The Explorer's Code (51 page)

Sinclair had been a big brother, mentor, and friend—even a father figure,
in a way. Who knew how deep the emotional bonds were? My God, he loved him.

Charles had a sudden image of Sinclair throwing back his head and laughing. He thought about Sinclair lounging on a yacht, joking about some thing or other. But that wasn’t the real Sinclair. Charles had another image of Sinclair standing in his dig in Ephesus, covered in dust, looking up and smiling as he approached. How many times had that happened? More times than Charles could count. And for Charles that was the image that pierced his soul with sadness.

The device said :30 seconds. The moment had taken on a totally surreal quality. For Frost and Sinclair, only a few more seconds until death.
For eternity
.

Now, more than anything, it was important to hold on to the image of Cordelia. He wanted to cherish it until the very last second of consciousness. His last thought. As Sinclair conjured up and sorted through all his mental images of her, he came up with his favorite—Delia sitting on his couch in Ephesus, curled up with Kyrie, reading the journal. He had lived an entire lifetime since they met in Monaco. The gala. Her blue dress. Holding the award. Walking on the deck of the ship. Reading the journal together. What a waste. It was over.

Sinclair looked at Thaddeus Frost. His face was gray. Sinclair realized that Frost would “die trying,” as the cliché went. His hand holding the screwdriver was steady, but his eyes were frantic.

Sinclair stared down at the device. Relentlessly the numbers continued their reverse progression of seconds, :19, :18, :17 . . . Suddenly the red numbers blinked twice, followed by—And the device went dead.
He had done it!!

Frost looked up, his eyes deeply shadowed. Sweat ran down his temple. Although he looked at Sinclair, he didn’t appear to see him. He had a faraway stare. Finally his eyes focused on Sinclair, squatting on the floor next to him.

“Thanks for staying.” Frost’s mouth quivered with the effort of speaking.

Sinclair looked back at him with nothing less than awe.

“It was the least I could do,” said Sinclair sincerely.

Frost closed his eyes and slumped back against the shelf, exhausted.

T
he lawn of Cliffmere had never looked this green. It was late fall, and Cordelia sat out under the oak tree with a cashmere throw over her knees. She had an approved grant proposal on her lap for a joint venture by the Oceanographic Institute of Monaco and the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution. The paperwork was not urgent, as the project would not start until the spring. That was fine with her. She wanted some time off. After all that had happened. After all that had
not
happened.

Was it only two months ago she had seen him in London? It seemed longer. But the details were etched in her mind.

The London office of Bristol and Overton had exuded the gravitas of a century of documents, signed, sealed, delivered, notarized, and executed, and whatever else they did to documents in London. Cordelia had signed over the deed. Funny how it had turned up in the journal after all. Not the journal she had been reading, but the one Sinclair found at the museum. It had been tucked in there by the curator for safekeeping.

Jim Gardiner and Sinclair had watched Cordelia sign over the land deed. Gardiner had been weak as he sat in his wheelchair. He was still quite sick. But he was getting stronger now, and they said with physical therapy he might walk normally in another six months. No permanent damage, they had explained, but recovery would take time. It was lovely of Paul Oakley to take such an interest in Gardiner’s recovery. They were becoming quite a couple, with their daily walks though the park—Jim in a wheelchair, Oakley pushing him along.

Cordelia was glad to sell the land to the Bio-Diversity Trust. They had insisted on paying market rate. It was more money than she could ever spend in a lifetime. Thaddeus Frost would run the seed vault for real, as
he should. After all, he had nearly died protecting it. The trust was a nonprofit organization, not affiliated with any government. Norway had been reasonable about the land, and the Americans didn’t fight with them. Only the Russian government was annoyed. But, thankfully, the Russian mob was out of it now.

Cordelia had tried not to think about Sinclair. But she kept seeing him standing in the lawyer’s office at the deed signing, dressed in the navy blue suit that made him look so tall and handsome. When he left, he had kissed her on the cheek. He smelled of sunlight and herbal lemon verbena cologne. The touch of his lips to her cheek seemed formal, but tender at the same time. She felt the kiss on her skin long after he left. Just after he kissed her, he had promised to call. That was two months ago.

Of course, Charles had come to Cliffmere. He had promised, and sure enough, he had arrived, with his dashing clothes and his impeccable manners. She had watched him talking to Tom and Marian Skye Russell and was so grateful he was there, even though he had come alone.

And then, when she and Charles had sat together in the study, Sinclair had been in both their thoughts. How was he? she had asked. Fine, working in Ephesus. After that, Charles didn’t mention him and neither did she. But they were both conscious of
not
saying his name. They were
both
suffering.

Sinclair was gone. That was all she knew. Charles wouldn’t speak of it. Out of loyalty. To her
and
to Sinclair. In the end, Charles had bent over and kissed her hand tenderly.

“Cordelia, we all need some time.”

That was all he had said.

And now she sat on the lawn, unwilling to go back to California and the Alvin to resume her old life. She couldn’t even face London and her town house. All she wanted to do was to stay at Cliffmere until spring. Family. She needed family. And Tom and Marian were there for her, insisting she stay. Sinclair was in her thoughts every day, all day. She clung to him, but never spoke of him aloud. Neither did Tom and Marian. She would go to Monaco in the spring. Yes, she would go to Monaco in the spring, and maybe Sinclair would be there.

S
inclair stood at the edge of his terrace and looked out over the dry landscape of Turkey. Kyrie was pressed against his leg. She had been keeping close since he came home. The dog sensed that something had changed in him the minute he walked through the door. Svalbard had changed him. Charles had always said, “A dog knows the truth.”

Charles. He missed him. They hadn’t spoken about that day in the vault. They would. He was sure someday they would, but it was too soon. Charles had visited only once, to beg him to call Cordelia. He had walked through the streets of Ephesus looking for him.

Sinclair had been glad to see Charles. He had climbed up from his excavation, and they had sat together on the warm marble slabs of the ruins and talked. It had felt normal until Cordelia’s name came up. Charles had seen her. At first Charles had been polite, but underneath Sinclair could see he was angry.

How was she doing? Not all that well, Charles had explained. There was unspoken accusation at first. Sure, Sinclair knew he should not have disappeared like that after the deed signing. But wasn’t that the honorable thing to do? Of course he loved her, he had explained. But he had done so much wrong, had put her in such danger. He had missed all the warning signs, and only by the grace of God had he managed to preserve her life. Only a few minutes later and she would have been dead. He couldn’t forgive himself. He couldn’t promise to love and protect when he knew he had failed her so miserably. She deserved better. She certainly deserved a man better than he.

Charles had replied in an angry tirade, and didn’t hold back. He called Sinclair a fool and a stubborn egotist. Harsh words, but Sinclair could tell
he meant well. He knew that Charles was trying to goad him into action. In the end, Charles had left angry and disappointed. They hadn’t talked much since, only for business.

Sinclair heaved a sigh and reached to touch the dog’s head. It was time to make something to eat. Another day alone. It was almost unbearable.

Sinclair walked into the stone house high above Ephesus, looked around the simple room, and thought instantly about Cordelia. He looked at the couch where she had curled up reading the journal. It was the last memory, the one he had chosen.

He walked around the empty room aimlessly. Was there never to be any peace for him? He walked to the front window and looked out at the empty courtyard. The sun was baking the earth and it was nearly noon.

Sinclair looked down. The evil-eye amulet he had bought her in Ku
ş
adas
1
was on the writing desk. He picked it up and held it in his hand. Weeks ago, he had sent it out to the jeweler to have the chain repaired, and now it just sat on his writing desk, day after day.

He reached for his cell phone. He didn’t consciously make the decision, and even now he hardly realized what he was doing. It just happened.

He closed his eyes. Malik picked up on the other end.

“Malik, it’s Sinclair. I need to get a charter flight. Yes, this afternoon. Leaving for London.”

“Yes sir, is there anything else?”

“Yes, I am going to need a hired car when I get to London. I need to drive to the countryside.”

“Yes sir. I will pick you up in half an hour?”

“Yes,” said Sinclair. “Yes, I’ll be ready.”

Sinclair walked to his armoire to pack some clothes. On the way he turned on the stereo. The house was filled with the haunting music of Arcangelo Corelli’s
La Follia.

I
would like to express heartfelt thanks to all who have supported and encouraged me in this endeavor. My deepest gratitude goes to Maurice Tempelsman, who provided humor, inspiration, and advice through every phase of this project. Thanks also to my lovely sons, William and Beau Croxton, who have faith in all my new undertakings no matter how ambitious or adventurous. Additional gratitude to my family for their support—Nan, Susan, Campion, and Ted Overbagh. The talented Tempelsman family for their encouragement—Marcy, Leon, Cathy, Julian, Audrey, and Marina. The awe-inspiring women of the Speisman family: Rena, Haley, Tara, and Brittany.

Much appreciation to those who read or discussed drafts of the book and made valuable suggestions, including: Nan Overbagh, Philippa Holland, Cathy Tempelsman, Jenny Rider, Marin Strmecki, Tom and Marian Cooper, Roman Pipko, Tristan Mabry, Marie Amaral, Peter Tedeschi, and Ben and Maria Batsch. And special thanks to my wonderful, supportive colleagues at CNN who cheered me on, as well as innumerable friends who encouraged me in my writing career.

Thanks to my agent, Mort Janklow, for faith in my ability to establish a career as a fiction writer after twenty-five years in the news business. This book would never have come to print without the exceptional team at Scribner: Roz Lippel, for incredible patience and guidance during the stresses of a debut novel; Kara Watson, for insightful suggestions on original drafts; as well as the dedication and support of art director Rex Bonomelli and copyeditor Katie Rizzo.

The visual team Carol Seitz and Kim Wayman for the author photograph.
William Croxton for his invaluable contribution to still photography and video.

The scientific and technical details of this book are as true to life as possible. Any departure from what is scientifically possible stems from my own invention and the demands of a fictitious plotline. Many people helped contribute to accuracy, including the wonderful scientists at the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution, including Dr. Susan K. Avery, president and director of WHOI; senior scientist Dr. Susan E. Humphris, for helping me envision the character Cordelia and also for invaluable help with the details about the Alvin submersible; Jane Neumann and all the WHOI marine scientists who took the time to answer my questions and provide inspiration for the book. Thanks also to Dr. Max Essex of Harvard University School of Public Health for his insight in helping me with the intricacies of the 1918 pandemic and influenza viruses, and for advice on what might be possible, or not possible, in terms of plot. Also my deep appreciation goes to the New Bedford Whaling Museum for their curatorial advice about the original Bradford folio. And last, thanks to Cary Fowler of the Global Crop Diversity Trust for insight into the Svalbard Global Seed Vault.