Текст книги "The Navigator"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Chapter 30

THOUSANDS OF MILES FROM Turkish waters, the Navigator’s twin rotated slowly on a circular pedestal about a foot high, shimmering like an angry god under the battery of lights that bathed its bronze skin in a polarized glow.

A ghostly white, three-dimensional X-ray image of the Navigatorpivoted on a large wall screen. Arrays of electronic probes surrounded the ancient statue.

Three men sat in leather chairs facing the screen. Baltazar was enthroned in the center. At his right was Dr. Morris Gray, an expert in the use of computed tomography. On Baltazar’s left was Dr. John Defoe, an authority in Phoenician history and art. Both scientists had been absorbed into Baltazar’s corporate empire with the expectation that the statue eventually would be found.

Gray aimed his laser pointer at the screen. “The X-ray technique we’re using here is similar to the CT scans employed in hospitals,” he said. “We take photographic slices of the object. The computer renders the photos into a 3-D image.”

Baltazar was slouched in his chair, his thick fingers entwined, his gaze fixed on the pale image projected against a dark blue background. He had waited for this moment for years.

“And what does your magic lantern tell us, Dr. Gray?” he rumbled.

Gray smiled slightly. He moved the laser’s red dot to a display panel, one of several that ran from top to bottom along the right side of the monitor.

“Each box shows information taken from the probes. This displays the statue’s metal composition. The bronze is the standard ninety percent copper and ten percent tin. The other boxes deal with thickness, tensile strength, as well as information that’s not pertinent.”

“What are those dark areas on the statue?” Baltazar asked.

“The statue was made with the lost wax process,” Defoe said. “The artist made a clay form, which was encased in wax, then clay again. The X-ray shows the channels and vents that were drilled in the outer shell to allow wax and gas to escape and molten metal to be poured in. The statue was fabricated in pieces, so we’re also looking at rivet points and hammer marks.”

“All very interesting,” Baltazar said. “But what is inside the statue?”

“The X-ray shows nothing behind the bronze exterior except for a hollow space,” Gray answered.

“What about the exterior?”

“A lot more promising.” Gray produced a slim remote control from his suit jacket and pointed it at the screen. The ghostly figure disappeared. Filling the screen was a close-up of the statue’s face. “I’ll let Dr. Defoe deal with this area.”

Defoe squinted at the screen through round-framed glasses. “The damage makes it difficult to gauge the subject’s age, but, judging from the muscular body, he is probably in his twenties.”

“Forever young,” Baltazar observed in a rare poetic moment.

“The conical hat is similar to that we see in pictures and sculptures of Phoenician sailors. The beard and hair have me puzzled. The way they are layered denotes someone of upper-class Phoenician society, yet he is garbed in the kilt and sandals of a simple sailor.”

“Go on,” Baltazar said. There was no discernible change in his expression despite his growing excitement.

The image morphed into a close-up view of the pendant around the Navigator’s neck. “This pendant replicates a Phoenician coin design,” Defoe said. “The horse is the symbol for Phoenicia. The uprooted palm tree to its right denotes a colony. Here’s where things get intriguing.”

The red dot jumped to a semicircular space below the horse head and palm tree where there was a horizontal line of squiggles.

“Runes?” Baltazar said.

“That was the common assumption when figures like these were seen on the coins. However, none matched any known Phoenician script. The markings remained a puzzle for years. Then a geologist at MountHolyokeCollege named Mark McMenamin came up with a startling new theory. He submitted the symbols to computer enhancement, which I will do here.”

The symbols on the screen became sharper and more defined.

“This pattern looks familiar,” Baltazar said.

“Perhaps this will help.” The shapes on the screen were set off by familiar continental outlines.

Baltazar leaned forward. “Incredible. They’re continents!”

“That was McMenamin’s conclusion. As a geologist, he recognized the landmasses for what they are. You can make out the rectangular shape of the Iberian Peninsula projecting down at an angle from Europe, which with North Africa encloses the Mediterranean. That’s Asia off to the right. Those smaller symbols west of Europe could be the British Isles. North America is the landmass on the left. South America seems to be missing or absorbed into the northern continent. Computer enhancement can be subject to different interpretations. But if McMenamin is right, this pendant indicates the range and scope of Phoenician colonies.”

“A bloody map of the world,” Baltazar said with a grin.

“Not just anymap of the world. The gold coins I mentioned were minted around 300 B.C. The bronze in this statue is about three thousand years old, making this the oldest world map we know of. More important, it indicates travel to the New World as early as 900 B.C., when the statue was made.”

Baltazar felt a rush of blood through his veins.

“I want to take a closer look at North America,” he said.

The enlarged symbol that appeared on the screen looked like an obese saguaro cactus. A pair of thick arms were upraised from a wide trunk.

Baltazar snorted. “You must admit that it takes a stretch of the imagination to see that amorphous blob as the North American continent.”

“Maybe this will help,” Defoe said. An outline of North America was superimposed over the symbol. “The trunk becomes the main continent. That’s Alaska off on the left and Newfoundland on the right.”

“Any evidence of trade routes between the Eastern and Western Hemispheres?”

“Not specifically. But that shouldn’t come as any surprise given the Phoenician penchant for secrecy, and the fact that ocean routes consisted of astronomical readings that could be committed to memory. But if we look at the compass in the statue’s hand,” he said with a flick of the remote, “we can deduce that east–west, west–east trade routes are suggested. The position of the statue relative to the north point of the compass rose indicates that he is looking toward the west.”

“Toward the Americas,” Baltazar said.

“Correct.”

“Can you pinpoint a landfall?”

Defoe shook his head. “This statue is the equivalent of the world maps you see in the airline magazines. Informative, but in no way useful to an airplane pilot.”

“They would have needed a more detailed chart when close to shore,” Baltazar pointed out.

“That’s right. Maps had limited value at sea. They would have needed a coastal pilot that showed the location of prominent points, so the travelers could check position. Directions rather than distance become paramount close to shore.”

“Is there any evidence of a coastal pilot?”

Defoe shook his head. “I have found nothing that denotes navigational positioning. I did find something else, however.”

The screen image changed once more. “This symbol was etched repeatedly in the sash that held up the sailor’s kilt.”

“It looks something like a boat,” Baltazar said. “Rough depictions of the bow and stern.”

“The symbol looked familiar to me. I remembered seeing it in a book by Anthony Saxon. He’s an amateur archaeologist and explorer who’s come up with some outlandish theories.”

“I knowwho Mr. Saxon is,” Baltazar said, in a tone that dripped with icicles.

“Saxon is a self-promoting showman, but he’s been around. He says this is the symbol for a ship of Tarshish. He’s found examples in both the Americas and the Middle East, thereby establishing a link between the two regions.”

“I’m not interested in half-baked theories put forth by fools,” Baltazar said. “Tell me if anything on this statue pinpoints a North American landfall.”

“The answer is yes and no.”

Baltazar glowered. “I’m a busy man, Dr. Defoe. I’m paying you a great deal for your expertise. Don’t waste my time with riddles.”

Defoe became uncomfortably aware of the menace behind Baltazar’s smooth veneer. “Sorry,” he said. “I’ll show you what I mean.” He clicked the remote and the screen displayed a faint network of curving lines. “We think this is a topographical map.”

“Where on the statue did you find it?”

The camera lens drew back to reveal the cat that formed part of the statue’s base.

“You’re telling me the information I want was written on the side of a cat?”

“It’s not really that far-fetched. The Egyptians regarded felines as sacred, and the Phoenicians drew upon Egypt for their religious themes.”

“What did your computer enhancement show?”

“This isthe computer enhancement.”

“I see nothing.”

“It’s the best we could do. The surface was worn away for the most part except for a small area which you see here. We’ll include what we’ve found in the final report, but, for all intents and purposes, any information engraved in the metal is gone forever.”

“I’ll have to concur,” Dr. Gray said. “No technology on earth can re-create that which is no longer there.”

If not here, elsewhere, Baltazar thought.

“This lost wax process you mentioned. Could it be used to create a duplicate of this statue?”

“It would be no trouble if the sculptor used the indirect process, which forms the wax around a finely defined core.”

Baltazar stared at the useless image on the screen, and then he rose from his seat. “Thank you, gentlemen. My valet will show you the door.”

After the two men had been ushered out, Baltazar paced back and forth in front of the statue. He brooded about the time and money he had spent to acquire this useless piece of metal. The frozen grin seemed to mock him. Benoir had told him that Carina was going to Turkey to find a replica of the statue. He had ordered his men to intercept her. He was not a man who left things to chance. At the same time, he assumed possession of the original statue would give him an edge.

His dark thoughts were cut short by the chirping of his telephone. The call was from Istanbul. He listened to the caller describe the failed attack. He told the caller that his orders still stood and slammed the phone down.

Austin had more lives than a cat.

Cat.

He glared at the bronze feline at the foot of the statue. He lifted his eyes and saw, in his imagination, not the damaged features of an ancient Phoenician but Austin’s face.

Baltazar went over to a mace that was hanging on the wall with other deadly instruments from medieval days. He removed the mace from its rack and let the spiked ball swing at the end of its chain. Then he stepped between the camera stanchions, raised the handle above his shoulder, and swung.

The ball arched down at the end of its chain, slammed into the statue, and bounced off. The impact produced a sound like an off-key gong. A human being on the receiving end of the murderous weapon would have been reduced to a bloody pulp. The ball had made multiple dents in the statue’s chest, but the serene smile still lingered.

Uttering a mighty curse, Baltazar tossed the mace aside, stalked from the room, and slammed the door behind him.

Chapter 31

THE TROUTS WALKED BRISKLY PAST the line of tourists queuing up for a guided tour, turned down a side street, and headed away from the hustle-bustle around Independence Hall and toward the American Philosophical Library, a two-story brick building facing a quiet park.

Angela Worth was at her workstation in the corner of a reading room. She looked up and raised an eyebrow. The striking couple approaching her desk did not seem like the usual researchers.

The man was several inches over six feet tall, dressed in razor-creased khakis and a blue-green linen blazer over a pale green shirt. A color-coordinated bow tie adorned his neck. The tall woman at his side could have stepped out of the pages of Vogueby way of a triathlon. The olive-colored silk pants suit rippled around her athletic body, and she seemed to flow rather than walk.

The woman stopped in front of Angela’s desk and extended her hand.

“Ms. Worth? My name is Gamay Morgan-Trout. This is my husband, Paul.” She smiled, showing the slight space between her front teeth that didn’t diminish her attractiveness.

Angela realized she was slack-jawed. She regained her poise and stood to shake hands.

“You’re the people from NUMA who called yesterday.”

“That’s right,” Paul said. “Thanks for seeing us. Hope it’s not an imposition.”

“Not at all. How may I help you?”

“We understand you were the one who discovered the long-lost Jefferson file,” Gamay said.

“That’s right. How did you hear about it?”

“The State Department contacted NUMA after the NSA deciphered the file.”

Angela had tried to reach her friend at the NSA cryptographic museum. Deeg hadn’t returned her call.

“Did you say the StateDepartment?”

“That’s right,” Gamay said.

“I don’t understand. Why would they be interested?”

“Do you have any idea of what was in the file?” Gamay said.

“I tried to decipher the material. I’m only an amateur. I gave it to a friend at the NSA. What’s going on?”

The Trouts exchanged glances.

“Is there anywhere with a bit more privacy?” Gamay said.

“Yes, of course. There’s my office.”

Angela’s office was small but well organized. She took a seat behind her desk and offered the Trouts a couple of chairs. Paul Trout opened a leather portfolio case and extracted a folder. He placed the folder on the desk.

“This is our only copy, so we’ll have to summarize the contents,” Trout said. “The material you found indicates that Jefferson shared with Meriwether Lewis his belief that a Phoenician ship had crossed the Atlantic nearly three thousand years ago and that it carried a sacred relic, possibly a biblical object, to North America. The State Department is worried that the story, true or not, might stir up things in the Middle East.”

Angela listened, spellbound, as Paul and Gamay took turns explaining the file’s contents. Her mind was awhirl. Her tongue seemed stuck to the roof of her mouth. Her eyes were glassy, like those of a victim of shock.

“Angela,” Gamay said. “Are you all right?”

Angela cleared her throat. “Yes. I’m fine. I think.” She regained her composure.

Gamay continued.

“We realized we could only go so far delving into an ancient voyage. It seemed to us that the American Philosophical Society was the nexus for many threads of the story. Jefferson was president of the society. Lewis studied here for his great exploration. A fellow member told Jefferson that the vellum contained Phoenician words. The connections go on and on.”

“I’m not surprised,” Angela said. “Many people don’t even know this organization exists. Think of its history. Founded by Franklin. George Washington was a member, along with John Adams, Alexander Hamilton, Thomas Paine, Benjamin Rush, and John Marshall. Its reach extended worldwide: Lafayette, von Steuben, and Kos$$$ciuszko. Later, we had Thomas Edison, Robert Frost, George Marshall, Linus Pauling. Women too. Margaret Mead. Elizabeth Agassiz. This library has millions of documents and papers, including the original Newton’s Principia,Franklin’s experiments, Darwin’s Origin of Species. It’s simply breathtaking.”

“The collection’s scope is both a blessing and a curse,” Paul said. “We’re looking for a needle in an intellectual haystack of enormous size.”

“Our cataloguing system is second to none. Just point me in the right direction.”

“Meriwether Lewis,” Gamay said. “According to the artichoke file, Lewis had important information that he wanted to get to Jefferson.”

“I pulled some files on Lewis after talking to you on the phone. There’s lots of controversy about his death. Some think it was suicide. Others say it was murder.”

“That would fit in with the air of mystery surrounding the Jefferson file,” Paul said. “Where do we begin?”

Angela opened a folder. “Even as a boy, Lewis was smart, adventurous, and intrepid. He joined the army, made full captain at the age of twenty-three, and was twenty-seven when he became Jefferson’s private secretary. Jefferson found Lewis to be bold, fearless, and intelligent. Three years later, Jefferson picked Lewis to lead one of the greatest expeditions in history. To prep for the journey, he sent him to study at the Philosophical Society.”

“Everything Lewis needed to know was contained here,” Paul said.

Angela nodded. “The members tutored him in botany, astronomy, geography, and other sciences. He was an apt student. The expedition was a huge success.”

“What happened to him after the expedition?” Gamay said.

“He made what might have been the biggest mistake of his life. In 1807, he accepted an appointment as governor of the LouisianaTerritory.”

“Mistake?” Paul said. “I would think he’d be a natural for the job.”

“Lewis was better suited for trekking through the wilderness. St. Louis was a frontier outpost filled with dangerous men, crooks, and fortune hunters. He had to deal with plots, feuds, and conspiracies. He was constantly undercut by his assistant. But he managed to last two and a half years as governor before his death.”

“Not bad, considering the difficulties he faced,” Paul said.

“It was a sedentary and confining job,” Angela said. “But, from most accounts, he did pretty well.”

“What were the circumstances leading to his decision to go to Washington?” Gamay said.

“Lewis had repatriated a Mandan chief. There was a five-hundred-dollar cost overrun, and the federal government rejected his claim. There were rumors of a land deal scandal. Lewis said he was in a financial bind, and he had to go back to Washington to clear his good name. He had some important documents to deliver as well.”

“Tell us about the trip that ended in his death,” Gamay said.

“The whole thing is full of contradictions and inconsistencies,” Angela said.

“In what way?” Gamay said.

Angela slid a map across the desk. “Lewis leaves St. Louis at the end of August 1809. He goes down the Mississippi River and arrives at Fort Pickering, Tennessee, on September fifteenth. Lewis is exhausted from the heat and may have a touch of malaria. A rumor circulates that he was out of his head during the trip and attempted suicide. Another rumor says he drank heavily the whole time with old army comrades. That’s funny, because he didn’t have any army friends at the fort.”

“Any truth to these rumors?” Gamay said.

“They were secondhand accounts. Lewis wrote a letter at the fort to President Madison that shows he was pretty clearheaded. He tells Madison he was exhausted but that he is much better. And that he plans to go overland through Tennessee and Virginia. He says he is carrying original papers from his Pacific expedition and doesn’t want them to fall into the hands of the British, who were expected to declare war.”

“What happened next?” Paul said.

“Two weeks after he arrived at the fort,” Angela continued, “Lewis set off again. He was carrying two trunks that held his papers from the Pacific expedition, a portfolio, memo book, and documents of a private and public nature. The expedition journals are contained in sixteen notebooks bound in red morocco leather.”

“It must have been tough carrying all that stuff overland on his own,” Paul said.

“Almost impossible. Which is why he accepted an offer of an extra horse from James Neelly, a former Indian agent for the Chickasaw nation. On September twenty-ninth, they left the fort: Lewis, his servant, Pernia, and a slave, and Neelly.”

“Hardly the sort of entourage you’d expect of a territorial governor,” Gamay noted.

“I can’t figure it either,” Angela said. “Especially in light of the legend of Lewis’s long-lost gold mine.”

“The plot thickens,” Paul said. “Tell us about this mine.”

“It was said that Lewis discovered a gold mine on his Pacific expedition. He told a few friends, and supposedly left a description of the mine so that if he died it might be of some use to the country. I’m sure the gold mine story was generally known. And it was common knowledge along the Trace that the governor would be passing through.”

“Lewis would have been in special danger,” Gamay said.

“Every bandit along the Trace would have been thinking about the map and how to get it away from Lewis,” Angela agreed.

“Wouldn’t Lewis have been aware of the risk?” Gamay said.

“Lewis knew the risks of traveling through the wilderness. He had faced danger before and might have thought he could handle it.”

“Or,” Gamay said, “he could have been so driven to get to Washington that he figured the risk was worth it.’

“Maybe the danger was closer than he thought,” Paul said. “Neelly.”

“More contradictions,” Angela said. “Neelly said later that Lewis was deranged, but the group did a hundred and fifty miles in three days.”

“That’s a good trek for a crazy man,” Paul observed.

Angela nodded in agreement.

“The FortPickering commander was disturbed at reports that Neelly had urged Lewis to drink. Lewis’s Spanish servant Pernia was pushing booze on Lewis as well. Then Neelly lost two horses and told Lewis to go on ahead with the two servants while he searched for the animals.”

Gamay laughed. “If Lewis were deranged, why let him go ahead with the servants?”

“Good question,” Angela said. “But they broke up, and Lewis went on to Grinder’s Stand with Pernia and his slave servant.”

“Grinder’s Stand sounds like a place that makes submarine sandwiches,” Paul said.

“Lewis would have been better off if it hadbeen a sandwich shop,” Angela said. “The Grinder place consisted of two cabins. Mrs. Grinder was there with her kids and a couple of slaves. Her husband was away. Lewis stayed in one of the cabins, his servants in the stable. Mrs. Grinder said that about three A.M. she heard two pistol shots—and that Lewis had shot himself in the head and the chest. Mortally wounded, he made it to her cabin, asked for a drink of water, called for help, and died a few hours later. Neelly showed up the next day.”

“Convenient,” Gamay said.

“ Very.He talked to Mrs. Grinder and the servants, and a week later he wrote Jefferson and said Lewis committed suicide over his problems with the government.”

“Half the population of the country would be dead if they felt that way. Sounds fishy,” Paul said.

“It is.Lewis had been around firearms his entire life. Yet when he tried to blow his brains out, he only made a furrow,” Angela said. “He took a long-barreled flintlock and shot himself in the chest.”

“Sounds like someone shot him in the darkened cabin,” Paul said. “What do we know about Neelly?”

Angela said, “Neelly was dismissed as an Indian agent after problems with the Chickasaws. The commander at FortPickering said he was a liar and a thief. Neelly claimed he loaned Lewis money even though Lewis had a hundred twenty dollars in cash, which was missing after he died. Neelly claimed Lewis’s pistols as his own.”

“What about Pernia?” Gamay said.

“Pernia was either as a Spaniard or Frenchman. He showed up out of nowhere to travel with Lewis. Later, Neelly sent him to Jefferson with Lewis’s horse. He said he’d send the trunks to the family later, which he apparently did. Pernia went to see Lewis’s mother, who thought he had something to do with her son’s death.”

“Was there any kind of an investigation?”

“Mrs. Grinder was the only eyewitness, and she eventually told three different versions of the story. Neighbors suspected her husband had something to do with it, but when Jefferson said it was suicide that pretty much closed the books.”

“Didn’t you say that Jefferson’s finding rested entirely on Neelly’s account?” Paul said.

“That’s what’s so crazy. Jefferson told the world that Lewis was a hypochondriac when he was young, but Jefferson didn’t know him back then. He said Lewis was subject to depression, yet he sent him on the Pacific expedition. He said the depression returned when Lewis became governor, but there was no evidence of this. On the basis of hearsay, he said Lewis was deranged at Grinder’s. It doesn’t fit in with the deliberative character we think of with Jefferson.”

“I’ll go out on a limb,” Paul said. “Jefferson was using the suicide story as a cover-up. He knows it’s murder, but there’s nothing he can do, and he wants to recover the documents Lewis had for him.”

“That’s possible. Years later, Jefferson said Lewis was murdered. There’s another legend about the young slave. He died when he was about ninety-five, and, on his deathbed, he said it was murder but didn’t name names.”

Paul summed up. “So we’ve got three possibilities for the murderer. Neelly, Grinder, and Pernia. Or all three. Pernia is the strongest suspect. He had motive—Lewis owed him money. And opportunity. There’s another possibility. One or all of them were working for someone else.”

Gamay said, “Lewis was carrying something important to Monticello. We’ll assume that Lewis was murdered to prevent him from carrying out his mission. Let’s concentrate on what happened to the documents Lewis was taking to Jefferson.”

“If Lewis knew he was in danger,” Paul said, “he wouldn’t have carried the documents on his person.”

Gamay said, “You’ve gotit!”

“Thanks, but whathave I got?”

“Lewis gave the papers to someone elseto carry. Who would be the least likely to be suspected of having anything of value?”

Angela laughed. “The slave boy.”

“ Damn,I’m good,” Paul said. “The slave would have helped Pernia move trunks to Monticello. He’d have a chance to slip the goods to Jefferson.”

“What’s this about slaves and Monticello?”

Helen Woolsey, Angela’s boss, had seen the huddle in Angela’s office. She stood in the doorway with a grin pasted on her face.

Angela was fast on her feet. “Oh, hi, Helen. We were discussing the fact that Jefferson had slaves even while he was saying all men are equal.”

“Fascinating. Won’t you introduce me to your friends?”

“Sorry. This is Paul and Gamay Trout. This is my boss, Helen Woolsey.”

They shook hands. Woolsey glanced at the clearly labeled Jefferson file folder on the desk. “Is that the same material you brought to me the other day, Angela?”

Gamay reached out and retrieved the file, holding it on her lap with her hands on top. “This is ourfolder,” she said. “Angela has been helping us with some background on Meriwether Lewis.”

“Paul and I are with NUMA,” Paul said, figuring a half-truth was better than a whole lie. “We’re conducting historical research on the importance of the Pacific Ocean to the United States. We thought we’d start with Lewis, who led the first expedition to reach the ocean.”

“You’ve come to the right place,” Woolsey said.

“Angela has been most helpful,” Gamay said.

Woolsey said to let her know if she could be of help.

Gamay watched her walk across the reading room. “Cold fish,” she said.

Angela laughed. “I call her Miss Smarty-Pants, but I like your name better.” Her face grew serious. “Something’s up. I gave her a copy of the Jefferson file days ago. She said she was going to tell the board of directors but didn’t do anything with it that I know of.”

“She zeroed right in on the Jefferson file.”

Angela gathered up the Lewis material. “I’ll dig into the slave angle. Could you come back in a couple of hours, when Miss Smarty-Pants isn’t snooping around?”

“We’ll be glad to,” Paul said.

Angela watched them leave. She was newly energized. She locked the Lewis folder in her desk and tended to some routine chores, until Woolsey came back into the reading room, obviously checking on the Trouts. When she had gone, Angela got on her computer.

With a few strokes of the keyboard, she turned the clock back to 1809.