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 is hot!”
“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.
Douglas could have been excused if the hand holding the pages shook slightly.
The potential for chaos in today’s world was far greater than Jefferson could ever have dreamed of.
NUMA 7 - The Navigator
Chapter 19
AUSTIN SAT IN HIS STUDY hunting the sea marauders who had hijacked the containership. The magic carpet that carried him over the virtual sea was a satellite-imaging system operated by NUMA. Dubbed NUMASat, the sophisticated system had been developed by the agency’s scientists and technicians to provide instantaneous pictures of the world’s oceans. Satellites circled four hundred miles above the earth in orbits that allowed their cameras and other remote-sensing equipment to transmit information from any point on the globe.
The satellites transmitted optical or infrared pictures of water surface temperature, currents, phytoplankton, chlorophyll, cloud cover, meteorological and other vital data. The system was available free of charge to anyone with a computer, and was heavily used by scientists and nonscientists around the world.
Austin was sitting in front of a twenty-four-inch-wide computer monitor. He was casually dressed in a Hawaiian shirt, shorts, and sandals. He washed down a couple of aspirin with a beer and punched ENTER on his keyboard. A satellite image of the rugged Newfoundland coast materialized on the screen.
“Okay, Joe,” he said into his speakerphone. “I’m looking at St. John’s and points east.”
“Gotcha.” Zavala had the same image on a computer screen in his NUMA office. “I’ll zoom in.”
A shimmering bluish white rectangle popped up on Austin’s screen, superimposing itself on a section of Atlantic Ocean. Zavala expanded the size of the square. Tiny black specks appeared. The specks grew in size an
d began to assume the long, slim shape of ships. The time and date in the upper-left-hand corner of the screen indicated that the picture had been taken several days before.
“How close can you go?” Austin said.
“Pick a target.”
Austin clicked his computer cursor on a blip. The camera seemed to rush at the target. Hundreds of flopping fish filled the screen. Then the camera pulled back to show a fish hold and a deck covered with the booms and winches of an oceangoing fishing boat.
“Impressive,” Austin said.
“Yeager used Max to pump some hormones into NUMASat’s normal search function. He says it can tell you the color of a sand flea’s eyes.”
Hiram Yeager was NUMA’s resident computer genius and director of the vast computer complex he called Max, which occupied the entire tenth floor of NUMA’s green-glass-faced tower overlooking the Potomac River.
“Their eyes are blue,” Austin said.
“Really?”
“Kidding. But the resolution is better than anything I’ve seen.”
“Before Yeager beefed up the system, the best we could get was one yard square in black and white and four yards in color. He’s got it down to one yard square in color,” Zavala said. “What you’re seeing on the screen has been enhanced by information coming in from other satellites and military and intelligence systems.”
“All done legally and according to Hoyle,” Austin said with a wry smile.
“Mostly. Yeager considers it tit-for-tat, because the military relies so heavily on NUMASat. They’ve worked out a deal to blank out images when military operations are under way. I told him I didn’t want to know, and he said that was fine with him.”
“We’re in no position to criticize,” Austin said. The Special Assignments Team sometimes operated under the radar of traditional government oversight. “Have you located our friendly ore carrier?” Austin said.
“Watch!” Zavala said.
The image slowly zoomed out. The ships again were displayed as specks. Zavala outlined a target within a rectangle. Austin clicked the computer mouse. The image of a huge ship filled the screen. Austin leaned forward.
“Definitely the ore carrier we saw from the chopper,” he said. “There’s that weird bull’s-head logo on the hull.”
“I ran a check on the ship. It belongs to an outfit named PeaceCo. Their website describes them as peace-and-stability consultants.”
Austin chuckled. “That’s the new jargon for mercenaries.”
“They’re up front about the ship’s conversion from an ore carrier. They advertise it as a mobile-force platform. They claim they can have airborne forces on the ground anywhere in the world within forty-eight hours. The ship is guaranteed to arrive with the full unit within twenty-one days.”
“Who’s behind PeaceCo?”
“Hard to tell. They’ve got a roster of retired American and British military people on their board. The ownership is hidden behind layers of shell corporations in several countries of registration. I’ve got Yeager working to unravel that mess too.”
“Sounds like a lead, but what we need is a smoking gun.”
“Hell, Kurt, we’ve got a fully loaded howitzer! I’ve run a sequential album from the archives, starting shortly before the hijacking. These shots were taken at intervals, so they don’t cover every minute.”
Images flickered on the screen in a jerky stop-action mode, like pictures in a nickelodeon. Figures were moving around a cargo hatch. The cover slid back until the hold was revealed as a dark square. A platform rose from the ship’s innards of the hold like the elevator on an aircraft carrier. Two helicopters could be seen parked side by side on the platform. Men got into the helicopters and the choppers took off.
“Who says time travel is impossible?” Austin said. “That nails down our launch.”
“Next I’ll show you the containership.”
The image changed to show the deck of the Ocean Adventure. The choppers appeared as if by magic atop the containers. Figures streamed out of the aircraft. There was little change for several frames until the satellite showed one helicopter hovering above a foaming circle in the ocean where its companion had gone down. Zavala jumped back to the ore carrier. A single helicopter returned to land on the platform. Figures got out of the helicopter, it was lowered back into the ship, and the cargo hold cover slid back over the opening. One of the figures, who was taller than the others, could have been the man who shot Austin, but his back was to the camera.
“That nails it,” Austin said. “Where’s the ship now?”
“The maritime schedules I checked have her leaving New York a few days before the hijacking, supposedly on her way to Spain. She did a funny little loop around the time of the hijacking, then kept on heading across the Atlantic. I can turn this stuff over to the Coast Guard with a flick of a switch.”
“Tempting,” Austin said. “She’s in international waters, and even if the Coast Guard jumped in now at best we’d snag only the little guys. I want the brains behind the hijacking scheme.”
“I’ll keep sniffing around. How are you feeling, by the way?”
“A little stiff, but the incident taught me a good lesson.”
“That you should avoid men with guns?”
“Naw. That I should move faster. Keep me posted if you turn up anything before you leave for Istanbul.” Austin heard a knocking.” Got to go. Someone’s at the door.”
“Having company?”
“The very best kind. Ciao.”
The Italian connection dawned on Zavala. “Ciao? Hey—”
“Buona notte, Joe,” Austin said. He was chuckling as he hung up and went to open the front door.
CARINA MECHADI was waiting on the steps. She lifted the wine bottle in her hand. “I believe I have a dinner reservation for tonight.”
“Your table is ready and waiting, Signorina Mechadi.”
“You said casual. I hope I’m dressed for the occasion.”
Carina was wearing jeans with flowers stitched on them and a sleeveless blouse of turquoise. Her outfit emphasized her feminine curves in the most flattering way possible.
“A queen could not be more fashionably attired,” Austin said.
“Thank you,” Carina purred. She appraised Austin with equally appreciative eyes. He was wearing white shorts that emphasized his tanned, muscular legs, and his wide shoulders strained against a flowered silk shirt. “And you look quite smashing in that shirt.”
“Thanks. Elvis Presley wore the same design in the movie Blue Hawaii. Come right in.”
Carina stepped into the house, and her eyes took in the comfortable, Colonial-style dark wood furniture that was set off by white walls hung with original paintings by the local artists Austin liked to collect. There were some antique ocean charts and shipbuilding tools, a photo of Austin’s sailboat, and a scale model of his racing hydroplane.
“I thought I would see old anchors and stuffed swordfish hanging on the walls. Maybe an old diving helmet or ship models in bottles.”
Austin roared with laughter. “I used to drink margaritas in a Key West divers’ bar that fits that description.”
“You know what I mean,” Carina said with a smile. “You work for the world’s foremost oceanographic agency. I expected more evidence of your love of the sea.”
“I’ll guess that your place in Paris has little in it that would indicate to a stranger what your job is.”
“I have a few reproductions of classic artworks, but the rest is quite traditional.” She paused. “I get your point. It’s healthy to have some space from your work.”
“I’m not ready to move to Kansas, but the sea is a demanding mistress. That’s why the old ship captains usually built their houses inland.”
“Nevertheless, this is quite lovely.”
“It wouldn’t qualify for a photo spread in Architectural Digest, but it’s a great landside retreat for an old sea dog in between assignments. This building was a fixer-upper when I boug
ht it, but it was it was riverfront property, and close to Langley.”
Carina picked up on the Langley connection. “You were in the CIA?”
“Underwater intelligence stuff. Mostly, spying on the Russians. We closed shop when the Cold War ended, and I went over to NUMA, where I work as an engineer.”
Despite Austin’s denial, his affinity to the sea was subtly evident in the wall shelves filled with the sea adventures of Joseph Conrad and Herman Melville. There were dozens of books on ocean science and history. The most hand-worn volumes were on philosophy. She pulled out a well-thumbed book.
“Aristotle. Pretty heavy reading,” she said.
“Studying the great philosophers supplies me with profound quotes that make me seem smarter than I am.”
“There is more here than bons mots. These books have been much read.”
“You’re very observant. I’ll use a maritime analogy. The wisdom in those pages keeps me anchored when I’m drifting into ambiguous waters.”
Carina thought about the contrast between Austin’s warmth and the way he had coldly dispatched her attacker. She replaced the book on the shelf. “But there is nothing ambiguous about the pistols over the fireplace.”
“You’ve exposed my weakness for collecting. I’ve got around two hundred braces of dueling pistols, most stored in a fireproof vault. I’m fascinated by their history as well as the art and technology that went into them. I’m intrigued by what they say about the role of luck in our fates.”
“Are you a fatalist?”
“I’m a realist. I know I can’t always make my own luck.” He smiled. “But I can make your dinner. You must be hungry.”
“Even if I weren’t, the wonderful fragrances coming from your kitchen would make me believe I’m famished.” She handed over the bottle of wine.
“A Barolo,” Austin said. “I’ll open it and let the wine breathe. We’re dining al fresco.”
While Austin went to uncork the wine, Carina wandered out onto the deck. The table was lit with oil lamps whose colored glass lent a festive appearance to the setting. Lights sparkled along the Potomac, and there was the slightly rank, but not unpleasant, smell of the river. Austin put on a recording from his extensive jazz collection, and the soft piano notes of an Oscar Peterson number floated from a couple of Bose speakers.