The Navigator

by Clive Cussler

  “Song of Songs,” Carina said.

  “That’s right. The woman in the poems introduces herself: “I am black, but beautiful, daughters of Jerusalem.”

  “She came from Africa,” Carina said.

  “That seems to be the case. Her mention in the Bible is a brief one. The Koran expands on the story, and the Arab and later medieval chroniclers picked up the thread. Sheba and Solomon are married; she bears him a son, and then returns to her homeland. He has many wives, concubines, and children. She becomes even more powerful and wealthy.”

  “And the son?”

  “The legend says he returns to Africa and reigns as a king.”

  “A lovely fairy tale,” Carina said. “Now may I be allowed to dispense with your hospitality and leave this place?”

  “But that’s only the first part of the story,” Baltazar said. “The liaison between Solomon and Sheba’s handmaiden also produces a son. He dies at an early age, but his progeny live on. They move to Cyprus, where they establish a shipbuilding business, and make contact with the Fourth Crusaders. They move to Western Europe after the sack of Constantinople and take a Spanish name.”

  “Baltazar,” Carina said.

  “Correct. Unfortunately, I am the last remaining male descendant of the Baltazars. When I die, the family dies with me.”

  And none too soon, Carina thought. She let out an unladylike laugh. “Are you saying that you are descended from Solomon?”

  “Yes, Miss Mechadi. And so are you.”

  “You are far more insane than I have imagined, Baltazar.”

  “Before you pronounce judgments on my sanity, hear me out. The son of Solomon and Sheba became king of Ethiopia. His family ruled for centuries.”

  “I was born in Italy, but my mother told me the story of King Menelik of Ethiopia. What of it?”

  “Then you know about the Kebra Nagast. The holy document tells the story of Sheba and Menelik.”

  Carina was on less sure ground. “I’ve heard the name, but I have never read it. I was raised Roman Catholic.”

  “The Kebra Nagast was supposedly found in the third century A.D., in the Santa Sophia library of Constantinople. It may have been written later, but that doesn’t matter. If you had read it, you would know that the book tells the story of Solomon and Mekada, Queen of Sheba. I submitted Mechadi to an expert in onamastics, the study of names. Verified that your family name is derived from Mekada.”

  “That proves nothing! That would mean every boy named Jesus or Christian can claim ties to the Messiah.”

  “I would agree with you, except for one thing. The cup you drank from when you had the Navigator on display contained traces of your DNA. I had the samples analyzed by three different laboratories so there would be no doubt. The results were the same in all instances. Your DNA, and mine, both contained the same DNA. I believe it goes back to Solomon. You through Sheba. I through her handmaiden. I’ll have the lab results sent to your room and you can see them for yourself.”

  “Laboratory reports can be forged.”

  “That’s true. But these were not.” He smiled again. “So don’t consider this an incarceration. It is more of a family reunion. At our first meeting you said you’d like to have dinner with me. We dine at six.”

  As Baltazar walked away, Carina called out: “Wait!”

  Baltazar was unused to commands. He turned and a flicker of anger flashed across his face. “Yes, Miss Mechadi?”

  She plucked at her gown. If Baltazar thought she was descended from a queen, she would act like one. “This is not to my liking. I want my own clothes back.”

  He nodded. “I’ll have them sent to your room.”

  Then he walked away and disappeared through one of the doorways into the house.

  Carina stood in stunned silence, unsure of what to do. The valet came out and as he cleared the dishes, he said, “Mr. Baltazar says you are free to return to your room.”

  The reminder that she was a prisoner shocked her out of her trance.

  She spun on her heel and strode through the door, down the corridor and into her room. What had been a prison a short while earlier now seemed a safe haven.

  She shut the door and leaned against it, shutting her eyes tight, as if by doing so she could transport herself to another place.

  There was no way she shared the same blood with that repellent snake of a man.

  His mere presence revolted and frightened her.

  But even more frightening was the possibility that his story was true.

  NUMA 7 - The Navigator

  Chapter 41

  PROFESSOR MCCULLOUGH GREETED HIS VISITORS on the steps of the University of Virginia rotunda, the domed, red-brick building based on the Jefferson designs that echoed Monticello and the Pantheon in Rome. The professor suggested a stroll along the tree-bordered cloisters whose columns enclosed the great terraced lawn. “I can give you twenty minutes before I have to scoot off to my ethics class,” said the professor, a big, heavyset man whose full gray beard resembled a clump of Spanish moss. His cheeks were apple red, and he effected a rolling gait more like a retired merchant seaman than an academic. “I’ve got to tell you, I was intrigued when you called and asked about the Artichoke Society.”

  “It’s apparently something of an enigma,” Gamay said as they strolled past the pavilions that framed the green space.

  McCullough stopped in midstep. “It’s a mystery, all right,” he said with a shake of his head. “I stumbled on it while I was preparing a paper on the ethics of belonging to a secret society.”

  “Interesting topic,” Paul said.

  “I thought so. You don’t have to be part of a conspiracy to take over the world to have your ethics questioned. Even membership in the innocent organizations can present undesirable potentials. Exclusiveness. Them versus us. The strange rituals and symbols. The elitism. The quid pro quo among members. The belief that only they know the truth. Many are male-only. Some countries, like Poland, for instance, have banned secret societies. At one end of the spectrum, you’ve got frat houses; at the other, you’ve got Nazis.”

  “What got you interested in secret societies?” Paul asked.

  McCullough continued on his stroll. “The University of Virginia is famous for its covert ops. We’ve got nearly two dozen secret societies on the campus. And those are the ones I know about.”

  “I’ve read about the Seven Society,” said Angela, who seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of arcane information at her fingertips.

  “Oh, yes. The Sevens are so secret that we know someone has been a member only when he dies and his obit appears in the campus publications. His grave will be adorned with a black magnolia wreath in the shape of the numeral seven. The university chapel bell tower chimes every seven seconds for seven minutes on the seventh dissonant chord.”

  “Was Jefferson a member of any of these groups?” Gamay said.

  “He joined the Flat Hat Society when he attended William and Mary. It became the Flat Hat Club later on.”

  “Unusual name?” Gamay said.

  “In the old days, students wore mortarboard caps all the time, not just at graduation.”

  “Like Harry Potter,” Angela said.

  McCullough chuckled at the allusion. “No Hogwarts that I know of, but the Flat Hats had a secret handshake. They used to meet and talk on a regular basis. Jefferson admitted, in his words, that the society had ‘no useful object.’”

  Gamay steered the professor back on topic.

  “Could you tell us what you know about the Artichoke Society?” she said.

  “Sorry for going off on a tangent. I was researching my paper in the university library and came across an old newspaper article. A reporter claimed that as he rode up to the mansion hoping for an interview with the ex-president, he had seen John Adams getting out of a carriage in front of Monticello.”

  “A reunion of the Founding Fathers?” Paul said.

  “The reporter couldn’t believe his eyes. He we
nt to the door of the mansion and talked to Jefferson himself. Jefferson said the reporter was mistaken. He had seen a local plantation owner who had come by to discuss new crops. Asked what kind of crops, Jefferson smiled and said, ‘Artichokes.’ He reported the conversation, noting that Jefferson’s friend looked like Adams.”

  “Who first suggested that the Artichoke Society actually existed?” Angela asked.

  “I’m afraid I’m the culprit.” McCullough had a sheepish expression on his ruddy face.

  “I don’t understand,” Gamay said.

  “I did a ‘What if?’ Suppose there had been a meeting as described. Why would the Founding Fathers get together? Travel wasn’t easy back then. I wrote a humorous article for a university publication based on the story and the UVA penchant for secret societies. I had pretty much forgotten about it when your writer friend called last week. He had come across a Jefferson paper on artichokes at the American Philosophical Society. A Google search turned up my article.”

  “Angela works for the Philosophical Society,” Gamay said. “She’s the one who discovered the paper.”

  “Quite a coincidence,” McCullough said. “I told Mr. Nickerson the same thing.”

  “Who is Mr. Nickerson?” Gamay said.

  “He said he was with the State Department. He’s a Jefferson history buff, and he had read my article, wondered what else I knew. He was going to look into it, but he never got back to me. Stocker called last week. Then you.” He checked his watch. “Damn. This is fascinating stuff, but it’s almost class time.”

  Paul handed him a business card. “Please give us a call if you think of anything else.”

  “I will.”

  “Thanks for your help,” Gamay said. “We won’t delay you any longer.”

  McCullough shook hands all around and rolled off to his class.

  PAUL WATCHED the professor make his way across the lawn.

  “In the file Kurt sent us at Woods Hole, he mentioned that he had been asked to look into the Phoenician puzzle by a State Department guy named Nickerson. He met him on an old Potomac River yacht.”

  “I recall the name. Think it’s the same person?”

  Paul shrugged and flipped open his cell phone. He scrolled down the index until he found the number of a State Department staffer he had worked with on ocean jurisdiction issues. Moments later, he hung up.

  “Nickerson is an undersecretary. My pal at Foggy Bottom doesn’t know him personally but says Nickerson is an insider and a survivor. He’s considered brilliant but eccentric, and he lives on an antique yacht on the Potomac. He gave me the name of the marina but not the yacht. How about making a quick stop along the Potomac on the way home?”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier if we knew the boat’s name?” Angela said.

  “If we liked doing things the easy way, we wouldn’t be working for NUMA,” Paul said.

  THE SEARCH FOR Nickerson’s boat was tougher than the Trouts had anticipated.

  A number of boats could have qualified as old, but only one—a white-hulled motor cruiser named Lovely Lady—that fit the bill as an antique.

  Paul got out of the SUV and went over to the boat. The deck was deserted, and there didn’t seem to be any signs of life on board. He walked up the boarding plank and called hello a couple of times.

  No one answered from the yacht, but a man popped his head out of a cabin cruiser in the next slip.

  “Nick’s not on board,” he said. “Took off awhile ago.”

  Paul thanked him and headed back to the car. On the way, he glanced at the boat’s name again and noticed that the transom was whiter than the rest of the hull. He went back to Nickerson’s neighbor and asked if the yacht’s name had been changed.

  “As a matter of fact, it has,” the man said.

  Minutes later, Paul slid behind the steering wheel. “No Nickerson,” he said.

  “I saw you checking out the boat’s name,” Gamay said.

  “Just curious. Nickerson’s neighbor said the yacht used to be called Thistle.”

  Angela’s ears perked up. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Artichokes.”

  “Come again?” Trout said.

  “It’s something I came across when I was pulling files for my writer friend. The globe artichoke is a thistle.”

  NUMA 7 - The Navigator

  Chapter 42

  SAXON UNLOCKED THE DOOR to his rented cottage near the bay and snapped the light on. Flashing a toothy grin, he said: “Welcome to the Saxon archaeological conservation lab.”

  The chairs and sofa in the musty living room had been pushed back against the walls to make space for a plastic trash barrel and two folding picnic tables set up end to end. Stacked on the tables were layers of thick paper sandwiched between top and bottom plywood sheets.

  The amphora lay on the sofa in two pieces. The mottled green surface of the slim, tapering container was pitted with corrosion. The sealed top had been severed from the main part at the neck and lay a few inches from the body. Austin picked up a hacksaw from the table and examined the greenish dust caught in the teeth.

  “I see that you used the finest precision instruments.”

  “Home Depot, actually,” Saxon said. He looked embarrassed. “I know you’re thinking that I’m a vandal. But I’ve had extensive experience in artifact conservation under primitive conditions and I didn’t want a nosy conservator asking questions. There was a risk, but I would have gone bloody bonkers if I had to wait to find out what’s in that jug. I was very careful.”

  “I might have done the same thing,” Austin said, setting the hacksaw down. “I hope you’re telling me that the patient died but the operation was a success.”

  Saxon spread his arms wide. “The gods of ancient Phoenicia were smiling on me. It succeeded beyond my wildest dreams. The amphora contained a largely intact papyrus rolled up inside it.”

  “It’s been under water a long time,” Zavala said. “What condition was it in?”

  “Papyrus thrives best in a dry climate like the Egyptian desert, but the amphora was tightly sealed and the papyrus encapsulated in a leather case. I’m hoping for the best.”

  Austin lifted the lid off the trash container. “More high-tech?”

  “That’s my ultrasonic humidification chamber. The pages were too brittle to be unwound without damage and had to be humidified. I put water in the bottom of the receptacle, wrapped the roll in sheets of blotting paper, placed it inside a smaller plastic container with holes cut out of it, and clamped the lid on tight.”

  “This contraption actually works?”

  “In theory. We’ll have to see.” Saxon glanced toward the plywood sandwich on the tables.

  “And that must be your super-duper ion dehumidifier,” Austin said.

  “When the moistened roll became pliable, I sandwiched it between sheets of blotting paper and Gore-Tex, which absorbs the dampness. The weight of the plywood will flatten out the pages while the papyrus cooks.”

  “Did you see any writing on the papyrus?” Austin said.

  “Light can darken a papyrus, so I unrolled it with the shades drawn. I glanced at it using a flashlight. It was hard to make out much writing because of the surface stains. I’m hoping that they will have lightened with drying.”

  “How soon before we can take a look at it?” Zavala said.

  “It should be ready now. In theory.”

  A chuckle came from deep in Austin’s throat. “Mr. Saxon is going to be a perfect fit for NUMA, Joe.”

  “I agree,” Zavala said. “He’s innovative, ingenious, isn’t afraid to improvise, and is skilled in the fine art of CYA.”

  “Pardon me?” Saxon said.

  “That’s Spanish for Cover Your Ass,” Zavala explained.

  Saxon tweaked the end of his mustache like a silent-film villain. “In that case, I’m glad you are here. If I foul things up, we can share the blame.” He switched off the pole lamps. “Gentlemen, we are about to prove th
at the Phoenicians reached the shores of North America centuries before Columbus was born.”

  Austin slipped his fingers under the edge of the plywood. “Shall we?”

  They carefully lifted the top plywood from the pile and set it aside, then removed the Gore-Tex and blotting-paper layers. The papyrus was about fifteen feet long, made up of individual sheets approximately a foot high and twenty inches wide.

  The ragged-edged pages were amazingly intact. The papyrus was darkly splotched over much of the mottled brown surface. Script was visible in places, but much of the writing had blended in with the stains.

  Saxon looked like a child who’d gotten a pair of socks for his birthday. “Damn! It’s covered with mold.”

  His full-speed-ahead exuberance had crashed into a wall of reality. He gazed with stony eyes at the papyrus, then went over to a window and stared out at the bay. Austin wasn’t about to let Saxon come apart. He went into the kitchenette and poured three glasses of water. He came back, gave one to Zavala, another to Saxon, and raised his own.

  “We haven’t toasted the man who gave his life to bring this papyrus up from Davy Jones’s locker.”

  Saxon got the point. His disappointment was nothing compared to the fate of the diver who had found the wreck and salvaged it. “To Hutch, and his lovely widow,” he said to the clink of glasses. They gathered once more around the papyrus.

  Austin advised Saxon to focus. “Ignore the writing for now, and tell us about the physical qualities of the papyrus.”

  Saxon picked up a magnifying glass and peered through the lens.

  “Papyrus was made from giant sedge plants native to the Nile region,” he explained. “These sheets are of the best quality, probably made from slices that came from the heart of the plant, pounded and shaped into strips that were cross-laminated. The ink was of excellent quality as well. The glue was starch based. They used pigment and gum, and wrote with a reed pen, which gives the writing its run-on, unbroken look.”