Текст книги "The Navigator"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Chapter 17

TRAFFIC WAS HEAVY ON P STREET, where the Republic of Iraq had its embassy in the historic nineteenth-century Boardman House. A stream of limousines and luxury cars passed in front of the three-story Romanesque-style building near Dupont Circle, stopping from time to time to disgorge men in tuxedos, women in gowns, attired for a black-tie affair.

The doorman waved a taxi in to take the place of a departing diplomatic limo and opened the passenger door. Carina Mechadi emerged, her lithe figure sheathed in an ankle-length velvet dress whose black-brown color matched shoulder-length hair that was pinned back in a French twist. The gown’s scooped neckline displayed a décolletage that hovered between proper and sexy. An embroidered white shawl covered her bare shoulders and set off her creamy dark skin.

She thanked the doorman with a smile that sent his middle-aged temperature soaring to unhealthy levels and followed the other guests through the arched front entrance. A young male embassy employee glanced at her gilt-edged invitation and checked her name off a list.

“Thank you for coming to our reception, Ms. Mechadi. The Embassy of Iraq welcomes you as our guest.”

“Thank you,” Carina said. “I’m pleased to be here.”

The vestibule echoed with the conversational hubbub created by dozens of chatting guests. Carina glanced around with her bold blue eyes, unsure whether to linger or peel off into a side room. As the other guests became aware of her presence, they turned her way, causing a lull in the level of voices.

Carina was not a tall person, yet she had a compelling physical presence that seemed to demand attention. The women in the room sensed her female magnetism and instinctively gripped the arms of their escorts, relaxing only after a tall, middle-aged man broke off from the crowd and made his way toward the newly arrived guest.

He clicked his heels and bowed gallantly. “Carina Mechadi, the Angel of the Antiquities, if I’m not mistaken.”

An anonymous headline writer had given Carina the lofty title in an article published by Smithsonianmagazine. She smiled graciously and took control of the conversation. “I’ve never liked that description, Mr.—”

“Pardon me, Ms. Mechadi. My name is Anthony Saxon, and I offer my profound apologies if I have offended you.” He spoke in the vaguely British accent that was once cultivated in exclusive American prep schools.

“Not at all, Mr. Saxon.” She extended her hand. “How did you recognize me?”

“Your picture has been in a number of journals. It is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance in person.” He took her hand and kissed it.

With his distinguished looks and baroque manner of speaking, and well-fitting tux, Saxon seemed like a turn-of-the-century ambassador. He was more than six feet tall and rail thin. His thick ginger-and-gray hair was combed straight back from a devilish widow’s peak that came to a point above thick eyebrows. A pencil-thin mustache of the style worn by 1940s movie stars and gigolos decorated his upper lip. His face glowed with its desert tan.

“Are you with the Washington diplomatic corps, Mr. Saxon?”

“Far from it, I’m afraid. I am an adventurer by choice, a writer and filmmaker by need. Perhaps you’ve read my last book, Quest for the Queen,” he said with a hopeful lilt in his voice.

“I’m afraid not,” Carina said. Not wanting to hurt Saxon’s feelings, she added quickly, “I’m away a lot.”

“Spoken with gentle honesty.” Saxon clicked his heels again. “It matters not whether you have heard my name, for I have heard of yours, especially in connection with the retrieval of antiquities stolen from the BaghdadMuseum.”

“You’re very kind, Mr. Saxon.” She glanced around “I don’t suppose you would know where I could find Viktor Baltazar.”

Saxon’s eyebrows dipped. “Baltazar is about to make his presentation in the main reception area. It would be my pleasure to show you the way.”

Carina’s lips parted in an amused smile. “You’re very much the Victorian gentleman,” she said, taking his proffered arm.

“I fancy myself as more of an Elizabethan. Swords and sonnets. But I appreciate the compliment.”

He guided her through the milling crowd into a large room decorated with maroon-and-gilt drapes. At one end, a raised dais was flanked by lights, video cameras, and microphones. An enlarged photo of the IraqiNationalMuseum hung on the wall behind the stage. Rows of plush chairs had been set up in front of the stage.

Saxon headed to a love seat against a side wall. He explained in a conspiratorial whisper that the seat offered a good view of the guests entering the room and allowed for an easy escape if the speakers became too long-winded.

Carina recognized several low-level State Department staffers, politicians, and journalists. A number of men and women who represented a cross section of Middle Eastern antiquities scholarship were familiar to her as well. She became particularly excited when Professor Nasir came into the room.

She stood and waved. The professor strode across the room, a wide grin on his face.

“Miss Mechadi, how wonderful to see you.”

“I was hoping you’d be here, Professor.” She turned to Saxon. “Professor, this is Anthony Saxon. Mr. Saxon, Professor Jassim Nasir.”

Saxon stood to his full height, towering over the Iraqi. “I’m honored to be in your presence, Dr. Nasir. I’m well acquainted with your work at the museum.”

Nasir beamed with pleasure.

“Please excuse us,” Carina said to Saxon. “Dr. Nasir and I have much to talk about. It’s been quite a while since we last saw each other.”

“By all means,” Saxon said. In a single motion, he snatched two champagne flutes off passing tray and handed one to Carina. “Please let me know if I can be of any further assistance.”

Nasir watched Saxon weave his way through the crowd. “Not many people outside of Iraq know I exist,” he said, obviously impressed. “How long have you known Mr. Saxon?”

“About five minutes. He ambushed me at the door. More important, how long has it been since you and I last met? Three years at least?”

“How could I forget? It was in Baghdad at the museum. A terrible time.”

“I’m sorry I haven’t kept in touch with you as often as I should have.”

“We’ve cleaned the place up, and, thanks to people like you, the recovering effort continues. Money has been coming in, but our expenses are phenomenal. And with the continuing instability in our country, it will be a long time before busloads of tourists pull up at our front door.”

“All the more reason why this reception must be so encouraging.”

“Oh, yes,” he said, brightening. “I was thrilled when you called and said you had recovered a major cache of artifacts. The idea for the tour is sheer genius. I never imagined that I would be here with so many of my respected colleagues. There is one of them now. You remember Dr. Shalawa?”

The heavyset woman taking the podium was a leading expert on Assyrian archaeology. Dr. Shalawa was dressed in the traditional Muslim dress down to her ankles. A scarf covered her hair. She cleared her throat to get attention, and, when the audience had settled down, she introduced herself.

“I would like to thank the embassy for hosting this reception and our guests for their financial and moral support. Our first speaker exemplifies the spirit of generosity that will be instrumental in making our museum again one of the world’s great cultural institutions. I am honored to give you Viktor Baltazar, president of the Baghdad Museum Foundation.”

As Dr. Shalawa led the applause a man rose from the front row and climbed onto the dais to shake her hand.

Carina had no idea what Baltazar looked like; he had a talent for keeping his pictures out of public circulation. She hadn’t known what to expect, but it wasn’t the powerfully built man in the custom-tailored tuxedo who took his place behind the podium. The massive head reminded her of a mastiff’s. As she watched, Baltazar underwent a transformation. The fierce grin became a warm smile and the pale eyes seemed to reach out to every person in the room.

When the applause finally died, he said in a deep, melodious voice, “It is Iwho am honored for being invited to speak before this august gathering. You were all part of the international effort to recover the antiquities stolen from the IraqiNationalMuseum in Baghdad.”

He acknowledged the second round of applause, and went on.

“My foundation was only a single link in the chain. Thanks to you, many artifacts continue to be recovered. The museum is reestablishing its conservation labs, training its staff, and establishing a database. Additional funding will come from the tour, sponsored by the Baltazar Foundation. I regret that I must leave the reception before I get a chance to thank you all individually, but I look forward to working with all of you in this noble cause.”

He blew the audience a kiss, stepped down off the stage, and made his way to the door. Carina hurried from the room and caught her quarry in the lobby.

“Excuse me, Mr. Baltazar. I know you’re in a rush, but I wondered whether I could have a minute of your time.”

Baltazar’s lips widened in an engaging smile. “I would be impolite, and foolish as well, to refuse a simple request from such a lovely woman, Miss—”

“That’s very kind of you. My name is Carina Mechadi.”

A thoughtful expression came to Baltazar’s face. “Miss Mechadi! What an extraordinary surprise. From what I have heard about your bulldog persistence, I had envisioned you as a short, stout woman of middle age, with a mustache perhaps.” He drew his forefinger across his upper lip.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Carina said.

“No disappointment, except for the fact that I must be on my way. How can I help you?”

“I simply wanted to add my thanks to you and your foundation for aiding my efforts.”

“You’re welcome. I regret now that I had not met you before and that we were able to communicate only through intermediaries. My business and charitable interests are very demanding.”

“I understand completely.”

“Then I am relieved. You are apparently quite the detective. Were you trained by the police?”

“I was a journalist originally. I reported on some important Italian art thefts that wound up in European and American museums. I became angrier the more I learned how the academic institutions and museums have become part of the illegal trade. Before long, I was trying to findstolen objects instead of writing about them.”

“I understand your work is not without its dangers. I heard through Benoir about the hijacking and attempted theft of an artifact. Absolutely outrageous! It’s a wonder you weren’t hurt.”

She nodded. “I would not be here talking to you if not for Kurt Austin.”

“I’m not familiar with the name.”

“Mr. Austin is with the National Underwater and Marine Agency. He prefers to stay out of the limelight, but he is responsible for saving my life, the ship, and the long-lost Iraqi artifacts. One of the hijackers shot him. He was only wounded, thank goodness.”

“Austin sounds like a remarkable gentleman,” Baltazar said. “How did he come to be on board the vessel?”

“Pure accident. He was on another ship that happened to be nearby when he heard an SOS.”

“Remarkable. I would like to meet him some time so I can thank him.”

“I would be glad to arrange it.”

“I am amazed that you were able to recover so many of the Iraqi antiquities. How did you do it?”

Carina thought about the countless informants she had cultivated, the bribes she had given freely, and the reluctant government officials she had wheedled without mercy until they gave in to her demands simply to be rid of her.

“It’s a long story,” she said with a shrug. “Much of my success is simply an accident of birth. I have roots in Europe and Africa, which eased my ability to make contacts on both continents.”

“African, you say? Your father was Italian, I take it?”

She nodded. “My grandfather too. He was with Mussolini’s army when it invaded Ethiopia, which was where he met my grandmother. My mother never knew his name, only that her father was Italian. When she moved to Italy, where I was born, she gave her maiden name, Mekada, an Italian twist.”

“Mekada? That’s a lovely name.”

“Thank you. I understand it’s not uncommon in Ethiopia.”

Baltazar paused in thought for a moment before speaking again. “Tell me, Miss Mechadi, what are your immediate plans?”

“I’m going to be busy organizing the tour. The artifacts are at the Smithsonian under guard. I’ll be providing provenance data and background information that can be used with the exhibits. I’ve lined up meetings with people who have offered their help. Tomorrow, I’m going to Virginia to see Jon Benson, a National Geographicphotographer who was present at the excavation of a statue known as the Navigator.Perhaps you can drop by and see the statue and the other pieces in the collection.”

“That sounds like a fine idea. I’m a bit of a novice about archaeology, I’ll admit, but I own a few pieces. All legal, I might add. I’d be happy to show them to you over lunch or dinner.”

“I’d like that, Mr. Baltazar.”

“Splendid. Call the foundation when you have some free time. They will have my schedule.”

They shook hands, and Baltazar stopped to say his good-nights to the ambassador and several other embassy officials. Carina turned to go back into the reception room and encountered Saxon. He had a bemused smile on his face.

“I saw you chatting with Mr. Baltazar,” he said.

“Mr. Baltazar is the main reason I came to the reception. He’s quite charming.”

“Do you know the source of the money he has been handing out?”

“Only that he owns mining companies.”

“That’s right, as far as it goes. Baltazar is the head of a mineral cartel that includes the biggest gold-mining conglomerate in the world. He’s quite controversial. His companies have been accused of destroying the environment and messing up the poor locals in half a dozen countries. What many people don’t know is that he owns one of the biggest private security companies in the world. Mercenaries for hire.”

Carina had come across the unfavorable reports on Baltazar when she researched his background, but she had been so eager for the foundation’s help that she downplayed their significance. “What I doknow is that he’s been extremely generous when it comes to the Iraqi museum.”

“I see. Blood money doesn’t matter when it comes to the greater good, and all that.”

“I don’t need to be lectured on ethics,” Carina said, her eyes blazing.

Saxon felt the heat of her words. “No, you don’t. Again, you have my apologies. I actually wanted to talk to you about the recovered antiquities, in particular a statue called the Navigator.”

Carina wondered if Saxon had overheard her conversation with Baltazar, but she realized he had been out of earshot. “You know about the statue?”

He nodded. “I know that it’s a bronze, nearly life-sized, that was excavated decades ago in Syria. It portrays a mariner, and is thought to be Phoenician, but there are doubts, which is why the statue was consigned to the basement of the BaghdadMuseum. It languished there for years, until thieves stole the statue during the American invasion in 2003. Its whereabouts since then had been unknown, until you found it recently with a group of other stolen antiquities.”

“That’s astounding! How do you come to know so much about the statue?”

“I’ve been searching for the elusive fellow since I first heard him mentioned in my Solomon research. I almost had my hands on it in Cairo, but you were one step ahead of me. Congratulations, by the way.”

“Why are you so interested in this particular artifact?”

He raised his palm. “Aha! If you had read my books you would not have to ask that question.”

“I’ll be sure to put your books on my reading list.” Carina didn’t hide her displeasure at Saxon’s coyness.

“It will be worth your time,” he said with a grin.

She had had enough of Saxon’s smug attitude. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“You’re excused. But heed my warning. Be careful in your dealings with Baltazar.”

Carina ignored the comment and headed over to talk to Professor Nasir.

Saxon watched her go. There was a grin on his face, but there was no mistaking the worry in his eyes.

AS BALTAZAR exited the Iraqi embassy, a black Mercedes limousine pulled up to the curb. The driver got out and shouldered aside the doorman to open the car door. The doorman was an ex-marine who was not easily intimidated. Angered at the loss of a tip, he went to protest, but the powerfully built driver shot him a look of such malevolence that the words never left his month. A moment later, the limo took off with a squeal of tires.

“Good evening, Mr. Baltazar,” said the driver. “The reception went well?”

“Yes, Adriano. So well that I almost forgot about the debacle off Newfoundland.”

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Baltazar. I have no excuse for my failure.”

“Perhaps I can provide you with one, Adriano. His name is Kurt Austin. He’s with NUMA. Austin is the gentleman who foiled the hijacking.”

“How did this Austin know of our plans?”

“He didn’t. It was a regrettable coincidence that he happened to be in the neighborhood. Unfortunately for you, this Mr. Austin is quite intrepid. And lucky as well. Your shot only wounded him slightly.”

Adriano recalled the quick glimpse of Austin over the sights of his gun and later in the cockpit of the helicopter that had shadowed the mineral ship. “I’d like to talk to Mr. Austin.”

“I’ll bet you would,” Baltazar said with an evil chuckle. “But we have more important matters to deal with. I’ve learned that there is a National Geographicphotographer who has some pictures that should not see the light of day. I want you to acquire these photos.”

“Would you like me to dispose of the photographer?”

“Only if it becomes necessary, and make it look like an accident. I would prefer that the pictures merely be removed.”

“What about the woman?”

Baltazar pondered Carina’s fate. He was a man who was capable of extinguishing a human life when it suited him, but there was more to Carina than met the eye.

“We’ll keep her alive as long as she proves useful. I want a comprehensive investigation of her background.”

“Then can I deal with Austin? We have something to settle between us.”

Baltazar let out a heavy sigh. Cruelty didn’t bother him in the least. His was the classic psychopathic personality, and, as such, he was devoid of empathy. People existed to be used and tossed aside. But Adriano’s suggestion signified independent thought on the part of an employee when what he demanded was obedience. At the same time, he was not without sympathy with Adriano’s need for revenge. He too had a score to settle with Austin.

“I want to find out what he knows, Adriano. You can deal with him later. I promise.”

Adriano closed his eyes and worked the thick fingers of his hands.

“Later,”he said, as if he were cherishing the very word.

Chapter 18

PROFESSOR PIETER DEVRIES WAS turning the Jefferson file over in his mind as he waited in a reception area at the State Department’s Bureau of Near Eastern Affairs. He had read every line and found no inconsistencies.

The receptionist picked up the buzzing intercom phone and exchanged a few words with the person on the other end.

“Mr. Evans will see you now, Professor DeVries,” she said with a smile. “Third door on the right.”

“Thank you.” DeVries slipped his reading material into a file case, tucked it under his arm, and walked down the hallway. He knocked lightly, then opened the door and stepped into an office. A tall, long-jawed man in his late thirties was waiting to greet him with a hand shake.

“Good morning, Professor DeVries. My name is Joshua Evans. I’m an analyst with the bureau. Have a seat.”

DeVries sat down and said, “Thanks for seeing me.”

Evans settled his lanky frame behind a desk whose clinical orderliness suggested a compulsive personality. “It’s not every day that I get a visit from the NSA,” Evans said. “You folks usually keep to yourselves. What brings you to over to Foggy Bottom?”

“As I explained on the phone, I’m a code breaker with the agency. I’ve come across information that might be of interest to your bureau. I came directly to State rather than go through NSA channels. This is a matter of some delicacy.”

“You’ve got my interest,” Evans said.

The professor opened his file case and handed over the folder that held copies of the original Jefferson material and the deciphered version. He gave Evans a capsule account of the file and how he had acquired it.

“Quite a story,” Evans said with a lightness of tone that suggested he’d been listening to a Mother Goose tale. He eyed the professor’s baggy tweed suit and Vandyke beard. “I’m still not clear why you brought it to Near Eastern Affairs.”

The professor spread his hands apart. “Phoenicia was in the geographical area that is the responsibility of your bureau.”

“Phoenicia,”Evans said with a wan smile.

“That’s right. It was one of the greatest seafaring empires of all time. It spread from its original home to the shores of Spain and beyond the Pillars of Hercules.”

Evans sat back and clasped his hands behind his head. “That may be so, Dr. DeVries, but Phoenicia longer exists.”

“I understand that, but the descendents of the Phoenicians still inhabit the countries of Lebanon and Syria.”

“Unlike those two countries, Phoenicia was not a member of the United Nations, the last I knew,” Evans said with an indulgent chuckle.

DeVries pasted a grin on his face. The professor was a battle-scarred veteran of the bureaucratic process. He knew that he would have to work his way up the ladder through self-satisfied staff people like Evans.

“I’m a mathematician, not a diplomat like yourself,” DeVries said, using a bit of flattery. “But it seems to me that when we talk about such a volatile region, anydevelopment that shakes deeply held beliefs should be given serious consideration.”

“I apologize for seeming dismissive. But artichokes? Secret codes? A long-lost Jefferson file? You must admit that the story is a fantastic one.”

DeVries gave a short laugh. “I would be the first to agree.”

“And, besides, how do we know that any of this is true?”

“We can’t authenticate the content, but the translation of the enciphered message into clear text is accurate. The fact that the material you’re holding was produced by the third president of the United States and the author of the Declaration of Independence must give it some weight.”

Evans hefted the packet of papers as if they were on a scale. “You’ve authenticated Jefferson as the source of this material?”

“Some NSA handwriting experts looked at it. There is no doubt that Jefferson wrote it.”

A confused look came to Evans’s face. DeVries had seen the same panicked expression with bureaucrats who’d been asked to deviate from their normal function, which was to gum up the workings of government. Evans’s worst nightmare had come true. He might have to make a decision. The professor offered Evans a lifeline.

“I realize the material I’ve brought you seems far-fetched. That’s why I hoped for guidance from the State Department. Perhaps you could tell your superior about our discussion?”

Passing the buck was a strategy Evans could understand. A relieved look came to the young man’s face. “I’ll bring it up with my boss, Hank Douglas. He’s head of cultural affairs for the bureau. I’ll get in touch with you after I talk to him.”

“That’s very kind of you,” DeVries said. “Could you call Mr. Douglas while I’m still here so I won’t have to bother you later?”

Evans saw that DeVries was making no attempt to rise from his chair. He picked up his phone and punched out Douglas’s number. He was hoping Douglas was out and was chagrined when his colleague answered the phone.

“Hello, Hank, this is Evans. Wondered if you had a few minutes.”

Douglas replied that he had an hour before his next appointment and invited him to stop by his office. “Okay,” Evans said. He hung up and said to DeVries, “Hank’s busy right now. I’ll see him this afternoon.”

DeVries stood and extended his hand. “Thank you,” he said. “If you ever need anything from the NSA, I’m sure we will be similarly accommodating. I’ll call you later today.”

After DeVries took his leave Evans stared at the closed door for a moment, then he sighed and picked up the packet of Jefferson material. Passing the buck had its hazards. As he left his office, he thought that he would have to be careful how he handled this hot potato.

DOUGLAS WAS a genial African American in his fifties. The circular bald spot on the top of his head made him look like a tonsured monk. He had been a history major at HowardUniversity, where he’d excelled at his studies. His office shelves were lined with books encapsulating the history of homo sapiens going back to Cro-Magnon times.

He was one of the most respected people in the bureau. He backed up his diplomatic skills with practical knowledge, having spent several years in the Near and Middle East. He was an expert on the region’s politics and religion, the two often entwined, and spoke Hebrew and Arabic.

Evans had figured out a face-saving approach: derision.He puffed out his cheeks as he stepped into Douglas’s office. “You won’t believe the odd conversation I just had.”

Evans rendered a reasonably accurate description of his talk with DeVries. Douglas listened intently as Evans did his best to portray himself as the victim of an encounter with a nutty professor. Douglas asked to see the file DeVries had delivered. He studied the pages for several minutes.

“Let me see if I understand what your professor is saying,” Douglas said as he finished the last page. “A code expert from the NSA has deciphered secret correspondence between Thomas Jefferson and Meriwether Lewis. The material suggests that Phoenicians visited North America.”

Evans grinned. “Sorry to take your time with this. I thought you’d find the story amusing.”

Douglas neither smiled nor laughed. He picked up the copy of the artichoke garden layout and gazed at the strange words. Then he reread the translations made so long ago by Jefferson’s professor friend. He said the first one out loud.

“Ophir,”he said.

“I saw that. What does it mean?”

“Ophir was the legendary location of King Solomon’s mines.”

“I always thought that was something somebody made up,” Evans said.

“Perhaps,” Douglas said. “The fact is, Solomon amassed great amounts of gold in his lifetime. The source of that gold has always been a mystery.”

“Based on what you say, and this material, Jefferson believed Ophir was in North America. Isn’t that crazy?”

Douglas didn’t answer. He read the second translation.

“Sacred relic.”

“More craziness. What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Not sure. The most sacred relic associated with Solomon would have been the Ark of the Covenant.”

“You’re saying Jefferson’s biblical object is the Ark?”

“Not necessarily. The sacred relic could be Solomon’s sock.” Douglas fiddled with a ballpoint pen. “God, I wish I could smoke my pipe at times like this.”

“What’s wrong, Hank? Jefferson or not, this thing about the Ark sounds like a fairy tale. There probably isn’t a word of truth in this stuff.”

“Makes no difference if it’s true or not,” Douglas said. “It’s all about symbols.”

“I don’t understand. What’s the big deal?”

“This is trouble any way you look at it. Remember what happened at the TempleMount in 1969, and again back in 1982?”

“Sure. An Australian religious fanatic set the mosque on the mount on fire, and later a religious group was arrested for plotting to blow it up.”

“What would have happened if they had been successful in clearing the mount to make way for the rebuilding of Solomon’s third temple?”

“Their action could have provoked a strong reaction, to say the least.”

“Now imagine that reaction if the discovery of Solomon’s sacred relic is used as an excuse to build a new temple and that the object is in the United States.”

“Given the paranoid nature of that part of the world, some people would say that it was another U.S. plot against Islam.”

“That’s right. The U.S. would be open to charges that it is scheming to clear the TempleMount of any Muslim presence. Every extremist of every major religion would be brought into this mess.”

“Damn!” Evans said. “This stuff ishot!”

“Firehouse material,” Douglas said.

The color drained from Evans’s face. “What do we do with it?” he said.

“We’ve got to go to the secretary of state. Who else knows about the Jefferson file?”

“Professor DeVries and his student from the NSA museum. Then there’s the researcher from the American Philosophical Society. The NSA people know how to keep their mouths shut.”

“Nothing stays a secret longer than six months in Washington,” Douglas said. “We’ve got to think of ways to undermine the story so that when it does come out, this country has plausible deniability.”

“How do we do that? The NSA says the material is authentic.”

“The NSA is a secret organization. It can say it never heard of this stuff. I say we attack the basic premise. That it would be impossible for a Phoenician ship to have made the trip from the eastern Mediterranean to North America. The sailing skills and technology of the day would not have allowed it.”

“Do we know that for a fact?”

“No. We’ll need a source to help lay the foundation for our argument.”

“How about the National Underwater and Marine Agency? NUMA has the experts, the database, and they know how to be discreet. I’ve got a few contacts over there.”

Douglas nodded. “You get busy on that. I’ll set up a meeting with the undersecretary. Get back to me in an hour.”

After Evans had departed, Douglas reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a pipe and tobacco pouch. Although his office was off-limits to smoking, he stuffed the pipe bowl with tobacco and lit up. With the smoke curling around his head, he leaned back in his chair and let his thoughts drift.

It all still seemed so fantastic. Maybe it was a hoax, as Evans theorized. He dove into the Jefferson file, reading every word this time.

Like many African Americans, Douglas was ambivalent about Thomas Jefferson. He recognized the man’s genius and greatness but found it hard to reconcile that with the fact that Jefferson kept slaves. As he reread the file material, he couldn’t help connect with its author on a human level. Although Jefferson’s correspondence with Lewis showed him as cool and competent, there was no doubt that the man was worried.