The Explorer's Code (13 page)

The phone on Paul Oakley’s desk rang only once before he reached for it. It had been a hell of a day. First the motor accident, and now the tissue samples were missing. He had called this morning right after the accident and Global Delivery Express told him it was fine, someone had signed for them. When he got to the office they weren’t there. But that was hogwash. The courier had clearly lost them. Oakley had put out a blast e-mail to everyone in the building, asking for his lost package. No luck.

Global Delivery Express was sorry.
Sorry
. Not as sorry as he was. That package was deadly! They kept promising to check the tracking number. There was no way to decipher the illegible electronic signature on the driver’s hand-carried device. Maddeningly they kept asking for his receipt number. Oakley had explained repeatedly that he did not
have
a receipt because he had
not signed
for the package.

“Paul Oakley,” he said, picking up the phone. He listened for three horrifying
moments before answering tersely, “I’ll be right there. I’m about five minutes away.”

Oakley grabbed his jacket and raced to the back entrance of the parking lot. A patient at the Royal London Hospital was showing severe flu-like symptoms. The Health Protection Agency thought it might be avian flu. Paul Oakley knew more about avian flu than anyone else in England. Avian flu was lethal in more than 50 percent of the cases. It was tantamount to a death sentence. But so was another virus, and that was what he was worried about. The symptoms of avian flu looked identical to the symptoms of the flu of 1918.

Paul Oakley looked through the double-thick glass at the man under the oxygen tent in the ICU. He was being held in a private self-contained negative-pressure room in the Royal London Hospital. There were no drapes and it had only minimal equipment: one bed, one chair, one bedside table, a hamper for discarded linen, a garbage bin for contaminated equipment. Outside the room was a table that held personal protective gear for the staff entering the room: N95 respirators, goggles, face shields, hairnets, gowns, protective gloves, and protective scrubs. Going in and out required an entire change of clothes and extensive scrubbing.

Oakley could see through the glass that death was hovering. It could be hours or days, depending on the man’s resistance and the virus he was fighting.

“Who is he?” Oakley asked the doctor from the Health Protection Agency.

“We don’t know. No wallet. He just walked in and collapsed. One of the nurses thought he was speaking Russian. Or some kind of Eastern European language.”

Oakley shook his head, looking at the charts. It was very much the kind of symptoms he would expect—high fever of 105 degrees and extreme respiratory distress. He needed test results to be sure, but it didn’t look good. Oakley was nearly paralyzed with a horrifying thought.

“We cleared the floor,” the doctor was saying. “Lucky for us the SARS scare put this hospital on the map. They have two infection-control practitioners who monitor this operation at all times. It’s impressive.”

“Great,” said Oakley.

“We may have to evacuate all the other patients. I am afraid of nosocomial transmissions—other people in the hospital being infected,” explained Oakley. “So I ordered the droplet precautions in all clinical areas and airborne precautions in the unit.”

The staff was now using N95 respirators, which covered mouth and nose, to protect against splatters of fluids: blood, respiratory secretions, vomit, or any other bodily secretions.

Oakley surveyed the ventilation specs. The room met a standard contagion-control requirement of six air changes per hour, upgraded recently after the swine flu scare. The engineering department routinely tested the negative-pressure status of the unit and reported to the hospital administration. An external company conducted regular assessments of the air circulation within the room.

“Did you call World Health?”

“Yes, they’re all over it.”

“Good,” said Oakley. He felt sick. What had happened to his package? And what had happened to this poor soul who seemed to be dying of the very virus he had been expecting just this morning in a courier box?

J
ohn Sinclair handed a ten-euro note to the valet and slid his lanky frame into the Audi R8. He was feeling restless.

He ran his hand over the steering wheel and it was like meeting an old friend. He missed driving this car, but there was no use abusing such a beautiful machine in the dusty ruts of Ephesus. His motorcycle was enough for the dig.

But he truly loved gorgeous cars. Sinclair had always been attracted less to flash than to performance. He found that on the test track the R8 had performed better than the Lamborghini Gallardo and the Aston Martin DB9. He turned the car out of the courtyard of the Belle Epoque hotel, past the royal palms along the driveway, and out onto the streets of Monaco.

In the old section of Monaco, the narrow alleys were crowded with the late-afternoon tourists. He steered carefully around them as they crossed back and forth to the souvenir shops. When he was clear of the roads of Monaco Ville, he opened up and floored it, following the signs toward Nice. For a moment, he thought about taking the Moyenne Corniche straight to Eze, but he wanted the challenge of driving the long route along the coast.

He needed to think. Sinclair had a quick memory of Cordelia sitting in the seat next to him, crossing and uncrossing those fabulous legs as they drove to Cap Ferrat. He frowned remembering the Ferrari following them. Who was that? And what did they want? There was no doubt in his mind they had been trailing him.

Sinclair pressed Start on the Bang & Olufsen sound system. The voice of Bizet’s
Carmen
grabbed his heart and squeezed.
“Si tu ne m’aime pas . . .
je t’aime. Mais si je t’aime . . . prends garde à toi!”
He thought about the line: “If you don’t love me . . . I love you. But if I love you . . . you’d best beware!”

You can say that again, sister.
He followed the serpentine route along the coast to Eze sur Mer. He turned off the main route and headed straight up the side of the mountain. He boosted the opera louder and hunkered down for the challenge, driving the switchback fast enough to push his skill.

He loved this network of roads along the coast, trimmed with narrow stone walls, at each turn a sheer drop-off on the other side. A plunge off the cliffs was usually fatal. It didn’t matter who you were. God rest poor Princess Grace.

He tangoed the car back and forth up the mountain through a few hundred turns. Don’t think, just drive. Carmen egged him on in her seductive voice. About twenty minutes later, he was at the summit.

Built into the cliffside, the village of Eze was a medieval fortress, with high stone ramparts and narrow streets. Sinclair parked and started walking up the steep cobblestones of the village. He turned right through a twisting alleyway. Then, next to the glass shop, there was an ancient portal. Through it was the lobby of the Château de la Chèvre d’Or, one of the most beautiful hotels on the Riviera. He walked out to the terrace.

The view was stunning. The full panoply of the Mediterranean spread below: Cap Ferrat, Cap d’Antibes, and the Gulf of Saint Tropez. And his timing was perfect. It was what photographers call the “magic hour,” when late-afternoon sun casts a golden glow.

“Monsieur Sinclair, we haven’t seen you in quite some time.”

“
Bonjour,
Guillaume. How about that table by the railing? I’m alone today.”

Sinclair looked around. There were only a few other diners on the terrace—by the affluent look of them, Americans, probably, from the luxury cruise ships.

“
À votre service.
What can we offer you today?”

“I’ll have your porcini mushroom ravioli and a green salad. And that incredible white wine we had last time, chilled.”

“Very good, monsieur.”

Sinclair sat and looked in the direction of Saint Jean Cap Ferrat. Good time to think. No pressure of conversation.

Finally he snapped open his cell phone and dialed his office in Ephesus. The voice mail kicked in. His assistant would get the message tomorrow.

“Malik, it’s Sinclair. I’m going to be away a couple more days. I’m thinking of taking a ship back instead of flying. Can you tell Karl? Oh, and give my love to Kyrie, and tell her I will be home soon.”

Guillaume was shaving white truffle over his ravioli. The dusky scent blended with the fragrant Mediterranean air. He felt his appetite rise. Damn, it was good to be alive. The waiter withdrew.

Sinclair took a sip of wine and thought of the lyrics again.

“If you don’t love me . . . I love you. But if I love you . . . you’d best beware!”

Both diesel engines on the
Udachny
were rumbling as Evgeny stood on the foredeck. The yacht’s stern lines had been cast off the dock, and the
passer-elle
was up. His crew stood on the deck, anxious and attentive, as they cast off the Mediterranean-style mooring. The boats were lined perpendicular to the dock, stern to, with the anchor chains extending out into the port, which made pulling out a delicate operation. As the windlass reeled in the anchor, the captain held his breath and prayed to Neptune that the anchor chains would not get tangled with those of the neighboring boats. If that happened, the only solution was for a diver to go down and untangle them.

Evgeny watched the seventy-one-meter yacht float free of the dock. Slowly it slid forward into the harbor, with the crew carefully manning inflated fenders along the railing to avoid colliding with yachts on either side.

Evgeny’s crew were terrified of him. He fired his people regularly, to keep his movements secret. No one had any real knowledge of his operations.

He was headed roughly in the same direction as the
Queen Victoria
except he’d continue on to Cyprus. Half the Russian mob based their financial and banking operations there. Officials never even raised an eyebrow when Evgeny’s yacht came in.

Evgeny looked at the trademark black hull and red funnel of the majestic
Queen Victoria
as they passed it to starboard on the way out of the harbor. The ship would leave at 5:00 p.m. that night with Cordelia Stapleton on board, carrying her precious journal in her luggage. Vlad, Anna, Bob, and Marlene should be in their staterooms by now. It was one of the strangest teams he had ever assembled for a job. But it was going
to work: the Americans were there to befriend her; Vlad and Anna were there to do the tough stuff, if necessary. Of course, they were all in it for the money. There would be plenty to go around. But Evgeny was thinking of giving the Americans less. After all, who could they complain to? They had five days to get her to talk.

Nothing like a nice relaxing ship to make friends and spill the beans. Cordelia was alone, and she’d open up pretty quickly to friendly strangers. Especially Bob and Marlene. Mom and Pop types who could cozy up to the girl. She was an orphan, probably susceptible to that type of thing. It just might work. By the time the
Queen Victoria
reached Turkey, they should know enough about the deed to find it. Either that or Miss Stapleton would have to deal with a lot rougher stuff than a cruise on a luxury liner.

Bob and Marlene looked as if they were hosting a cocktail party in their suite on deck 7 of the
Queen Victoria
. Marlene held her flute of champagne, and was choosing a morsel from a plate of canapés. Bob sat stolidly with both feet planted on the floor. His plaid Ralph Lauren shirt pulled tight at the buttons over his vast stomach. From time to time he took a long swill of champagne, bumping his nose with the flute. Champagne clearly wasn’t his usual libation.

Vlad and Anna sat on the couch across from them, wearing miserably pained expressions. On the low table, the hot appetizers and the cheese tray went untouched. The champagne in their glasses was going flat. From time to time they looked out the glass doors to the private balcony as if gauging a route for escape.

The ship was about to move. The ship’s horns had just bellowed, and soon the
Queen Victoria
would glide out of the harbor. Outside in the corridors, they could hear a lot of thumping as the luggage was delivered and guests found their staterooms.

“Are y’all going to attend the lady oceanographer’s lecture this afternoon?” asked Bob.

Vlad and Anna exchanged glances as if it were a trick question.

“
We
are,” said Marlene encouragingly.

“I thought I would check the seating for dinner. We’ve requested that she be seated with us,” Vlad answered.

“She’s traveling alone?” asked Bob.

“Yes, I checked her stateroom. It’s a suite just down the corridor. She’s by herself,” said Vlad.

“Good. We don’t want anyone near her, screwing this up,” said Bob, and he took another gulp of champagne.

Quite a few people were already seated in the Queens Room when Cordelia walked in. The ballroom swayed slightly; the long curtains waltzed at the windows, and Cordelia could see the ocean streaming past as the ship moved. The Mediterranean Sea was churned into a froth by the bow. As she walked to the podium, she noticed the placard:

CUNARD PROUDLY PRESENTS
DR. CORDELIA STAPLETON
GREAT-GREAT-GRANDDAUGHTER OF FAMOUS EXPLORER
ELLIOTT STAPLETON
CELEBRATED OCEANOGRAPHER
WOODS HOLE OCEANOGRAPHIC INSTITUTION
“THE SEAS, OUR MOST PRECIOUS RESOURCE.”

A uniformed Cunard steward stepped forward.

“Miss Stapleton, thank you for being so prompt.”

Cordelia shook her hand.

“It took me a minute to find this room. I kept getting lost.”

“It is a big ship,” the steward agreed.

“It’s huge. And it’s so
luxurious
! I am not used to this. Chandeliers, carpets, paintings, a casino! Nothing like our exploration ships, that’s for sure.”

“I hope you enjoy it.”

“I
love
it. I can’t wait to see the rest!” Cordelia exclaimed.