The Explorer's Code

by Kitty Pilgrim

  “Come this way, John.” Her voice was muffled by the hedges.

  “Cordelia! Where are you?”

  It was dim in the narrow path. There was the scent of earth and vegetation. The thick boxwood formed walls on either side of him, and the sun was blocked except for the small piece of sky above. He called for her again. There was no answer.

  A sudden fear welled up in him. What if someone really was hiding in the maze, waiting for her? He knew it was unlikely, but he still couldn’t shake off the irrational fear. His heart began to pound—a stress response to losing control. He needed to find her quickly. He started to run down the alleys, calling her name. Once or twice he thought he could hear her movements, but he couldn’t be sure.

  Suddenly it felt very claustrophobic in the narrow path. Disorientation came in a sickening wave. The old feeling of terror had welled up so fast, he was stunned. He fought the sensation and forced himself to breathe. He closed his eyes and tried to remain calm. But it wasn’t working.

  “Cordelia!” he shouted.

  It was too much. He looked at the impregnable hedges. He was losing his capacity to control his anxiety. The claustrophobia was crushing him. He sat down on the damp path and tried to force air into his lungs. His hands were shaking, so he pressed them down on the cool earth. His knees felt weak. He looked up at the sky overhead and saw that it was bright. But looking up made the hedges appear taller and closer.

  Deep down he could feel the knot of anger at himself for being so weak. Panic was like a stone on his chest, crushing his will. If he could calm down, he might be able to push the panic away. He started to concentrate on breathing, and focusing on his inner strength. He stood up and got a good lungful of air. That was better. He tried another. The green walls of the maze were still bothering him, but when he was standing up they didn’t seem so tall.

  Just then Cordelia came around the corner, laughing. Her hair was flying all over and there were leaves stuck in it. She looked so vital and pretty, the sight of her cleared his head.

  “John, what are you doing?” She reached to take his hand. “I got all the way to the middle, and you didn’t follow,” she complained.

  He pulled his hand back because it was so grimy.

  “I got lost. Let’s get out of here. I find it a bit confining,” he replied, surprised his voice was so even.

  “Are you angry with me?” she asked, hearing his somber tone.

  “No, not at all. It’s just that it’s getting late,” he said, brushing his hand off on his trousers. “Any idea how we came in?”

  “Yes,” she said, looking at him curiously. “It’s two turns to the left.”

  “Good. It’s nearly teatime. Let’s go in.”

  “OK,” she agreed. “I could use a cup of tea. And I want to see if they have any of that incredible gingerbread they make for the London shops.”

  From the back courtyard, the Russian watched them go into the maze. He was dressed in the hunter green coveralls worn by the workers at the Cliff-mere Organic Farm. Any good observer would have noticed the pocket of his Barbour-waxed coat was listing to the right, weighed down by the Beretta 92. The Russian would have preferred his usual Glock 19. The thirty-four-ounce Beretta was damn heavy. Unfortunately it was the only gun offered by his contact, so he had to take it.

  The Russian pushed the wheelbarrow across the lawn to the west terrace, just in front of the study. The French doors were ajar. He slipped carefully through the long window, removing his wellies at the doorsill, and padded noiselessly through the study into the library. There, in the middle of the library table, was the code they had been talking about, under a pane of glass. He took out his camera and photographed it four times. Then he slipped out the way he had come in. He was just crossing the stable yard when Sinclair and Cordelia came back across the lawn, hand in hand.

  The fire in the Tudor study was warm and comforting. A tray held a silver teapot, two cups, and a plate of homemade gingerbread. Cordelia bit into the dense cake and let the spicy flavor melt on her tongue. The Earl Grey tea, with its light taste of bergamot, was perfect with it. Sinclair stood, warming his feet on the brass railing of the fireplace.

  “How did you know?” he asked, looking into the fire.

  “John, your face was frightening.”

  “I thought I could hide it.”

  “How could you think I wouldn’t notice?” She took a sip of her tea. “I’m glad you know now. It’s enclosed spaces. I can’t take them,” he admitted.

  He looked miserable. She wanted to stand up and put her arms around him, but there was something in his stance that told her it wouldn’t be welcome.

  “Cordelia, I wanted to tell you about the accident. But I didn’t want to put too much on you. You have your own problems.”

  “I don’t have so many problems that I can’t help you.”

  She reached out her hand to him. He took it, gave it a quick squeeze, and then dropped it. He turned away and looked out the window. Her heart froze at the gesture.

  There was a long silence as he looked at the lawn. Finally he turned to her, and when he spoke his voice had the heavy tone of resignation.

  “Cordelia, I might not be right for you. I am not good at relationships. I can barely manage my own private hell.”

  “John! What are you saying?” she cried out in dismay.

  He turned to her, frowning with anxiety.

  “Why would you need two hundred ten pounds of trouble?”

  He paused, as if bracing for her response. She stood up and walked over to him.

  “Don’t do this, John. Don’t,” she pleaded.

  He said nothing. His expression was blank; he was trying not to show any emotion. She scanned his face and her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  “Is it Shari?”

  His eyes opened wide in surprise, but he didn’t respond.

  “It’s not like it’s a secret, John. I read Paris Match on the ship,” she said.

  “You did? And you still wanted to go ahead with me, after that?”

  “I did. I didn’t believe that was the real you. That man in the photos was not the John Sinclair I knew.”

  “I never behaved like that before in my life,” he vowed.

  “I wonder if you want a supermodel?” she challenged. “Or somebody who is real?” Cordelia walked away and picked up her teacup, and took a sip to compose herself. He came over and took the cup away from her, put it on the table, and clasped both her hands.

  “Cordelia, I want you.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. I want you to know that things with Shari weren’t serious.”

  “And this is?” she asked.

  He sighed heavily. “Yes. Although I have to admit I’m worried about where this is headed.”

  “You are?”

  “Of course I am,” he said. “Cordelia, look at our lives. We live on different continents. What are we going to do in a couple of weeks? Quit our jobs? Move? Or do we just e-mail each other from time to time?”

  Cordelia pulled her hands away and put them behind her back.

  “I know it’s going to be tough. But even so, I want to give it a try,” she said, tears filling her eyes. “I don’t know how this is going to work out. But I am not going to just give up on it.”

  He looked at her for a long minute and then shut his eyes. He opened them and reached for her, and pulled her to his chest.

  “OK, Delia. That was your chance to put the brakes on. If you want to stop this, it’s your call. But if you want to make this work, I’m willing.”

  “I want this so much, John,” she said. “I’ve never felt like this before. I know it’s soon, I know it’s complicated, but I want it.”

  “I want it too, you know,” he said, kissing her lightly on the forehead. He pulled back with a rueful smile. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  New York City

  The manager of the rare-book store came to the phone. Twice in one week was too much
of a coincidence. He needed to know what was going on. He took the phone from the salesgirl.

  “Bauman’s Rare Books, may I help you?”

  “Yes,” said the assassin. “I am looking for a certain copy of Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea by Jules Verne. None of the other American booksellers seem to have one.”

  “Yes sir, we can help you. We actually located that volume for another customer just yesterday.”

  “I am looking for a 1908 edition, printed in America. It can be a slightly earlier date.”

  “I have a 1906 copy—we found it when we were doing the search for our previous customer.”

  “I will take it.”

  “Very good, sir. Would you like it leather-bound? That will take an additional three weeks. I can recommend a burgundy calfskin—it looks quite handsome.”

  “No. No leather binding. Just the original book. I will send someone to pick it up at your store. Is four o’clock good? I want to get it right away. It’s a birthday gift.”

  “Certainly, sir, we will set it aside. Who will be calling for it?”

  “Mr. Jones will be coming by at four,” the man said, and hung up.

  The manager stood holding the phone, wondering why the customer had never asked the price.

  Cliffmere

  The setter was moving at a brisk trot down the wooded trail. It was a handsome animal, larger than a traditional gundog. This one stood twenty-seven inches at the shoulder, an excellent bird dog with the distinctive black and tan markings of a Gordon setter. Sinclair let the animal set the pace and increased his speed to keep up.

  The trail was a mossy track through the woods, a cross-country bridle trail. It was just on the verge of dusk, and dense foliage on each side of the trail nearly obscured the sunlight. It was damp and cool—very soothing to Sinclair after the tension of being indoors so much of the time.

  As Sinclair inhaled the fresh air, he began to feel better. It was good to get out of the house and move a bit. He needed to think on his own. The strain of being vigilant day after day was getting to him. Even when he slept, he wound his fingers through Cordelia’s hair so no one would be able to capture her without waking him.

  He had been on edge for days. Today he was at the breaking point. So when an opportunity for a moment’s respite had turned up, he had seized it. Right now he had no worries about leaving Cordelia. She was in the kitchen, flanked by three men: the head chef, the assistant cook, and the pastry chef. They were teaching her how to make a traditional English game pie. The interior kitchen of the house was secure, and the men were armed with sharp knives. All that seemed safe enough.

  Sinclair had watched for a while, and then, realizing he was not needed, he kissed her cheek and went out for a quick walk. She barely noticed when he slipped out through the kitchen door.

  The path wound down through the woods to the river. He had been moving at a fast clip, but suddenly he stopped, on alert. Something was wrong. The dog halted and growled. There wasn’t a sound; the forest seemed empty. But he knew something was there; he trusted dogs more than he trusted people. Charles had taught him that. The dog growled again as Thaddeus Frost stepped from behind a tree.

  “You had me worried there,” said Sinclair, coming up to put a hand on the dog’s collar.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you. But I saw you coming out of the house.”

  His eyes were hard, and for the first time Sinclair saw how utterly dangerous Frost would be as an adversary.

  “What’s going on?” Sinclair asked.

  “We picked up another Russian. This one was inside the house.”

  “Inside the house, here?” Sinclair stared, aghast. “When?”

  “This afternoon.”

  “You got him?”

  “Yes, we got him. He’s out of commission,” said Frost.

  “I can’t believe this!” Sinclair exclaimed.

  “He’s Russian, just like the one we got outside your house in Ephesus. We’re not sure if they’re connected.”

  “Connected or not, they tracked us here.”

  “Yes. The one we got today actually photographed the document in the library. It was nice of you to put it under glass for him. He got a good picture.”

  “Oh, no.” Sinclair groaned.

  “You know they are trying to kill her. You realize that, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Be extra careful at night,” Frost cautioned. “Don’t let your guard down. We’re not here after the alarms go on at eleven p.m.”

  “We? How many. Two?”

  “And you make three.”

  “OK, so what do we do now?” Sinclair asked.

  Frost walked over to a tree to examine a fan-shaped fungus on the trunk. In the wooded setting, dressed in his tweed jacket and tan slacks, he was halfway camouflaged. Frost bent low to examine the underside of the shelf of fungus. It was bright yellow orange. He broke off a chunk and sniffed it.

  “I said, what do we do now?” Sinclair said forcefully.

  Frost turned back, as if he had just noticed him.

  “Can’t we hide somewhere?” Sinclair burst out. “I hate having to sit here just waiting for these bastards to go after Cordelia.”

  Frost walked soundlessly over to Sinclair, the pine needles cushioning his footsteps. His voice was low, as if he were concerned about being overheard.

  “No. It’s a good setup here. Much better than in London. There is a lot of activity during the day, with the farm. A lot of people are around to keep their eyes open. And at night the house is Fort Knox with the alarm system on.”

  “So how’d he get in?” Sinclair was careful to keep the accusation out of his voice.

  “Disguised as a farmworker. He walked in through the French doors by the library. We saw him immediately. We were watching him the whole time. We bagged him the second he came out of the house.”

  “That still makes me nervous. What should we do?”

  Thaddeus Frost turned back to the growth on the tree. He snapped off a larger section of the fungus. Holding it gingerly, he took a ziplock bag from his pocket and sealed the sample inside.

  Sinclair watched the whole process without comment. Frost turned back.

  “You need to decode that book and find the deed. After you find it, sell it, or give it away. Once it’s out of your hands, they will leave you alone.”

  “You still want it, don’t you? That’s what you’re really here for,” said Sinclair.

  Frost sighed and looked at him with contempt.

  “When they start slicing up your girlfriend with a box cutter, right in front of you . . . you won’t think I’m the bad guy. You’ll get your priorities straight. Now I strongly suggest you get back into that house.”

  Thaddeus Frost turned and slipped behind the rhododendron and was gone.

  Sinclair, Cordelia, Tom, and Marian all sat in Tom’s private study. The upstairs room, just off his bedroom, was clearly a sanctuary for deep thought. Medical volumes lined the shelves and research papers were neatly stacked on the desk. They were taking turns reading passages from the diary out loud. Marian had, in her very practical manner, suggested that they get through it as quickly as possible. Tom was bent over his desk, reading steadily, his silver hair shining under the bright light of the brass accountant’s lamp.

  NORWEGIAN STOCKHOLDERS IN THE ARCTIC COAL MINING COMPANY HAVE REQUESTED THAT THE NORWEGIAN GOVERNMENT CONFIRM THE UNDISPUTED POSSESSION OF THE ADVENT BAY TERRITORY BY THE ARCTIC COAL MINING COMPANY SO THE MINING OPERATIONS CAN CONTINUE. THE MAJORITY OF LABORERS EMPLOYED BY THE MINE ARE OF NORWEGIAN NATIONALITY. THEREFORE, IT SHOULD BE IN THE INTEREST OF THE NORWEGIAN STATE TO UPHOLD THE LIVELIHOOD AND FINANCIAL INTERESTS OF ITS CITIZENS.

  Sinclair stood up to take over the reading, taking his place at Tom’s desk to continue.

  I HEAR FROM MY MANAGER IN SPITSBERGEN THAT NORWAY HAS REFUSED UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES TO CONSIDER GRANTING THE RIGHT TO ERECT A WIRELESS COMMUNICATION STATION. WE HAVE OFFERED
TO INSTALL IT AT OUR OWN EXPENSE, AS IT IS CRITICAL DURING THE IMPASSABLE WINTER MONTHS, WHEN ADVENT BAY IS CHOKED WITH ICE. THIS WOULD GREATLY BENEFIT THE COAL-MINING OPERATION, WHICH EMPLOYS SO MANY NORWEGIAN CITIZENS. MY ONLY CONCLUSION IS THAT NORWAY IS POSITIONING ITSELF WITH THE INTENT OF EVENTUALLY TAKING OVER THE TERRITORY.

  Marian took the book from Sinclair and read in her clear voice.

  EVEN ON THE MOST WORTHLESS PART OF OUR GREEN HARBOR PROPERTY, THE NORWEGIANS AND RUSSIAN TRESPASSERS HAVE FILED MULTIPLE CLAIMS. THEY FILE A CLAIM NOTICE WITH THE NORWEGIAN GOVERNMENT, AND THE MORE CUNNING OF TRESPASSERS BUILD CAMPS OF ONE OR TWO MEN, WHO STAY PART OF THE TIME. IT IS A MYSTERY TO ME WHAT THEY EXPECT TO DO WITH THE PROPERTY. THEY PROBABLY HAVE A VAGUE IDEA THAT SOMEONE WILL COME ALONG AND PAY THEM FOR IT, BECAUSE THEY ONCE WERE SQUATTERS AND DROVE SOME STAKES ON THE LAND.

  Marian stopped reading and looked up and caught Sinclair’s eye. He nodded at her, instantly understanding the implications of the passage. “Even back then, this land was being fought over. Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose,” he said. “The more it changes, the more it stays the same.”

  Jim Gardiner hauled his vast bulk out of the tiny rental car. A half dozen dogs swarmed around him in the courtyard of the house. He started swatting them away.

  “Down, boys, down.”

  They went into a frenzy of playfulness, dodging and rushing him, pulling at the hem of his raincoat. To Cordelia, Gardiner looked like a large bear, beset by hounds. He held a paper-wrapped parcel high above his head, protecting it.

  “Delia, get rid of these beasts!” he called.

  Cordelia flew out of the house and down the steps, and the dogs scattered. She gave Gardiner a hug. He stepped back and surveyed her.

  “Honey, you look great. This country life is doing you some good.”

  “I feel great. But Tom and Marian are feeding me way too much. They grow organic gourmet food on this farm.”

  “Wow,” said Jim. “Very fancy.”