The Francesca Legacy

Prologue

The bullet gouged his temple and the sea came rushing towards him, water exploded in his face and chilled him to the core, reality vanished instantly. A smudged plume of whiteness appeared in the half light as his body hit the sea -- then nothing.

It was a lucky shot and Heron Tipple got what was coming to him. Alberto Francesca scoured the sea a second time, there was no sign of his former security guard. An ominous black cloud hovered over the horizon as if signaling further duress. He turned to the handful of crew surrounding him.

‘Rightgentlemen, we haven’t got much time -- that storm will soon be upon us -- so finish off wiring up the ship, the yacht will be along side in ten minutes.’

He stood for a brief moment thinking of the past, an insistent thought found its way in, one last check on the three hundred guests in the Super Gallery below was in order. He could tell they were all down there as he descended to the lower deck level -- the acrid stench of brewed urine and faeces was unmistakable. He clapped his hand across his face and pinched his nose, then crept towards the watertight glass doors, which imprisoned the disheveled magma of humanity.

They were all cold and very dead -- rigor mortis had set-in on most of the bodies -- their glazed eyes, fixed facial inflections and bodily rigidity, would have put a roomful of mannequins to shame, he waited and watched, there was no further movement. His head twisted as he glimpsed the linear background -- kaleidoscopic flashes of colour traversed the bulkhead wall. Vivid shapes and forms as distorted and mutilated as the human foreground appeared through dappled glass windows. It didn’t matter, as colourful as the pictorial art was, their useful life had been sucked out of them, and they would be entombed with their owners; buried with their treasures like an Egyptian mausoleum, resting forever on the floor of the ocean. This last test of finality was enough, and he moved quickly back to the main deck.

The crew continued to work feverishly, placing semtex explosives along the inside of the hull, and in the bows of the passenger liner. Thirty minutes elapsed before they all gathered on the lower deck ready for departure, Francesca gave the signal, and they transferred to the large motorised yacht. He stood in the wheel house next to the captain and watched as the yacht pulled away from the great liner.

‘Give her a fair bit of latitude, we don’t want to get sucked in,’ the yacht pulled further away and was almost five hundred metres from the liner before the first eruption occurred.

A stream of gases and debris shot straight up into the air with frightening force, accompanied by a deafening retort. Two more explosions in the depths of the liner scattered more debris around. This was followed by three smaller rumblings and the ship shuddered alarmingly. She began to list as sea water rushed into her bowels, her profile diminished sharply.

Francesca watched as the vessel struggled in her death throes. A second rush of water over her decks sealed her fate and she began to slip reluctantly below the surface.

‘There she goes...the end of the last chapter and the beginning of a new one,’ he whispered in a monotone. Then turned away, features devoid of emotion, pushing his hands deep into his jacket pockets and looking into the watery mists.

Transition periods were always depressing, it was the nihilism of the moment, and could only be partially constrained by looking to the future. He consoled himself with the realisation that such intermissions were invariable short. If you arranged things in the right place at the right time, nature did her bit and followed through.

A small area of flotsam was all that remained of the once pristine passenger liner. It seemed strange and unfair that such a beautiful creation, on her maiden voyage, should meet her end so soon and so tragically.

The motors of a smaller launch alongside the yacht belched into life -- she cruised around collecting the debris and sucking up all the oil slicks.

The two boats then set a northeasterly course, there destination: the Mariana Trench just off Japan. Within thirty minutes the Northern Gulf of Carpenteria was once more cold and desolate. On arrival over the Trench, all debris from the liner was deposited overboard, along with a large slick of oil. This accomplished, the two boats headed for the Japanese mainland. It was the climax of another lucrative project for Italian master forger Alberto Francesca, and the beginning of another life of infinite luxury -- until the money ran out.

CHAPTER ONE

Ten Years Later

Gulf of Carpenteria

The sonar had picked it out clearly on the first run and its physical representation on the sea bed shouldn’t have been too difficult to locate. He had studied the monitor with great care prior to entering the water, and whatever it was, had significant presence.

He dived a little lower until he could clearly make out the sandy bottom. An elongated shadow blocked off his visor, it was huge and intimidating -- the sudden appearance of a darkening pall in the saline depths was always frightening -- it played on one’s primordial fears. It had its Jurassic, terra firma counterpart, in the form of the large dinosaurs, whose burgeoning shadow would have been the first, and possibly last sight on earth for many lessor life forms. The dark mass was just out of focus and he brushed his visor with a gloved hand. He stared long and hard at the corroded metallic mass buried in the sea bed just below him. It was always a heart-stopping moment when a large unknown ship loomed out of the depths. Its obvious size indicated either a large cargo vessel or a passenger liner.

He could see no munitions or weapons and the decks were clearly civilian in character, which excluded the possibility of a large warship. He carefully made his way to the bow seeking a nameplate. The prow stuck out, sharp and angular, like the tip of a gigantic corroded carving knife. Although there was a significant coating of marine encrustation over the entire hull, there were few, if any, stalactite icicles. These strange enigmatic growths indicated not only the type of marine environment but also gave an indication of the age of the wreck. Their size and composition varied with the global positioning of the wreck.

He moved closer, feeling the rough scale covering the iron plate with his fingers, trying to make out any raised letters. Nothing eventuated and he brushed the surface with the hard sponge he carried in his belt. The sponge gradually fragmented, creating a trail of frayed pieces, which slowly sank to the sandy bottom generating a series of tiny air bubbles.

Still no letters appeared, and he continued working on the iron surface, until a flat rectangular name plate emerged with faded white sans-serif capitals. Rubbing away with the remains of the sponge he uncovered the first three letters C-I-N, then the sponge ran out; he continued feverishly brushing away with his gloved hands, slowly exposing the rest of the letters A-T-I-T-E. CINATITE...its name was ‘Cinatite.’ It was a strange, unfamiliar name for such a large ship, especially if it was a passenger liner. He knew most of the old vessels that sailed the oceans of the past, and many of the new ones, but this one didn’t spark any memories. It was true that some vessels made a quiet debut, shunning all publicity, but this was hardly ever the case with a commercial passenger liner -- it was business and business had to be promoted to stay afloat. There were only three main legal reasons when publicity was avoided, either the vessel was private and pre-booked in advance, or a government restriction was placed on any publicity. The only other possibility was a cargo vessel. A pre-booked scenario was the most likely explanation, the only other likelyhood was a combination of lack of advertising funds or an illegal operation...quite possibly both.

He made his way slowly along the side, trying to estimating its size and probably tonnage. It had several portholes and two rows of small square windows a little higher up. A fine layer of microscopic marine growth fogged the windows and he made several passes across the glass with his bear hand. He peered into the dark void of the ship hoping to catch a glimpse of the internals -- looking for anything that might shed some light on the mysterious vessel

It was hopeless in the dim light of the watery surrounds. Removing his high power water proof light from its fixing on his belt, he pushed the brushed aluminum torch flat against the glass porthole and turned it on. An abrupt white reflection partially blinded him for a brief moment, as the light beam caught the glass. He altered the angle and peered more closely into the window.

The view was startling -- scintillating gold reflections with multicoloured highlights emanated from the interior -- a chromatic display danced on his retina. Row upon row of gold framed pictures graced the internal bulkhead. It was the most amazing thing he had ever seen in his twenty years as a maritime archeologist. A vision like this in any other environment would have been astonishing, and perfectly acceptable...but on the sea bed in the bowels of a sunken liner...it was truly bizarre. Whatever the enclosure was, it must have been fairly extensive to accommodate the large number of visible paintings.

It was at that moment he suddenly realised there was no sea water in that section of the ship -- logically there couldn’t have been. By all stretches of one’s imagination, there should not be a space that large which had not been flooded with sea water. Judging by the marine sediments and lack of rusticles, the vessel must have been submerged for about ten years.

Most large ships quickly filled up with water when they reached the bottom. The greater the depth, the quicker this occurred, due to the increase in pressure. Water also had the interesting property of dissolving air, a vitally important fact, which fishes relied upon for their very existence. Any pockets of air remaining would over time be removed by subsequent dissolution by the water around the wreck.

There was only one conclusion -- the area containing the pictures must be a perfectly sealed space -- a water tight compartment deliberately built into the ship, possibly acontrivedtimecapsule,eitherthat,orhewas hallucinating due to the strain of too much diving. He was fifty, and his physical faculties were beginning to noticeably decline -- his diving days were clearly numbered. Prolonged exposure to watery environments could alter a man’s perception of reality. After all, it was a different world, and in spite of man’s accomplishments on land, his adaptation to the oceans of the world was still severely limited. The images he was perceiving were not ethereal, they did not come and go but were as solid as the hands in front of his face.

He bathed the area through the window once more with the high power light. The imagery was still there in all its glory, and he thought he actually recognised some of the paintings. Dutch and Italian masterpieces mingled with some modern renditions. There were at least two kinds of art works -- classic old masters and modern art, with a sprinkling of other less identifiable types. His artistic knowledge was average at best, but there were some great pictures one just didn’t forget. He also had a vague sense of style, which enabled him to differentiate one art group from another. Art in its many forms had a strong connection with the sea and most sunken vessels contained some form of art, be it gold ornamentation, sculpture, personal effects, or rarely (as in this case) pictorial art. They had touched upon pictorial art during the occasional seminars and short courses he had attended over his many years as a maritime archeologist.

He could still see his name in the headlines of some of the marine publications of the day and most of the old hands would remember Jake Herrington, as the pushy young man with an unquenchable thirst for the archeology of the sea. And yet, life had somehow sold him short, and he had never really made it big -- sure he’d found treasures in different parts of the world, and made the odd windfall from time to time. But that was the only real money he had ever made, and he was still treading water so to speak. Expenses always seemed to outweigh his income, but perhaps today -- his luck would change.

He tapped his marine timer strapped to his wrist -- only five minutes to the red warning sector on the dial, his air supply would run out in six minutes. He cast a last wistful look at the wallowing hulk ensconced in the sand, and thought about Sam Burton, his second in command on the small ship above. He could see the beaming delight on his friends face about the news he would shortly deliver.

They had been ship mates for the last ten years after purchasing the Dolly-Do-Good, a small general purpose cargo vessel that had been refitted for marine archeological expeditions. Financially they were both on an equal par, it had taken many years to clear the debts on the boat and equipment, but now they were in the black, although still devoid of financial acumen. It had been pretty rough so far, with the pure lust of adventure being the only thing which had carried them through. Perhaps God had now decided it was their turn for a just reward.

It was probably now or never, since his physical prowess had reached its optimum, and was now in decline as far as diving for treasure were concerned, it was strictly a pursuit for the young and with a push, the middle aged. Jake hit the surface in a spray of water and was quickly hauled aboard. It was another ten minutes before he got his breath back and found himself sitting in the wheel house with Sam nursing a cup of hot chocolate.

Jake had been beside himself eager to transmit his new found knowledge. He just had to get it all off his chest, or die in the attempt. He looked seriously at Sam, something he rarely did.

‘Just sit back my friend, I have something amazing to tell you. Down there,’ he pointed at the bottom of the boat, ‘is the artistic equivalent of Aladdin's cave.’ Jake explained in great detail his incredulous find, finishing off with the ship’s name.

‘She’s called the ‘Cinatite,’ Sam dashed to the back of the boat house and eagerly pulled out a large ledger from a steel cabinet; it was an up-to-date listing of ships sunk in the Arafura Sea and the Gulf of Carpenteria. He opened the heavy cover and flipped through the pages until he came to the C’s.

‘Let’s see Cinatite...’ He went down the two page listings several times; it wasn’t on the current diving map or the register

‘No she’s not here...that’s strange, a big boat like that should be listed somewhere. I know most of the ships lost in this region, but I’ve never heard of the Cinatite, are you sure you got the name right?’

‘Positive...I took special care with the name plate.’

‘Where was she registered?’

‘I don’t know, I didn’t have time to check her stern.’

Sam Burton went down into the cabin and fished out his laptop. Booting up the hard drive he typed in the web page address of the Australian ship’s registry and went down the listing. Several pages later he found the name, she was registered in Sydney as a cruise passenger liner. He switched web pages to the Atlantic, and then the Pacific listings of sunken vessels...then stared askance at the information. She was listed as sunk with all passengers and crew in the Mariana Trench, just off the continental shelf near Japan.

He looked at the coordinates, 11’’ 21’ North Latitude and 142’’ 12’ East Longitude, and traced them on the sea chart. The location was the deepest part of the ocean -- in fact it was the deepest part of the earth itself. Jake came into the cabin supping his second hot chocolate.

‘Did you find her Sam?’

‘I sure did, she’s supposed to be buried in the Mariana Trench just off Japan. This is mighty strange...it looks like someone wanted to loose her permanently. She sank just outside the Gulf of Carpenteria, possibly deliberately, then was somehow registered on the sunken vessels map, by a bit of cunning misinformation. Either that, or she’s drifted of her own accord from the Mariana Trench, conveniently missing several large land masses along the way, and then landed in the periphery of the Gulf.’ Jake produced a spontaneous laugh.

‘Maybe she had a little help from Maui.’

‘Maui...who the hell is Maui?’

‘I thought you of all people would have known who Maui was, you’re falling down badly on your oceanographic mythology, Maui was Polynesian trickster and culture hero who’s actions undo the efforts of others and lead to the present day state of things.’

‘Really...well I’d sooner believe that, then the ability of an ocean liner to drift thousands of miles to the Gulf, when it was supposed to be buried in the Mariana Trench.’

‘Well we’d better believe in something, because we’ve run into a significant find all right, trouble is she could prove to be a Pandora's box.’

‘You do realise she’s in international waters, why don’t we have her raised discretely, strip her of her valuables, then re-sink her.’

‘My God Sam, you do have a devious mind.’

‘Well it’s the obvious answer, we found her, therefore any bounty is ours...anyway, nobody will ever know... she’s been there for over a decade’ Jake looked at the back pages of his shipwreck register.

‘She’s well and truly in international waters according to this, Australia only has a territorial limit of 12 nautical miles and a contiguous zone of 24 nautical miles. Unfortunately she has a national exclusive zone of 200 nautical miles for the protection of marine scientific research and other rights and duties...whatever that means.’

‘That’s not very specific, those standards are pretty rubbery, I think we can assume we have salvage rights outside the 24 mile limit, we can just re-sink her once we’ve got the bounty.’

‘That’s far too simple Sam, the salvage firm will probably want her for scrap, so re-sinking her might be a problem financially. I suggest we discreetly raise her and engage a reputable private investigator to check out the ship’s contents.

We might just have stumbled on a crime scene. If we go blindly ahead we could find ourselves in deep trouble with the authorities, it could blow up in our faces,’ Burton smirked.

‘It will if you go ahead and broadcast it to the rest of the world...I guarantee it. God knows what’s actually down there, we could be sitting on a golden nest egg worth millions.’

‘Even so, it could be tainted -- this is too good to be true.’

‘We need the bloody money, I don’t know if you’ve noticed it, but we’re not exactly clinking Champaign glasses together in Montecarlo.’

‘I realise that, but we have to do it right or we could loose the lot.’

‘But don’t you see...we have the lot right now, all we have to do is take it. Just remember there are plenty of foreign banks ready and eager to take our money. We could sell the art works abroad then deposit the proceeds in one the Cayman or Channel Island banks.’

‘Sounds good, but could we get away with it?’

‘Of course, Australian law ends right there,’ Burton pointed towards the sea, ‘at that twenty four mile limit.’

‘And extradition treaties...what do you think are they for?’

‘They’ve got to find us first, and even then it won’t be easy for them.’

‘We should at least establish our rights before doing anything we could regret.’

‘I’m for taking the treasure and running. We could be in the Americas in no time. Sell the lot to the highest bidder then create a tax free bank account in the Bahamas.’

‘Look Sam, don’t jeparodise the one chance we have of gleaning real pay dirt out of this.’

CHAPTER TWO

Canberra ACT

It was morning tea break at Jansen & Associates Private Investigators, when the call came in, and Charlotte Jones answered the phone.

‘Hello, Jansen Investigations.’

‘Hello, this is a Mr. Sam Burton, I understand you handle all sorts of investigative cases regardless of their nature.’

‘Yes, that is correct sir, providing they are not too incongruous of course. We also reserve the right not to commit to any case without any obligation on our part.’

The firm had existed for two years, having been created by Roger Jansen, ex-AFP Commander with a staff of four consisting of Jeff Dutton, ex-AFP Constable, Alf Woods, an IT consultant, and Charlotte Jones, an ex-ASIO officer. They had agreed that during the formative years of the firm they would take on anything reasonable in order to maintain the bottom line, only when they had achieved a measure of capital liquidity, would they start to pick and choose cases.

‘Could you hold the line Mr. Burton?’ Charlotte put the call through to Jansen's office explaining the gist of the contact.

‘Hello Mr. Burton, I’m Roger Jansen, the principal of the firm. What exactly would you like us to investigate...you may speak freely, anything you say will be in complete confidence...it is one of our guarantees.' Burton explained the situation indicating all the possible predicaments, he and Jake faced over the discovery of the enigmatic wreck and its misplaced position in the sea.

‘We hoped that you might be present when the ship was raised so that you could give her the once over from a legal standpoint. The salvage company is working on the wreck right now, she should break surface sometime in the next couple of days.

We’d like to keep it low key and not bring in the federal authorities or police at this stage. That would only lead to unwanted publicity, which is the very thing we’re trying to avoid.’

‘I understand perfectly sir,’ Jansen replied, while looking up the latest flight times to Darwin on his laptop computer. He dismissed a serge of conscience which warned him that he could be getting into a crooked deal. His potential client continued to egg him on...

‘It is rather urgent, and we would of course take care of your travel expenses up here and out to the ship.’

‘Thank you, Mr. Burton, I should e-mail you a list of fees before actually taking on the assignment. If you could give me your e-mail address, I’ll do that right now.’ Burton reeled off his e-mail and Jansen attached his recommended fees list, sending it immediately.

‘I could be in Darwin by tomorrow afternoon, I’ll meet you at the Grand Hotel, if that’s all right with you, Mr. Burton?’

‘Yes, that’s fine by me Mr. Jansen.’

‘Okay, see you in the lounge the day after tomorrow about nine am,’ he replaced the phone and thought about maritime law and the smattering of knowledge he had learned in the AFP. There were three large tomes in the firm’s library whose index alone would have frightened off the most enthusiastic of law students.

He swiveled around in his chair and realised that the ideal primer resided in his book case just behind him. It was a special large print booklet edition of the basic principles of Australian maritime law and procedure. It was a handy publication he had acquired during a conference in Sydney on AFP skirmishes with Japanese whaling vessels. The Australian Embassy staff had kindly given him a copy; it would be compulsive reading on his flight up to Darwin. He impulsively checked his attire, he was wearing his charcoal gray pinstripe, one of three suits he normally wore for work. The other two were blue serge and gray pin stripe --