paradise. Sheer paradise." His piercing blue eyes turned to his guest. "Well, Mr. Zavala. Has this something to do with the telephone call I received a few days ago from Mr. Perlmutter?"

"Indirectly."

"Hmm. I've made some inquiries. It seems Mr. Perlmutter is highly respected in marine-history circles. How may I help you?"

"Perlmutter was doing some research for NUMA when he came across a reference to your grandfather. He was puzzled about why you were reluctant to talk about Lord Dodson's papers. And so am I."

"I'm afraid I was abrupt with Mr. Perlmutter. Please offer him my apology if you see him. His query caught me off-guard." He paused and let his eyes sweep over the roof of his cottage. "Do you have any idea how old this house is?”

Zavala studied the weathered stones and massive chimneys. "I'll take a stab at it," he said with a smile. "Old?"

"I see you're a man of caution. I like that. Yes, it is very old. This village dates back to the Iron Age. The original Dodson manor, beyond those trees where you can't see goes back to the seventeenth century. I have no children to pass the property along to and couldn't afford to maintain the old ark in any case, so I turned it over to the National Trust and retained this cottage. It rests on a foundation placed here at the time of Augustus Caesar; I could show you the Roman numerals carved in the cellar stones. The house itself is one of four that have occupied the site for over two thousand years. The present structure dates back to the fourteen hundreds, just about the time your country was being discovered."

"I'm not sure I understand what this has to do with my question."

Dodson leaned forward like an Oxford don instructing a dim student. "This country doesn't think in terms of decades or even centuries, as in America, but in mille

Zavala nodded. "I respect your wishes and won't press you, but is there anything that you can tell me?"

Dodson's eyes twinkled with merriment. "I'm prepared I to tell you everything you want to know, young man."

"Pardon?" Zavala had hoped to excavate a few nuggets and hadn't expected Dodson to offer him the whole gold mine.

After Mr. Perlmutter called, I gave this matter a great deal of thought. In my grandfather's will, he left his papers to Guildhall, to be made available to the public at the end of the century. Even I had never seen them. They were in my father's possession and became my responsibility after his death. They were being held by the law firm that handled my grandfather's will, and I didn't get around to actually reading them until they were at the library. I pulled them back after I came across my grandfather's narrative explaining his part in all this. Now, however, I've decided to honor his wishes, despite the consequences. Damn the torpedoes. Full speed ahead."

“Admiral Farragut at the battle of Mobile Bay."

"You're something of a naval historian yourself."

"It's hard not to be in my business."

"Which brings up a question of my own. Exactly what is NUMA's interest in this matter?"

"One of our survey ships found the wreck of an old freighter named the Odessa Star in the Black Sea."

Dodson sat back in his chair and shook his head. "The Odessa Star. So that’s what happened to her. Father thought she was caught in one of the dreadful storms that can plague those bloody waters."

"Not exactly. She was sunk by gunfire." Dodson couldn't have looked more startled if Zavala had thrown the glass of iced tea in his face. He composed himself. "Excuse me. I'll give you some material to read." He disappeared into the house and came back with what looked like a thick manuscript. "I'm going into the village to pick up some heirloom plantings for my garden. You should have plenty of time to absorb this. We can talk about it on my return. Je