The Explorer's Code (26 page)

No one was there to see any of it. If they had, they would have noticed that the Turkish farmers had the pale skin of Anglo-Saxons, tinged with pink sunburn after only a few days in Turkey. Frost walked back into the courtyard and looked at the twin tracks Vlad’s heels had made in the dirt as he dragged him toward the road. He scuffed the marks away, vaulted over the stone wall, and was gone.

Sinclair’s phone rang just as the woman was packing the goat cheese into the paper bag.

“Sinclair,” he answered, expecting Charles to be on the other line.

“Go back to the house now,” said Frost. “We caught somebody outside. It’s fine, we got him in time, but you need to get back there.”

Sinclair grabbed the bag from the woman at the farm stand, thanking her in Turkish, and ran toward his motorcycle. Five minutes away was too much. As he drove, he found himself wishing he had taken Malik up on that gun.
When Sinclair pulled into the courtyard, Cordelia was pacing the veranda of the house. She ran out to meet him.

“What’s wrong?” His heart was pounding.

“John, I found something!”

He surveyed the courtyard. Kyrie was wagging her tail. Cordelia was grinning now. Everything was fine. He quelled his panic and forced himself to smile.

“I found a reference to the deed.” Cordelia was beside herself with excitement and grabbed his hand. “Come look.”

“Great,” he said, taking off his helmet. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

They read the journal together.

S
EPTEMBER
13, 1908

G
LORIOUS DAY.
T
HE EXPEDITION TO
S
PITSBERGEN HAS BEEN COMPLETELY FINANCED AND OUTFITTING HAS BEGUN.
A
LL IS READY TO GO AS SCHEDULED.
T
HE
M
AY 1909 DEPARTURE DATE FROM
T
ROMSØ IS FIRM.
B
ECAUSE
I
WILL BE ON THIS EXPEDITION FOR AT LEAST EIGHT TO TEN MONTHS,
I
MUST PUT THE DEED IN A SAFE PLACE.
T
HERE HAS BEEN TOO MUCH CONTENTION OVER THE LAND, AND
I
DARE NOT RISK LOSING THIS DOCUMENT.
I
WILL BRING IT TO
JSR. A
S HE IS LEAVING FOR THE
M
IDDLE
E
AST,
JSR
MAY AGREE TO ENTRUST IT TO
B
RADFORD—IS AS GOOD A CHOICE AS ANY FOR SAFEKEEPING.

“What do you think?” asked Cordelia.

“It seems like his partner, James Skye Russell, would have ‘entrusted it to Bradford,’ “ said Sinclair. He put the bag of groceries down on the counter.

“I wonder who Bradford is?” said Cordelia.

“Maybe Mr. Bradford was his lawyer, or a business associate. Would
your
lawyer have any idea?”

“Jim might know. He’s been looking through all the family papers.”

“My cell phone is there on the writing desk. Call him. But before you do that, let’s talk lunch. How does lamb shish kebab with okra and onions and rice pilaf sound?”

“John Sinclair, are you trying to impress me?”

“No, darling, just feed you,” he said. “I’ll impress you later,” he added, and winked at her, starting toward the kitchen.

They were just finishing up lunch when Sinclair’s cell phone rang. He picked it up quickly, on alert.

“Sinclair.” He relaxed when he heard the voice. “Sure, she is right here,” he said. “Let me get her for you.” He handed the phone to Cordelia. “It’s your lawyer.”

“Hello, Jim. Yes, I am fine. I’m at John Sinclair’s house in Turkey.” She rolled her eyes at Sinclair. “Yes. Yes. I’ll tell you all about it when I see you in London. Did you find anything about someone called Bradford? Oh. That’s too bad. Well, we’ll keep reading. See you on Monday. Right, four o’clock.” She hung up the phone.

“Jim says there is no mention of Bradford anywhere.”

“Then we will just have to go see the family of James Skye Russell. Where are they?”

“England. Just outside London. But, John, I don’t want to leave here yet.”

Sinclair kissed her on the top of her head.

“I’m afraid we can’t stay. We need to go, and soon.”

Kyrie was leaning against her legs, as if she knew this was good-bye. Cordelia patted the dog as she looked outside. It was so beautiful: the view from the stone veranda overlooking the hills, the coolness of the night, the taste of the wine, crisp and delicious, and the wonderful time in bed, learning about each other, memorizing what it was like to be held, caressed, and loved. Now it was over. She looked back into the house.

Sinclair was talking on the phone with Charles Bonnard, filling him in on their schedule. The van pulled up in the courtyard and Malik rolled down the window

“Good evening, lady. Hello, sir, your flight is at seven. We should go quickly.”

C
ordelia sat in the central dining room of Claridge’s, drinking tea and eating cucumber sandwiches. There were all kinds of pastries on the beautiful green-and-white-striped china, and Cordelia was examining them as Sinclair appeared.

“We’re all set,” Sinclair said, taking a seat and pouring himself a cup of tea. “We have a rental car and will drive out to Cliffmere tomorrow, first thing in the morning.”

Cordelia consulted her watch, dabbing her lips with a napkin.

“Quarter after three. After your tea, we’ll head out to meet Jim Gardiner at the house.”

“Where are we going?”

Cordelia looked up at Sinclair with a laugh.

“I have to check the address. Jim Gardiner says it’s nearby, but I’ve never been there.”

In the exclusive Mayfair district of London, Grosvenor Square was a luxurious green oasis with flower beds and wrought-iron benches. The park was filled with people walking their dogs, and nannies chatting as their infant charges slept in Silver Cross prams. Schoolchildren were riding bikes along the symmetrical paths. The day was balmy, and a half dozen office workers sat sunning themselves, unwilling to go back indoors.

Cordelia walked around, enchanted. Stately buildings rimmed the edge of the square. A brass plaque said Grosvenor Square was once called “Little America,” because the second American president, John Adams,
lived there in 1785. She noticed the American embassy at one end of the square, enormous and modern. The Canadian embassy flanked it at the other end. All around were town houses that had been preserved from the late Georgian era, with classical pilasters and pedimented doors and windows.

A few steps from the square proper, Cordelia found her new home, a solid testament to the affluence of Elliott Stapleton. It was a beautiful brick town house with white columns. The four-story building had a slate roof and multiple chimneys, and was silhouetted against the bright London sky.

“I can’t believe this is mine,” Cordelia said in awe as she crossed the street and walked toward it.

Sinclair looked the building up and down. “It’s a beauty.”

The door opened, and filling the doorframe was the form of Jim Gardiner.

“Delia! Welcome home,” he said with a big smile. “By God, it’s good to say that, honey.”

She flew up the steps to hug him.

Inside the town house there was a quiet elegance. The rooms were clear of clutter, and the beautiful heirloom furniture was showcased by subtle colors on the walls, opulent silk drapes, and the rich patina of parquet floors.

“I
love
it,” said Cordelia, looking around.

Jim Gardiner handed her a bulky envelope.

“Here are the keys. But you can’t stay here until next week. The police want you to keep clear until they finish the investigation of the break-in. We think somebody was looking for that deed.”

Cordelia took the keys and walked into the large dining room. A beautiful mahogany table was flanked by twelve Hepplewhite chairs. An antique silver bowl stood in the center of the table. Just visible through the heavy drapes was the traffic of Grosvenor Street and the park beyond.

Cordelia continued out into the foyer and started up the carved marble staircase, moving as if in a dream, quiet and thoughtful.

“I’m going to go upstairs to see the rest,” she called back.

Gardiner and Sinclair exchanged a look, as if to signal to each other not to follow. When she was out of earshot, Gardiner turned to Sinclair.

“I’m glad you are with Delia. Until we can get this mess cleared up, she really needs some looking after.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

“She doesn’t know this, but the break-in last month triggered Peter Stapleton’s heart attack. That’s how he died. He interrupted the intruder.”

“Oh, that changes the picture, doesn’t it?” said Sinclair.

“All the locks are new,” Gardiner assured him. “And the London police have the town house on surveillance.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll stay with her as long as she needs me,” he promised.

Paul Oakley was seated at his desk. The mail had piled up, and there were four research papers to be read, to say nothing of the Hong Kong findings on avian influenza to be written up. He had just settled down to work when the phone rang. It was one of his oldest friends in the world, Tom Skye Russell.

Not a day went by that he didn’t miss Tom. Sometimes he was halfway down the corridor to his office when he remembered that Tom had retired last year—packed his desk and gone off to run his estate, Cliffmere, north of London, near Oxford.

“Tom, nice to hear from you.”

“Paul, I tried to call you two weeks ago, but I guess you were traveling.”

“I just got back from Hong Kong. I’m working with the Chinese on avian flu,” said Oakley.

“I suppose you heard about Miles?”

Oakley could barely answer. He cleared his throat. “Awful, just
awful,
” he managed.

There was an uncomfortable pause on the other end of the line.

“Paul, I wanted to get back to you about your request to exhume the grave site on our property. I think I have all the red tape cleared.”

“That’s just great, Tom. That is fantastic. I really appreciate it.”

“If you think the tissue samples would be useful, I see no reason why we shouldn’t do it. It’s a family grave site, and I don’t think my great-grandfather would have minded. He was a man of science, after all.”

“I’m just hoping that the lead in the coffin is intact. If that seal is still solid, we have a very good chance of getting a viable sample.”

“Well, the permits are approved for next week, if that’s not too soon.”

“Oh, that’s excellent,” said Oakley. “I can’t thank you enough. I’ll be down to secure the area and talk to the local police. I work with a company called Necropolis. They’ll be doing the site survey. Should they call you directly?”

“Yes, certainly. Anytime is fine. I have a young American woman from
the States who is going to be visiting. But that won’t interfere with your work.”

“We’ll just keep to ourselves over by the chapel. You won’t even know we’re there.”

“Right. See you next week, then.”

Jim Gardiner and Sinclair were at the Coburg Bar in the Connaught Hotel drinking single malt and deep in conversation. Cordelia sat across from them, sipping her Campari and looking around the room. The décor was sophisticated yet cozy: gray green walls; deep velvet wingback chairs upholstered in shades of plum, gray, and persimmon; and flickering amber candles on each table. To think this place was just a few blocks from her new town house.

When the waitress came over, Sinclair and Gardiner stopped talking. She placed a bowl of hand-cut potato chips, a dish of green olives, and some spiced nuts on the low table. She dallied, fussing over the exact placement of the dishes and glancing sideways at Sinclair, looking him over. Sinclair ignored the woman, gazing out at the town houses of Carlos Place. Cordelia rolled her eyes at Gardiner, who pressed his lips together to hide a smile.

When the waitress left, they resumed their discussion. The jazz music drowned out their conversation to the rest of the room.

“The way I see it,” said Gardiner, “this deed
does
exist. Otherwise we would have had claims against the property. No one has legally contested the rights since Norway ceded them to Elliott Stapleton in 1906.”

“Why the big rush to claim it now?” asked Sinclair.

“I think the construction of the seed vault raised a hornet’s nest of competing interests.”

“Competing interests of the Norwegian government, the Russians, the Bio-Diversity Trust, and some old Russian miners,” Sinclair said, counting them off on his fingers. “Anyone else?”

“There is also a group called Citizens for World Survival. The Department of Homeland Security told me they’re some kind of domestic terrorist group, survivalists or some such thing,” said Gardiner.

“It seems to me Norway has a pretty good claim on it, if we can’t find that deed,” said Sinclair.

“Correct,” said Gardiner. “The land rights will revert to Norway if we can’t find that deed in a reasonable time.”

“Revert? Why?” Cordelia asked.

“The mine hasn’t been in operation for more than thirty years. Norway will try to argue that the land is not being used for its original purpose, which was commercial mining. Without the deed, they would say the land is ‘terra nullius,’ no-man’s-land, and under law it belongs to Norway.”

“What about the Russians?”

“They are doing a modern version of claim jumping by bringing up the historical rights of the Russian miners.”

“Would that fly in court?” cut in Sinclair.

“Probably not. But a private Russian company is offering ninety-seven point six million dollars for the land.”

“Ninety-seven point six million dollars!” Cordelia slumped back in her chair.

“Yup, you find that deed, you could just sell it to the Russians and walk away,” said Gardiner.

“Norway would contest it,” Sinclair pointed out.

“You bet they would, but it wouldn’t be her problem. She would be sitting pretty,” said Gardiner to Sinclair.

“What about donating it to the Bio-Diversity Trust?” asked Cordelia.

“You
could
do that,” agreed Gardiner. “But there is one problem.”