The Navigator (6 page)

The corporal grinned. He poked his head out the door and gave a wave. Several marines piled into the room and took up positions along the walls.

Ali held aside the grubby curtains, opened a metal door, and ushered Carina into a room bright with electric lights. A generator purred in another part of the building. Richly colored rugs covered the floor and walls. A television screen connected to an exterior security camera showed images of the street outside the building. The Humvee was clearly visible.

Ali gestured for Carina to take a seat on a platform piled with large velvet cushions. He offered her tea, which she refused. He poured a glass for himself.

“What brings you out for a visit in the middle of an invasion?”

She met his question with a hard gaze. “I came from the national museum. It’s been looted of thousands of antiquities.”

He lowered his glass in midsip. “That’s
outrageous
! The national museum is the heart and soul of Iraqi’s cultural heritage.”

Carina laughed out loud at Ali’s feigned shock. “You should have been an actor, Ali. You’d easily win an Academy Award on that line alone.”

Ali had learned his acting skills as a professional wrestler. He had even wrestled in the United States under the name of Ali Babbas.

“How could you
think
I’d be involved in a heist like that?” He still used some of the American slang he had picked up from his wrestling days.

“No antiquity of value moves in and out of Iraq without your connivance or knowledge.”

Ali had established a worldwide network of procurers, dealers, and collectors. He had cultivated the Saddam Hussein family, and was said to have acquired many objects for the collection of the psychopathic sons, Uday and Qusay.

“I only deal in
legal
objects. You can search the place if you want to.”

“You’re dishonest but not stupid, Ali. I’m not demanding the return of the minor artifacts. They’re useless for museum purposes without reliable provenance.” She drew a piece of paper from her pocket and handed it to Ali. “I want these objects. There’s an amnesty. No questions asked.”

He unfolded the paper with his thick fingers. His lips widened in a smile.

“I’m surprised you don’t have the Brooklyn Bridge on this list.”

“I already own it,” Carina said. “Well?”

He handed the paper back. “Can’t help you.”

Carina tucked it back in her pocket and rose from the cushion. “Okay.”

“Just
okay
? You’re disappointing me, signorina. I expected you to be your usual pit bull self.”

“I don’t have time. I have to go talk to the Americans.” She headed for the door.

He called after her. “The Americans will have their hands full trying to get the power and water back on.” Carina kept walking. “They left the museum unguarded. Do you think they care about a petty thief like me?”

She put her hand on the doorknob. “I think they’ll care a
great
deal when they learn of your ties to Saddam Hussein.”

“
Everyone
in Iraq had ties to Saddam,” Ali said with a guffaw. “I was careful to leave no record of my dealings.”

“That doesn’t matter. The Americans have had itchy trigger fingers since 9/11. I’d suggest that you vacate this building before they target it with one of their smart bombs.”

Ali vaulted from his cushion and lumbered over. The sneer had been replaced by an expression of alarm. He reached out for the paper. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Carina pulled the list out of reach. “I’ve raised the ante. Make your calls now. Don’t tell me that the phones are out. I know you have your own ways to communicate. I’ll wait while you call your people.”

Ali frowned and snatched the list from her hand. He went over and reached under his cushion and pulled out a portable radio. He made several calls, using innocuous language that didn’t betray their purpose. After the last call, he clicked off the radio and set it down on the tea table.

“You will have what you want within forty-eight hours.”

“Make it twenty-four hours,” Carina said. “I can find my way out.” She opened the door and flung a final taunt over her shoulder. “You should stock up on your supply of flashlight batteries.”

“What do you mean?”

“While the idiots you hired were floundering around in the dark getting their fingers burned, they missed thirty cabinets with the museum’s best cylinder seals and tens of thousands of gold and silver coins.
Ciao.
” She gave a light laugh and disappeared through the curtains.

As Ali slammed the door behind her, a rug hanging on the wall pushed aside and a man stepped through a doorway into the room.

He was tall and powerfully built. His cherubic face seemed out of place with his cruel physique, as if his close-shaven head had been attached to the wrong body. Although there was plenty of room for his features on the broad face, eyes, nose, and mouth were squeezed close together, creating an effect that was childlike and grotesque at the same time.

“A formidable woman,” said the man.

Ali spat his words out. “Carina Mechadi? She is nothing but a UNESCO busybody who thinks she can push me around.”

The stranger glanced up at the television monitor and smiled mischievously as he watched the Humvee drive off with Carina and the marines. “From what I heard, she did exactly that.”

“I survived Saddam and I can survive the Americans,” Ali said with a fierce grin.

The man shifted his gaze back to the Arab. “I trust your difficulties won’t endanger the matter we were discussing before she interrupted our negotiations.”

“Not exactly.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s been a glitch.”

The man moved closer until he loomed over the Iraqi. “What
sort
of glitch?”

“The
Navigator
has been sold to another buyer.”

“We ordered its removal from the museum, and paid you in advance. I came to Baghdad to close the deal.”

“A buyer has come forth with a higher bid. I’ll return your deposit. Perhaps I can persuade the buyer to part with the object, although the price is likely to be greater than the one we discussed.”

The man’s gaze seemed to drill through Ali’s skull, but he maintained his smile. “You wouldn’t be holding me up for more money?”

“If you don’t want to make a deal, tough.”

Ali was still fuming over his confrontation with Carina. His anger had dulled his street smarts; otherwise, he might have sensed the menace in the quiet tone when the man whispered, “I must have the statue.”

For the first time, Ali noticed the disproportionately large hands that dangled from long, powerful-looking arms.

“I was just giving you a hard time,” Ali said with a toothy smile. “Blame it on that Italian bitch. I’ll call the warehouse on my hand radio and have the statue sent over.”

He started toward the sitting area.

“Wait,” the man said. Ali froze in midstep. The man’s grin grew even wider as he picked up the pocket radio Ali had left on the table. “Is
this
what you’re looking for?”

Ali lunged toward the seating platform and slipped his hand under a cushion. His fingers closed on the grip of his Beretta and slipped the pistol out from its hiding place.

The man moved with the swiftness of a hunting cheetah. He tossed the radio aside, grabbed Ali under the chin from behind, and twisted his arm. The pistol dropped from Ali’s hand, his body bent backward like a horseshoe on an anvil.

“Tell me where to find the
Navigator
and I’ll let you go. If you don’t, I’ll snap your spine.”

Ali was a tough man but not a particularly courageous one. He needed only a few seconds of exquisite pain to convince him that no piece of art was worth his life. “Okay, okay, I’ll tell you,” he gasped. He spit out a location.

The man stopped twisting his arm. The pain eased up. Ali’s hand drifted down to the dagger in his ankle sheath. As soon as he got free, he’d carve this creep like a pig. He never got the chance. The man’s free hand joined the other under his chin and the fingers began to squeeze. The knee came up at the same time and dug into the small of his back.

“What are you doing? I thought we had a deal,” Ali said, barely able to get the words out.

He was almost unconscious when he felt a dull snap. The grip on his chin loosened. Ali’s head lolled on his chest like a rag doll’s and he slumped to the floor. The man stepped over the still-twitching body and pushed aside the hanging rug that hid a back door to the building. Moments later, he disappeared in the maze of alleyways. It took him almost to dawn to make his way back to his hotel. He stood in the window, watching the smoke rise over the wounded city, and made a call on his satellite phone.

His benefactor’s mellifluous voice came on the phone immediately.

“I’ve been waiting for your call, Adriano,” he said.

“Sorry for the delay, sir. There were unexpected difficulties.”

Adriano described every detail of his encounter with Ali. His benefactor would know if he were lying or shading the truth.

“I’m very disappointed, Adriano.”

“I know, sir. I was under orders not to let the
Navigator
fall into anyone else’s hands. This seemed to be the only way.”

“You were absolutely right to follow orders. It is important that we find the object first. We have waited nearly three thousand years. A little more time won’t matter.”

Adriano breathed a sigh of relief. He had been trained not to feel pain or fear, but he was well aware of the fate of those who displeased his benefactor. “Do you want me to try to track it down?”

“No. I’ll try to go through international channels once more. It’s becoming too dangerous there for you.”

“I’ve made arrangements to leave the country through Syria.”

“Good.” There was a pause at the other end of the line. “This woman, Carina Mechadi, may prove useful.”

“In what way, sir?”

“We shall see, Adriano. We shall see.”

The line went dead.

He grabbed his bag and closed the hotel-room door behind him. He planned to meet an oil smuggler who had promised to get him out of Iraq. In accordance with his standing orders to leave no trace of his passing, he would, of course, dispatch the man to Allah once he was safe across the border.

He smiled as he savored the prospect.

FAIRFAX COUNTY, VIRGINIA, THE PRESENT

THE RED CORVETTE CONVERTIBLE swung off the road, with its stereo speakers blasting salsa music like a Tijuana jukebox on wheels. The car breezed along a driveway that ran past a Victorian mansion and lawns which looked as if they had been clipped with manicure scissors. Joe Zavala pulled his car up in front of an ornate boathouse built on the banks of the Potomac River and was about to slide out from behind the steering wheel when he heard the gunshot.

As a brilliant designer of undersea craft for the National Underwater and Marine Agency, Zavala ordinarily carried nothing more lethal than a laptop computer. But his years working for NUMA’s Special Assignments Team had taught him the wisdom of the Boy Scout adage to be prepared. Zavala reached under the car seat, his fingers closed on a quick-release holster, and his hand came out with a Walther PPK handgun.

He got out of the car and made his way around the boathouse, moving with the stealth of a deer hunter. Pressing his back to the exterior wall, he edged his way to the corner and popped out into the open, gun extended with both hands and ready to find a target.

A broad-shouldered man dressed in tan shorts and white T-shirt was standing on the riverbank with his back to Zavala. The man held a pistol down by his thigh and was inspecting a paper bull’s-eye pinned to a tree. A cloud of purple smoke hung in the air. The man slipped a pair of ear protectors off his head just as Zavala stepped on a twig. He turned at the snapping sound and saw Zavala creeping around the corner with the gun clutched in his hands.

Kurt Austin, Zavala’s boss on NUMA’s Special Assignments Team, grinned and said, “Going on a turkey shoot, Joe?”

Zavala lowered the gun and walked over to the tree to inspect the hole that had been punched slightly off the center ring of the target.

“
You’re
the one who should be hunting turkeys, deadeye.”

Austin removed his yellow protective shooting goggles to reveal blue eyes the color of coral under water. “I’ll stick to stationary targets for now.” He glanced at Zavala’s pistol. “What’s with the SWAT team imitation?”

Zavala tucked the gun into his belt. “You didn’t tell me you’d turned your expensive riverfront property into a shooting gallery.”

Austin blew the smoke away from the pistol barrel like a gun-fighter who’d beaten his opponent to the draw.

“I couldn’t wait to try out my new toy at a shooting range.”

He handed the flintlock dueling pistol to Zavala, who inspected the walnut stock and the engraved octagonal barrel.

“Nice balance,” he said, hefting the weapon. “How old is it?”

“It was made in 1785 by Robert Wogdon, a London gunsmith. He fashioned some of the most accurate dueling pistols of his day. You test a dueling pistol by dangling it down at arm’s length. Then you bring it up quickly and hold it just long enough to check the sights and squeeze off a shot. It should be right on target.”

Zavala aimed for another tree and clicked his tongue to simulate gunfire.

“Bull’s-eye,” Austin said.

Zavala handed the pistol back. “Didn’t you tell me your pistol collection was complete?”

“Blame it on Rudi,” Austin said with a shrug. Rudi Gunn was the assistant director of NUMA.

“All he said was to decompress after our last assignment,” Zavala said.

“You make my case. Idle time is a dangerous thing in the hands of a collector.” Austin ripped the target off the tree and tucked it into his pocket. “What brings you to Virginia? Run out of women to date in Washington?”

Zavala’s quiet-spoken charm and dark good looks made him much in demand on the Washington dating scene. The corners of his mouth turned up slightly in his trademark smile.