Clive Cussler - The Navigator

“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 got it!”

“Thanks, but what have I got?”

“Lewis gave the papers to someone else to 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 our folder,” 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.

Chapter 32

ZAVALA FINISHED HIS DETAILED inspection of the Subvette and stepped back from the trailer, his mouth widening in a broad smile. Austin took his friend’s expression as a good sign. On the return trip to the abandoned boatyard, Zavala had tried to be upbeat, but he couldn’t hide the sadness in his eyes at the damage to his creation.

He said, “I built her like a tank, so the frame is intact, and the propulsion system is in good shape, but the lights are cockeyed and some of the sensors were damaged. She’s going to be out of commission until I get back to the States.”

Austin put his hand on Zavala’s shoulder. “She was wounded in a good cause. We’d be dead meat otherwise. You can always build another and donate this one to the Cussler car museum. Looks like your ride is here.”

A tow truck had turned into the boatyard. Austin had asked Mustapha to line up something more suited than Ahmed’s chicken truck to the task of towing the submersible trailer back to the airport. The captain had made a few phone calls and found someone willing to do the job. While the truck hooked up to the trailer, Austin thanked Mustapha again for all his help. Zavala rode in the tow truck, Austin and Carina got into their rental car and followed the trailer along the coastal road to DalyranAirport.

Austin and Carina hitched a ride to Istanbul on the transport plane with Zavala. They parted company at the airport. Zavala would be working late to prepare the submersible for its trip home and planned to stay near the airport. Austin and Carina went back to the hotel, where they had spent their first night in Istanbul. This time, they shared the same room.

THE NEXT MORNING, Austin caught a cab to the Bosphorus archaeological dig and walked down a makeshift wooden ramp that had been set up for wheelbarrow traffic. He wove his way past the hundreds of workers who were hacking away at the exposed sea bottom with picks and shovels.

Hanley knelt in the hardened mud, examining pieces of broken pottery. The archaeologist got to his feet and extended a mud-caked hand.