The Navigator - Cussler Clive - Страница 42

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Benson was a burly, middle-aged man whose skin had been turned to leather by the sun in the exotic places he had worked. His long gray hair was tied back in a ponytail. He wore jeans, a T-shirt, and a film-cartridge vest that was an anachronism in an age of digital photography.

Austin knelt by his side. “How are you feeling?”

“Like crap,” Benson said. “How do I look?”

“Like crap,” Austin said.

Benson managed a weak smile. “Bastards. They were waiting when I came back from my walk to meet with the lady from the UN. Is that you?”

“I’m Carina Mechadi. I’m an investigator with the UNESCO. Mr. Austin here is with the National Underwater and Marine Agency.”

The light of recognition sparkled in Benson’s gray eyes. “Did stories on both your outfits years ago.”

“Tell us what happened after you returned from your walk,” Austin said.

“Saw a car out front. Black SUV. Virginia license plates. I always leave the door unlocked. They were inside going through my stuff.” He grimaced. “In case I pass out again, tell the cops there were four of them. All masked. All with guns. One was a real big guy. Think he was the leader.”

Austin and Carina exchanged glances.

“Did he say anything?”

Benson nodded. “He wanted all my negatives. I told him to go to hell. He laid the barrel of his gun across my head. Guess I should be grateful he didn’t shoot me. Only dazed. Played dead. Saw him and his pals go through my negative cabinets. Dumped all my stuff into plastic trash bags. They get my computer? Laptop.”

Austin glanced around. “Looks like they cleared the place out.”

“They figured I had done back-up. Every picture I ever took was on disk. Twenty-five years’ worth.” Benson chuckled. “Jerks. So busy beating up on me they didn’t know I had backed up the backup. What the hell did they want?”

“We think they were after photos you took of an archaeological dig in Syria,” Carina said.

He furrowed his brow. “I remember. Photographer remembers every shot he ever made. Nineteen seventy-two. Cover story. Hotter’n hell out there.”

“The backup disk. Can we borrow it?” Austin said.

“Help catch those bastards?”

“Maybe.” Austin lifted his shirt to show the bandage on his ribs. “You’re not the only one with a score to settle.”

Benson’s eyes widened. “Guess they really didn’t like you.” He grinned. “Check my barn. Third stall on the right. Steel door under the hay. Key’s hanging in the kitchen labeled BACK DOOR.”

Carina said, “There was a big statue excavated in Syria. It was called the Navigator.”

“Sure. Looked like a cigar-store Indian with a pointy hat. Don’t know what happened to it.” His eyes rolled as if he were about to pass out, but Benson pulled himself together. “Check out the living-room mantle.”

Austin found the key to the disk-storage safe in the kitchen and went into the living room. The fireplace mantle was crowded with hunks of rock and figurines Benson must have collected on his travels. One figure caught Austin’s attention. He picked up a scale model of the Navigator about four inches high.

Tires crunched in the driveway. An ambulance was pulling in with its red-and-blue lights flashing. Austin slid the figurine into his pocket and went to welcome the EMTs. There were two emergency medical technicians, a young man and a woman. Austin led them to the studio.

The female EMT glanced around at the chaos. “What happened?”

Carina looked up from her charge. “He was attacked and his studio vandalized.”

While the EMT examined Benson, her colleague put a call in to the police. After checking Benson’s vitals, and applying a compress, they eased the photographer onto a stretcher and loaded him into the ambulance. They said Benson would be sore for a while, but his excellent physical condition should pull him through.

Austin told the EMTs that he and Carina would wait to talk to the police. As soon as the ambulance drove off, they went out to the barn. They swept aside the hay in the third stall to reveal a metal trapdoor, which Austin unlocked and opened. A short set of stairs led down to a temperature-controlled room about the size of a walk-in closet. The walls were lined with drawers labeled according to year. Austin found the disk inscribed HITTITE DIG, 1972, SYRIA.

Austin slipped the disk into his pocket. He and Carina walked back to the house. Minutes later, the police car came down the driveway. The lanky man in uniform who exited the driver’s side was straight out of Mayberry USA. He approached them with a slow, shambling walk, and introduced himself as Chief Becker. He jotted their names down in a notebook.

“EMT said Mr. Benson was attacked.”

“That’s what he told us,” Carina said. “He returned from a walk and found four men in his house. He tried to stop them from stealing his photos and was beaten with a gun.”

The chief shook his head. “I knew he was a big photographer with the Geographic, but I’d never guess the photos were worth a B and E in the daytime.” He paused for a moment, trying to figure out where the exotic woman and her brawny companion fit into the picture. “Mind saying what your business with Benson was?”

Austin said, “I’m with NUMA. Miss Mechadi works for the UN, investigating stolen antiquities. Mr. Benson took some photos years ago of a missing artifact, and we thought he might be able help in its recovery.”

“Think that had anything to do with him getting beat up?”

The chief was shrewder than he looked. He was watching their reaction closely. Austin told him the truth. “I don’t know.”

The chief seemed satisfied with the explanation. “Care to show me where you found Mr. Benson?”

Austin and Carina led the way into the house. The chief let out a low whistle when he saw the studio mess.

“You touch anything?” he said.

“No,” Austin said. “Would it have made a difference?”

The chief chuckled. “I’ll get the crime scene folks to come out.” He took their personal information down in his notebook and said they might be called later for more questioning.

As Austin turned the car onto the road, Carina said, “You weren’t exactly truthful with the chief.”

“It might have complicated things if I went into the ship hijacking and the theft of the statue. And the fact that the common denominator is the Navigator.”

Carina slumped down in her seat and closed her eyes. “I feel responsible for all this somehow.”

“Don’t beat yourself up. The only people at fault are the thugs who’ve been exhibiting antisocial behavior. Who besides us knew about the Benson photos?”

“The only ones I’ve told were you and Mr. Baltazar. You don’t think—”

“Another common denominator.”

Carina slumped down into her seat and stared straight ahead. After a few minutes spent deep in thought, she seemed to rally.

“All right. Where do we go from here?”

Austin pulled the disk out of his pocket and handed it over. “We’re going on an archaeological dig.”

Chapter 24

AS AUSTIN SLOTTED THE JEEP into the reserved space in the underground garage, Carina blinked her eyes open. Traces of the drug must have lingered in her bloodstream because she had dozed off within minutes of leaving Benson’s house. The last thing she had remembered was the rolling Virginia countryside.

She glanced around in bewilderment. “Where are we?”

“King Neptune’s lair,” Austin said with a poker face.

He got out of the car and opened the door on the passenger side. He gently took Carina’s arm and led her to the nearest elevator, which swooshed them to the main floor. The doors opened, and they stepped out into the lobby that formed the centerpiece of the imposing, thirty-story NUMA tower of tinted green glass in Arlington, Virginia.

Carina looked around the atrium, with its waterfalls and wall aquariums and the huge globe at the center of the sea green marble floor. The lobby bustled with activity, much of it having to do with milling tour groups that bristled with cameras.

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