The Explorer's Code

by Kitty Pilgrim

  The company burial plot was a mile or so outside the town of Longyearbyen. It would be a short drive after he dropped off the package at the airport. There would be time before dark. Of course, Miles would take his rifle in case of polar bears. They roamed freely in this area, and anyone leaving the perimeter of the town was required to carry a firearm.

  Miles looked at his watch and panicked. Forty-five minutes until the plane would leave, and it would be the last one for the day. From his present location, halfway up the mountain, he would have at least a twenty-minute drive. He couldn’t miss that plane. He scooped up the tightly wrapped package and headed for the door, doubling back for his cell phone. He needed to hurry.

  On the way to the airport, Miles remembered he had left his rifle back at the lodge. But if he wanted to make the plane there was no time to turn back. He continued to drive down the rutted track to the small airport. Should he continue out to the burial plot tonight? At this latitude, and at this time of year, the daylight would last well into the evening.

  He decided he could do it. He would make a quick trip tonight, just for a look, and then go back tomorrow. It wouldn’t do to be out too late by himself in the middle of the Arctic without a rifle. He’d have to keep a sharp lookout for bears.

  The stink of jet fuel was terrible; the purity of the air made it even more acrid and nauseating than it normally was. Miles watched the SAS MD-82 take off from Svalbard Lufthavn, Longyear, the single scheduled flight each day out of the world’s northernmost full-service airport. His package of tissue samples was on board. The pilot headed into the bright sky for the three-hour flight to Oslo and, from there, on to London.

  Miles watched it for a while, then started up his vehicle and took the airport road, turned left, and headed west along the dusty track to the outskirts of the town. The oblong shapes of the town buildings, made of concrete and tin, soon blended with the landscape and faded into the distance. This was certainly desolate country. He drove for several miles without any sign of human contact on the lunar terrain.

  Then suddenly, farther ahead, he could see the Arctic Coal Mining site and the remnants of the workers’ housing. The group of buildings stood abandoned but resilient, a testimony to the courage of the few dozen men who had eked out their livelihood here in 1918, when the pandemic hit.

  He drove through the ghost town. The graveyard was not hard to find. The small chapel, identifiable by its steeple, was padlocked and boarded up, but the wrought-iron fence around the cemetery stood, gate open, unhinged and hanging by one rivet. Inside, the tombstones listed terribly, and many were down flat on the earth. The stones had shifted during the past century of thaw and frost.

  Miles put his vehicle in Park, deciding to keep the engine running in case he needed to get out quickly. Especially in late summer and spring, polar bears were all too prevalent, and he didn’t want to take any chances.

  He walked among the stones, looking for the names of the nine miners who had been stricken in 1918. He knew their names by heart, so often had he fantasized about doing just this. It was a long shot, but he wanted to get permission from the magistrate in Longyearbyen to take more samples. Paul Oakley had exhumed three of these graves last year, but there were six others. Why not take a few more days to see what other possibilities might turn up? The samples Oakley had taken a year ago were of mixed quality because some of the graves had repeatedly thawed over the decades. But some of the other six graves might have more intact samples. Tomorrow he would petition the local officials in person.

  As Miles walked, he bent over each grave to decipher the worn stone, completely absorbed in his quest. Three rows down, he saw one of the graves had been disturbed. The tombstone read PERCIVAL SPENCE 1918. He looked at the earth; it bore the rough surface of recent digging. This grave had been exhumed. Very recently. The dirt was barely tamped down and still stood in a slight mound over the site. Percival Spence had died in the 1918 contagion. Who would have dug up the grave? He bent down to look at the plot, his knees protesting as he held the squatting position.

  “You’re getting old, my boy,” he said to himself.

  Those were his last words. He never heard the rifle shot. His cranium was blown away and his brains were splattered all over the headstone in a bloody mass.

  His assailant lowered his rifle and walked over to the Land Rover, turning the ignition off with a gloved hand. Then he approached the inert body. Extracting the cell phone and the wallet from the parka pocket, he left as silently as he had come. The gunman drove away in his own vehicle, past the churchyard, and checked to make sure the body of the scientist was not visible from the road. Much was hidden by the filigree of the wrought-iron fence that surrounded the tombstones. Only the small iron gate tilted open on its broken hinges.

  The bear was a big one, a male weighing more than nine hundred pounds. It sniffed the air as it came down the mountainside, and made tracks in the earth. The searchers found the tracks later and measured them at thirteen inches long, nine inches wide, and estimated the bear would have stood about ten feet tall. Its fur had the cream color of a mature male, and when it opened its mouth the gray tongue was a stark contrast to the yellow-white teeth. The bear had smelled the kill.

  It didn’t take long to find the body. The scent of blood called across the hard ground. After a long winter the animal needed food to satiate its cravings for flesh. And the human had been so freshly killed, the polar bear found it acceptable for feeding. The little iron gate was open. The parka offered as much resistance as a candy wrapper to its massive claws. The bear feasted messily on the carcass of the slain scientist, obliterating any evidence of how Miles had met his death.

  The assassin walked into the courier office at the airport hangar and looked around. The Norwegian kid at the desk was reading a dog-eared thriller in English.

  “Good evening, I’m sorry to bother you, but I just wanted to check that my package made the plane. My colleague was supposed to bring it. An older guy in a black parka?”

  The kid looked up. His mottled complexion revealed he still suffered the hormonal upheavals of youth.

  “Yeah, he made it.” The boy looked unwilling to put down the Clive Cussler novel. “He made it, but just barely. I think there was only three minutes between the time he arrived and the time the plane took off.”

  “Wow, that’s a little close. Would you mind if I checked the paperwork to make sure it was sent to the right place?”

  “Sure,” said the kid. “Take a look. It went to Professor Paul Oakley, Institute of Cell and Molecular Science, School of Medicine, Queen Mary University of London, Mile End Road, London E1 4NS.”

  The assassin held his hand out for the clipboard of receipts for the day’s courier packages.

  “Let me just check to see if he put down the right phone number.”

  The kid handed over the clipboard and went back to his novel. The assassin riffled through the dozen package receipts, deftly palmed the one he wanted, and gave the clipboard back.

  “Good book?”

  “Yeah, it’s really interesting.” The kid took the clipboard without looking at it.

  “Well, enjoy it. Thanks a lot.”

  “You’re welcome,” the kid said, still looking down at the novel and finding his place.

  Oceanographic Institute, Monaco

  Cordelia walked through the large Victorian hall of Monaco’s Oceanographic Institute and breathed in the fragrant, dusty smell of an old library. The sun was pouring through the large two-story windows, painting the wooden floors with light. The huge room was lined with standing exhibit cases. The original Victorian specimen cases had been in place since the day the exhibition hall had been built, and the floors and tables of the room had the beautiful patina of age. In the cases, the materials had been chosen to coordinate with the theme of the gala, artifacts from the voyages of Prince Albert I and Elliott Stapleton from 1898 to 1910.

  Cordelia looked at the sepia-toned photos depicting every type of
activity, from whaling to lab work. A film clip flickered in the corner of the room. She walked over to watch the historical travelogue. It was from 1908. There was the whiskered prince, dressed in a naval costume aboard his ship, the Princess Alice. The old film jerked and wavered, the movement too fast, but the excitement of the expedition was captured: the enthusiastic crew waved as they displayed their marine trophies—a large fish was caught in an old-fashioned conical net. There was the prince on deck leaning over to examine a small whale. The loop on the film was short, only a minute or so. She watched it several times.

  Cordelia’s footsteps echoed in the empty hall, and her body relaxed in the warmth of the Mediterranean sun streaming through the windows. Her mind drifted. These exhibits spoke to her in a very intimate way; this was as close to home as she had been in a long time.

  “I need you,” she said aloud to the empty hall. “I need you.”

  She felt the crushing loneliness.

  “Please, I need somebody,” she whispered to herself. She didn’t know whom she was talking to.

  She suddenly remembered her father’s old coat, in the cardboard box in the back of her closet. For years, she would take it out and bury her face in the cloth, trying to catch the scent of him. But after a while, it had no more power for her. Life moved on. The answers she needed became more complex. In the past few years she could no longer hear her father’s voice in her mind. She forgot what he sounded like.

  But now, after reading the journal, and walking through the museum, the yearning came back. Her great-great-grandfather’s voice was the one she heard now, calling out from the faded pages. She desperately sought some communion with her own flesh and blood—an elemental urge.

  She stood and walked across the cavernous space to the next exhibit hall, identical to the one she had left, soaring, sunlit, and Victorian.

  As she walked into the room, standing there in a shaft of sunlight was John Sinclair. He was totally absorbed in reading the documents in the case before him. She felt a twinge of embarrassment for her behavior last night. But there was also the flush of sudden confusion, and deep attraction to the man. Her reaction was so strong she thought it must be visible to anyone watching her.

  Just then he looked up, noticed her, and smiled. Standing there in the sunlight, with strongly chiseled features and a deep tan, he was very much the Victorian explorer. His white linen shirt was crumpled and rolled to the elbow, and he wore a rumpled pair of khakis.

  “Cordelia, how nice to see you.”

  “Hello, Mr. Sinclair,” she said, and walked over.

  “Don’t make me feel a thousand years old. Call me John.”

  “Of course, John.”

  “Fascinating exhibit. Have you been here long?”

  “Yes, I woke up early, with the jet lag. I read some of the journal last night and I wanted to see if there was anything about Elliott Stapleton in the exhibit. I was just finishing up.”

  “It’s fascinating stuff. I stop by from time to time when I’m in Monaco. I’m just heading out. Can I interest you in lunch?”

  “I hadn’t made plans.”

  “Well, now you have.”

  Sinclair pulled the silver Audi R8 up to the portico of the Hôtel Hermitage and leaned across to pull the handle and pop open the door.

  “Hop in, we are going to drive down the coast a bit.”

  “OK.”

  Cordelia folded her tall frame into the passenger seat. She had changed into one of her new wrap dresses, and as she slid into the car her skirt unfolded just enough to reveal well-toned thighs. Sinclair had to force himself not to stare. She closed the panel of her skirt automatically, without noticing his look.

  He put the Audi into gear and tried to get his mind off her body. It was going to be a rough afternoon if she was going to play like this. He headed for the lower route to Cap Ferrat. Hotel du Cap might be the right place to take her—exclusive, secluded, the venue of choice for the jet set and Hollywood royalty during the Cannes Film Festival every year. The food was the best on the Côte d’Azur, with only a few exceptions. She might just enjoy a nice, romantic little lunch. He knew he would.

  Sinclair looked in the rearview mirror.

  “I don’t mean to get personal, but you don’t happen to have a jealous boyfriend with a Ferrari, do you?” he asked.

  Cordelia shook her head, not comprehending.

  “This guy seems to be following us,” said Sinclair, flooring the Audi in a sudden burst of speed. The Ferrari Enzo, running on twelve cylinders, followed easily, keeping the same distance, turn after turn, as if on an invisible tether. Sinclair pulled to the right several times to allow the car to pass. The red Ferrari stayed put.

  Sinclair frowned, and took the next sharp turn up the corniche. “I know a back way,” he said as the Audi accelerated. Cordelia clung to the armrests, startled.

  “Sorry,” apologized Sinclair. “I want to shake this guy. I don’t like these kinds of games.” He kept checking the rearview mirror as he carefully executed the hairpin turns.

  “Is the car still there?” asked Cordelia.

  “No, we seem to have lost him,” said Sinclair. “It might just be me, but I could swear we were being tailed.”

  What on earth for? she wondered.

  Sinclair relaxed into his chair at the Hotel du Cap, studying the menu. Cordelia looked at him surreptitiously over the top of hers. Yes, he certainly was handsome; probably the most gorgeous man she had ever seen in her life. She looked at his face; it was severe in repose. He had a sensual mouth—but one that closed with a firm line, dispelling any suggestion of weakness. What would it be like to kiss him? She kept thinking about it. He was in wonderful shape; even his tanned arm resting on the white tablecloth was sculpted.

  He looked up and caught her staring. She smiled back at him.

  “I’ve followed your work. It’s really impressive, especially for someone your age,” he said, putting down the menu. His eyes seemed to register everything she was feeling.

  “I’m not so young. I’ve been doing this now for nearly fifteen years.” She kept her voice detached, professional.

  All the selections on the menu were swimming together. She needed to focus. The dishes were described in French and she didn’t know half the words. He drew her attention away again.

  “Do you ever take any time off?”

  “Well, it’s not easy with Alvin. The submersible has to go out to sea for months at a time, and, of course, I stay with it. We have to do long expeditions in order to make it worthwhile, in terms of cost.”

  “Your work is truly impressive, but what do you do for fun?”

  “Go to France for lunch.”

  He looked at her and laughed.

  “Glad to hear it.” He smiled.

  Suddenly he seemed younger, not so imposing.

  “Shall we order? I’m having the langoustine with drawn butter and fresh basil.”

  She chose quickly.

  “I’ll have fish, the loup de mer . . . but it’s served with ‘pois mange-tout.’ What’s that?”

  “Tiny peas in a pod. You eat the whole thing. Very tender.”

  “Sounds great.”

  He took a chunk of French bread and coated it with sweet butter.

  “You seem to work very hard, from what I am reading about your research. Do you ever relax a bit, just loaf around or travel?”

  “Have you been talking to my team? They set you up to say that, didn’t they?”

  “Not a bit.” He smiled.

  She could hear the softest of accents in his speech. What did it remind her of? Yes, that was it, what phonologists would call the broad Boston a. Could he be from Boston?

  He seemed absorbed in thinking about something. The silence lengthened. She noticed he had the same ability to sit in silence as people who spend a lot of time alone—a trait common in scientists. She did it herself. But now she could tell he was weighing some line of conversation.

  “What do you want
to ask me?” she broke in. “Clearly you have something on your mind.”

  “Oh, yes, excuse me. I was lost in thought there. I wanted to ask you to help me with something I’m working on in Ephesus.”

  “Ephesus? In Turkey? What use would I be at an archaeological dig?”

  “We are trying to date some marine artifacts that we found in the earth there. Some of the carbon dating is turning up interesting results.”

  “Marine artifacts?”

  “Yes, Ephesus was a port until the harbor silted up.”

  “I had no idea.”

  He warmed to his subject, leaning forward.

  “That is what is so interesting; the ruins are four kilometers inland. But at one time ships anchored right at the base of the main street.”

  “What a great place for a dig.”

  He flashed a brilliant smile. “It’s incredible. Cordelia, could I talk you into coming down there?”

  She turned slightly away and pretended to look at the view. Was he really saying he wanted her to come to Ephesus with him? For what? They were talking about dating, all right, but it had nothing to do with carbon.

  Was he really this fast? He would invite a complete stranger to Ephesus with him? Susan had said in her e-mail to stay away from him. And he was romantically linked with Shari, the supermodel, wasn’t he?

  He was eating steadily, buttering the bread, as if unwilling to look up and gauge her reaction. But she knew he was entirely focused on her response.

  “John, I can’t.”

  Even before she could finish, he waved his hand in a dismissive gesture, still chewing.

  “No problem. Just a thought.”

  He seemed to expect a rejection. He was light about it, but she sensed an undercurrent of disappointment. She had a strong impulse to spare him any discomfort.