“Edna St. Vincent Millay,” repeated Macaulay. “That could be a clue.”
“According to my search, the closest place to charter a boat is at the southern tip of the Harpswell Peninsula,” said Barnaby. “Potts Harbor Marine and Fishing Charters, it’s called. ‘Captain Mike Grubb at your pleasure.’”
He told Macaulay the address and asked him to plug it into the GPS system.
“I’ll buy a map when we get into Maine,” said Macaulay. “A GPS system is potentially traceable. Anyway, I doubt he’s doing business this time of year. How many fishing charters do you think people book in December?”
“Leave that to me,” said Barnaby.
Barnaby fell asleep as they drove through Brunswick. The modern amenities of Chinese restaurants, John Deere dealerships, gas stations, and motels quickly gave way to fallow fields and pastures cloaked in the dim winter light when they turned south onto a country road. There was no traffic in either direction.
Lexy gazed at a succession of well-kept saltboxes and capes, their garden patches covered with seaweed for the winter. Some had boats lying in the driveways, draped with canvas tarps. Smoke rose from a few of the chimneys. Many were summer cottages closed up until the summer season.
Barnaby was still asleep, and his breathing was becoming increasingly labored. Lexy turned around to look at him. His color was very pale and there were dark shadows under his eyes.
“I don’t think we should let him go with us,” she whispered to Macaulay. “What if he has another heart attack?”
“Can you find the tomb without him?” asked Macaulay.
While pondering the question, she smelled the tang of the sea. A moment later, Barnaby stirred in the backseat.
“Alexandra,” he said, “I’ve been pondering a few of the clues.”
Macaulay was about to suggest it sounded more like snoring, but he desisted as Barnaby retrieved the translation of the rune inscription.
“It lies under shadow from the dawn,” he read aloud. “At daybreak on the island we’re looking for, one part of it is lit by the sun while another remains in shadow. In those first few seconds, I believe the area where the cavern entrance is located will be in shadows. Of course, the light falls differently in the winter than in spring when the storm wrecked them there, but it can’t be all that different.”
“Assuming the sun comes out at this time of year,” said Macaulay.
“Don’t be a pessimist, General,” said Barnaby.
“What about five by five squared and over and under?” asked Lexy.
“I’ve given that thought too. I think the surviving Norsemen sealed the entrance to the cavern with slabs of rock, each of them cut roughly to five feet square. ‘Over and under’ suggests that there are two layers of them, one on top of the other for additional protection.”
“Vertical or horizontal?” asked Lexy.
“They are lying flat,” said Barnaby, his eyes closed in concentration. “If they were vertical, the evenly seamed formation would have attracted serious curiosity at some point in the last thousand years. By now the slabs would be almost interconnected with the surrounding rock formation, or possibly buried under standing water, or under soil or scrub growth. Exposed to light, however, the seams in the rock slabs will still be roughly parallel.”
“I think we’ve arrived,” said Macaulay.
The spit of land had gradually narrowed until the shoreline closed in on both sides of the car. Ahead of them, the southern tip of the peninsula ended with a long rocky ledge.
A harsh wind buffeted the SUV as Macaulay slowed down and stopped next to a wooden sign at the edge of the road that read POTTS HARBOR MARINE. Another handmade sign tacked over it read CLOSED FOR THE SEASON.
“What did I tell you?” said Macaulay.
“A minor impediment, oh ye of little faith,” said Barnaby.
A two-story, cedar-shingled cottage sat by the edge of the sea at the end of the brown lawn. Barnaby could see the glow of a bare bulb shining through one of the downstairs windows.
“Wait here,” he said, stepping out of the car and stretching for a few moments as a curtain of wind-driven salt spray peppered his face and boiler suit. Fully revived, he strode toward the front entrance.
Beyond the cottage, he could see a wooden pier extending into a small cove protected by a rocky ledge. Tethered to the pier was a traditional down east trawler, about thirty feet long with a wide beam and deep hull. Its superstructure was wrapped in a white canvas cocoon.
Above the front door of the cottage, a red banner proclaimed PROUD TO BE A CITIZEN OF THE RED SOX NATION. Before Barnaby could knock, the door was opened by a man in overalls. He waved him inside and shut the door.
“No need to heat the state of Maine,” he said. “I saw you pull up. Who are you looking for?”
“Captain Mike Grubb,” said Barnaby.
“You’ve found him,” said the man.
Barnaby guessed he was about fifty. Short and wiry, he had narrow-set small eyes and a walrus mustache that covered most of his mouth. He led Barnaby over to a wood-burning stove in the living room and sat down in one of the sprung easy chairs, motioning Barnaby into the other. There was a bad smell in the room.
“The place isn’t for sale,” said Mike Grubb. “I’m doing just fine.”
A coffee table near the stove was littered with the remains of a huge lobster and six empty cans of Canadian ale. A fake Christmas tree was tipped over along the rear wall.
“I’m not looking for real estate, Captain Grubb,” said Barnaby. “I would like to charter your boat for a quick run out to Ragged Island.”
“My ex-wife, Greta, handles all the reservations,” he said. “She’ll be back up here from Florida in April.”
“I meant right now,” said Barnaby. “This minute.”
“The Dorothy B. is put to bed for the winter,” said the little charter captain, cracking open another can of ale. He didn’t offer any to Barnaby.
“I’m asking you to wake her up,” said Barnaby. “I’ll pay you well.”
Grubb took a deep swallow and focused his bleary eyes on Barnaby.
“You with the circus or somethin’?” he asked.
“Actually, I’m a retired gynecologist,” said Barnaby, “and if you don’t have anything important on at the moment, I would like you to take me and my friends out to that island.”
“You ain’t wanted by the police?”
“Do I look like I’m wanted by the police?” responded Barnaby, removing his Balmoral bonnet. “I’ll tell you the truth. Have you ever watched the new reality show Incredible Race to Getaway Island?”
“I think so,” said Grubb, scratching his crew-cut hair.
“We’re one of the teams,” said Barnaby, “and there’s a big prize for the winner. I’ll give you two thousand dollars in cash to get us out there.”
Grubb stoked the fire with an iron poker, glancing out the back window of the living room at the surging black sea. Reaching to a wall switch next to his chair, he turned on a dock light that bathed his trawler in light.
“The Dorothy B.’s your classic down east design, wide-beamed and stable in a rough sea like we got now. She’ll do sixteen knots in a heartbeat and . . .”
“I don’t need to buy the boat, Captain Grubb,” interrupted Barnaby. “I want to pay you a king’s ransom to rent it for the afternoon. Time is of the essence. There’s a rival group on the show trying to beat us out there right now. Are you a man of action or not?”
The wily charter captain kept shaking his head.
“It’s a good five miles out there,” he said. “I’d have to swing all the way south around Bailey Island before heading out into the open sea. I wouldn’t do it for less than three thousand.”
“Fifteen hundred now and the rest upon our return,” said Barnaby, pulling a wad of cash o
ut of the breast pocket of the boiler suit.
“Be a bit wicked going out, but we’d have a following sea coming back,” said Grubb, counting the money.
Barnaby was walking across the yard to the car, when he felt a searing bolt of pain in his chest, as if someone had suddenly strapped it in a vise. Lexy was standing by the edge of the road, watching him come. He saw the terrified look on her face as he began to fall.
He came awake again to find himself sitting in Captain Grubb’s easy chair by the fire, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He felt like he had just run ten miles. His mouth was dry and tasted like bitter almonds. It was a challenge to keep his eyes open.
Macaulay held a small glass of amber liquid to his lips, and he swallowed it, feeling the heat of the whiskey rush through him. Through the window, he could see Captain Grubb removing the white canvas cocoon from his trawler.
“We need to get you to a hospital,” said Lexy.
Barnaby shook his head.
“Just leave me here,” he said. “Bring me the medication I have out in my travel bag and I’ll be fine.”
When Macaulay opened the door to go out to get the bag, Lexy heard the sound of the boat’s engines starting. Barnaby motioned her to sit down next to him.
“When you get to the island, try to imagine Eriksson and his men being wrecked there in the storm. Imagine the sun rising in your mind. Use your instincts. You have something close to a sixth sense in these matters. If it looks promising, come back and pick me up, and we’ll search it together.”
Captain Grubb came back in through the patio door.
“When are the TV people getting here?” he asked.
FORTY-FIVE
3 December
The White House
Washington, DC
Turning to face the battery of television cameras arrayed across the side wall of the East Room, the president pressed the switch to light the eighteen-foot-tall Douglas fir tree, now decorated with hundreds of handmade ornaments and colorful decorations from schoolchildren all over the country.
“As we enter this joyous season,” began the president solemnly, “let us show appreciation to all our troops who will be spending the upcoming holiday overseas, risking their lives every day to defend the freedoms we hold dear.”
Standing behind him beneath the Gilbert Stuart oil painting of President George Washington, Jessica Birdwell led the applause. Ira Dusenberry, on the other side of the East Room near the buffet table, was gazing longingly at the small mountain of iced jumbo shrimp and the pewter platters piled with smoked salmon. They would have to wait. He was on a mission.
When the president finished his remarks, Dusenberry worked his way through the throng of applauding guests until he reached Jessica’s side.
“Jess, I need to talk to you if Senator Fowler can spare us two minutes,” he said.
In the Red Room, he led her over to one of the Empire couches and sat down.
“As of yesterday evening, General Macaulay was still in Boston,” he said, “which means that Dr. Vaughan is there too. The manager of a Patagonia outlet at a downtown mall reported to police that a man who fit Macaulay’s description was involved in an altercation there late last night. A male shopper in one of the changing rooms saw the other man in the altercation carrying what appeared to be an automatic pistol. By the time police arrived, both men were gone. The witnesses were shown a photograph of Macaulay and they both confirmed it was him.”
“Any ID on the other man?” asked Jess.
“He disappeared before the police got there and presumably is not one of ours,” said Dusenberry as an elderly man came into the Red Room and sat down on an Empire chair. The man had a beefy face with a thin mustache and vaguely reminded him of someone.
“We sent a team into the mall,” went on Dusenberry. “There was a small bank of pay phones opposite the North Face outlet, and they ran a trace on all outgoing calls from those phones during the time frame Macaulay had been there.”
Two white-coated waiters came by, one carrying a silver tray full of canapés, and the other wine and champagne. Dusenberry selected three puff pastries stuffed with chanterelle mushrooms, pancetta, and garlic.
“And?” demanded Jessica as he consumed one of the pastries in a single bite.
“And one of the calls was of possible interest,” he said, washing down the canapé with a swallow of red wine. “It went to a CIA-connected cell phone. Identity restricted.”
“Even to us?”
“We would have to ask the CIA officially. It would take days and probably lead nowhere.”
“What’s your take?” asked Jessica.
Ira glanced again at the beefy man, who now appeared to be gazing at the painting of John Jay Audubon hanging over their couch. Tennessee Williams. He looked like Tennessee Williams at the end of his life.
“Macaulay has a friend at the CIA,” said Dusenberry. “Not a problem for us. Maybe the agency will help track him down.”
“Do you know that man?” she whispered as Dusenberry finished his third canapé.
“A seersucker suit in December,” he whispered back. “He’s probably one of the president’s campaign guys. They’re all flaky.”
Getting up from the couch, he led her back to the East Room.
“Keep me posted from your end,” he said, heading toward the buffet table.
Jessica had just received her overcoat from a handsome young marine in the foyer when she felt her cell phone begin to tremble against the inside of her thigh. She took the call in a small private bathroom down the corridor.
“Jess, this is Marc,” came the disembodied voice.
“What have you got?” she said, lowering her voice an octave.
She had met Marc Goodrich shortly after her posting to Homeland Security. He was already a fair-haired boy in the bureau and was now overseeing the joint surveillance task force looking for Macaulay, Finchem, and Vaughan.
“So we’ve been monitoring about three hundred people who had even the remotest level of contact with this Harvard professor Finchem,” said Goodrich.
“Right,” she came back. “We’re the ones who initiated the interagency request.”
“Okay. Well, I’ve hit pay dirt.”
“Tell me,” she said, her eyes coming alive.
“One of the thousand bits of raw data logged by my teams was the fact that a PhD candidate named Delia Glantz, who is one of Finchem’s graduate students, registered a brand-new Lexus SUV earlier this week at the Massachusetts DMV office in Boston.”
“What’s so unusual about that?”
“Nothing,” he said. “But this afternoon she went to a Hertz agency in Cambridge and rented a car. When the hit came in, there was nothing else happening. On a hunch, I paid her a visit three hours ago, showed her a fake police ID, and told her I was investigating an accidental death. Gorgeous girl by the way . . .”
“Just tell me what happened,” interrupted Jessica.
“All right,” he said, stung by her tone. “I could tell she was nervous, so I said that her SUV had been in a terrible accident and we were attempting to identify the victims. She broke down and began sobbing that she should have been with him. ‘Who?’ I asked. ‘Dr. Finchem,’ she said.”
“That’s great work, Marc,” said Jessica.
“Here is the other piece of good news,” said Goodrich. “Her brand-new Lexus is equipped with a theft-prevention tracking device.”
“Fantastic. Where is the car now?”
“South Harpswell, Maine. The GPS coordinates put it at a boat charter outfit. The tracking platform delivers real-time updates every ten seconds. The vehicle hasn’t moved in two hours.”
“Send me all the data on the car to my secure computer address.”
“Will do.”
“I need to confide something to you that is v
itally important,” said Jessica, her voice going even lower. “There is a security breach here in the White House. We know whoever it is must be tied to the foreign organization responsible for the murder of Jim Langdon. This information must be closely held in case it gets into the wrong hands. I have to insert a clean operational unit.”
“Understood,” said Goodrich. “You and Ad Kingship are giving the orders. Just remember who broke the lead when the awards are handed out.”
“Don’t worry,” said Jessica, ending the connection.
Her next call was to a secure automated reception line.
“This is Freya. I will be sending further information electronically, but I have pinpointed the location of Finchem and Vaughan.”
FORTY-SIX
4 December
RV Leitstern
North Atlantic Ocean
Off Rockland, Maine
“We have made good progress, Your Grace,” said Hjalmar Jensen.
Von Falkenberg had made another unannounced visit to ask for an update from Jensen’s translation team. He had brought Per Larsen with him. The faithful Steiger helped the prince to settle into a cushioned chair.
“Please specify that,” said von Falkenberg.
“Thanks to the excellent work of Dr. Krusa and Fraulein Johannson, we have narrowed our search to just twenty-five small islands off the Maine coast,” said Jensen. “It will now be necessary to assemble search teams to visit each of these islands to garner the additional information that can narrow the search further.”
The prince’s face clouded.
“That is unacceptable,” he said bluntly. “I need your solution to this question immediately.”
Jensen fought to control his nerves.
“We will continue to do our best, Your Grace,” he said.
Von Falkenberg turned to Per Larsen. He was glad to see that the scientist appeared to have regained some of his vigor.
“Once we have located the tomb, do you see any reason why it would not be possible to extract the divinity’s DNA?”
“Paleogenetics isn’t my field, Your Grace,” said Larsen, “but I have studied the current science with respect to ancient DNA and morphological preservation. My colleagues have already replicated the DNA of mummified human samples that were several thousand years old. Professor Jensen has stated that the tomb is in an underground cavern. Assuming it has not been compromised by the sea, between mummified tissue, bone, hair, paleofeces, and teeth, we should have no difficulty accomplishing the task.”
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