Clive Cussler - The Navigator

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 Navigator was 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 you learn of the wreck?”

Austin told Saxon about the duplicate Navigator in 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.

Chapter 40

BALTAZAR’S VALET MADE HIS WAY along the dark-paneled corridor and stopped at a thick oak door. Balancing a tray on one hand, he knocked softly. No one answered. His lips parted in a faint smile. He knew Carina was in the room because he had carried her unconscious body there from the helicopter.

The valet dug a key out of his pocket, unlocked the door, and pushed it open.

Carina was standing across the threshold, her face contorted in a mask of fury. She clutched the heavy brass base of a shadeless table lamp in two hands as if it was a war club. She had been prepared to crown the first person she saw. She hadn’t expected someone holding a fine china teapot and cup on tray.

Without lowering the lamp, she demanded: “Who undressed me?”

The valet said, “A female member of the house staff. Your clothes were being washed. Mr. Baltazar felt you would be more comfortable wearing something clean in the meantime.”

“You can tell Mr. Baltazar that I want my clothes back right away.”

“You can tell him yourself,” the valet said. “He’s waiting for you in the garden. No hurry, he says. Come when you feel up to it. May I set this tray down?”

Carina glared at the man, but she stepped aside and let him into the bedroom. He put the tray down on an end table. Keeping his eye on the lamp, he backed out of the room, leaving the door open.

Carina had awakened minutes before to find herself in a strange bed. She remembered the sweet smell in the back of the taxi. She had thrown the covers off and discovered she was clad only in her underwear. She searched around the luxurious bedroom for her clothes. All she found, hanging in a closet, was a long white cotton shift with a scoop neck.

Holding the shift in her hand, she had glanced around. Except for the bars on the windows, the chamber was like a bedroom in a fine hotel. She went over to a window and was looking out at a manicured lawn when she heard the knock. She had thrown the shift on and grabbed the lamp.

After the valet left, she stepped out into the corridor and watched him disappear down another corridor. She went back into the bedroom and slammed the door behind her. Her hands were trembling with tension. She set the lamp down, settled into a plush chair, and began to cry.

The inner anger that had given her the courage to prepare for an assault on the valet had ebbed. She wiped her eyes and went into the bathroom, where she washed her face and combed her disheveled hair. She took a deep gulp of tea, stepped out into the corridor, and followed in the valet’s footsteps to a set of open patio doors. She stepped out into brilliant sunshine and looked around. She was in a courtyard garden. Water bubbled in a fountain whose centerpiece was a nude woman surrounded by naked cherubs. But her eyes went to Baltazar, who was clipping flowers from one of the beds that ringed the fountain.