"A familiar story around the world, unfortunately."

"The political wing of the separatist movement is the Batasuna party. Some people have compared it to Sinn Fein, the public face of the IRA. The Spanish government threw up its hands after more as- sassinations and the discovery of a big ETA weapons cache. Auton- omy wasn't working, so they banned Batasuna and started to crack down on the whole separatist movement."

"Where does Aguirrez fit in to this bloody little picture?"

"Your instincts were right about there being more to him than meets the eye. He has been a major backer of Batasuna. The gov- ernment has accused him of financing terrorism."

"I liked him. He didn't look like a terrorist," Austin said, recall- ing his benefactor's bluff and down-to-earth manners.

"Sure, and Joe Stalin looked like somebody's grandfather."

Austin remembered the yacht's tough-looking crew and the heavy- duty armament that the vessel carried. "So, are the charges true?"

"He freely admits to supporting Batasuna, but points out that it was a legitimate party when he gave them money. The government suspects he's still channeling money into the movement. They have no proof, and Aguirrez is too well-connected to bring into court with flimsy evidence."

"What's your take on the guy?"

"In all my years in Spain, I never met him, which was why I was surprised when you said you had. I think he's a moderate who'd like to see a peaceful separatist solution, but the ETA murders have un- dermined his cause. He's afraid the crackdown will rekindle the con- flict and endanger innocent citizens. He may be right."

"Sounds like he's walking a very thin tightrope."

"Some people say that the pressure's made him unhinged. He's been talking about a way to rally European public opinion in favor of a Basque nation. Did he give you any hint of what's on his mind ?" Perez narrowed his dark eyes. "Surely you didn't talk just about fishing."

"He struck me as very proud of his Basque heritage-his yacht is named the Nat/arm. He didn't say a word about politics. We talked mostly about archaeology. He's an amateur archaeologist with strong interest in his own ancestors."

"You make him sound like a contender for the nutty professor. Let

me give you a warning, old friend. The Spanish police would love to nail him to the wall. They have no direct proof linking him to ter- rorist acts, but when they do, you don't want to be in their way."

"I'll remember that. Thanks for the heads-up."

"Hell, Kurt, it's the least I could do for a former comrade-in- arms."

Before Perez had the chance to start reminiscing again, Austin glanced at his watch. "Got to get moving. Thanks for your time."

"Not at all. Let's get together for lunch sometime. We miss you here. The brass is still ticked off about Sandecker grabbing you for NUMA."

Austin rose from his chair. "Maybe we'll work on a joint opera- tion someday."

Perez smiled. "I'd like that," he said.

The Washington traffic had let up, and before long, Austin saw the sun gleaming on the green glass facade of the thirty-story NUMA building overlooking the Potomac. He groaned when he walked into his office. His efficient secretary had neatly piled the pink call-back slips in the center of his desk. In addition, he would have to dig him- self out of an avalanche of e-mail messages before he got down to preparing a report on Oceanus.

Ah, the exciting life of a swashbuckler! He scrolled through his e- mail, deleted half of it as nonessential and shuffled through his pink slips. There was a message from Paul and Gamay. They had gone to Canada to check into an Oceanus operation. Zavala had left a call on his answering machine saying he would be home that night in time for a hot date. Some things never change, Austin thought with a shake of his head. His handsome and charming partner was much in demand among Washington's female set. Austin sighed and began to tap away at his computer. He was wrapping up the first draft when the phone rang.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Austin. I was hoping I'd find you in your office."

Austin smiled at the sound of Them's voice. "I'm already pining for the high seas. Your flight home on the Concorde went well, I trust.

"Yes, but I don't know why I hurried back. My in-box is filled with depositions and briefs. But I didn't call to complain. I'd like to get to- gether with you."

"I'm halfway out the door. A walk maybe. Cocktails and dinner. Then, who knows?"

"We'll have to put the 'who knows?' on hold for now. This is busi- ness. Marcus wants to talk to you."

"I'm really starting to dislike your friend. He keeps getting in the way of what may be the love affair of the century."

"This is important, Kurt."

"Okay, I'll meet with him, with one condition. We make a date for tonight."

"It's a deal."

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.

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.