Austin studied the letters illuminated in the glare of the ROV's lights and shook his head.

“My Russian is rusty, but the name of the ship seems to be Odessa Star:”

“Doesn't ring a bell,” Atwood said. “Have you ever heard of her?”

“Nope,” Austin said. “But I'll bet I know somebody who has.”

NUMA 3 - Fire Ice

-22- WASHINGTON, D.C.

ST. JULIAN PERLMUTTER had spent most of his day researching a twin-hulled Civil War ironclad for the Smithsonian Institution, and the work had made him hungry. But then, practically everything made Perlmutter hungry. An ordinary human faced with this state of affairs would have satisfied his needs by slapping a wad of cold cuts between two slabs of bread. Not so Perlmutter. He indulged his addiction for German cooking with a plate of pig's knuckles and sauerkraut, paired with a light-bodied Reisling Kabinett plucked from his four-thousand-bottle wine cellar. He dined using silver and china from the French liner Normandie. He was sublimely happy. The mood persisted even when his telephone gave off a ring like a ship's bell.

He patted his mouth and thick gray beard with a monogrammed linen napkin, and reached with a plump hand for the phone. “St. Julian Perlmutter here,” he said pleasantly. “State your business in a brief manner.”

“I'm sorry. I must have the wrong number,” the voice on the phone said. “The gentleman I'm trying to reach would never answer the phone so politely.”

“Ah ha!” Perlmutter's voice ratcheted up the decibel scale to a supersonic boom. “You should be sorry, Kurt. What happened to imam?”

“Can't say I know anyone by that name. Have you tried Istanbul missing persons?”

“Don't toy with me over such an important matter, you impertinent young snit,” Perlmutter boomed, his sky blue eyes twinkling in the ruddy face. “You know perfectly well you promised to get me an authentic recipe for imam bayidi. Translated loosely as 'the imam fainted,' because the old boy was overcome with delight when he tasted the dish. You did remember, didn't you?”

Austin kept on Perlmutter's good side by searching out authentic recipes on his travels around the world. “Of course I remembered. I've been trying to persuade one of the finest chefs in Istanbul to part with his recipe and will send it to you forthwith. I wouldn't want you to waste away to nothing.”

Perlmutter roared with laughter, the belly laugh amplified by the nearly four hundred pounds of flesh adhering to his sturdy frame. “There's not much danger of that happening. Are you still in Turkey?”

“In the neighborhood. I'm on a NUMA ship in the Black Sea.”

“Still on your vacation cruise?”

“Vacation's over. I'm back at work and need a favor. Could you dig up something on an old cargo ship named the Odessa Star? It went down in the Black Sea, but I don't know when. That's all I can tell you for now.”