The Navigator (30 page)

Carina had a sad look in her eyes. She gave the statue a kiss on both cheeks. She patted the bronze forehead and got back into the skiff. Back on the boat, Austin asked Mustapha the depth of the water in the cove. The Turk said it was around fifty to sixty feet deep.

Austin and Zavala rowed back to the launch platform and, bracing their backs, shoved the statue with their feet. The statue teetered on the edge. One final push sent it over the side. The
Navigator
plunged into the depths, as if eager to return to the sea, and quickly disappeared from sight.

THOUSANDS OF MILES FROM Turkish waters, the
Navigator
’s twin rotated slowly on a circular pedestal about a foot high, shimmering like an angry god under the battery of lights that bathed its bronze skin in a polarized glow.

A ghostly white, three-dimensional X-ray image of the
Navigator
pivoted on a large wall screen. Arrays of electronic probes surrounded the ancient statue.

Three men sat in leather chairs facing the screen. Baltazar was enthroned in the center. At his right was Dr. Morris Gray, an expert in the use of computed tomography. On Baltazar’s left was Dr. John Defoe, an authority in Phoenician history and art. Both scientists had been absorbed into Baltazar’s corporate empire with the expectation that the statue eventually would be found.

Gray aimed his laser pointer at the screen. “The X-ray technique we’re using here is similar to the CT scans employed in hospitals,” he said. “We take photographic slices of the object. The computer renders the photos into a 3-D image.”

Baltazar was slouched in his chair, his thick fingers entwined, his gaze fixed on the pale image projected against a dark blue background. He had waited for this moment for years.

“And what does your magic lantern tell us, Dr. Gray?” he rumbled.

Gray smiled slightly. He moved the laser’s red dot to a display panel, one of several that ran from top to bottom along the right side of the monitor.

“Each box shows information taken from the probes. This displays the statue’s metal composition. The bronze is the standard ninety percent copper and ten percent tin. The other boxes deal with thickness, tensile strength, as well as information that’s not pertinent.”

“What are those dark areas on the statue?” Baltazar asked.

“The statue was made with the lost wax process,” Defoe said. “The artist made a clay form, which was encased in wax, then clay again. The X-ray shows the channels and vents that were drilled in the outer shell to allow wax and gas to escape and molten metal to be poured in. The statue was fabricated in pieces, so we’re also looking at rivet points and hammer marks.”

“All very interesting,” Baltazar said. “But what is inside the statue?”

“The X-ray shows nothing behind the bronze exterior except for a hollow space,” Gray answered.

“What about the exterior?”

“A lot more promising.” Gray produced a slim remote control from his suit jacket and pointed it at the screen. The ghostly figure disappeared. Filling the screen was a close-up of the statue’s face. “I’ll let Dr. Defoe deal with this area.”

Defoe squinted at the screen through round-framed glasses. “The damage makes it difficult to gauge the subject’s age, but, judging from the muscular body, he is probably in his twenties.”

“Forever young,” Baltazar observed in a rare poetic moment.

“The conical hat is similar to that we see in pictures and sculptures of Phoenician sailors. The beard and hair have me puzzled. The way they are layered denotes someone of upper-class Phoenician society, yet he is garbed in the kilt and sandals of a simple sailor.”

“Go on,” Baltazar said. There was no discernible change in his expression despite his growing excitement.

The image morphed into a close-up view of the pendant around the
Navigator
’s neck. “This pendant replicates a Phoenician coin design,” Defoe said. “The horse is the symbol for Phoenicia. The uprooted palm tree to its right denotes a colony. Here’s where things get intriguing.”

The red dot jumped to a semicircular space below the horse head and palm tree where there was a horizontal line of squiggles.

“Runes?” Baltazar said.

“That was the common assumption when figures like these were seen on the coins. However, none matched any known Phoenician script. The markings remained a puzzle for years. Then a geologist at Mount Holyoke College named Mark McMenamin came up with a startling new theory. He submitted the symbols to computer enhancement, which I will do here.”

The symbols on the screen became sharper and more defined.

“This pattern looks familiar,” Baltazar said.

“Perhaps this will help.” The shapes on the screen were set off by familiar continental outlines.

Baltazar leaned forward. “Incredible. They’re continents!”

“That was McMenamin’s conclusion. As a geologist, he recognized the landmasses for what they are. You can make out the rectangular shape of the Iberian Peninsula projecting down at an angle from Europe, which with North Africa encloses the Mediterranean. That’s Asia off to the right. Those smaller symbols west of Europe could be the British Isles. North America is the landmass on the left. South America seems to be missing or absorbed into the northern continent. Computer enhancement can be subject to different interpretations. But if McMenamin is right, this pendant indicates the range and scope of Phoenician colonies.”

“A bloody map of the world,” Baltazar said with a grin.

“Not just
any
map of the world. The gold coins I mentioned were minted around 300 B.C. The bronze in this statue is about three thousand years old, making this the oldest world map we know of. More important, it indicates travel to the New World as early as 900 B.C., when the statue was made.”

Baltazar felt a rush of blood through his veins.

“I want to take a closer look at North America,” he said.

The enlarged symbol that appeared on the screen looked like an obese saguaro cactus. A pair of thick arms were upraised from a wide trunk.

Baltazar snorted. “You must admit that it takes a stretch of the imagination to see that amorphous blob as the North American continent.”

“Maybe this will help,” Defoe said. An outline of North America was superimposed over the symbol. “The trunk becomes the main continent. That’s Alaska off on the left and Newfoundland on the right.”

“Any evidence of trade routes between the Eastern and Western Hemispheres?”

“Not specifically. But that shouldn’t come as any surprise given the Phoenician penchant for secrecy, and the fact that ocean routes consisted of astronomical readings that could be committed to memory. But if we look at the compass in the statue’s hand,” he said with a flick of the remote, “we can deduce that east–west, west–east trade routes are suggested. The position of the statue relative to the north point of the compass rose indicates that he is looking toward the west.”

“Toward the Americas,” Baltazar said.

“Correct.”

“Can you pinpoint a landfall?”

Defoe shook his head. “This statue is the equivalent of the world maps you see in the airline magazines. Informative, but in no way useful to an airplane pilot.”

“They would have needed a more detailed chart when close to shore,” Baltazar pointed out.

“That’s right. Maps had limited value at sea. They would have needed a coastal pilot that showed the location of prominent points, so the travelers could check position. Directions rather than distance become paramount close to shore.”

“Is there any evidence of a coastal pilot?”

Defoe shook his head. “I have found nothing that denotes navigational positioning. I did find something else, however.”

The screen image changed once more. “This symbol was etched repeatedly in the sash that held up the sailor’s kilt.”

“It looks something like a boat,” Baltazar said. “Rough depictions of the bow and stern.”

“The symbol looked familiar to me. I remembered seeing it in a book by Anthony Saxon. He’s an amateur archaeologist and explorer who’s come up with some outlandish theories.”

“I
know
who Mr. Saxon is,” Baltazar said, in a tone that dripped with icicles.

“Saxon is a self-promoting showman, but he’s been around. He says this is the symbol for a ship of Tarshish. He’s found examples in both the Americas and the Middle East, thereby establishing a link between the two regions.”

“I’m not interested in half-baked theories put forth by fools,” Baltazar said. “Tell me if anything on this statue pinpoints a North American landfall.”

“The answer is yes and no.”

Baltazar glowered. “I’m a busy man, Dr. Defoe. I’m paying you a great deal for your expertise. Don’t waste my time with riddles.”

Defoe became uncomfortably aware of the menace behind Baltazar’s smooth veneer. “Sorry,” he said. “I’ll show you what I mean.” He clicked the remote and the screen displayed a faint network of curving lines. “We think this is a topographical map.”

“Where on the statue did you find it?”

The camera lens drew back to reveal the cat that formed part of the statue’s base.

“You’re telling me the information I want was written on the side of a
cat
?”

“It’s not really that far-fetched. The Egyptians regarded felines as sacred, and the Phoenicians drew upon Egypt for their religious themes.”

“What did your computer enhancement show?”

“This
is
the computer enhancement.”

“I see nothing.”

“It’s the best we could do. The surface was worn away for the most part except for a small area which you see here. We’ll include what we’ve found in the final report, but, for all intents and purposes, any information engraved in the metal is gone forever.”

“I’ll have to concur,” Dr. Gray said. “No technology on earth can re-create that which is no longer there.”

If not here, elsewhere, Baltazar thought.

“This lost wax process you mentioned. Could it be used to create a duplicate of this statue?”

“It would be no trouble if the sculptor used the indirect process, which forms the wax around a finely defined core.”

Baltazar stared at the useless image on the screen, and then he rose from his seat. “Thank you, gentlemen. My valet will show you the door.”

After the two men had been ushered out, Baltazar paced back and forth in front of the statue. He brooded about the time and money he had spent to acquire this useless piece of metal. The frozen grin seemed to mock him. Benoir had told him that Carina was going to Turkey to find a replica of the statue. He had ordered his men to intercept her. He was not a man who left things to chance. At the same time, he assumed possession of the original statue would give him an edge.

His dark thoughts were cut short by the chirping of his telephone. The call was from Istanbul. He listened to the caller describe the failed attack. He told the caller that his orders still stood and slammed the phone down.

Austin had more lives than a cat.

Cat.

He glared at the bronze feline at the foot of the statue. He lifted his eyes and saw, in his imagination, not the damaged features of an ancient Phoenician but Austin’s face.

Baltazar went over to a mace that was hanging on the wall with other deadly instruments from medieval days. He removed the mace from its rack and let the spiked ball swing at the end of its chain. Then he stepped between the camera stanchions, raised the handle above his shoulder, and swung.

The ball arched down at the end of its chain, slammed into the statue, and bounced off. The impact produced a sound like an off-key gong. A human being on the receiving end of the murderous weapon would have been reduced to a bloody pulp. The ball had made multiple dents in the statue’s chest, but the serene smile still lingered.

Uttering a mighty curse, Baltazar tossed the mace aside, stalked from the room, and slammed the door behind him.

THE TROUTS WALKED BRISKLY PAST the line of tourists queuing up for a guided tour, turned down a side street, and headed away from the hustle-bustle around Independence Hall and toward the American Philosophical Library, a two-story brick building facing a quiet park.

Angela Worth was at her workstation in the corner of a reading room. She looked up and raised an eyebrow. The striking couple approaching her desk did not seem like the usual researchers.

The man was several inches over six feet tall, dressed in razor-creased khakis and a blue-green linen blazer over a pale green shirt. A color-coordinated bow tie adorned his neck. The tall woman at his side could have stepped out of the pages of
Vogue
by way of a triathlon. The olive-colored silk pants suit rippled around her athletic body, and she seemed to flow rather than walk.

The woman stopped in front of Angela’s desk and extended her hand.

“Ms. Worth? My name is Gamay Morgan-Trout. This is my husband, Paul.” She smiled, showing the slight space between her front teeth that didn’t diminish her attractiveness.

Angela realized she was slack-jawed. She regained her poise and stood to shake hands.

“You’re the people from NUMA who called yesterday.”

“That’s right,” Paul said. “Thanks for seeing us. Hope it’s not an imposition.”

“Not at all. How may I help you?”

“We understand you were the one who discovered the long-lost Jefferson file,” Gamay said.

“That’s right. How did you hear about it?”

“The State Department contacted NUMA after the NSA deciphered the file.”

Angela had tried to reach her friend at the NSA cryptographic museum. Deeg hadn’t returned her call.

“Did you say the
State
Department?”

“That’s right,” Gamay said.

“I don’t understand. Why would they be interested?”

“Do you have any idea of what was in the file?” Gamay said.

“I tried to decipher the material. I’m only an amateur. I gave it to a friend at the NSA. What’s going on?”

The Trouts exchanged glances.