Austin came out with two chilled glasses of Prosecco. They drank the sparkling Italian wine with an antipasto of Prosciutto di Parma over honeydew melon. Austin excused himself and came back with plates of fettucine with cream-and-butter sauce. Carina almost swooned when he blanketed the dishes with shaved white truffles.
“Dear God! Where did you find truffles like this in the U.S.?”
“I didn’t. A NUMA colleague has been going back and forth to Italy.”
Carina devoured the fettuccine, along with the secondi course, a sautéed veal chop, and a mushroom-and-cheese salad, again with white truffles. They polished off the bottle of wine. She didn’t slow down until she came to dolce, or dessert. As she dug into a dish of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia, she said, “This is magnifico,” for about the tenth time during the meal. “You have added master chef to your array of accomplishments.”
“Grazie,” Austin said. He had been amazed at Carina’s gusto but not unpleased. A hearty passion for food often revealed appetite in other areas. They finished off the meal with small frosted glasses of limoncello liquor.
As they clinked glasses in toast, Austin said, “You never told me how you came to be babysitting an old statue on its journey to America.”
“It’s a long story.”
“I have time, as well as another bottle of limoncello.”
She laughed softly and stared out at the river to collect her thoughts. “I was born in Siena. My father, a doctor, was an amateur archaeologist who was fascinated with the Etruscans.”
“Understandable. The Etruscans were a mysterious people.”
“Unfortunately, their art was in great demand. As a girl, I saw a site that had been plundered by tombaroli, tomb robbers. There was an arm of pure marble lying in the ground. Later, I went to the University of Milan, then to the London School of Economics, and drifted into journalism. My interest in antiquities was revived by research I did for a magazine article on the role of museums and dealers in art theft. The image of that marble arm stuck with me. I joined UNESCO and became an investigator. Stealing a country’s history is one of the worst things someone could do. I wanted to take looting face on.”
“That’s a pretty tall order.”
“As I quickly found out. The trade in illegal antiquities ranks third in international monetary terms behind drug smuggling and weapons sales. The UN has tried to discourage the trade through treaties and resolutions, but the challenges are formidable. It would be impossible to stop the sale of every cylinder seal or tablet.”
“You’ve evidently had great success.”
“I work with a number of international agencies such as Interpol and governments trying to track down certain high-profile items, mainly through dealers, auction houses, and museums.”
“Is that what brought you to Iraq?”
She nodded. “Weeks before the invasion, we heard rumors that crooked dealers were in touch with the unscrupulous international art dealers and diplomats. They were taking orders for specific artifacts. The thieves were in place, ready to move in as soon as the Republican Guard moved out of the museum.”
“Where did the Navigator figure in all this?”
“I didn’t even know it existed. It was not on the list of artifacts that I tried to recover through an unsavory dealer named Ali. He was murdered, which is no loss to the world, but he knew where the objects were. I left the country after hearing a warning that I was going to be kidnapped as a hostage. Not long after that I was contacted by the Baltazar Foundation.”
“That’s the organization that is sponsoring your tour?”
“Mr. Baltazar is a wealthy man who was appalled at the Iraq looting. I met him for the first time at the reception last night. His foundation provided the funds to keep after the artifacts that had eluded me in Baghdad. Not long ago, an Egyptian source said the Iraqi objects were on sale in Cairo. I flew to Egypt and bought the cache. The Navigator was part of the deal.”
“What do you know about the statue?”
“It must have been taken from the museum at the same time as the other loot. Professor Nassir, the director of the museum, remembered the statue as being stored in the basement. He considered it a curiosity.”
“In what way?”
“It appears to be a Phoenician sailor, but it’s carrying a compass. I’m told there is no evidence that the Phoenicians had the compass.”
“That’s right. The Chinese get credit for the compass.”
“Professor Nassir figured it might have been a copy of the type of trade goods that the Phoenicians sold. Sort of like the classic statues that are sold as souvenirs in Egypt or Greece.”
“Did your professor friend know where the statue was found?”
“It came from a Hittite site excavation around BlackMountain in southeastern Syria back in the 1970s. It found its way to Baghdad where its authenticity came into question. I’ve talked to a National Geographic photographer who was on the site.”
“Strange that it would suddenly be of interest to thieves, and later to hijackers, after sitting in a museum basement all that time.”
“Only a few people ever knew about it, which was why I was so surprised when Mr. Saxon mentioned it to me at the Iraqi embassy reception.”
Austin’s ears perked up at the name. “Not Anthony Saxon?”
“Yes. He seemed quite knowledgeable about the statue. Do you know him?”
“I’ve read his books and attended a lecture he gave. He’s an adventurer and writer with an unconventional views of history not accepted by mainstream scientists.”
“Could he have had anything to do with the hijacking?”
“I can’t picture it. But it would be worth learning why he is so interested in the statue. I’d be interested in meeting the Navigator myself.”
“I’m inviting a select few to view the statue. It’s at a Smithsonian warehouse in Maryland. Would you like to come tomorrow morning?”
“Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.”
She drained the last of her limoncello. “This has been a wonderful evening.”
“I think I hear a ‘but’ in your voice.”
She laughed. “Sorry. I’d love to stay, but I have much work to do on the tour.”
“I’m completely heartbroken, but I understand. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
A thought seemed to occur to her. “I’m going to try to set up a meeting with the National Geographic photographer. He lives in Virginia. Would you like to go along?”
“I’m officially on sick leave, but a ride in the country would do wonders for the healing process.”
She rose from the chair. “Thank you so much, Kurt. For everything.”
“My pleasure, Carina.” He walked outside to her car. Austin expected to receive the customary European buss on both cheeks, which was what happened. But she also gave him a warm and lingering kiss on the lips. She tossed a smile over her shoulder, got in the car, and drove off.
Austin had a funny smile on his face as he watched the car tail-lights disappear down the driveway. Then he went back into the house and went out on the deck to clear away the glasses. He extinguished the lamps, and happened to glance toward the river. A figure was silhouetted against the reflection of the night sky on the rippling water. He knew every inch of the riverbank and was sure he was not looking at a tree or a bush.
He whistled a tune and carried the glasses back into the house. He set the tray aside and went over to a locked cabinet where he kept his Bowen. The flat-topped customized Colt single-action revolver was one of several Bowen models that he collected, in addition to his dueling pistols.
He loaded the gun, grabbed a flashlight, and descended from his living-room study to the first level, where he kept his racing scull and smaller hydroplane. He slid the door aside on well-oiled rollers and stepped out onto the boat ramp.
He let his eyes become accustomed to the darkness, and made his way along the foundation of his house, moving across the lawn where Zavala had f
ound him trying out his new dueling pistols. He stopped and stared at the space between two large trees. The figure had disappeared. He decided against a search on his own and crept back into the house and up the stairs, where he called the police and reported a prowler.
The police car showed up exactly eight minutes later. Two officers knocked on his door. He and the policemen made a thorough search of the area around the house. Austin found a shoe print in the mud near the river, which helped convince the police that he wasn’t seeing things. They said they would check back later than night.
Austin made sure the doors of the house were locked and the burglar alarm was on. Rather than sleep in his turret bedroom, he stayed fully dressed and stretched out on the living-room sofa. He was sure that whoever had been watching his house had left. But he kept his Bowen close by his side.
NUMA 7 - The Navigator
Chapter 20
THE NEXT MORNING Austin arose early and threw on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. Slipping into a pair of sandals, he made his way to the river’s edge and knelt next to the muddy heel mark. The footprint was still faintly visible. He measured the outline next to his own foot. Big man.
Austin stood for a minute deep in thought, squinting at the silver sheen of sunlight on the Potomac. There was little he could do now; the peeping Big Foot was long gone. He shrugged and headed back to the boathouse. Austin might not have been so complaisant if he had glanced above his head and seen a compact transceiver with a whisker-thin antenna that was attached to the branch of an oak tree.
Austin took a quick shower and changed into slacks and a polo shirt. He filled a travel mug with the Jamaican coffee he favored, slipped behind the wheel of a turquoise Jeep Cherokee from the NUMA motor pool, and headed toward the Maryland suburbs.
He arrived at the Smithsonian Institution’s complex of warehouses a half hour earlier than Carina had asked him to come. He wanted time alone with the statue that had caused so much commotion. The security guard at the door checked his name against a clipboard list and waved him into the corrugated-metal building. Running the length of the building’s interior were rows of shelves neatly stacked with labeled cardboard cartons that held overflow from the Smithsonian’s massive collections.
A slender man was fiddling with a camera mounted on a tripod that stood next to a bronze statue. The photographer looked up from the viewfinder and frowned.
Austin extended his hand. “Anthony Saxon, I presume.”
Saxon hiked a bushy eyebrow. “Have we met?”
“My name is Kurt Austin. I’m with NUMA. I attended your lecture on lost cities a couple of years ago at the Explorers Club. I recognized you from the jacket of your last book, Quest for the Queen.”
Saxon’s frown vanished and he reached out and shook Austin’s hand like a pump handle.
“Kurt Austin. You found Christopher Columbus. I’m honored to meet you.”
Austin hedged his reply. “I was part of a team effort that found old Chris taking a nap.”
“Nevertheless, your discovery of the Columbus mummy on a Phoenician ship in a Mayan tomb established the scientific base for pre-Columbian contact in the New World.”
“Many people still don’t accept it as fact.”
“They are Philistines! I used your find as a foundation for my theories. What did you think of my book?”
“Entertaining and informative. The concepts are highly original.”
Saxon snorted. “When people call my work original, they’re often saying that it’s nutty. They compare my stuff to those books that brought UFOs, cow mutilations, and space aliens into the debate.”
“I didn’t think the book was nutty at all. Your theory that the Phoenicians came across the Pacific, as well as the Western Hemisphere, was fascinating. When you stirred the Queen of Sheba into the mix, it was bound to cause controversy. You made a strong case that she is the key that will unlock the ancient puzzle of Ophir.”
“The queen has her dainty little prints over centuries of historical record. I’ve been following her trail for years.”
“It wouldn’t be the first case of cherchez la femme. Too bad an accidental fire destroyed your Phoenician ship replica before you could prove your theory.”
Anger flashed in Saxon’s eyes. “That was no accident,” he said.
“I don’t understand.”
“It was arson. But that’s the past.” His charming smile returned. “I’ve scratched the idea of a Pacific crossing. Too costly and complicated. I’m trying to pull together a more modest expedition. I’d like to sail a vessel from Lebanon to the Americas and back by way of Spain, like the old ships of Tarshish might have done.”
“I’d hardly call a two-way transatlantic crossing modest, but good luck.”
“Thanks. What brings you here?”
Austin nodded at the statue. “Miss Mechadi invited me to stop by and see this gentleman. And you?”
“I heard through my sources at the Smithsonian that the old boy was in town. Thought I’d say hello.”
Judging from the elaborate camera setup, Saxon’s interest in the statue apparently was more than casual. Austin touched the Navigator’s metal arm. “Miss Mechadi said you were quite knowledgeable about the statue. How old is he?”
Saxon turned to the Navigator. “More than two thousand years old.”
Austin gazed with curiosity at the dark green statue that had almost cost the lives of hundreds of people. The figure was nearly six feet tall, standing with his sandaled left foot slightly forward. It was wearing an intricately embroidered kilt tied at the top by a wide sash. An animal skin was draped over the right shoulder. Hair hung down in rows from under a conical hat. The smile on the bearded face had an almost Buddha-like peacefulness. The eyes were half closed.
The right hand held a boxlike object at waist height. The left hand was held high, slightly clenched, like Hamlet contemplating Yorick’s skull. A skinny, small-headed cat curled around the legs. The artist had cleverly used the animal’s legs to give the statue added stability.
“If I hadn’t been told this was Phoenician,” Austin said, “I’d be hard put to identify any specific culture or period.”
“That’s because Phoenician art doesn’t have any particular style. They were too busy trading to create great works of art. The Phoenicians produced goods made to sell, so they imitated the art of their market countries. The statue’s posture is Egyptian. The head is Syrian, almost Oriental in style. The natural way the folds of his kilt fall is borrowed from the Greeks. The size is unusual. Phoenician bronzes tend to be small.”
“The tabby is an unusual touch.”
“The Phoenicians brought cats on board ship to catch rats and to use as trade items. They preferred orange-striped tomcats.”
Austin examined the boxlike object in the statue’s right hand. It was about six inches across. A circular section on the top was recessed about a half inch. An eight-point star was etched into the circle. One point was larger than the rest. A thick line, pointed at both ends, crossed from one side of the star to the other.
Saxon noticed the intense expression on Austin’s face. “Interesting, eh?”
“Carina mentioned the compass paradox. The Chinese supposedly invented the compass hundreds of years after the heyday of Phoenician trade.”
“That’s the common perception. What do you think?”
“I’d keep an open mind,” Austin said. “The Phoenician empire stretched along the shores of the Mediterranean and beyond. They would have needed constant contact with their colonies. They had to cross long open stretches of water. From Tyre to the western end of the Mediterranean is more than two thousand miles. That presumes an unparalleled skill at navigation, good charts, and nautical instruments.”
“Bravo! I have no doubt that these inquisitive, clever people knew the peculiar properties of the lodestone. They had the technical expertise to mount a magnetized needle on a wind star like this. Voilà! A compass.”
“Then the st
atue is authentic?”
Saxon nodded. “I’d guess that it was made around 850 B.C., when the Phoenician empire was at its highest peak.”
“The compass needle seems to be pointing east and west.”
Saxon raised an eyebrow. “What else do you see?”
Austin studied the bronze face. The nose looked as if it had encountered the business end of a sledgehammer. Except for the damage, it was a reasonably good likeness of a young man, with a layered beard. What Austin thought at first was a smile might actually be a grimace. The eyes were tightened in a squint. Austin stood behind the statue and studied the upraised hand.
“I think he’s looking into the sun, as if he were navigating with a cross-staff.”
Saxon chuckled. “You’re downright frightening, my friend.”
The camera lens was pointing at the statue’s midsection, where a motif was repeated in the sash. Repeated throughout the design was a horizontal line, with a Z facing inward at each end.
“This mark was in your book.”
Austin was intent on the detail and failed to see the startled expression on Saxon’s face. “That’s right. I believe it symbolizes a ship of Tarshish.”
“You found similar motifs in South America and the Holy Land.”
A furtive expression flickered in Saxon’s gray eyes. “My detractors say it’s coincidence.”
“They’re Philistines,” Austin said.
Austin inspected the circular medallion hanging from the figure’s neck. Engraved in the medallion were a horse head and a palm tree, with its roots exposed. “This was in your book. The horse and the palm tree.”
“The horse was the symbol of Phoenicia and the tree symbolized a planted colony.”
Austin ran his fingers like someone reading Braille over several raised lumps under the palm tree. A female voice rang out, cutting his unspoken question short.