She gave Austin a time and place for the meeting. Them's charm notwithstanding, he had agreed to talk to Ryan because he had come to a dead end and thought he might learn something new. He hung up, leaned back in his swivel chair and laced his fingers behind his head. It was easy to bring his thoughts around to Oceanus. His chest ached when he raised his arm, and the pain made an effective mem- ory aid.

He wondered if the Trouts had turned up anything. They hadn't called since leaving their message. He tried to reach them on their cell phone and got no answer. He didn't worry. Paul and Gamay were fully capable of taking care of themselves. Next, he called Rudi Gunn, NUMA's assistant director, and set up a luncheon meeting. Rudi's famed analytical skills might help guide him through the dense thicket surrounding the mysterious corporation.

Gunn was bound to home in on Aguirrez when he read the report, questioning whether there was any link between Basque terrorism and Oceanus violence. Aguirrez had mentioned his ancestor, Diego. Austin pondered the Basque's obsession with his forebear and thought that Aguirrez might be on to something. From his own ex- perience, Austin knew that the past is always the key to the present. He needed someone who could guide him back five centuries. One person came to mind immediately. Austin picked up the phone and punched out a number.

NUMA 4 - White Death

21

THE WORLD-FAMOUS marine historian and gourmand, St. Julien Perlmutter, was in an agony of ecstasy. He sat outside a three-hundred-year-old Tuscan villa whose shaded terrace had a breathtaking view of rolling vineyards. Visible in the distance, dom- inating the Renaissance city of Florence, was the Duomo. The wide oak table before him groaned with Italian cuisine, from pungent sausage made locally, to a thick, rare beefsteak Florentine. There was so much wonderful food, and so many wonderful colors and fragrances, in fact, that he was having a hard time trying to decide where to start.

“Get a grip on yourself, old man,” he muttered, stroking his gray beard as he stared at the spread. "Wouldn't do to starve to death amid all this plenty/'

At four hundred pounds, Perlmutter was in little danger of wast- ing away. Since arriving in Italy ten days before, he had eaten his way up the Italian boot on a promotional tour for an Italian-American food magazine. He had trudged through wineries, trattorias and smokehouses, posed for photo opportunities in refrigerator rooms full of hanging prosciutto, and delivered lectures on the history of food going back to the Etruscans. He had dined on sumptuous feasts everywhere he stopped. The sensory overload had brought him to his present impasse.

The cell phone in his suit pocket trilled. Grateful for the distrac- tion from his quandary, he flipped the phone open. “State your busi- ness in a concise and businesslike manner.”

“You're a hard man to find, St. Julien.”