The Navigator (34 page)

A silent scream echoed inside Angela’s skull. She put her hand to her mouth and fought the impulse to vomit.

She slowly backed out of the office. Her instinct was to run toward the front door. She stared down the unlit corridor, but a primeval sense of danger stopped her from bolting into the gloomy shadows. Instead of heading for the entrance, she sprinted back into the interior of the building.

Adriano’s hulking figure stepped from the gloom. He had jammed the light switch with a pocketknife and had expected the young woman to panic and rush into his arms. But she had turned and run the other way like a rabbit retreating into its warren.

Adriano’s blood was up after killing the Watcher. That had been easy. The thought of a challenge cheered him. The kill was much more enjoyable when it came at the end of a hunt.

He passed Woolsey’s office and glanced in at his handiwork. Woolsey had been the latest in a long line of Watchers embedded in the Philosophical Society. The Watcher system went back centuries. Watchers were quietly engaged in centers of learning around the world, their only job to sound the alarm at the first hint that the Secret had been uncovered.

Two centuries before, another philosophical society Watcher had warned of Jefferson’s findings. The Watcher was one of the academics Jefferson had asked to translate the words on the vellum. The destruction of Jefferson’s papers was supposed to have ended his quest, but the connection to Meriwether Lewis was discovered and that loose end had to be tied up by assassins dispatched to the Louisiana Territory.

Woolsey could not have known that her first call as a Watcher had set in motion the chain of events that would lead to her demise. Her job was to report any serious queries about Phoenician voyages to America. She had dutifully relayed news of the Jefferson file. By the time she received instructions to turn the file over to a courier, a State Department representative had come by to collect the Jefferson material. She angrily put the blame on her assistant, but was told not to mention the incident to Angela. When she called again to report the Trouts’ visit to Angela, she sealed her death warrant.

Woolsey was told to make sure Angela stayed late. Adriano had showed up at the museum after hours, dispatched the librarian, and unsuccessfully tried to ambush her assistant.

He continued along the corridor, methodically trying each door. The offices were all locked. He came to a four-way intersection and sniffed the air like a keening hound.

Click.

The sound of a latch closing was barely audible. Adriano’s senses were at their height during a hunt. He turned to his right, following the passageway to a door, which he opened, and stepped into a dark room.

Adriano had never been in the library but knew its layout well. After Angela had discovered the file, he had sent people to scout out the building. He considered himself a professional and wanted to acquaint himself with a potential killing field.

He knew that the darkened room housed thousands of books stacked on tall bookshelves that were laid out in parallel rows.

Angela had ducked between two rows when she heard the door open and close. She had been headed toward an exit at the rear of the room. She was sure the pounding of her heart would give her away.

Adriano hit the wall switch and the room was flooded with light.

Angela dropped to her hands and knees and crawled to the end of the row, then along a narrow aisle between the ends of the shelves and the wall.

Adriano’s hunter’s ears picked up the shuffle of knees and palms brushing the floor.

He strolled along the aisle. He took his time, pausing to peer between the rows of bookshelves before going on. He could have found Angela in a second, but he wanted to prolong the hunt and increase the terror of his prey as long as he could.

After checking out several rows, he saw an object on the floor and walked between shelves for a closer look. It was a shoe. Another lay a few feet away. Angela had slipped into her stocking feet to muffle the sound her movement.

Adriano chuckled softly and flexed his fingers.

“Come to me, Angela,” he crooned like a mother calling for its child.

At the unexpected sound of her name, Angela scrambled to her feet and ran for the exit door. Quick steps padded behind her. A hand reached out and grabbed the back of her blouse. She screamed and pulled free. Adriano had purposely let her go. He liked to play with his victims.

Angela ducked between stacks and plastered her back against a bookshelf.

Adriano turned down the next row of shelves and his baby face peered over the tops of the books.

“Hello,” he said.

Angela turned and saw the round blue eyes. She tried to scream, but the sound was caught in her throat.

“Angela.”

A woman’s voice had called her name.

Adriano’s first instinct was to attack the intruder. He advanced toward the sound of the voice. He would batter the newcomer to the floor, quickly dispose of her, and then return to Angela.

He rounded a corner and saw two people near the door. A red-haired woman and a man who was even taller than Adriano. They seemed startled by his appearance but rallied quickly.

“Where’s Angela?” the woman said.

He said nothing. But there was an audible whimper from the stacks. Angela.

They showed by their aggressive posture that they had no intention of yielding. The man started toward him. The woman was circling around behind.

Adriano wasn’t used to resistance. The situation was becoming complex. He feinted toward the man, then turned and ran for the exit door. He hit a light switch and fled the room.

“Angela, are you okay?” Gamay said. “It’s the Trouts.”

“Be careful,” Angela warned. “He’s after me.”

The room lights came on again.

Angela rushed out and threw her arms around Gamay. Her body was wracked by sobs.

Paul made a quick survey of the room. Then he opened the exit door and stepped out into the hallway. All was quiet. He returned to the stacks room. “He’s gone. Who
was
that creep?”

“I don’t know,” Angela said. “He killed Helen. Then he came after me. He knew my name.”

“The front door was unlocked,” Paul said. “We got lost trying to find your office and heard your scream. You say he killed your boss?”

Although she hated to go back to the murder scene, she led them along the corridor to Woolsey’s office. Trout pushed the door open with his toe and stepped inside. He went to the desk and put his ear close to Woolsey’s gaping mouth but neither heard nor felt her breath. He hadn’t expected her to be alive after seeing the angle of her head and the marks on her throat.

He stepped back into the hallway. Gamay had her arm around the young woman’s shoulders. She saw the grave expression on her husband’s face and called 911 on her cell phone. Then they went outside and stood near the front stairs to wait for the police.

The patrol car showed up within five minutes. Two Philadelphia police officers got out of the car and, after talking to the Trouts and Angela, they called for backup. They drew their guns. One went inside while the other walked around the building.

Adriano slipped out from behind the shelter of a tree growing in a small park across from the library entrance. The red-and-blue lights from the police car reflected off his soft features. He stared with curiosity at the tall man and the red-haired woman who had interrupted his hunt.

Another cruiser screeched to a halt and two more policemen got out.

Adriano melted back into the shadows and left the library grounds without being seen. He was a patient man. He knew where Angela lived. And when she came home that night, he would be waiting.

AUSTIN WAS IN THE NETHERLAND between sleep and consciousness when he sensed a change in the Citation’s attitude and speed. He opened his eyes and peered out the window. He recognized the tapestry of lights spread out below as Washington and the densely populated Virginia suburbs.

Carina was asleep, her head resting on his shoulder. He tapped her arm. “We’re home.”

She woke up and yawned. “The last thing I remember, we were taking off from Paris.”

“You were telling me about your plans for the exhibition.”

“Sorry.” She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. “I’ll go back to my hotel and get a good night’s rest. Tomorrow morning I’ll take the train to New York. I have to talk to the people at the Metropolitan Museum of Art about the opening.”

“You’re going ahead with the tour even without the
Navigator
?”

“I don’t have much choice. Looking on the bright side, the news about the statue’s theft may bring in more people.”

Austin groped for words that wouldn’t make him sound paternal. “In view of past events, do you think it’s a good idea for you to be traveling on your own?”

She kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks, Kurt, but only a few people will know my plans.” She yawned again. “Do you think I’m still in danger?”

Austin compressed his lips in a tight smile. He didn’t want to scare Carina, but she needed to be aware that she had a bull’s-eye painted on her back.

“Our friend Buck said that you were a kidnapping target. The people he worked for have a long reach. We saw that in Turkey.”

Carina tilted her stubborn chin up at an imperious angle. “I’m not going to let
anyone
make me spend the rest of my days hiding in a closet.”

“Don’t blame you. I’d like to offer a compromise,” Austin said. “Stay at the boathouse tonight. I’ll prepare a sumptuous dinner of Thai takeout. Sleep off your jet lag and get a good start in the morning.”

“I’d like that,” Carina said without hesitation.

The pilot announced that the plane was making its approach to Dulles Airport and would be on the ground in fifteen minutes. Austin glanced across the aisle. Zavala looked like a dead man sleeping. He could fall asleep on a bed of nails and be up at a moment’s notice, ready to spring into action.

Austin removed the cell phone from Zavala’s jacket and put in a call to the Trouts. Paul answered. Austin said he was back from Turkey and asked if he and Gamay had received the Jefferson file.

“We’ve read it,” Paul said. “We’ve got a good rendering of a ship of Tarshish, but need more information to plot a course. But you need to know something, Kurt: We followed a lead to the American Philosophical Society and stumbled into a real snake pit.”

“I have a problem imagining that venerable institution of learning as a nest of vipers.”

“Times have changed. Shortly after we visited the library, a librarian was killed. Her assistant would have met a similar fate if Gamay and I hadn’t showed up and chased the killer away.”

“Did you get a look at him?”

“Yeah. Big guy, with a baby face and round blue eyes.”

“I’ve met the gentleman. Is the assistant okay?”

“Still a bit shaky. We persuaded her to get out of Philadelphia after the police finished interviewing her. She wanted to stop by her apartment. We insisted that she come directly to Georgetown. Gamay loaned her some clothes that fit, more or less.”

“I’d like to meet her. How about seven o’clock tomorrow?”

“We’ll bring the doughnuts and coffee. You haven’t told me about your trip to Istanbul.”

“Turkey has a snake infestation problem too. See you in the morning.”

The thump of the plane’s landing gear on the tarmac woke Zavala up from his sound sleep. He looked out the window. “Home so soon?”

Austin handed the cell phone back. “You dreamed your way across the Atlantic.”

Zavala puffed out his cheeks. “I was having nightmares about eunuchs, thanks to you.”

The plane taxied away from the general aviation area to a special NUMA hangar. The three passengers debarked and carefully loaded the plaster casts along with the baggage into a Jeep Cherokee from the NUMA motor pool. Austin dropped Zavala off and drove to his boathouse after stopping to pick up an order of Thai food.

Dinner was on the deck, with selections from Austin’s collection of progressive jazz in the background. He and Carina sipped brandy to the music of John Coltrane and Oscar Peterson and agreed not to discuss the mysteries surrounding the
Navigator.
They talked about their work instead. Carina matched every NUMA adventure with a fascinating episode of her own.

The combination of brandy and hours of travel took its toll, and Carina started to nod off. Austin showed her to the bedroom in the Victorian turret, and, unable to sleep, he went back down to his study. He stretched out in a comfortable leather chair and studied the amber liquor in his glass as if he were looking into a crystal ball. In his mind, he went over every detail, starting with the SOS from the oil rig.

He was hoping his ruminations would produce a picture with the clarity of a Rembrandt, but what he got was a Jackson Pollock abstract. He rose from his chair, went to a bookcase, and found Anthony Saxon’s book. He settled back into his chair and began to read.

ANTHONY SAXON was a true adventurer. He had hacked his way through the jungle to discover long-lost South American ruins. He had narrowly escaped death at the hands of nomadic desert tribesmen. He had rummaged through countless dusty tombs and made the acquaintance of numerous mummies. If only a tenth of what he wrote was true, Saxon was cut from the same mold as such famous explorers as Hiram Bingham, Stanley and Livingstone, and Indiana Jones.

Several years before, Saxon had launched what could have been his greatest adventure. He intended to sail a replica of a Phoenician ship from the Red Sea to the coast of North America. The Pacific Ocean crossing would have proven his theory that Ophir, the fabled site of King Solomon’s mines, was in the Americas. However, the ship burned to the waterline one night under mysterious circumstances.

Saxon believed that Ophir was not a single place but the code name for several sources of Solomon’s wealth. He theorized that Solomon launched two fleets under the direction of Hiram, the Phoenician admiral. One flotilla left from the Red Sea. The other flotilla crossed the Atlantic, after passing through the Straits of Gibraltar.