Piranha

“You think killing him will make me president?”

“You were the second choice for vice president in the election. You’re nearly certain to be selected as his replacement, making you the instant front-ru

“But it’s crazy! Even if I agreed to go along with this, you’d never be able to do it. The Secret Service protects him as well as they protect the president.”

“You leave that to me.”

Washburn eyed him with the implacable face of a career politician. “If I’m ‘all in,’ I think I deserve to know what you’re pla

Kensit sighed in a

“In three days the vice president will be returning from a summit in Rio de Janeiro,” Kensit said. “When he is over the Caribbean, I’m going to shoot down Air Force Two.”

Georgetown, Washington, D.C.

Juan had never met St. Julien Perlmutter in person, but he had consulted with him several times during past missions, most recently about a sunken Chinese junk called the Silent Sea. When Tyler Locke mentioned a potential link between Kensit and a ship called the Roraima, Juan’s first call after leaving Pax River was to Perlmutter. The maritime expert was delighted to hear that Juan was in the neighborhood. A noted gourmand as well, he insisted that Juan and Eric join him for a late lunch at his home.

Juan’s second call was to Langston Overholt, who told him that DNA analysis would take several days even if they could find original samples of Kensit and Pearson’s DNA to compare the tissue found at the crash site. In the meantime, they had to operate under the assumption that Locke’s forensic assessment correctly surmised that it was Kensit whose body wasn’t found and that he was still alive.

Other than the ship co

When he reached Perlmutter’s estate on a brick road flanked by hundred-year-old oaks, Juan wheeled their rental car around the circular drive of the three-story manor and parked on the side in front of a carriage house that rivaled the main house in size. Perlmutter had remodeled this building that once housed ten horses and five carriages, as well as upstairs quarters for stable hands and drivers, to accommodate his vast library. He was renowned for owning the world’s most extensive collection of books, rare documents, and private letters about ships and shipwrecks. If there was any record of a German scientist aboard the Roraima when it sank, St. Julien Perlmutter would know of it.

With Eric at his side, Juan reached for the front door’s anchor-shaped knocker, but before he could use it the door flew open, revealing a man who could have been Saint Nick’s larger brother, dressed in a regal purple robe and matching paisley pajamas. His twinkling blue eyes were framed by shaggy gray hair, a full beard with a twisting mustache, and a tulip nose. Although he loomed at a gargantuan six foot four and four hundred pounds, Perlmutter was solid, without a jiggle of flab visible. A tiny dachshund gamboled around their feet, yapping happily.

“Juan Cabrillo!” he cried, grabbing Juan’s hand and giving it a vigorous shake. “What a true pleasure it is to finally meet you!”

“It’s an honor to be invited to your home, Mr. Perlmutter. I only wish I had brought something with me to share. I know you treasure regional delicacies.”

“Where is the Oregon now? Not docked nearby?” Perlmutter was one of the few privy to the Oregon’s true nature and his discretion was unquestioned.

“No, it’s currently in the Dominican Republic.”

“Well, then send me some fresh conch and plantain when you get back. I have a fricassee recipe I’ve been dying to try. And this must be Eric Stone making friends with Fritz.”

Eric was on his knees, rubbing the dog’s belly. He rose and offered a hand. “Sorry. That’s one thing I miss with shipboard life. We had a beagle when I was a child and he had just as much energy as your dog.”

“Not to worry, Mr. Stone.” With the attention gone, Fritz’s barking restarted. “Fritz, behave! Or I will get a cat to set you straight.”

“Please excuse our last-minute call,” Juan said.

“Not at all. You’re just in time to help me try my newest creation, a truffled lobster risotto and Precoce d’Argenteuil asparagus tips served with a bottle of Condrieu Viognier.”

Perlmutter led them through hallways and rooms stacked with books and papers on every available flat surface. Juan knew that administrators in libraries and museums the world over salivated at the thought of acquiring the incredible trove of marine history that made up his unparalleled collection.

Eric gaped at the ancient maps and weathered tomes that seemed to be haphazardly strewn about. “It must be quite a task to catalog all of this. I’d love to see your database.”

Perlmutter tapped his temple. “This is my database, young man. I don’t think in computer language. I don’t even have one.”

Juan was amused to see Stoney’s jaw drop even lower. “You keep track of all this in your head?”

“My boy, I can find any piece of information I want in sixty seconds. Like any good treasure hunter, you just have to know where to look.”

They were escorted into an elegant sandalwood-paneled dining room, which looked decidedly bare as it was the sole room without a single book. They sat down at a thick, round dining table carved from the rudder of the famed ghost ship Mary Celeste and enjoyed the early-afternoon repast while Juan and Eric regaled Perlmutter with sea stories from their adventures, leaving out details that would compromise any classified information. Fritz was kept happy and quiet with regular pieces of lobster fed to him by Perlmutter.

When they were finished, Juan swirled the last of his wine. “Your reputation as an epicure is well deserved. I couldn’t imagine a better lunch.”

Eric nodded in agreement. “Maybe we can convince Mr. Perlmutter to share the recipe with the Oregon’s chef.”

“Happy to! And perhaps he can send me one of his favorites in return.”

“Done,” Juan said.

“Excellent! Now, my cooking is not the only reason you came to see me, is it?”

Juan told Perlmutter about the missing physicist, the German diary he supposedly inherited, the mention of Oz and the Roraima. “Flimsy, I know,” Juan said, “but we were hoping you could point us in the right direction.”

Perlmutter patted his cheek with one finger for a few moments and then leaped up with startling agility and dashed into another room. He returned not thirty seconds later, thumbing through a thick book titled Cyclone of Fire: The Wreckage of St. Pierre.

“The eruption of Mount Pelée was the deadliest volcanic eruption of the twentieth century and it happened on May 8, 1902,” Perlmutter said. “It’s also unique in that we have such a rich historical record of the ships that were sunk in the disaster. I know of no other volcano that resulted in so many wrecked ships that can still be explored. Only one ship survived, the Roddam. Sixteen ships were sunk that day, including the Roraima. Many of them settled upright on the bottom and can still be dived on to this day.”