The Navigator - Cussler Clive - Страница 32

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“That’s astounding! How do you come to know so much about the statue?”

“I’ve been searching for the elusive fellow since I first heard him mentioned in my Solomon research. I almost had my hands on it in Cairo, but you were one step ahead of me. Congratulations, by the way.”

“Why are you so interested in this particular artifact?”

He raised his palm. “Aha! If you had read my books you would not have to ask that question.”

“I’ll be sure to put your books on my reading list.” Carina didn’t hide her displeasure at Saxon’s coyness.

“It will be worth your time,” he said with a grin.

She had had enough of Saxon’s smug attitude. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“You’re excused. But heed my warning. Be careful in your dealings with Baltazar.”

Carina ignored the comment and headed over to talk to Professor Nasir.

Saxon watched her go. There was a grin on his face, but there was no mistaking the worry in his eyes.

AS BALTAZAR exited the Iraqi embassy, a black Mercedes limousine pulled up to the curb. The driver got out and shouldered aside the doorman to open the car door. The doorman was an ex-marine who was not easily intimidated. Angered at the loss of a tip, he went to protest, but the powerfully built driver shot him a look of such malevolence that the words never left his month. A moment later, the limo took off with a squeal of tires.

“Good evening, Mr. Baltazar,” said the driver. “The reception went well?”

“Yes, Adriano. So well that I almost forgot about the debacle off Newfoundland.”

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Baltazar. I have no excuse for my failure.”

“Perhaps I can provide you with one, Adriano. His name is Kurt Austin. He’s with NUMA. Austin is the gentleman who foiled the hijacking.”

“How did this Austin know of our plans?”

“He didn’t. It was a regrettable coincidence that he happened to be in the neighborhood. Unfortunately for you, this Mr. Austin is quite intrepid. And lucky as well. Your shot only wounded him slightly.”

Adriano recalled the quick glimpse of Austin over the sights of his gun and later in the cockpit of the helicopter that had shadowed the mineral ship. “I’d like to talk to Mr. Austin.”

“I’ll bet you would,” Baltazar said with an evil chuckle. “But we have more important matters to deal with. I’ve learned that there is a National Geographic photographer who has some pictures that should not see the light of day. I want you to acquire these photos.”

“Would you like me to dispose of the photographer?”

“Only if it becomes necessary, and make it look like an accident. I would prefer that the pictures merely be removed.”

“What about the woman?”

Baltazar pondered Carina’s fate. He was a man who was capable of extinguishing a human life when it suited him, but there was more to Carina than met the eye.

“We’ll keep her alive as long as she proves useful. I want a comprehensive investigation of her background.”

“Then can I deal with Austin? We have something to settle between us.”

Baltazar let out a heavy sigh. Cruelty didn’t bother him in the least. His was the classic psychopathic personality, and, as such, he was devoid of empathy. People existed to be used and tossed aside. But Adriano’s suggestion signified independent thought on the part of an employee when what he demanded was obedience. At the same time, he was not without sympathy with Adriano’s need for revenge. He too had a score to settle with Austin.

“I want to find out what he knows, Adriano. You can deal with him later. I promise.”

Adriano closed his eyes and worked the thick fingers of his hands.

“Later,” he said, as if he were cherishing the very word.

Chapter 18

PROFESSOR PIETER DEVRIES WAS turning the Jefferson file over in his mind as he waited in a reception area at the State Department’s Bureau of Near Eastern Affairs. He had read every line and found no inconsistencies.

The receptionist picked up the buzzing intercom phone and exchanged a few words with the person on the other end.

“Mr. Evans will see you now, Professor DeVries,” she said with a smile. “Third door on the right.”

“Thank you.” DeVries slipped his reading material into a file case, tucked it under his arm, and walked down the hallway. He knocked lightly, then opened the door and stepped into an office. A tall, long-jawed man in his late thirties was waiting to greet him with a hand shake.

“Good morning, Professor DeVries. My name is Joshua Evans. I’m an analyst with the bureau. Have a seat.”

DeVries sat down and said, “Thanks for seeing me.”

Evans settled his lanky frame behind a desk whose clinical orderliness suggested a compulsive personality. “It’s not every day that I get a visit from the NSA,” Evans said. “You folks usually keep to yourselves. What brings you to over to Foggy Bottom?”

“As I explained on the phone, I’m a code breaker with the agency. I’ve come across information that might be of interest to your bureau. I came directly to State rather than go through NSA channels. This is a matter of some delicacy.”

“You’ve got my interest,” Evans said.

The professor opened his file case and handed over the folder that held copies of the original Jefferson material and the deciphered version. He gave Evans a capsule account of the file and how he had acquired it.

“Quite a story,” Evans said with a lightness of tone that suggested he’d been listening to a Mother Goose tale. He eyed the professor’s baggy tweed suit and Vandyke beard. “I’m still not clear why you brought it to Near Eastern Affairs.”

The professor spread his hands apart. “Phoenicia was in the geographical area that is the responsibility of your bureau.”

“Phoenicia,” Evans said with a wan smile.

“That’s right. It was one of the greatest seafaring empires of all time. It spread from its original home to the shores of Spain and beyond the Pillars of Hercules.”

Evans sat back and clasped his hands behind his head. “That may be so, Dr. DeVries, but Phoenicia longer exists.”

“I understand that, but the descendents of the Phoenicians still inhabit the countries of Lebanon and Syria.”

“Unlike those two countries, Phoenicia was not a member of the United Nations, the last I knew,” Evans said with an indulgent chuckle.

DeVries pasted a grin on his face. The professor was a battle-scarred veteran of the bureaucratic process. He knew that he would have to work his way up the ladder through self-satisfied staff people like Evans.

“I’m a mathematician, not a diplomat like yourself,” DeVries said, using a bit of flattery. “But it seems to me that when we talk about such a volatile region, any development that shakes deeply held beliefs should be given serious consideration.”

“I apologize for seeming dismissive. But artichokes? Secret codes? A long-lost Jefferson file? You must admit that the story is a fantastic one.”

DeVries gave a short laugh. “I would be the first to agree.”

“And, besides, how do we know that any of this is true?”

“We can’t authenticate the content, but the translation of the enciphered message into clear text is accurate. The fact that the material you’re holding was produced by the third president of the United States and the author of the Declaration of Independence must give it some weight.”

Evans hefted the packet of papers as if they were on a scale. “You’ve authenticated Jefferson as the source of this material?”

“Some NSA handwriting experts looked at it. There is no doubt that Jefferson wrote it.”

A confused look came to Evans’s face. DeVries had seen the same panicked expression with bureaucrats who’d been asked to deviate from their normal function, which was to gum up the workings of government. Evans’s worst nightmare had come true. He might have to make a decision. The professor offered Evans a lifeline.

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