Clive Cussler: The Navigator

He got out of the car and went inside the hut, where he punched the button that would open the double cast-iron gates.

As he stepped out of the guardhouse, Austin heard the sound of motors. A convoy of black SUVs was speeding toward the gate. He drove through the open gates, stopped the car, and went back into the guardhouse. Then he closed the gates, picked up a heavy chair, and hammered the controls with the chair leg until they were useless.

The convoy was less than an eighth of a mile away.

Austin climbed a tree and crawled out onto a thick branch that extended over the fence. He dropped to the ground, knocking the wind out of his lungs, but quickly recovered. He scrambled back into the Bentley and mashed the accelerator in a jackrabbit start.

He was speeding along an open road flanked by green pastures and agricultural fields. Farm silos rose in the distance. No one was on his tail. He glanced at the cloudless blue sky, and it occurred to him that Baltazar might have access to a helicopter.

The bright red car would make an easy target from the air.

He turned onto a narrow lane. The closely grown trees on either side formed a thick canopy that shielded the car from above.

He noticed a car pulled over onto the shoulder. A man in a dark suit was leaning against the fender, and he looked up from the map as the red car blasted his way. As Austin flew by, he caught a fleeting glance of the man’s face. He hit the brakes, put the car into a fast backup, and slammed to a reverse stop.

“Hello, Flagg.” Austin said.

The CIA man looked out of place in his dark suit and tie. When he saw Austin, a half-moon grin crossed his face. His heavy-lidded eyes took in the Bentley and Austin’s mail jacket.

“Fancy wheels. NUMA must be paying you big bucks. Suit’s nice too.”

“They’re not mine,” Austin said. “I borrowed them from Baltazar. What are you doing here?”

“I found out Baltazar’s got a place around here. I was nosing around.”

Austin jerked his thumb to the rear. “It’s back there a few miles. Where are we?”

“Upstate New York. What about your lady friend?”

“I couldn’t get to Carina. How fast can you line up some muscle?”

“Police might be faster.”

“The local gendarmerie wouldn’t stand a chance against Baltazar’s mercenaries.”

Flagg nodded and pulled a phone out of an inside pocket. He punched in a number and talked for a few minutes before hanging up. “Got a ‘go’ team coming out of Langley. They’ll be here in two hours.”

“Two hours !” Austin said. “It might as well be two years.”

“Best they can do,” Flagg said with a shrug. “How many bad guys you say there were?”

“About three dozen, counting Baltazar.”

“Odds are about right for a couple of tough old company men,” Flagg said. He opened the door to his car and reached under the seat to pull out a Glock 9mm pistol, which he handed to Austin. “This is a spare.” He patted his chest. “I’m already carrying.”

Austin remembered that Flagg was a walking arsenal.

“Thanks,” Austin said, taking the weapon. “Hop in.”

Flagg slid into the passenger side of the Bentley.

“Damnit, Austin,” Flagg said. “I had forgotten until now how boring my life had become since you left the company.”

Austin levered the gearshift into low and put the car into a tight U-turn.

“Hold on to your hat,” he said over the squeal of spinning tires. “Life is about to become very interesting.”

Chapter 49

“SHOULDN’T THEY BE UP BY NOW?” Saxon said, sounding a note of concern.

“Don’t worry. They’re both experienced divers,” Trout said.

He and Saxon sat in the rubber raft near the marker buoy. Trout was more worried than he let on. He had glanced at his wristwatch a few minutes before Saxon spoke. Gamay and Zavala were pushing their air supply to the limit, especially if they needed decompression stops. Dire scenarios materialized in his imagination. He could picture the divers lost or their tanks entangled in the unknown passages below the hotel.

Trout had been staring at a blue heron skimming over the lake when he saw a disturbance on the surface.

He pointed at the mounding bubbles. “They’re up !”

He grabbed his paddle and told Saxon to do the same. They dug in and were only a few yards from the first head to break the surface. Gamay. Zavala surfaced seconds later.

Gamay inflated her buoyancy regulator and floated on her back. She pulled the regulator mouthpiece from between her teeth and took gulps of fresh air. Trout tossed a rope to his wife.

“Hey, beautiful, how about a ride?” he said.

“That’s the best offer I’ve heard all day,” Gamay said in a weary voice.

Zavala hitched onto the line behind Gamay. Trout and Saxon towed the two tired divers into shallow water. The divers removed their tanks and fins and slogged onto shore. They dropped their weight belts, climbed to the edge of the grassy banking, and sat down to rest.

Saxon hauled the raft onto shore. Trout opened a cooler and passed around cold bottles of water. He was unable to contain his curiosity. “Don’t keep us in suspense. Did you find King Solomon’s mine?”

A faint smile came to Zavala’s lips. “He’s your husband,” he said to Gamay. “Maybe you should break the bad news.”

Gamay sighed. “Someone beat us to it.”

“Gold prospectors?” Trout said.

“Not exactly,” Zavala said. He got to his feet and retrieved the carrying bag from the beached raft. He pulled out the pewter box, which he handed to Trout. “We found this in the mine.”

Paul’s eyes blinked rapidly as he stared with speechless disbelief at the name embossed on the lid. He handed the box to Saxon.

Saxon was less restrained. “Thomas Jefferson!” he burst out. “How can that be?”

Gamay slipped a small knife out of a leg sheath and gave it to Saxon. “Why don’t you do us the honors?”

Despite his excitement, Saxon exercised extreme care as he picked away at the rusted fastener. The lid had been sealed with wax, but it opened easily. He gazed into the box for a few seconds, and then lifted out two soft squares of vellum, wrapped in stiff waxed paper and marked with lines and Xs and tightly written script. He put the squares together where their ragged edges matched.

“It’s the rest of the Phoenician map,” he whispered. “It shows the river and bay.”

Gamay took the vellum from Saxon’s trembling hands and studied the markings without comment before passing them to her husband.

“The plot thickens,” she said.

“ This plot is as thick as clam chowder,” Trout said with a shake of his head. “Where exactly did you find this stuff?”

Gamay described their dive into the cave and down the shaft. Zavala picked up the narrative, laying out their exploration of the cave tunnels and the chamber where the box rested on a stone platform.

Saxon had recovered from his shock and put his mind to work again.

“Fascinating,” Saxon said. “Any indication of gold?”

“Nothing that we could see,” Gamay said.

Saxon’s eyes narrowed. “Either there was gold and you didn’t see it or the mine had been played out and abandoned.”

“In either case, how does what they found fit in with the stories of King Solomon’s fabled gold mine?” Trout said. “Is this Ophir or not?”

“Yes and no,” Saxon said. He chuckled at Trout’s puzzled expression. “Some people believe Ophir was not a specific location, but the name given to several different sources of the king’s gold. This may have been one of his mines.”

Gamay stared out at the placid surface of the lake. “What better place to hide something than an abandoned mine with nothing of value in it?”