Текст книги "The Navigator"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Chapter 22

THE YUKON PULLED INTO the parking lot of a Potomac River marina and Austin got out. The second agent had been following in the NUMA Jeep. He parked the vehicle, tossed Austin the keys, and got into the SUV.

Flagg leaned out the window. “Let’s get together for lunch at Langley sometime. We can bore the crap out of Jake here with Cold War stories.”

“We were pretty dumb back then,” Austin said with a shake of his head.

Flagg laughed. “Damn luckytoo.” He put the vehicle into gear and drove off.

Austin strolled along the line of boats. A few people puttered around, but otherwise the riverside was relatively quiet. He stopped to inspect a vintage motor cruiser.

The white-hulled, wooden boat was about fifty feet long, and the mahogany trim was polished to a blinding shine. The name on the hull was LOVELY LADY. A man was sitting in a deck chair reading a copy of the Washington Post. He saw Austin, put his paper aside, and rose from his chair.

“What do you think of her?” the man said.

Austin was fond of classic yachts and their understated air of luxury, which was so different from the garish display of extravagance to be found in some of the modern-day craft tied up at the marina. “Her name says it all.”

“Indeed it does.”

“I know it’s not polite to ask a lady’s age, but I was wondering how old she was.”

“Don’t worry about insulting the old girl, my friend. She knows she’s as beautiful as the day she was born in 1931.”

Austin ran his eyes over the craft’s sleek lines. “I’d guess she came out of the Stephens boatyard in California.”

The man raised an eyebrow. “That sounds like more than a guess. Stephens built her for one of the lesser-known Vanderbilts. Would you like to come aboard for a closer look, Mr. Austin?”

Austin’s lips widened in a tight smile. It was no accident that Flagg had dropped him off near the boat. He walked up the short gangway onto the deck and shook hands with a man who introduced himself as Elwood Nickerson.

Nickerson was tall and wiry, with the physique of a tennis player. His tanned face was relatively unlined, and he could have been in his sixties or seventies. He was dressed in beat-up, tan canvas shorts, weathered boat shoes, and a GEORGETOWNUNIVERSITY T-shirt that was one thread short of being a rag. His close-trimmed white hair and manicured fingernails, and the tinge of a prep school accent, suggested that he was no boat bum.

He regarded Austin with flinty gray eyes. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Austin. Thank you for coming by. Sorry about the cloak-and-dagger antics. I’d offer you a Barbancourt rum on the rocks, but it’s probably too early.”

Nickerson knew Austin’s current drink of choice. Either he’d been snooping in his liquor cabinet or he had access to government personnel files. “It’s never too early for good rum, but I’ll settle for a glass of water, and an explanation,” Austin said.

“The water I can provide immediately. The answer to your question will take a little longer.”

“I’ve got time.”

Nickerson called out to the boat’s captain and said they were ready to leave. The captain started the engines while his mate cast off the dock lines. As the boat pulled out into the river and cruised downstream, Nickerson ushered Austin into a spacious deck salon whose centerpiece was a rectangular mahogany table that had been polished to a mirror finish.

Nickerson offered Austin a seat at the table. Then he got a bottle of springwater from the refrigerator and poured Austin a glass.

“I’m with the Near East Section at the State Department, where I preside as chief mucky-muck and general factotum,” Nickerson said. “This outing has the blessing of my boss, the secretary of state. He thought it best that he not be involved at this time.”

“You’ve been digging around in my personnel file, which indicates clearance at a higher level than Foggy Bottom.”

Nickerson nodded. “When we brought this matter to the attention of the White House, Vice President Sandecker suggested that we go to your boss, Director Pitt. He said to dump this in your lap.”

“That was very generous of the director,” Austin said. Typical Pitt, he mused. Dirk liked decisions to be made by those most likely to be affected by their consequences.

Nickerson caught the irony in Austin’s voice. “Mr. Pitt was being sensitive to our wishes. He has the highest confidence in your abilities. It was my decision to do a background check on you. I have a reputation for being careful.”

“And mysterious as well.”

“Your file said you have little patience with small talk. I’ll get right to the point then. Two days ago, my office received a visit from Pieter DeVries of the NSA. DeVries is one of the most respected cryptanalysts in the world. He brought us information of a startling nature.”

For the next twenty minutes, Nickerson described in meticulous detail the discovery of the Jefferson file at the American Philosophical Society and the deciphering of the secret message it contained.

Nickerson wrapped up his presentation and waited for Austin’s reaction.

“Let me see if I understand,” Austin said. “A researcher at an organization started by Ben Franklin comes across a long-lost file containing a coded correspondence between Thomas Jefferson and Meriwether Lewis. Jefferson wrote Lewis and said he believed that Phoenicians visited North America and hid a sacred relic in Solomon’s gold mine. Lewis writes Jefferson and says he is coming to see him. Lewis dies en route.”

Nickerson let out a deep sigh. “I know. It sounds absolutely fantastic.”

“What does this fantastic story have to do with NUMA?”

“Please bear with me and I’ll make my motives clear.” He handed Austin a thick loose-leaf notebook. “These are copies of the Jefferson material and the deciphered messages. The information has been labeled and catalogued as to source.”

Austin flipped the notebook open and perused Jefferson’s tight, disciplined handwriting. After leafing through several pages, he said: “You’re sure this is authentic?”

“The Jefferson papers are the real thing. Their historical accuracy will have to be determined.”

“Even so, this discovery challenges all assumptions,” Austin said. “Any idea as to the nature of the relic?”

“Some of the analysts who have seen this suggested that it might be the Ark of the Covenant. What do you think?”

“There’s a good possibility that the Ark was destroyed during the Babylonian Captivity of Jerusalem. I’ve also heard that it’s under piles of rubble in an African mine. The Ethiopians say they have it, but few have seen it. Ark or not, this find will be a historical bombshell.”

“You’re right. The Ark is probably in splinters by now. We know that whatever was deposited in North America was of great concern to Jefferson.”

“You sound equally worried.”

“I am. Your bombshell metaphor is unfortunate but accurate.”

“Are you concerned about treasure hunters?”

“No. We’re worried about a conflagration that could start in the Middle East and spread into Europe, Asia, and North America.”

Austin tapped the notebook cover. “How would this cause a conflagration?”

“The discovery would be seen as a sign by certain groups that Solomon’s third temple must be built to house this relic. Building a new temple would necessitate destruction of the TempleMount mosque, the third most sacred site in Islam. The mere rumor of the find could trigger a violent reaction from Muslims around the globe. They would see news of the discovery in North America as nothing more than a U.S. plot. The U.S. would be accused of inciting anti-Islamic forces to destroy something that is sacred to Islam. It would make all previous conflicts in that region look like a day at the park.”

“Aren’t we jumping the gun? You don’t even know what this relic is.”

“It doesn’t matter. Perception is everything. A few years ago, a red heifer born in Israel was seen by some as setting off a chain of events that would have ended the world. That was only a bloody cow, for heaven’s sake.”

Austin pondered Nickerson’s words. “Why are you so worried now?”

“Too many people now know about this file. We can do our best to stem leaks, but it’s bound to come out eventually. The State Department will pursue diplomatic strategies to soften the blow if it comes, but we have to take other measures.”

Austin knew from experience that the government was leakier than a sprung dory. “What can I do to help?” he said.

Nickerson smiled. “I see why Dirk Pitt left this matter in your hands. Our best defense is the truth. We must find what the Phoenicians brought to our shores. If it’s the Ark, we’ll bury it for a thousand years. If it isn’t, we can scotch the story when and if it comes out.”

“Finding a needle in a haystack would be easier. NUMA is an ocean-research agency. Shouldn’t you be using land-based intelligence agencies?”

“We’ve tried. Without more information, it’s useless. NUMA is in a unique position to help. We’d like to concentrate on the ship and the voyage rather than the artifact. Your past experience with the Columbus tomb makes you the ideal one to lead the effort.”

Austin’s eyes narrowed. “If we could trace the route of the voyage, that would narrow it down. It’s a thought.”

“We’re hoping it’s morethan a thought.”

“We can give it a shot. We’re talking about a voyage that happened thousands of years ago. I’ll talk to my colleague Paul Trout. He’s an expert at computer modeling and may be able to retrace the route.”

Nickerson looked as if he’d had a heavy burden removed from his narrow shoulders. “Thank you. I’ll tell the captain to turn back.”

Austin pondered their discussion. There was something about Nickerson that nagged at him. The State Department man seemed sincere, but his statements were too pat, and he seemed a bit sly for Austin’s taste. Maybe deviousness was a tool for surviving at the higher levels of government. He decided to push his doubts aside, but to keep them within reach, and to concentrate on the immediate problem.

Phoenicians again.

He seemed to be encountering these ancient mariners at every turn. He began to plot a strategy. He’d give Trout a call and get him started on the problem. Tony Saxon would be ecstatic if he knew that his oddball theories of pre-Columbian contact in the Americas were about to be vindicated by an international crisis. Austin wanted to take another look at the Navigator,only, this time, he’d bring along his own Phoenician expert.

THE CELL PHONE in his pocket was vibrating. He clicked it on and said, “Kurt Austin.”

A man’s voice said, “This is Sergeant Colby of the District police, Mr. Austin. We found your name in the wallet of a Miss Mechadi.”

Austin’s jaw muscles worked as he listened to the police officer go through the details in the monotonic, euphemistic language that is peculiar to police.

“I’ll be there in thirty minutes,” he said. He made his way to the pilothouse. While Austin was urging the captain to crank every possible ounce of speed out of the Lovely Lady’s engines, Nickerson was in the salon talking on the phone.

“Austin bit,” he was saying. “He’s taken the assignment.”

“From what I know about Austin, I’d be surprised if he hadn’t,” said the voice on the other end.

“Do you think this scheme will work?”

“It better.I’ll tell the others,” he said and clicked off.

Nickerson put the phone down and stared into space. The secret of three thousand years could be revealed in his lifetime. The die was cast. He went over to his liquor cabinet, extracted a bottle and glass. Damn the doctor’s orders to stay away from booze, he thought, and poured himself a stiff shot of brandy.

Chapter 23

SERGEANT COLBY WAS WAITING for Austin at the nurses’ station of the GeorgetownUniversityHospital emergency room. The police officer was engrossed in conversation with a man wearing a doctor’s green frock coat. Colby noticed Austin’s purposeful approach and guessed he was the man who had peppered him with questions over the phone.

“Mr. Austin?”

“Thanks for calling me, Sergeant. How is Miss Mechadi doing?”

“Pretty well, considering. Our car was patrolling a war zone of a neighborhood and found her in her car slumped over the steering wheel.”

“Anyone know what happened?”

“She didn’t make much sense when she regained consciousness,” the police officer said with a shake of his head. “I was just talking to Dr. Sid here about the physical evidence.”

He deferred to the other man, whose name was Dr. Siddhartha “Sid” Choudary. Dr. Sid was a resident anesthesiologist who’d been called in for consultation. “It appears from your friend’s blood test that she was given a dose of sodium thiopental, either nasally or through the skin. It would have knocked her out within seconds.”

“We don’t think robbery was the motive,” Colby said. “Her wallet had money in it, along with her ID and your phone number. We’ll have the lab people go over her car. To be honest, that’s not going to happen right away. Murders get priority, and there’s a waiting line at the morgue.”

“I’d like to see her,” Austin said.

The doctor nodded. “She’s wide-awake now. She’ll feel fine as the stuff leaves her bloodstream. It’s a bit like having one martini too many. A slight hangover, dizziness, and possible nausea. She can leave as soon as she feels able to walk, as long as she’s got help. No driving for a while. Third door on the right.”

Austin thanked the two men and then started down the corridor. “I wouldn’t get too close,” the policeman warned. “She’s nail-spitting mad.”

Carina was sitting up on the edge of the bed, trying to put a shoe on her foot. She was having a hard time with her hand-eye coordination. She seemed angrier at her foot than anyone in particular.

Austin stood in the doorway. “Need a hand?”

The deep frown on Carina’s face vanished. She broke into a wide smile, and grunted in triumph as she pulled the shoe on. She tried to stand, but her legs wobbled. She was sinking to the floor when Austin stepped into the room. He picked her up and deposited her on the bed.

“Grazie,”she said. “I feel like I drank too much wine.”

“The doctor said the drug should wear off soon.”

“Drug? What’s he talking about? I didn’t take any drug.”

“He knows that. You were knocked out with an anesthetic. Either you breathed it in or it was injected through the skin. Can you tell me what happened?”

A look of fear came to her eyes. “I saw the hijacker from the containership. The big man with the face like an evil baby.”

“You’d better start at the beginning,” Austin said.

“Good idea. Help me sit up.”

Austin reached around Carina’s waist, gently pulled her to an upright position, and poured her a glass of water. She sat on the edge of the bed and told her story between sips.

“The movers came for the Navigator.A man named Ridley was in charge. I followed the truck in my car. The truck turned into a terrible neighborhood. Stopped. I remember the old pizza sign. The rear door opened. I saw the hijacker in the rearview mirror.”

Austin flashed on the oversized footprint in the riverbank near his house. “Go on.”

“I heard a hiss. Next thing I know, I’m waking up in this place.” A thought occurred to her. “They took the statue. I have to tell the police.” She stood and leaned against the bed. “Still a little dizzy.”

Austin kissed her on the forehead. “I’ll talk to the police officer while you rest.”

COLBY WAS FINISHING a phone call when Austin approached and said, “Did she tell you about the truck and a missing statue?”

“Yeah. I thought she was delirious. Just checked into the station. A truck matching the description she gave went off the highway and caught fire. They found four bodies burned beyond recognition.”

“Any sign of a bronze statue?”

“No. The fire was pretty hot. Probably would have melted your statue.”

Austin thanked Colby and went back to fill Carina in. He didn’t tell her about the bodies in the burned-out truck. She glanced at the wall clock. “I’ve got to get out of this place. I’m going to miss my appointment with Jon Benson, the National Geographicphotographer I told you about.”

“When are you supposed to see him?”

“About an hour.” She gave Austin an address. “Can we make it?”

“If we leave now. Depends on how you feel.”

“I feel fine.” She stood and managed a couple of steps before she wobbled. “I wouldn’t mind a helping hand, though.”

They hooked arms and shuffled down the hall. Colby had left a note at the nurses’ station to call him when Carina was ready for an interview. By the time she had signed the papers checking her out, Carina seemed much stronger. The nurse insisted that she ride down to the lobby in a wheelchair. When Carina walked out the front door, she was weaving only slightly.

ON THE DRIVE to Virginia, Carina tried calling the photographer. No one answered the telephone. She assumed Benson had simply stepped out and would be home at the appointed time.

Carina recovered rapidly thanks to the fresh country air blowing through the car window. She put in a call to Baltazar to tell him about the theft. She got an automated reply and left a message.

“You don’t suppose Saxon had anything to do with it, do you?” she said after a moment’s reflection.

“Saxon doesn’t seem the type. Maybe he can help. We could use the photos he took of the Navigatorto publicize its loss.”

Carina dug into her pocketbook and found the card Saxon had given her at the Iraqi embassy reception. She called the number written on the back of the card and got the WillardHotel. The desk clerk said Mr. Saxon had checked out. Carina relayed the information to Austin with a self-satisfied smile.

Ten minutes later, Austin turned off the main road and drove down a long dirt driveway to a low-slung, clapboard farmhouse. They pulled up next to a dust-covered pickup truck and went onto the front porch. No one answered repeated knocks on the door. They checked the barn and then came back to the porch. Austin tried the door. It was unlocked. He pushed it open. Carina stuck her head in and called out.

“Mr. Benson?”

A low moan came from inside the house. Austin stepped inside and followed a hallway to the cozy living room, where he borrowed a fireplace poker. Walking quietly, they made their way to the end of the hallway. A man lay faceup on the floor of a large studio.

Carina knelt by the man’s side. The blood had stopped oozing from a head wound that was surrounded by angry blue-black skin.

The studio looked as if it had been hit by a monsoon. Filing cabinet drawers were pulled open. Photos were scattered all over the floor. The computer screen had been smashed. Only the National Geographiccovers hanging from the walls were undamaged. Austin called 911 and inspected the other rooms. The rest of the house was deserted.

When Austin returned to the studio, Benson was sitting up against the wall. Carina was holding a towel full of ice cubes gingerly against his head. She had wiped the spittle off his lips. His eyes were open, and he was apparently alert.

Benson was a burly, middle-aged man whose skin had been turned to leather by the sun in the exotic places he had worked. His long gray hair was tied back in a ponytail. He wore jeans, a T-shirt, and a film-cartridge vest that was an anachronism in an age of digital photography.

Austin knelt by his side. “How are you feeling?”

“Like crap,” Benson said. “How do I look?”

“Like crap,” Austin said.

Benson managed a weak smile. “ Bastards. They were waiting when I came back from my walk to meet with the lady from the UN. Is that you?”

“I’m Carina Mechadi. I’m an investigator with the UNESCO. Mr. Austin here is with the National Underwater and Marine Agency.”

The light of recognition sparkled in Benson’s gray eyes. “Did stories on both your outfits years ago.”

“Tell us what happened after you returned from your walk,” Austin said.

“Saw a car out front. Black SUV. Virginia license plates. I always leave the door unlocked. They were inside going through my stuff.” He grimaced. “In case I pass out again, tell the cops there were four of them. All masked. All with guns. One was a real big guy. Think he was the leader.”

Austin and Carina exchanged glances.

“Did he say anything?”

Benson nodded. “He wanted all my negatives. I told him to go to hell. He laid the barrel of his gun across my head. Guess I should be grateful he didn’t shoot me. Only dazed. Played dead. Saw him and his pals go through my negative cabinets. Dumped all my stuff into plastic trash bags. They get my computer? Laptop.”

Austin glanced around. “Looks like they cleared the place out.”

“They figured I had done back-up. Every picture I ever took was on disk. Twenty-five years’ worth.” Benson chuckled. “Jerks. So busy beating up on me they didn’t know I had backed up the backup. What the hell did they want?”

“We think they were after photos you took of an archaeological dig in Syria,” Carina said.

He furrowed his brow. “I remember. Photographer remembers every shot he ever made. Nineteen seventy-two. Cover story. Hotter’n hell out there.”

“The backup disk. Can we borrow it?” Austin said.

“Help catch those bastards?”

“Maybe.” Austin lifted his shirt to show the bandage on his ribs. “You’re not the only one with a score to settle.”

Benson’s eyes widened. “Guess they reallydidn’t like you.” He grinned. “Check my barn. Third stall on the right. Steel door under the hay. Key’s hanging in the kitchen labeled BACK DOOR.”

Carina said, “There was a big statue excavated in Syria. It was called the Navigator.”

“Sure. Looked like a cigar-store Indian with a pointy hat. Don’t know what happened to it.” His eyes rolled as if he were about to pass out, but Benson pulled himself together. “Check out the living-room mantle.”

Austin found the key to the disk-storage safe in the kitchen and went into the living room. The fireplace mantle was crowded with hunks of rock and figurines Benson must have collected on his travels. One figure caught Austin’s attention. He picked up a scale model of the Navigatorabout four inches high.

Tires crunched in the driveway. An ambulance was pulling in with its red-and-blue lights flashing. Austin slid the figurine into his pocket and went to welcome the EMTs. There were two emergency medical technicians, a young man and a woman. Austin led them to the studio.

The female EMT glanced around at the chaos. “What happened?”

Carina looked up from her charge. “He was attacked and his studio vandalized.”

While the EMT examined Benson, her colleague put a call in to the police. After checking Benson’s vitals, and applying a compress, they eased the photographer onto a stretcher and loaded him into the ambulance. They said Benson would be sore for a while, but his excellent physical condition should pull him through.

Austin told the EMTs that he and Carina would wait to talk to the police. As soon as the ambulance drove off, they went out to the barn. They swept aside the hay in the third stall to reveal a metal trapdoor, which Austin unlocked and opened. A short set of stairs led down to a temperature-controlled room about the size of a walk-in closet. The walls were lined with drawers labeled according to year. Austin found the disk inscribed HITTITE DIG, 1972, SYRIA.

Austin slipped the disk into his pocket. He and Carina walked back to the house. Minutes later, the police car came down the driveway. The lanky man in uniform who exited the driver’s side was straight out of Mayberry USA. He approached them with a slow, shambling walk, and introduced himself as Chief Becker. He jotted their names down in a notebook.

“EMT said Mr. Benson was attacked.”

“That’s what he told us,” Carina said. “He returned from a walk and found four men in his house. He tried to stop them from stealing his photos and was beaten with a gun.”

The chief shook his head. “I knew he was a big photographer with the Geographic,but I’d never guess the photos were worth a B and E in the daytime.” He paused for a moment, trying to figure out where the exotic woman and her brawny companion fit into the picture. “Mind saying what your business with Benson was?”

Austin said, “I’m with NUMA. Miss Mechadi works for the UN, investigating stolen antiquities. Mr. Benson took some photos years ago of a missing artifact, and we thought he might be able help in its recovery.”

“Think that had anything to do with him getting beat up?”

The chief was shrewder than he looked. He was watching their reaction closely. Austin told him the truth. “I don’t know.”

The chief seemed satisfied with the explanation. “Care to show me where you found Mr. Benson?”

Austin and Carina led the way into the house. The chief let out a low whistle when he saw the studio mess.

“You touch anything?” he said.

“No,” Austin said. “Would it have made a difference?”

The chief chuckled. “I’ll get the crime scene folks to come out.” He took their personal information down in his notebook and said they might be called later for more questioning.

As Austin turned the car onto the road, Carina said, “You weren’t exactly truthful with the chief.”

“It might have complicated things if I went into the ship hijacking and the theft of the statue. And the fact that the common denominator is the Navigator.”

Carina slumped down in her seat and closed her eyes. “I feel responsible for all this somehow.”

“Don’t beat yourself up. The only people at fault are the thugs who’ve been exhibiting antisocial behavior. Who besides us knew about the Benson photos?”

“The only ones I’ve told were you and Mr. Baltazar. You don’t think—”

“Another common denominator.”

Carina slumped down into her seat and stared straight ahead. After a few minutes spent deep in thought, she seemed to rally.

“All right. Where do we go from here?”

Austin pulled the disk out of his pocket and handed it over. “We’re going on an archaeological dig.”