The Navigator (39 page)

He leveled a steady gaze at Saxon. “I’ll make it unanimous, on two conditions.”

Saxon’s face fell. “What’s your first condition?”

“That you tell me what you found in the amphora.”

“I found a papyrus,” Saxon said. “Condition number two?”

“That you buy another round.”

“Egad! Austin. You are a hard man to take advantage of someone so desperate,” Saxon said, twirling the end of his mustache.

Then he grinned, called over to the bartender, and held three fingers in the air.

BALTAZAR’S VALET MADE HIS WAY along the dark-paneled corridor and stopped at a thick oak door. Balancing a tray on one hand, he knocked softly. No one answered. His lips parted in a faint smile. He knew Carina was in the room because he had carried her unconscious body there from the helicopter.

The valet dug a key out of his pocket, unlocked the door, and pushed it open.

Carina was standing across the threshold, her face contorted in a mask of fury. She clutched the heavy brass base of a shadeless table lamp in two hands as if it was a war club. She had been prepared to crown the first person she saw. She hadn’t expected someone holding a fine china teapot and cup on tray.

Without lowering the lamp, she demanded: “Who undressed me?”

The valet said, “A female member of the house staff. Your clothes were being washed. Mr. Baltazar felt you would be more comfortable wearing something clean in the meantime.”

“You can tell Mr. Baltazar that I want my clothes back right away.”

“You can tell him yourself,” the valet said. “He’s waiting for you in the garden. No hurry, he says. Come when you feel up to it. May I set this tray down?”

Carina glared at the man, but she stepped aside and let him into the bedroom. He put the tray down on an end table. Keeping his eye on the lamp, he backed out of the room, leaving the door open.

Carina had awakened minutes before to find herself in a strange bed. She remembered the sweet smell in the back of the taxi. She had thrown the covers off and discovered she was clad only in her underwear. She searched around the luxurious bedroom for her clothes. All she found, hanging in a closet, was a long white cotton shift with a scoop neck.

Holding the shift in her hand, she had glanced around. Except for the bars on the windows, the chamber was like a bedroom in a fine hotel. She went over to a window and was looking out at a manicured lawn when she heard the knock. She had thrown the shift on and grabbed the lamp.

After the valet left, she stepped out into the corridor and watched him disappear down another corridor. She went back into the bedroom and slammed the door behind her. Her hands were trembling with tension. She set the lamp down, settled into a plush chair, and began to cry.

The inner anger that had given her the courage to prepare for an assault on the valet had ebbed. She wiped her eyes and went into the bathroom, where she washed her face and combed her disheveled hair. She took a deep gulp of tea, stepped out into the corridor, and followed in the valet’s footsteps to a set of open patio doors. She stepped out into brilliant sunshine and looked around. She was in a courtyard garden. Water bubbled in a fountain whose centerpiece was a nude woman surrounded by naked cherubs. But her eyes went to Baltazar, who was clipping flowers from one of the beds that ringed the fountain.

Baltazar was dressed casually in white slacks and a black short-sleeve shirt. He wore espadrilles, rope sandals, on his feet. He smiled as she entered the courtyard and stepped over to offer her the bouquet of flowers.

Carina folded her arms. “I don’t want your flowers. Where am I?”

He lowered the bouquet and set it down on a marble bench. “You are my guest, Miss Mechadi.”

“I don’t
want
to be your guest. I insist that you release me.”

Still smiling, Baltazar gazed at Carina as if he were a butterfly collector who had captured a rare specimen. “Imperious. Commanding. Much as I would expect from the Mekada line.”

The answer confused Carina. Her anger gave way to confusion.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ll offer a proposition.” He gestured toward a round marble table with service settings for two. Join me for a drink and tapas, and I will tell you the story.”

Carina glanced around the garden. A couple of men dressed in black uniforms stood near a door that might have led out of the courtyard. Escape was impossible. Even if she made it out of this place, then what? She had no idea where she was. It would be better to bide her time. She walked over and sat at the table with her back rigid.

The valet magically appeared with a pitcher and filled their water glasses. Several dishes followed. Carina planned to pick at them rather than accept Baltazar’s hospitality, but she discovered that she was famished. She ate what was in front of her, rationalizing that she would need her strength. She didn’t touch the rosé wine. She wanted to have a clear head to deal with what might lie ahead.

Baltazar seemed to be reading her thoughts. He was a shrewd judge of character, and made no conversation during the meal other than to ask if the food was to her liking. When she had enough, she drained her water glass and pushed her dish away.

“I have fulfilled my part of the proposition,” she said.

“So you have.” Baltazar nodded. “Now I will fulfill mine. The story begins three thousand years ago with Solomon.”

“
King
Solomon?”

“The one and only. The son of David, king of the lands that include what we now know as Israel. According to biblical references, Solomon receives a visit from the queen of a place called Sheba. She has heard of Solomon’s wisdom and is curious. When she arrives, she is impressed not only with his wisdom but by his wealth. They become smitten with each other. He even writes a series of erotic poems that some believe were to her, at least in part.”

“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.

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 went 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.”