Sea of Greed

ST. JULIEN’S wasn’t a church, a university or a hospital. It was St. Julien Perlmutter, an expert in all things nautical. A friend of NUMA, he’d spent decades collecting books, charts and other sources of information about the sea. If it was rare and unique, he searched it out and often paid top dollar to get it. In addition to auctions and private sales, Perlmutter had a network of contacts spread across the globe who would reach out to him if they found something of interest or if a rumor crossed their desk regarding any mysteries hidden in the oceans.

Kurt arrived at Perlmutter’s home and pulled into the driveway, which ran between the ivy-covered walls of the neighboring houses that guarded the entrance to St. Julien’s like the battlements of a walled city.

Beyond them lay a spacious carriage house with more land around it than any home in Georgetown had a right to. It even had a large courtyard that St. Julien had roofed over and later enclosed completely so he could store more of his treasures.

Kurt stepped from the Jeep and shut the door. It had been a while since he’d visited and he’d never arrived so late in the evening and unannounced. And yet before he could take a step toward the door, it swung open, spilling light onto the grounds.

Most of that light was immediately blocked by the imposing shape of a four-hundred-pound man in a silk robe.

“Kurt Austin darkening my door,” a deep voice boomed. “What have I done to deserve this?”

Kurt grinned at the welcome, noticing that Perlmutter hadn’t trimmed the long beard or changed the style of the mustache that covered his lip and twisted at the ends.

“St. Julien,” Kurt said. “It’s great to see you. But do you ever sleep?”

“Every chance I get.”

“Then how is it you’re always waiting at the door when I arrive? Cameras? Alarm system? Sixth sense you’ve never told us about?”

“Yes to all of the above,” St. Julien replied. “And in your case, Fritz knows the sound of your Jeep. He wags his tail incessantly the moment you pull into the driveway.”

Kurt laughed. Fritz was Perlmutter’s dachshund. The moment his name was spoken, he appeared in the doorway. He’d been a puppy the first time Kurt met him, though he was fully grown now and becoming rotund like his master.

“You see?” Perlmutter said. “He’s awfully fond of you, which doesn’t say much for his breeding.”

The joke didn’t offend Kurt in the least. In fact, he laughed. This was how St. Julien greeted his true friends. If he’d been polite and proper, Kurt would have been worried.

“I’m sorry to bother you so late,” Kurt said. “Can I bend your ear for a moment?”

“Certainly,” Perlmutter said, waving Kurt in.

Kurt followed Perlmutter through the doorway and into the large but crowded house. They passed stacks of books five feet tall, tables covered with charts six inches deep and shelves filled with journals, logbooks, records and diaries from the owners, passengers and crew of long-defunct steamship lines.

Kurt marveled at it all. “How many books do you have now?”

“I stopped counting at ten thousand,” Perlmutter said.

St. Julien had long ago filled his official library and since then had turned every room, closet and nook in the home into an extension of that library. The only space completely free of books was the expansive kitchen, where he spent his time creating sumptuous dishes that would have earned him a Michelin star or two had his home been a restaurant. Even now, the aroma was enticing.

“Cognac or port?” Perlmutter said, arriving at a bar that was stocked from his personal wine cellar.

“Don’t waste the good stuff on me,” Kurt said. “I’m only here for information.”

“Nonsense,” Perlmutter said. He filled two balloon snifters with golden brown cognac from an aged bottle and passed one to Kurt.

“Now,” Perlmutter said, “what is it you’re searching for?”

“Information on the INS Dakar.”

Perlmutter’s memory was as quick and accurate as any computer’s. He rattled off the basic facts. “The Dakar was an Israeli vessel, purchased from the British. Lost with all hands in the Mediterranean, January of ’68.” Perlmutter raised an eyebrow. “A bad year for submarines, really. That same year, the French lost the Minerve, we lost the Scorpion and the Russians lost the K-129. Some people thought a secret war had broken out. As for the Dakar, its disappearance was considered mysterious due to conflicting time and position reports from the Israeli Navy and an emergency buoy that washed up near Gaza a year later. Repeated Israeli searches failed to locate wreckage and the ship’s whereabouts remained unknown until ’99, when a joint U.S. — Israeli team found the ship several hundred miles east of Crete. End of story.”

“That’s the public information,” Kurt said. “I need the hidden truth. I have reason to believe that submarine was involved in something clandestine, but I’ve nothing to back that up.”

Perlmutter’s mustache twitched as he considered this. “Common sense would suggest that’s highly unlikely.”

“Why?”