Tires crunched in the driveway. An ambulance was pulling in with its red-and-blue lights flashing. Austin slid the figurine into his pocket and went to welcome the EMTs. There were two emergency medical technicians, a young man and a woman. Austin led them to the studio.
The female EMT glanced around at the chaos. “What happened?”
Carina looked up from her charge. “He was attacked and his studio vandalized.”
While the EMT examined Benson, her colleague put a call in to the police. After checking Benson’s vitals, and applying a compress, they eased the photographer onto a stretcher and loaded him into the ambulance. They said Benson would be sore for a while, but his excellent physical condition should pull him through.
Austin told the EMTs that he and Carina would wait to talk to the police. As soon as the ambulance drove off, they went out to the barn. They swept aside the hay in the third stall to reveal a metal trapdoor, which Austin unlocked and opened. A short set of stairs led down to a temperature-controlled room about the size of a walk-in closet. The walls were lined with drawers labeled according to year. Austin found the disk inscribed HITTITE DIG, 1972, SYRIA.
Austin slipped the disk into his pocket. He and Carina walked back to the house. Minutes later, the police car came down the driveway. The lanky man in uniform who exited the driver’s side was straight out of Mayberry USA. He approached them with a slow, shambling walk, and introduced himself as Chief Becker. He jotted their names down in a notebook.
“EMT said Mr. Benson was attacked.”
“That’s what he told us,” Carina said. “He returned from a walk and found four men in his house. He tried to stop them from stealing his photos and was beaten with a gun.”
The chief shook his head. “I knew he was a big photographer with the Geographic, but I’d never guess the photos were worth a B and E in the daytime.” He paused for a moment, trying to figure out where the exotic woman and her brawny companion fit into the picture. “Mind saying what your business with Benson was?”
Austin said, “I’m with NUMA. Miss Mechadi works for the UN, investigating stolen antiquities. Mr. Benson took some photos years ago of a missing artifact, and we thought he might be able help in its recovery.”
“Think that had anything to do with him getting beat up?”
The chief was shrewder than he looked. He was watching their reaction closely. Austin told him the truth. “I don’t know.”
The chief seemed satisfied with the explanation. “Care to show me where you found Mr. Benson?”
Austin and Carina led the way into the house. The chief let out a low whistle when he saw the studio mess.
“You touch anything?” he said.
“No,” Austin said. “Would it have made a difference?”
The chief chuckled. “I’ll get the crime scene folks to come out.” He took their personal information down in his notebook and said they might be called later for more questioning.
As Austin turned the car onto the road, Carina said, “You weren’t exactly truthful with the chief.”
“It might have complicated things if I went into the ship hijacking and the theft of the statue. And the fact that the common denominator is the Navigator.”
Carina slumped down in her seat and closed her eyes. “I feel responsible for all this somehow.”
“Don’t beat yourself up. The only people at fault are the thugs who’ve been exhibiting antisocial behavior. Who besides us knew about the Benson photos?”
“The only ones I’ve told were you and Mr. Baltazar. You don’t think—”
“Another common denominator.”
Carina slumped down into her seat and stared straight ahead. After a few minutes spent deep in thought, she seemed to rally.
“All right. Where do we go from here?”
Austin pulled the disk out of his pocket and handed it over. “We’re going on an archaeological dig.”
Chapter 24
AS AUSTIN SLOTTED THE JEEP into the reserved space in the underground garage, Carina blinked her eyes open. Traces of the drug must have lingered in her bloodstream because she had dozed off within minutes of leaving Benson’s house. The last thing she had remembered was the rolling Virginia countryside.
She glanced around in bewilderment. “Where are we?”
“King Neptune’s lair,” Austin said with a poker face.
He got out of the car and opened the door on the passenger side. He gently took Carina’s arm and led her to the nearest elevator, which swooshed them to the main floor. The doors opened, and they stepped out into the lobby that formed the centerpiece of the imposing, thirty-story NUMA tower of tinted green glass in Arlington, Virginia.
Carina looked around the atrium, with its waterfalls and wall aquariums and the huge globe at the center of the sea green marble floor. The lobby bustled with activity, much of it having to do with milling tour groups that bristled with cameras.
“This is wonderful,” she said in wide-eyed wonder.
“Welcome to the headquarters of the National Underwater and Marine Agency,” Austin said with pride. “This building houses more than two thousand marine scientists and engineers. The people who work here provide the support for another three thousand NUMA people and ships scattered across the world’s oceans.”
Carina pivoted like a ballerina. “I could stay here all day.”
“You’re not the first one to say that. Now we’ll go from the sublime to the ridiculous.”
They got back in the elevator which silently rocketed them to another floor. They stepped out into a thickly carpeted corridor and followed it to an unmarked door. Austin ushered her inside his office with an Alphonse and Gaston swoop of his arm.
Austin’s modest corner space was the antithesis of the sweeping open vista that greeted visitors who came through the front doors of NUMA. It was what a real estate salesperson would describe as comfortable but cozy. There was a dark green rug on the floor. Furniture consisted of two chairs, filing cabinet, and a small sofa. A low bookcase held books devoted mostly to technical marine matters and philosophy.
The desk could have been measured in square inches, unlike the standard acre-sized centerpiece of most Washington offices. On the wall were photos of Austin with a rugged-looking older man who could have been his twin but was undoubtedly his father and pictures of various NUMA research vessels. Despite its unprepossessing dimensions, the office had an impressive of view of the Potomac River and Washington.
“My interior decorator is on vacation,” Austin said in apology. He got two bottles of springwater from a small refrigerator, gave one to Carina, and invited her to sit in a chair. He sat at his desk and lifted his water. “Cheers.”
“Santé,” she said, looking around. “This is not ridiculous at all. It’s quite functional and homey.”
“Thank you. I share a secretary who takes messages for me. I’m away a lot and don’t spend much time here except for special tasks, like this one.”
He took the photographic disk from his pocket and slid it into the computer on his desk. A National Geographic logo came up on the screen, followed by a story headline: “Digging Into the Past of a Forgotten Civilization.” The headline accompanied an article on the excavation into the Hittite settlement. Austin called up all the photos on the disk. The screen immediately filled with small rectangles arranged in neat rows.
Benson had taken hundreds of photos. Austin pushed the ALBUM command for three-second internals and swiveled the screen so Carina could see the photographs.
After a few minutes, Carina pointed to the screen. “That’s it!”
The photo on the screen showed several dirt-covered day workers standing at the edge of a pit, shovels in their hands. Nearby was the supervisor, a portly European wearing a pith helmet and un-soiled shorts and shirt. Protruding from the dirt at the bottom of the pit was a conical-shaped mound.
Austin went through the sequence of about two dozen photos. The series showed the head of the statue be
ing unearthed. Then its shoulders were cleared until the workers were able to get lines under the armpits and hoist it from the hole. The dirt had been cleaned off in later pictures. Benson had taken several close-ups of the face, with its smashed-in nose, along with front, back, and side shots.
“It certainly looks like our statue,” Carina said. “Unfortunately, this is all we have. A photograph. We’re at a dead end.”
Austin reached into his pocket and pulled out the figurine he had taken from Benson’s fireplace mantle. He set it on the table in front of Carina. “Maybe not.”
Carina took a deep breath. “It’s a miniature version of the Navigator. Where did you find it?”
“At Benson’s house.”
She picked up the figurine. “The fact that it exists at all suggests that it was made from the original.” She crinkled her brow. “From what we know, the statue was shipped from Syria to Baghdad and never saw the light of day. When could this copy have been made?”
Austin reached for his phone. “Let’s ask the man who knows.”
Using directory assistance, he found the name of the hospital nearest to Benson’s farm and punched in the number. The receptionist connected him to Benson’s room. Austin put the phone on speaker. The photographer answered with a furry hello, but he perked up when Austin identified himself. He said that he had suffered a concussion and contusions but no fractures.
“I’ll be out of here in a couple of days. Any word on those bastards?”
“Nothing solid. We wondered where you found the figurine on the mantle. The miniature of the statue you photographed at the Syrian dig. Did someone copy the statue at the excavation site?”
“Naw. That one was shipped off right away. Maybe someone copied it from the other statue.”
Austin and Carina exchanged blank looks. “What other statue?” she said. “We were under the impression that there was only one Navigator.”
“Sorry about that. I was going to mention it, but, as you know, I was under the weather when you came by the house. There was a second statue. The German guy who was running the Syrian dig said the statues might have guarded the entrance to an important building or tomb. I took some shots of the old boy, but that was before digital. The film got ruined in the blasted heat.”
“What happened to the second statue?” Austin said.
“Got me. I went on to another assignment. The Geographic wanted shots of native women with bare breasts, so they sent me to Samoa. A couple of years ago I was in Istanbul doing a feature on the Ottoman Empire. I found the little figure in a market. Guy who sold it to me was a bandit, but I bought it anyhow.”
“Do you remember where the market was?”
“Somewhere in the covered bazaar. Shop had a pile of the statues. Damn. Painkiller’s wearing off. Got to call the nurse. Let me know when you find the creeps who bopped me.”
“I will.” Austin thanked Benson, told him to stay well, and clicked off.
Carina looked as if she were sitting on bedsprings. “A second statue! We’ve got to find it.”
Austin pictured the sprawling city of Istanbul as he remembered it from an assignment in the Black Sea a couple of years earlier. The covered bazaar spread out over several acres in a bewildering labyrinth of shops. He remembered Zavala’s plans for the Subvette.
“We’ve got a contingent of NUMA people going to Istanbul to help survey an ancient port. Joe Zavala could check out the bazaar for us.”
“And then what?” Carina said. “What if he finds the dealer? We are here and he is there. What good will that do us?”
Carina had a point. “I’ll see if there’s a seat on the plane.”
“Make that two seats.” She raised her hand to cut short Austin’s reply. “I can be a great help. I know someone in Istanbul who’s close to the antiquities market.” She shrugged. “Well, he’s a smuggler, but only of minor artifacts. I’ve used him on several occasions to go after bigger fish. He knows every crooked dealer in Istanbul. He could save us time. He will only work through me.”
Austin gave her proposal a second’s thought. It would be pleasant to have the lovely Italian woman as company, but there were other reasons that had nothing to do with male libido. He was concerned about Carina’s safety if she were left alone. Trouble seemed to dog the young woman’s footsteps. He’d feel better if he could keep an eye on her. Her informant could save a lot of sweat. Carina had successfully tracked down the Navigator where others had failed.
She was putting on an unnecessary display of persistence, showering Austin with other reasons for her to go, stopping only after he put his finger to his lips. He called Zavala and asked if he had room for two passengers. After a short conversation, Austin hung up and turned to Carina, who had been hanging on every word.
“Pack your bags,” he said. “The plane is leaving at eight tonight. I’ll drive you to your hotel and pick you up at five o’clock.”
Carina leaned forward and gave Austin a long and lingering kiss that practically curled his toes. “It will be faster if I take a cab. I’ll be waiting for you.”
Seconds later, she was out the door, and he could hear her padding down the hallway. He glanced at his wristwatch. He kept a packed duffel bag ready at all times. All he had to do was grab it and go.
On the drive to the boathouse, he called his shared secretary and said he would be away for a few days. Then he called Elwood Nickerson and left a similar message. He didn’t go into details. Somehow he didn’t feel comfortable telling the undersecretary of state that the key to heading off an international crisis was a doll-sized figure five thousand miles away.
Chapter 25
“TODAY’S THE DAY,” Paul Trout said with steely determination.
Trout stood wide-legged in a dinghy while he handed fishing tackle to his wife Gamay, who was aboard their twenty-one-foot powerboat. Gamay set the rods into a rack and said, “Ho-hum,” bringing her palm to her lips in an exaggerated yawn. “I recall the same male bragging twenty-four hours ago on this very same spot. It was an empty boast, just like the day before.”
Trout climbed onto the boat with surprising agility for a man built like a professional basketball player. Although he was six foot eight, he moved with a catlike grace that came from years of experience on boats at the side of his fisherman father. He punched the starter button on the console. The inboard engine came to life with a throaty grumble and a puff of blue exhaust.
“No brag. When you’re born into an old Cape Cod family that’s caught tons of fish over the decades, you expect an off day once in a while.” He stuck his nose in the air like a bloodhound. “That grand-daddy striper is waiting in his honey hole for me to hook him.”
“Now I know why fishermen have a reputation for telling tall tales.” Gamay cast off the mooring line.
Trout gave the throttle a light touch and steered the boat at a slow speed across Eel Pond toward the Water Street drawbridge. They passed a bar whose deck overlooked the pond, and Trout smacked his lips. “I can taste that cold frosty beer.”
“Let’s jack up the ante,” Gamay said. “Loser buys dinner too.”
“It’s a bet,” Trout said without hesitation. “Fried clams go great with beer.”
The boat proceeded slowly under the drawbridge and out into the harbor, past the Martha’s Vineyard ferry terminal and the research vessel Atlantis, which was tied up to the dock of the world-famous Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution, where Trout’s interest in oceanography had been stimulated when he was still a boy.
The boat cleared the harbor and Trout goosed the throttle. The bow angled up on plane and he steered toward the ElizabethIslands, an archipelago that lay in a string southwest of Cape Cod. Gamay puttered about the deck, readying fishing gear.
There were few things better in Trout’s opinion than racing over the waves with the salty breeze in his face and the prospects of a full day of fishing. All he needed to make the outing a perfect ten would be to catch a bigger fish than Gamay. He was used
to friendly competition with his wife, but he had been quietly annoyed that she had outfished him over the last two days.
As a young girl growing up on the shores of Lake Michigan, Gamay was no slouch when it came to boats and fishing. Although she had grown into an attractive woman, she retained a hint of the tomboy she had once been. Her good-natured taunts at Trout’s lack of success ran counter to his understated New England persona. He gritted his teeth. Today damn well better be the day or he would never live it down.
Near the low-lying hump that was NaushonIsland, Trout pointed the boat toward a cloud of squalling seabirds diving in the water in search of bait being chased to the surface by larger links in the food chain. Amorphous yellow blobs were popping up on the fish-finder screen. There was a fishy scent in the air. He cut the engine and the boat plowed to a stop.
Gamay handed Trout a fishing rod and took the wheel. It was customary for the highliner on the last trip to let the lowliner go first. Trout settled into the swivel chair and let some line out. He started jigging, continuously jerking the rod to keep the lure traveling through the water.
“Fish on!” he yelled.
He cranked the reel and pulled in a thirty-two-inch-long striped bass. After measuring the fish, he threw it back. Gamay quickly caught a twenty-eight-incher. Again they tossed the fish overboard. They took turns catching stripers in roughly the same size range before the school played out, and they moved to another spot that was equally as productive.
They kept a running compilation and were in a dead heat when Trout felt a sharp tug on the line that almost pulled his arm out. This was going to be the tiebreaker. He was barely aware of a cell phone chiming. Gamay put the phone to her ear and, after a moment, said, “Kurt needs to talk to you.”
Trout cranked the reel like a man possessed. The silver body of a huge fish flashed near the surface. Damn. It was as big as a whale. He tried to concentrate.
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