Текст книги "The Navigator"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Chapter 38

“I AM HAPPY NO PLACE ELSE,” Gamay said, quoting from the guidebook. “Jefferson was unequivocal about his love for Monticello.”

“Do you blamehim?” Paul pointed through the windshield toward the familiar columned portico and rotunda on a distant hill high above the green rolling Virginia countryside.

It had been at least a year since the Trouts had last visited Jefferson’s fabled retreat on one of the back-road motor treks they enjoyed in their Humvee. Paul usually drove. Gamay navigated and provided local color, drawing on a pile of guidebooks to recite little known facts. Ad nauseam.

“Aha!”Angela said.

Trout winced. Angela, who was sitting in the backseat, was proving to be Gamay’s equal in travel trivia. Since leaving Georgetown that morning, the two women had been taking turns reciting facts and factoids about Jefferson and Monticello.

“Too late,” Paul said in an attempt to cut the young woman off at the pass. “We’re here.”

“This is important,” Angela said. She had her nose buried in a thick paperback entitled The Life and Times of Thomas Jefferson.“This deals with the Jefferson material that was stolen on the riverboat trip to Monticello.”

Trout’s ears perked up. “Read on.”

Angela didn’t have to be prodded. “Jefferson is writing to his friend Dr. Benjamin Barton about the loss of his Indian vocabularies. Barton was a naturalist, and a member of the Philosophical Society. Jefferson calls the theft an ‘irreparable misfortune.’ Over thirty years, he had collected fifty Indian vocabularies, but had put off printing them because he hadn’t digested the stuff Lewis had collected. He thought some of the Indian words were common to Russian. He retrieved a few pages from the river, including some PaniIndian words Lewis collected, ‘and a little fragment of some other,’ which I see is in his handwriting, but no indication remains of what language it is.”

“I wonder if those fragments are similar to the words identified on the map as Phoenician,” Gamay said.

“Possible,” Paul said. “Maybe Jefferson wrote to Lewis and told him about the Phoenician words on the map. Lewis recognized the words as being similar to some other stuff he had collected in his travels but not given to Jefferson.”

“Why would he hold the material back?” Gamay said.

“He didn’t recognize their significance. After he got the missive from his old boss, he dropped everything and headed for Monticello with something he wanted to show Jefferson.”

“That means the map is quite significant,” Gamay said. “It makes the Phoenician connection, and shows the location of Ophir.”

“Tantalizing, but useless without more information,” Trout said with a shake of his head. “A compass rose. Measure of distance. Landmarks. Data like that would help.”

Angela opened her briefcase, rummaged through the Jefferson file, and pulled out the page with the squiggles, dots, and Phoenician words.

She waved the paper in the air. “We all agree that some of the details of the map are cut off,” she said.

“That’s right,” Paul said. “It appears to be part of a larger diagram.”

“If that’s true,” Gamay said with growing excitement, “it’s possible that what Lewis was carrying to Jefferson was the other half of the map. Lewis supposedly found a gold mine on his Pacific expedition.”

“Wow!” Angela said. “That means if our theory about the young slave holds true, Jefferson knewwhere the Ophir mine was.”

“Hold on a second,” Paul said with a grin. “We may have given you the wrong impression. Gamay and I tend to toss ideas around, but we can’t forget we’re scientists. That means we operate on the basis of fact. We’re making guesses based on assumptions that haven’t been proven.”

Angela looked crestfallen. Gamay tried to cheer the young researcher. “You’ll have to admit it’s an exciting suggestion, Paul, even with all the questions.”

“I’d be the first to agree that it is plausible,” Paul said. “Maybe we’ll start to find the answers here.”

He pulled the Humvee into a parking lot next to the Jefferson Library, an imposing, two-and-a-half-story, white-clapboard building about a half mile to the east of Monticello’s main entrance. They went into the lobby, gave the receptionist their names, and asked to see the archivist they had talked to on the phone. A few minutes later, a tall man in a tan suit strode into the lobby and extended his hand.

“Nice to meet you,” he said with a broad smile. Speaking in a soft-edged Virginia drawl, he said, “My name is Charles Emerson. Jason Parker, the archivist you talked to, referred your query to me. Welcome to the Jefferson Library.”

Emerson had a deep voice and the courtly manners of a Southern gentleman. His mahogany skin was virtually unlined, except for laugh crinkles at the corners of his eyes. He filled his suit with the sturdy physique of a believer in exercise, but the steel gray color of his hair suggested he could be in his sixties.

Gamay introduced Paul and Angela. “Thank you for seeing us,” she said.

“No problem. Jason told me that you’re with National Underwater and Marine Agency?”

“Paul and I work for NUMA. Miss Worth here is a researcher with the American Philosophical Society.”

Emerson raised an eyebrow. “I’m honored.NUMA’s accomplishments are well known. The Philosophical Society is one of this country’s scholarly jewels.”

“Thank you,” Angela glanced around the lobby. “Your library is pretty impressive as well.”

“We’re very proud of our building,” Emerson said. “It cost five and a half million dollars to build, and opened in 2002. We have shelf space for twenty-eight thousand volumes, and all sorts of reading and multimedia areas. I’ll give you a tour.”

Emerson showed them the library reading and research areas and then led the way to his spacious office. He invited his visitors to take a seat and settled behind a big oak desk.

“I’m not sure how the library can help you folks from NUMA,” he said. “The Virginia hills are pretty far from the ocean.”

“We noticed,” Gamay said with a smile. “But you may have more to offer than you think. Meriwether Lewis led an expedition to the Pacific Ocean on the orders of Thomas Jefferson.”

If Emerson thought the explanation was wide of the mark, he didn’t show it. “Meriwether Lewis,” he said thoughtfully. “A fascinating man.”

Angela couldn’t contain herself. “Actually, we’re more interested in his servant. A young man named Zeb Moses, who was with Lewis when he died.”

“Jason said you asked about Zeb when you called. It’s the reason he turned your query over to me. Zeb was an amazing man. Born into slavery. Worked at Monticello nearly his entire life. Died in his nineties, having lived long enough to read the Emancipation Proclamation.”

“You sound pretty knowledgeable about him,” Paul said.

Emerson smiled. “I shouldbe. Zeb Moses was my ancestor.”

“That’s a wonderful coincidence,” Paul said. “It makes you the perfect person to answer a question that’s been nagging us.”

“I’ll do my best. Ask away.”

“Do you know how Zeb obtained his free slave status so soon after arriving at Monticello?”

Paul had a habit when deep in thought of inclining his head slightly and blinking his large brown eyes as if he were peering over the tops of invisible glasses. It was a deceptive idiosyncrasy that sometimes caught people off guard. Emerson was no exception.

He seemed to lose possession of his bland expression of geniality for an instant. His smile melted into a half frown, but he quickly recovered. He snapped the ends of his lips up in a broad grin.

“As I said, my ancestor was a remarkable individual. How did you learn that Zeb was a freeman?”

“We checked the Monticello database,” Paul said. The word ‘free’ is written next to Zeb’s name in Jefferson’s handwriting.”

“Well, Jefferson didfree some of his slaves,” Emerson said.

“Not very many,” Angela said. “Jefferson had his reservations about slavery, but your own website says he always owned at least two hundred at a time. He sold more than a hundred, gave away eighty-five to his family. He only freed five of them in his will, and three of them, including your ancestor, while he was still alive.”

Emerson laughed. “Remind me not to cross intellectual swords with you, young lady. You’re absolutely right. But it goes to show that he didfree slaves, although that was, regrettably, infrequent.”

“Which brings us back to my question,” Paul said. “Why was Zeb freed and given a preferred house job so soon after joining the work-force at Monticello?”

Emerson leaned back in his chair and tented his fingers. “I haven’t a clue. Do you folks have any idea why?”

Paul turned to Angela. He wanted to make up for the scientific lecture he’d given the young woman. “Miss Worth can explain.”

Angela jumped in. “We believe that Lewis was on a secret mission to deliver important information to Jefferson. Lewis was murdered because of it, but Zeb Moses traveled to Monticello to complete the mission. Jefferson rewarded Zeb with a job and freedom.”

“That’s quite a tale,” Emerson said with a shake of his head that implied skepticism without being rude. “What sort of information could have been entrusted to young Zeb?”

Gamay didn’t want to tip their hand. She interjected before Angela could answer. “We think it was a map.”

“A map of what?”

“We have no idea.”

“That’s a new one to me,” Emerson said. “Tell you what, though. I’ll look into it. You’ve got me really intrigued. I never dreamed Zeb was involved in cloak-and-dagger machinations.” He glanced at his watch and rose from his chair. “I’ll have to apologize for cutting short this fascinating discussion but I have an appointment with a potential donor.”

“We understand completely,” Paul said. “We appreciate your time.”

“Not at all,” Emerson said as he showed his guests to the door.

Emerson may have been through but Angela wasn’t.

“Oh, I almost forgot, Mr. Emerson,” she said. “Have you ever heard of Jefferson’s Artichoke Society?”

Emerson stopped with his hand on the doorknob. “No,” he said. “Never. Something to do with gardening?”

“Maybe,” Angela said with a shrug of her shoulders.

“I’ll have to look that that subject up too.”

Emerson watched from the entrance as his visitors got into the Humvee and drove off. His face wore an expression of utmost concern.

He walked briskly back to his office and punched in a number on the phone.

A man’s voice answered. Dry and brittle. “Good morning, Charles. How are you today?”

“I’ve been better. The people who called yesterday and inquired about Zeb Moses just left the library. A couple from NUMA and a young woman from the Philosophical Society.”

“I take it that you used your well-developed conversational skills to put them off.”

“I thought I was doing well until the young woman asked me about the Artichoke Society.”

For several seconds there was only silence at the other end, then the cold dry voice said: “We had better call a meeting of the others.”

“I’ll get right on it,” Emerson said.

He hung up and stared into space for a moment, and then he snapped to attention and punched in the first of a list of phone numbers from memory.

As he waited for the first person to answer, an image materialized in his mind’s eye. It was a giant ball of yarn unraveling.

“FIRST IMPRESSIONS,” Paul said as they drove past Monticello.

“Smooth, but not entirely forthcoming,” Gamay said.

“He’s hiding something,” Angela agreed.

“I was watching his reaction when you mentioned the Artichoke Society,” Paul said. “Classic deer caught in the headlights.”

“I noticed that too,” Gamay said. “Angela’s question definitely got his attention. Maybe we should dig deeper into this little society. Anyone know an expert on artichokes?”

Angela said. “I know someone who’s researching a book about artichokes. I’ll give him a call.”

Stocker was at home and delighted to hear from Angela. “Are you okay? I heard about the murder at the library and tried to call you at home.”

“I’m fine. I’ll tell you about it later. I have a favor to ask. In your research, did you ever come across any mention of something called the Artichoke Society?”

“Jefferson’s secret club?”

“That’s the one. What do you know about it?”

“I found mention of it in an article on secret societies at the University of Virginia. I didn’t follow through because it didn’t seem like a big deal.”

“Do you know who wrote the article?”

“A professor at UVA. I’ll give you his name and number.”

She jotted the information down, told Stocker she would be in touch, and relayed her findings to the Trouts. Gamay wasted no time getting the professor on the phone.

“Good news,” she said after hanging up. “The professor would be glad to see us between classes, but we’ll have to hurry.”

Trout pressed the accelerator and the wide-bodied vehicle picked up speed.

“Next stop, University of Virginia.”

Chapter 39

THE WIDOW OF THE DEAD wreck diver lived in a square, three-story house that may have once been elegant before years of neglect took a toll. The antique yellow paint was flaked and peeling. Shutters hung off at drunken angles. The air of dilapidation stopped at the freshly mowed front lawn and the neat flower beds along the foundation.

Austin pressed the front doorbell. Hearing no chimes, he rapped his knuckles on the door. No one answered. He knocked as loud as he could without breaking the door down.

“Coming!”A white-haired woman emerged from around a corner of the house. “Sorry,” she said with a bright smile. “I was out in the garden.”

“Mrs. Hutchins?” Austin said.

“Call me Thelma.”

She brushed the dirt off her hands and extended one to Austin and then to Zavala. Her palm was calloused and her grip surprisingly firm.

Austin and Zavala introduced themselves.

She narrowed her flinty blue eyes in a squint. “You didn’t tell me when you called that you were good-looking,” Thelma said with a grin. “I would have gussied up instead of looking like an old mud hen. So you found Hutch’s helmet.”

Austin pointed to the Cherokee parked in front of the house. “It’s in the back of the Jeep.”

Thelma strode purposely down the walk and opened the car’s hatch. The marine vegetation had been removed, and the brass and copper gleamed in the sunlight.

Thelma caressed the top of the helmet with her fingers. “That’s Hutch’s brain bucket, all right,” she said, brushing a tear from her eye. “Is he still down there?”

Austin remembered the grinning skull. “I’m afraid so. Do you want us to notify the Coast Guard so they can bring his remains up for burial?”

Thelma said, “Let the old coot be. They’d plant his bones in the ground. He’d hate that. I’ve had two husbands since then, bless their hearts, but Hutch was the first and the best. I couldn’t do that to him. C’mon out back. We’ll have our own memorial service.”

Austin exchanged an amused glance with Zavala. Thelma Hutchins was not the frail old lady they had expected. She was a tall woman, with erect posture and little of the shoulder stoop that often comes with age. Her walk was brisk rather than doddering as she led Austin and Zavala to a weathered wooden table under a fading CINZANO umbrella. Thelma said she’d be right back.

The house looked even worse from the rear, but the yard was as neat as a putting green. There were flower beds everywhere, and a healthy vegetable garden big enough to feed an army of vegans. A slob of a Labrador retriever came over and drooled on Austin’s knee.

Thelma came out of the house carrying three bottles of beer and apologized for the cheap brand.

“I’ll start drinking Stella Artois when they increase my Social Security. This panther piss will have to do for now.” She glanced at the dog. “I see you’ve met Lush.” She poured some beer into a dish and grinned as the dog trotted over and lapped up the foaming brew. Then she raised her bottle. “Here’s to Hutch. I knew someone would find the old pirate after all these years.”

They clinked bottles and took a swig.

“How long has your husband been gone?” Austin said.

“My firsthusband.” She slugged down a swallow of beer and pursed her lips. “Hutch croaked in the spring of 1973. Where’d you find him?”

Austin unfolded the chart he had brought and pointed to a penciled-in X.

“Damn!”Thelma said. “That’s miles from where I thought the treasure wreck was.”

“Treasure wreck?” Zavala said.

“That’s what Hutch called it, the fool. It’s what killed him.”

“Can you tell us what happened?” Austin said.

A far-off look came to her eyes. “My husband was born and raised on the bay. He enlisted in the navy during World War Two and became a diver. A darn good one, from what I hear. He bought out his equipment when the war ended. We got married, and he did some commercial diving on the side to keep his hand in. Mostly, he ran a fishing boat, which is how he found the wreck. Snagged it on a net. The wreck really stumped him.”

“Why is that, Thelma?” Austin said.

“Hutch knew every wreck in the area. He’d dived on a number of them. He was an amateur historian. He did a pile of research. There was no record of any ship going down at this location.”

“He never told you where the wreck was?” Zavala said.

“My husband was as tight as a Chesapeake oyster. He was real old-fashioned. Thought women were natural gossips. He said he would tell once he brought up some gold for me.”

“What made him think there was gold on the wreck?” Austin said.

“Lots of people don’t know that there were gold mines all around here at one time. Maryland. Virginia. Up into Pennsylvania.”

“It’s not surprising. I only learned last year that the area around the Chesapeake was major gold-mining country,” Austin said. “I came across a Gold Mine Café in Maryland and found out it was named after a defunct mine nearby.”

“Your husband guessed that some of that gold found its way onto the ship?” Zavala said.

“It was more than a guess, Handsome.” She tugged at the chain around her neck. Hanging from the chain was a gold pendant in the shape of a horse head. “He found this on his first dive. Gave it to me with the promise of more.” She sighed heavily. “Oh, Hutch,” she said. “You were worth more to me than any treasure.”

“Sorry to bring these memories back,” Austin said.

The bright smile came back. “Don’t worry, Kurt. I apologize for losing it.”

Zavala had a question. “Kurt and I had some trouble hoisting the helmet out of the water. It’s even heavier with the breastplate attached. I was wondering how your husband got in and out of his diving rig on his own.”

“Oh, he wasn’t alone. He was working with a crewman named Tom Lowry when he found the wreck, so he had to bring him in on the secret. Tom became his dive tender. Hutch promised to split anything they found fifty-fifty.”

“Is Tom still alive?” Austin said.

“The wreck killed him too,” Thelma said. “Coast Guard figured that Hutch ran into trouble below. Maybe his air hose got tangled. Tom was as strong as an ox but one beer short of a six-pack, if you catch my drift. He was intensely loyal to Hutch. My guess is that he dove over the side without thinking, got into trouble, and drowned.”

“Wouldn’t the Coast Guard have found the boat anchored at the wreck?” Austin said.

“A squall came up. The boat broke free and floated away. Tom’s body and the boat were found miles from the dive site. I sold the boat to one of Hutch’s friends, whom I later married.”

“Did you ever tell anyone about the treasure?”

She gave a vigorous shake of her head. “Not even the Coast Guard. That bad-luck wreck already killed two men. I didn’t want to make a widow out of myself or any other woman in town.”

“How many dives did Hutch make?” Zavala said.

“He went out twice.” She fingered the chain around her neck. “The first time, he found the pendant. The second time, he must have dove again after he found that jar.”

Austin put his beer down. “What jar is that, Thelma?”

“An old clay thing. Kinda green and gray, sealed at the top. I found it in a boat storage bin where Hutch and Tom must have put it. Still covered with seaweed. It was too light to contain gold, but I never had any desire to open it. I figured more bad luck would come pouring out. Just like Pandora.”

“May we see the jar?” Austin said.

Thelma looked embarrassed. “I wish you had come earlier. I gave it away a couple of days ago to a guy who stopped by. Said he was writing a book and heard scuttlebutt around town about Hutch and his wreck. When I told him about the jar, he asked if he could borrow and have it X-rayed. I said he could have it.”

“Was his name Saxon?” Austin said.

“That’s right. Tony Saxon. Good-looking guy, but not as handsome as you. Do you know him?”

“Slightly,” Austin said with a rueful grin. “Did he say where he was staying?”

“Nope,” she said after a moment’s thought. “I didn’t give away anything valuable, did I? This house needs lots of work.”

“Probably not,” Austin said. “But the helmet is yours, and it’s worth a lot of money.”

“Enough to get this old joint fixed up and painted?” she said.

“You might even have enough left over for a couple of cases of Stella Artois,” Austin said.

He declined the offer of another beer to celebrate. He and Zavala carried the helmet from the Jeep and set it in the living room. Austin told Thelma that he would have a nautical appraiser get in touch with her. She thanked them both with a peck on the cheek.

Austin was about to get into the Jeep when he saw a slip of paper wrapped around the windshield wiper. He unrolled the paper and read the message written in ballpoint.

Dear Kurt. Sorry about the amphora. I’ll be at the Tidewater Grill until 6 p.m. I’ll buy the drinks. AS

Austin handed the note to Zavala, who read it and smiled.

“Your friend says he’s buying,” Zavala said, getting into the Jeep. “Doesn’t get any better than that.”

Austin slipped behind the steering wheel and drove toward the waterfront. He’d seen the sign for the Tidewater on the way into town and remembered how to find the restaurant that overlooked the bay. He and Zavala stepped into the bar and found Saxon engaged in a discussion about fishing with the bartender. He smiled when he saw Austin and introduced himself to Zavala. He suggested a locally brewed ale. They carried their mugs to a corner table.

Austin was a hard loser but not a sore one. He lifted his mug in toast.

“Congratulations, Saxon. How did you do it?”

Saxon took a sip of ale and wiped the foam from his mustache.

“Shoe leather and luck,” he said. “I’ve been meaning to focus on this area. I turned my attention from the west coast of North America to the east after my replica was torched.”

“Why do you think it was arson?” Austin said.

“A few days before the fire, I got an offer to buy the boat from a broker. I said the replica was a scientific project and not for sale. Later that week, the boat was set on fire.”

“Who was the buyer?”

“You met him at the unveiling of the Navigator.Viktor Baltazar.”

Austin recalled the angry look in Saxon’s eye when Baltazar had entered the Smithsonian warehouse.

“Tell us how you were drawn to the Chesapeake,” Austin said.

“I’ve always considered the Chesapeake region a remote possibility for Ophir because of the gold mines in the area. The Susquehanna has intrigued me as well. A number of years ago, some tablets with possible Phoenician writing were found up the river in Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania.”

“What led you to Thelma Hutchins?”

“After the Navigatorwas stolen, I was devastated. I didn’t know what to do, so I came here and haunted dive shops and historical societies. Thelma’s husband, or, more likely, his crewman, may have spilled the beans to someone. I began to pick up rumors of a treasure wreck. I heard about Thelma and tracked her down. She suggested I take the amphora. She succumbed to my charm, obviously.”

“Obviously,”Austin said. “How did you find us?”

“If NUMA wants to remain inconspicuous, I suggest that you paint your vehicles a less-distinctive color than that wonderful turquoise. I was on my way to a late breakfast and saw your car. I followed you to the boatyard, watched you unload your gear, staked out your car, and trailed you to Thelma’s house. Now, may I ask you a question? How did youlearn of the wreck?”

Austin told Saxon about the duplicate Navigatorin Turkey and the map engraved on the statue.

Saxon chortled. “A bloody cat! I always suspected that there was more than one statue. Possibly a pair guarding a temple.”

“Solomon’s temple?” Austin said, recalling his conversation with Nickerson.

“Quite likely.” Saxon furrowed his brow. “I wonder why the people who stole the original statue haven’t tracked down the wreck.”

“Maybe they are not as smart as we are,” Austin said. “You’ve got the amphora. What do you plan to do with it?”

“I’ve opened the amphora. I’m studying its content.”

“You didn’t waste any time. What was in it?”

“The answer depends on you, Kurt. I’m hoping we can work out an arrangement. I could use NUMA’s resources. I’m not interested in gold or treasure. Only knowledge. I want to find Sheba more than anything else. I readily admit that I am truly obsessed with the lady.”

Austin drew his lips down in a deep frown and turned to Zavala. “Think we should make a deal with this slippery character?”

“Hell, Kurt, you know what a sucker I am for romance. He’s got my vote.”

Austin had already made up his mind. NUMA’s help would be a small price to pay for Saxon’s expertise. He admired the man’s ingenuity and perseverance as well.

He leveled a steady gaze at Saxon. “I’ll make it unanimous, on two conditions.”

Saxon’s face fell. “What’s your first condition?”

“That you tell me what you found in the amphora.”

“I found a papyrus,” Saxon said. “Condition number two?”

“That you buy another round.”

“Egad! Austin. You are a hard man to take advantage of someone so desperate,” Saxon said, twirling the end of his mustache.

Then he grinned, called over to the bartender, and held three fingers in the air.