Clive Cussler - The Navigator

“Maybe that was too obvious,” Angela said. They tried Adams, Washington, Franklin, and Independence, all with the same disappointing results.

“We could spend all day doing this,” Angela said.

“Actually, we could spend decades. The key word doesn’t even have to make sense.”

“So there is no way a Vigenere cipher can be broken?”

“ Any cipher can be broken. This one was busted in the 1800s by a guy named Babbage, a genius who’s been called the father of the computer. His system looked for sequences of letters. Once he had those, he could figure out the key word. Something like that exceeds my skills. Fortunately, we’re within spitting distance of the greatest code breakers in the world.”

“You know someone at the NSA?”

“I’ll give my professor a jingle.”

The professor was in class, so Harris left a message. With Angela’s permission, he copied the material. He’d been so intent on the written text that he had paid little attention to the drawing.

Angela saw him studying the lines and Xs. “That’s the other part of the mystery. I thought it was a garden layout at first.” She told him what she had found on the ancient-languages website.

“Fascinating, but let’s concentrate on the main text message for now.”

Harris made copies of the papers. Angela tucked the original documents back into her briefcase. Harris walked her to the door and said he would let her know what he learned. Two hours later, he got a call from his professor. Harris started to tell him about the cipher problem. He only got as far as the name Jefferson when the professor told him to come over immediately.

Professor Pieter DeVries was waiting for Harris at the other side of the security check-in. The professor practically dragged Harris to his office in his haste to look at the file.

The professor epitomized the brilliant but absentminded mathematician that he was. He tended toward tweed suits, even in the warmer months, and had the habit of tugging at his snowy Vandyke beard when he was engaged in thought, which was most of the time.

He studied the artichoke file. “You say a young lady from the Philosophical Society brought this to you?”

“That’s right. She works in their research library.”

“I probably wouldn’t have given it a second look if not for the grille,” which Angela had let Harris hold on to. He picked up the perforated cardboard, stared at it with disdain, and then set it aside. “I’m surprised Jefferson would have used something as crude as this.”

“I’m still not convinced this stuff conceals a message,” Harris said.

“There’s one way to find out,” the professor replied.

He scanned the columns of letters into a computer and tapped the keyboard for a few minutes. Letters arranged and rearranged themselves on the screen until a word popped up.

EAGLE

Harris squinted at the screen and laughed. “We should have known. Eagle was Jefferson’s favorite horse.”

The professor smiled. “Babbage would have sold his soul for a computer with tenth the capacity of this machine.” He typed the key word onto the screen and then instructed the computer to use it to decipher the message he had scanned earlier.

The letter Jefferson had written to Lewis in 1809 came up in plain text.

Harris leaned over the professor’s shoulder.

“I can’t believe what I’m reading,” he said. “This is crazy.” Harris dug out the paper with the odd drawings on it. “Angela thinks these words are Phoenician.”

“That concurs with what Jefferson’s source at Oxford says in his letter.”

Harris felt a great weariness. “I’ve got the feeling that we may have stumbled onto something big .”

“On the other hand, this fairy tale may be a hoax, the product of a clever imagination.”

“Do you really believe that, sir?”

“No. I think the document is for real. The story it tells is another matter.”

“How do we handle this thing?”

The professor tugged at his beard so hard it was a wonder that the Vandyke didn’t come off.

“Ve-ry carefully,” he said.

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 Smithsonian magazine. 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.”