The Explorer's Code

by Kitty Pilgrim

  “It’s my pleasure.”

  “She doesn’t know this, but the break-in last month triggered Peter Stapleton’s heart attack. That’s how he died. He interrupted the intruder.”

  “Oh, that changes the picture, doesn’t it?” said Sinclair.

  “All the locks are new,” Gardiner assured him. “And the London police have the town house on surveillance.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll stay with her as long as she needs me,” he promised.

  Paul Oakley was seated at his desk. The mail had piled up, and there were four research papers to be read, to say nothing of the Hong Kong findings on avian influenza to be written up. He had just settled down to work when the phone rang. It was one of his oldest friends in the world, Tom Skye Russell.

  Not a day went by that he didn’t miss Tom. Sometimes he was halfway down the corridor to his office when he remembered that Tom had retired last year—packed his desk and gone off to run his estate, Cliffmere, north of London, near Oxford.

  “Tom, nice to hear from you.”

  “Paul, I tried to call you two weeks ago, but I guess you were traveling.”

  “I just got back from Hong Kong. I’m working with the Chinese on avian flu,” said Oakley.

  “I suppose you heard about Miles?”

  Oakley could barely answer. He cleared his throat. “Awful, just awful,” he managed.

  There was an uncomfortable pause on the other end of the line.

  “Paul, I wanted to get back to you about your request to exhume the grave site on our property. I think I have all the red tape cleared.”

  “That’s just great, Tom. That is fantastic. I really appreciate it.”

  “If you think the tissue samples would be useful, I see no reason why we shouldn’t do it. It’s a family grave site, and I don’t think my great-grandfather would have minded. He was a man of science, after all.”

  “I’m just hoping that the lead in the coffin is intact. If that seal is still solid, we have a very good chance of getting a viable sample.”

  “Well, the permits are approved for next week, if that’s not too soon.”

  “Oh, that’s excellent,” said Oakley. “I can’t thank you enough. I’ll be down to secure the area and talk to the local police. I work with a company called Necropolis. They’ll be doing the site survey. Should they call you directly?”

  “Yes, certainly. Anytime is fine. I have a young American woman from the States who is going to be visiting. But that won’t interfere with your work.”

  “We’ll just keep to ourselves over by the chapel. You won’t even know we’re there.”

  “Right. See you next week, then.”

  Jim Gardiner and Sinclair were at the Coburg Bar in the Connaught Hotel drinking single malt and deep in conversation. Cordelia sat across from them, sipping her Campari and looking around the room. The décor was sophisticated yet cozy: gray green walls; deep velvet wingback chairs upholstered in shades of plum, gray, and persimmon; and flickering amber candles on each table. To think this place was just a few blocks from her new town house.

  When the waitress came over, Sinclair and Gardiner stopped talking. She placed a bowl of hand-cut potato chips, a dish of green olives, and some spiced nuts on the low table. She dallied, fussing over the exact placement of the dishes and glancing sideways at Sinclair, looking him over. Sinclair ignored the woman, gazing out at the town houses of Carlos Place. Cordelia rolled her eyes at Gardiner, who pressed his lips together to hide a smile.

  When the waitress left, they resumed their discussion. The jazz music drowned out their conversation to the rest of the room.

  “The way I see it,” said Gardiner, “this deed does exist. Otherwise we would have had claims against the property. No one has legally contested the rights since Norway ceded them to Elliott Stapleton in 1906.”

  “Why the big rush to claim it now?” asked Sinclair.

  “I think the construction of the seed vault raised a hornet’s nest of competing interests.”

  “Competing interests of the Norwegian government, the Russians, the Bio-Diversity Trust, and some old Russian miners,” Sinclair said, counting them off on his fingers. “Anyone else?”

  “There is also a group called Citizens for World Survival. The Department of Homeland Security told me they’re some kind of domestic terrorist group, survivalists or some such thing,” said Gardiner.

  “It seems to me Norway has a pretty good claim on it, if we can’t find that deed,” said Sinclair.

  “Correct,” said Gardiner. “The land rights will revert to Norway if we can’t find that deed in a reasonable time.”

  “Revert? Why?” Cordelia asked.

  “The mine hasn’t been in operation for more than thirty years. Norway will try to argue that the land is not being used for its original purpose, which was commercial mining. Without the deed, they would say the land is ‘terra nullius,’ no-man’s-land, and under law it belongs to Norway.”

  “What about the Russians?”

  “They are doing a modern version of claim jumping by bringing up the historical rights of the Russian miners.”

  “Would that fly in court?” cut in Sinclair.

  “Probably not. But a private Russian company is offering ninety-seven point six million dollars for the land.”

  “Ninety-seven point six million dollars!” Cordelia slumped back in her chair.

  “Yup, you find that deed, you could just sell it to the Russians and walk away,” said Gardiner.

  “Norway would contest it,” Sinclair pointed out.

  “You bet they would, but it wouldn’t be her problem. She would be sitting pretty,” said Gardiner to Sinclair.

  “What about donating it to the Bio-Diversity Trust?” asked Cordelia.

  “You could do that,” agreed Gardiner. “But there is one problem.”

  “We don’t have the deed,” said Sinclair.

  “Bingo,” said Gardiner, and drained his whiskey.

  Bob walked into the Coburg Bar and everything about him—his expression, his clothes, and his manner—screamed he was out of place. He scanned the room, as if looking for someone.

  “Well, hello! Who do we have here? It’s my friends from the Queen Victoria! Small world.”

  Cordelia could read Sinclair’s annoyance in the subtle shift in the line of his mouth. He reluctantly stood to greet Bob.

  “Well, I’ll be damned if it isn’t our lady oceanographer and Mr. Sinclair,” Bob continued, beaming down at Cordelia. “Nice to see you again.”

  “Why, hello, Bob!” said Cordelia, surprised.

  “Howdy do,” said Bob. “How’ve you been?”

  “What brings you here?” asked Sinclair tersely.

  “Marlene and I got off the ship in Athens and came up to London for a few days of shopping. She’s over at Harrods right now.”

  “Are you staying here at the Connaught?” asked Jim Gardiner.

  “Nearby. I heard this was a good place for a drink.”

  He eyed their glasses. “I see you’ve started the cocktail hour already.”

  There was an awkward pause. Sinclair looked at Gardiner.

  “Please join us,” invited Cordelia reluctantly.

  Sinclair gave Bob a cool smile and sat back down. Their conversation would have to wait.

  “Why, thank you, mighty kind,” said Bob, pulling up a chair. “I’m gonna need a drink before I see that bill from Harrods.”

  Bob walked quickly along the mews of Adams Row and in the back door of the Millennium Hotel. He would call Evgeny from his room. Evgeny answered on the second ring, and sounded so irritated, Bob was glad to be delivering good news.

  “Listen, I just tracked Sinclair and Cordelia. Marlene found out they are staying at Claridge’s.”

  “How did she find that out?” asked Evgeny.

  “We had the address for her town house. Marlene just went around to all the nice hotels in the neighborhood, asking to leave a message. Sure enough, Claridge�
��s took a message for her. You gotta love the service at five-star hotels.”

  “You didn’t tip off anyone, did you?”

  “No, Marlene said she was a real-estate agent,” said Bob.

  “Are you at the same hotel?”

  “No, I thought that would be too suspicious. We’re right nearby, at the Millennium. It’s about a block away from the town house. I just pretended to bump into them having drinks.”

  “Good,” said Evgeny. “Don’t let them out of your sight.”

  Lounging back in the comfortable wing chair, Cordelia watched the two men she loved most in the world. Sinclair and Gardiner were laughing together, their faces happy and relaxed. They were getting on so well. She swirled the watery remains of her Campari in the glass and thought about how radically her life had changed in the past few weeks. Sure there were some bumps, but things were turning out OK after all. Just then the waitress brought over their tab, trying to catch Sinclair’s eye again. He stood up to go.

  “Time for some real food,” he said, holding out a hand for Cordelia.

  “I’ll get this,” said Gardiner, reaching for the drinks bill.

  “Thanks, Jim. I’ll handle dinner,” Sinclair agreed.

  As they left the Connaught, the top-hatted doorman wished them a good evening. Sinclair and Gardiner stopped to ask him directions to the restaurant.

  Cordelia, still lost in thought, started walking slowly along Carlos Place toward Grosvenor Square. Her new neighborhood was gorgeous. The quiet street was lined with beautiful trees. She wandered down the block, leaving Sinclair and Gardiner to catch up.

  Now that she had a house in London, she could come here whenever she wasn’t working. After all, she had a generous vacation allowance, but until now there was no reason to use it. Now that was all changed. Think of it, a new place to call home, a new life off the ship!

  But when could she and Sinclair be together? Weekends? Monaco wasn’t that far away, was it? She needed to talk to him. They had been avoiding the subject, refusing to make plans beyond a few days in advance. They would have to face a separation sooner or later.

  She walked on ahead. When she heard the rapid footsteps behind her, she assumed Sinclair and Gardiner were catching up.

  Without warning, a violent force hit her from the back, knocking her nearly to her knees. A strong arm slipped around her stomach and she was lifted off her feet. Her breath was constricted by a viselike hold around her waist.

  She was being held tightly. She couldn’t see her assailant, but whoever he was, he was dragging her to the curb. She yelled at the top of her lungs, but the wind was knocked out of her, and not much sound came out.

  Struggling wildly, she looked around and the street was empty. Out of the corner of her eye she could see a white panel van draw up, its door gaping open like a dark cave. Her adrenaline kicked in. She knew if she went into that van she would have no chance of getting free.

  She flailed her arms at her captor and, reaching back, she felt her fingernails gouge his face. She tried to scream again, and this time managed to make it louder. She contorted wildly to twist her head around to see if Gardiner and Sinclair were nearby. If their backs were turned, she could very well vanish without a trace. It would take only seconds.

  That horrible thought gave her new strength as she struggled, screamed, and kicked against her captor. Her spine nearly cracked as he tightened his hold. She could feel his chest heaving with the effort of dragging her backward. She knew she was giving him a pretty good fight. She was stronger than she looked, from years of swimming, and her long limbs gave her the ability to trip him. She tried to crush his feet with her high heels. Each time she could connect one foot with the sidewalk, she dug her heel in. The assailant was having a hard time of it. But no matter how hard she struggled, he was making progress toward the curb.

  He pivoted, facing the van now, trying to push her into the gaping hole of the vehicle. On the filthy floor, she glimpsed a tool kit, some oily rags, and other refuse. He pushed her forward and she was nearly inside.

  As a last desperate move she swung both legs up in an arc. Using his grip around her waist as leverage, she planted her feet on the aluminum siding of the van. She bent her knees and then pushed off with both legs, knocking her captor back a few paces. He staggered to recover his balance, but never lost his grip. That was her best move, and she knew he would not allow her to do it twice. He spun her around and began dragging her backward again.

  But now she caught sight of Sinclair and Gardiner a long way down the street. As they turned around toward her, they finally saw what was happening.

  Sinclair was faster off the mark than Gardiner. He tore down the block in a burst of speed, his arms and legs pumping. But to Cordelia his frantic dash had the slow-motion quality of a nightmare. He wasn’t going to make it. Again, she was just inches from the door of the van.

  She needed to buy more time. She let her body go limp, slumping over her captor’s arm, creating a deadweight, and dropped her feet low to the ground. With one foot she managed to connect with the pavement, and tried to push away. She felt the heel of her shoe break off as she tried to wrestle free.

  Sinclair reached Cordelia and caught hold of her arm. He yanked it so violently, she thought her shoulder would dislocate. Sinclair realized immediately that pulling on her was not going to free her. He spun around and placed himself in the small space between the van and the assailant, and began pummeling the man fiercely. Cordelia felt her captor’s body shake with Sinclair’s violent blows. As Sinclair placed a solid punch to one of his kidneys, the arm around her waist weakened. Cordelia renewed her struggle, and the grip around her slackened enough for her to wrest herself free. She fell to the sidewalk on her hands and knees, gasping in pain as she hit the hard pavement. Her hands had barely touched the sidewalk when she felt herself pulled to her feet again.

  But this time she was being held in Sinclair’s strong arms. As she clung to him, she was vaguely aware of the van tearing off behind them, tires squealing around the corner. She wrapped her arms around Sinclair’s neck, burying her face in his chest. His comforting smell was mixed with the sharp scent of sweat. He held on to her tightly, still breathing hard from the struggle.

  Just then Gardiner ran up, puffing heavily.

  “Holy crow. Who in hell were they?” he demanded.

  At the American embassy in Grosvenor Square, the young marine was impassive behind the bulletproof glass. Sinclair glared at him as he paced the waiting area. Twice, Sinclair had been told that Thaddeus Frost did not work in the embassy. But he was not to be put off. Sinclair repeatedly and politely asked that Frost be contacted. Finally a heavily perspiring junior diplomat came out into the lobby and talked to him. Sinclair was told to take a seat. No promises, but he wasn’t being thrown out. He sat in a hard government-issue chair and didn’t budge. About twenty minutes later, a steel door opened and Thaddeus Frost stood in the doorway. The expression on his face was not welcoming.

  “Mr. Sinclair,” he said coldly. “You should have called. I thought we agreed on that form of contact. I always answer my phone.”

  “I needed to talk to you in person.”

  “How did you ever know where to find me?”

  “I took a wild guess,” said Sinclair, rising. They stood eye to eye. The marine watched warily as Frost allowed Sinclair to pass through the secure steel door. They walked along an unadorned corridor and entered an empty office.

  Frost took a seat behind the synthetic-wood-grained desk and waited for Sinclair to speak. In the first few seconds, Frost’s eyes tracked from his rumpled suit to the slightly grazed knuckles on Sinclair’s left hand. His gaze rested longer on a small triangular tear on the sleeve of Sinclair’s glen plaid suit, the kind of rip made by something sharp. Sinclair still wore a tie, but it was loosened, and the silk fabric was water-stained right below the knot, from Cordelia’s tears. Frost looked at the spot and then up to Sinclair’s eyes.

  “What can
I do for you?” Frost asked.

  “I thought you people were keeping a security detail on Cordelia,” Sinclair challenged. He found it difficult to speak calmly.

  “We are,” Frost replied coolly.

  “Then where the hell were you when two goons jumped her about an hour ago?”

  “Surveillance ends at six. You were supposed to watch her at night.”

  “It was five thirty. I guess that is good enough for government work,” said Sinclair. “What kind of b.s. is this?”

  “I told you,” said Frost levelly. “I can’t keep a twenty-four/seven detail on her.”

  Sinclair ran a hand through his hair. Sweat prickled his scalp. He resisted the urge to fling off his jacket. “They almost got her. Some thug nearly pulled her into a van right out there on Carlos Place.”

  Frost answered courteously. “Understood. I’ll up the security.”

  “I guess you forgot to mention there are quite a few more people involved in this than the governments of Russia and Norway and a couple of nuts who are rooting for the end of the world. Who are these people? It looked like a professional job.”

  “It seems there are some independent actors involved now.”

  “Independent actors? You mean the mob?”

  “That is a broad term.”

  “Which means?”

  “We are not sure who they are.”

  “Not sure!!!” Sinclair slammed his fist on the desk. He shut his eyes for a moment against the overhead fluorescent light. He needed to communicate better than this. He couldn’t lose control. It was urgent. He tried again. “She doesn’t care about the deed. She just wants to live her life. Can’t we just walk away from this?” he pleaded.

  “No,” said Frost. “There is no walking away.”

  “How do I get them off her back?”

  “Find the deed,” Frost said. “Somebody out there wants it badly enough to kill.”

  “But she doesn’t know anything,” objected Sinclair.

  “Doesn’t matter. They will still try.”

  “I don’t suppose it would be worth going to the police?”