Sea of Greed

Perlmutter nodded. “All too common today, but rare back then. According to my friend, the two nations had designed this weapon together before they began fighting over it. The French were afraid, insisting a countermeasure be developed. The Israelis were firmly against this but finally acquiesced. Once the weapon and its antidote had both been perfected, the Israelis stole the whole kit and caboodle, loaded it aboard the Dakar and sailed for Israel. Unwilling to lose what they believed to be their rightful creation, the French hunted the Dakar down and sank it.”

Kurt knew he was onto the truth now. He took another sip of the cognac, reached down to scratch Fritz on the head and then stood.

“You’re going?”

“You’ve given me what I need,” Kurt replied.

“I’ve given you a rumor,” Perlmutter corrected, “and only because you asked me to. You must know that particular friend has a fairly suspect record when it comes to veracity.”

“I think your friend told you the truth,” Kurt said. “What’s more, he might have given us the key to prevent this oil shock from becoming a lasting crisis. I have to go. Keep well. I’ll stay longer next time and we’ll drink the rest of that bottle.”

Kurt left Perlmutter’s home with a wave of energy surging through his body. He dialed Rudi on his phone, using the Bluetooth connection in the Jeep to talk over the speakers.

“I’m headed to the airport,” he told Rudi. “I need Paul, Gamay and all the deep-diving equipment you can pull together in an hour.”

Rudi, who was rarely shocked, seemed at a loss. “Why?”

“Because I’m flying to Crete. And I’m diving on the INS Dakar.”

“The Dakar… The submarine?”

“That’s what Millard was trying to tell us,” Kurt replied. “When I asked him about the oil-destroying bacteria, he said Le Dakar—the Dakar. The submarine. Not the city.”

“Seems like a stretch,” Rudi said.

“Not after what St. Julien just told me.” Kurt went on to explain the rumor Perlmutter had just relayed to him.

“He does have a spy network that would make the CIA proud,” Rudi said, “but you’re still making a giant leap of faith and landing on a very shaky conclusion. How would Tessa even find out about this weapon?”

“Pascal Millard,” Kurt said. “He’s the link. He spent years as the Director of Biological Research for the French military and then held the same role on the civilian side with the French Ministry of Science. At that time, he was given the additional title Director of Ethics Administration. He was in a position to know these secrets and, once he was fired and censured, he would be in a position to trade on them.”

“I suppose the timing fits,” Rudi said. “We’ve been piecing his background together. He left France and started working for Tessa before this oil crisis began.”

“How they met, I don’t know,” Kurt admitted. “But at some point, Millard told her about the oil destroyer and its resting place on the Dakar. Tessa, being a risk taker whose alternative energy company is floundering, comes up with the plan of the century. Destroy the world’s oil, tell yourself that you’re saving the planet and make billions on the back end.”

“Audacious,” Rudi replied. “Do you have anything beyond the rumor St. Julien told you about and the circumstantial link you just gave me? Like a method by which this oil destroyer gets from a submarine at the bottom of the sea and into Tessa’s hands?”

“Tessa has a wealth of equipment at her disposal — submersibles, aircraft, ships. She also has a historical preservation society that’s done work all around the globe. That LNG carrier in Bermuda was one of her presents to the world at large, but there have been others. Look up her efforts and I guarantee you’ll find her historical preservation society operating near the Dakar between the time Millard began working for her and the start of this oil crisis.”

“Stand by,” Rudi said. “I’ll check.”

The wait was longer than Kurt expected, but he continued toward the airport without slowing down. “Anything?”

“You’re dead-on,” Rudi said finally. “Two years ago, Tessa’s foundation spent three months and sixty million dollars on a deepwater archaeological expedition in the eastern Med. It was supposed to be cataloging and recovering Minoan artifacts, but despite the cost and time spent, there was very little to show for the effort.”

“And the location?” Kurt asked.

“They did work over a small geographic area,” Rudi said, “but never more than ten miles from where the Dakar went down.”

“They weren’t looking for amphoras and statues of Poseidon,” Kurt said. “They were diving on the wreck, trying to find whatever type of sealed protective containers the oil-destroying cultures were stored in.”

“You’ve convinced me,” Rudi said. “But if she’s already been there, what good is searching the Dakar going to do us?”