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"Tell me more of their mother," said Pitt.
"Little to tell. Irene died fifteen years ago, again under mysterious circumstances. It wasn't until a year after she was buried on Gladiator Island that a Sydney newspaper reporter ferreted out the fact of her death. He ran an obituary on her before Arthur could bribe the managing editor to kill the piece.
Otherwise, nobody would have known she was gone."
"Admiral Sandecker knows something of Arthur Dorsett and says he's impossible to reach," said Pitt.
"Very true. He is never seen in public, never socializes, has no friends. His entire life revolves around the business. He even has a secret tunnel for entering and leaving the Sydney headquarters building without being seen. He has cut Gladiator Island off from the outside world completely. To his way of thinking the less known about Dorsett mining operations the better."
"What about the company? He can't hide the dealings of a vast business forever."
"I beg to differ," said Perlmutter. "A privately owned " corporation can get away with murder. Even the governments they operate under have an impossible time trying to probe company assets for tax purposes. Arthur Dorsett may be a reincarnation of Ebenezer Scrooge, but he's never hesitated to spend big money to buy loyalty. If he thinks it's beneficial to make a government official an instant millionaire in order to gain leverage and power, Dorsett will go for it."
"Do his daughters work within the company?"
"Two of them are said to be employed by dear old Dad, the other one. . ."
"Maeve," Pitt offered.
"All right, Maeve, cut herself off from the family, put herself through university and came out a marine zoologist. Something of her mother's father must have come through in her genes."
"And Deirdre and Boudicca?"
"The gossipmongers claim the two are devils incarnate, and worse than the old man. Deirdre is the Machiavelli of the family, a conniving schemer with larceny in her veins. Boudicca is rumored to be quite ruthless and as cold and hard as ice from the bottom of a glacier. Neither seems to have any interest in men or high living."
A distant look reflected in Pitt's eyes. "What is it about diamonds that gives them so much allure? Why do men and women kill for them? Why have nations and governments risen and fallen because of them?"
"Besides their beauty after being cut and polished, diamonds have unique qualities. They happen to be the hardest known substance in the world. Rub one against silk and it produces a positive electrostatic charge. Expose it to the setting sun and it will later glow in the dark with an unearthly phosphorescence.
No, my young friend. Diamonds are more than a myth. They are the ultimate creator of illusions."
Perlmutter paused and lifted the champagne bottle from the ice bucket. He poured the final few drops in his glass almost sadly. Then he held it up. "Damn, it appears I've run dry."
After he left the NUMA building, Giordino signed out one of the agency's turquoise cars and drove to his recently purchased condominium in Alexandria, along the Potomac River. His rooms were an interior decorator's nightmare. None of the furniture or decor matched. Nothing conformed to the basic rules of taste and style. His succession of girlfriends who moved in and moved out all left their mark, and none of their redecorating blended with the judgment of his next companion. Happily, he stayed close friends with every one of them. They enjoyed his company, but none would have married him on a bet.
He wasn't a sloppy housekeeper, and he was a fair cook, but he was seldom at home. If he wasn't chasing around the world on undersea projects with Pitt, he was mounting expeditions to search for anything that was lost, be it ships, aircraft or people. He loved to hunt for the missing. He could never sit around his living room watching TV in the evenings or read a book. Giordino's mind was constantly traveling, and his thoughts were rarely trained on the lady by his side, a condition that frustrated the gentler sex no end.
He threw his dirty clothes in the washer and took a quick shower. Then he packed an overnight bag and drove to Dulles International, where he caught an early evening flight to Miami. Upon arrival, he rented a car, drove to the city's port area and checked into a dockside motel. Next he checked the Yellow Pages for marine architects, copying the names, addresses and phone numbers of those who specialized in private motor yachts. Then he began to call.
The first four, who had already left for home, responded with answering machines, but the fifth picked up the call. Giordino was not surprised. He had expected that one of them would be conscientiously working late, creating the construction plans for some rich man's floating home away from home.
"Mr. Wes Wilbanks?" inquired Giordino.
"Yes, this is Wes. What can I do for you this time of night?" The v
oice had a soft Southern drawl.
"My name is Albert Giordino. I'm with the National Underwater & Marine Agency. I need your help in identifying the manufacturer of a boat."
"Is it docked here in Miami?"
"No, sir. It could be anywhere in the world."
"Sounds mysterious."
"More than you know."
"I'll be in the office tomorrow at around ten."
