The Navigator (40 page)

“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.
”

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 that 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.”

“Now, tell us about the script,” Austin said. “It’s definitely Phoenician?”

Saxon calmly appraised the papyrus. “No doubt about it. The Phoenician twenty-two-letter alphabet was the single greatest contribution their culture gave to the world. The word
alphabet
itself is a combination of the first two letters. Arabic, Hebrew, Latin, Greek, and eventually English all trace their ancestry to the Phoenicians. They wrote from right to left, continuously, because they used all consonants. Vertical strokes act as punctuation to divide sentences and words.”

“Forget what we
can’t
read,” Austin said. “Start by reading what you
can.
Even the Rosetta stone was missing some text.”

“You should have gone into motivational therapy,” Saxon said.

He picked up a spiral-bound notebook and a pen and bent over one end of the papyrus. He licked his lips, scribbled in his notebook, and went on to the next text fragment. Sometimes, he studied a single word; other times, several lines of writing. He mumbled to himself as he worked his way down the length of the papyrus.

At the end, he looked up with triumph gleaming in his eyes.

“I could
kiss
you, old boy!”

“I make it a habit not to kiss anyone with a mustache. Man
or
woman.” Austin said. “Tell us what it says, please.”

Saxon tapped the notebook. “The first fragment is written by Menelik, who describes himself as the favorite son of King Solomon. He talks about his mission.”

“Menelik is the son of Sheba as well,” Austin said.

“Don’t be surprised that she’s not mentioned. Solomon had many wives and girlfriends.” He pointed to a few lines of text. “Here he says that he is grateful for the trust. He repeats this theme a number of times, which I find extremely interesting.”

“In what way?” Austin said.

“The legends say that when Menelik was young, he and a half brother, the son of Sheba’s handmaiden, stole the Ark of the Covenant from the Temple and took it to Ethiopia to establish the Solomonic line of kings. Some say it was done with Solomon’s knowledge, and a copy built to take its place. One story has him spirit the sacred Ark off to Ethiopia. In another, he redeems himself. Plagued by guilt, he returned the Ark, and Solomon forgave him.”

“Solomon practiced motivational therapy as well,” Austin said. “Who better to trust than someone trying to make up for a past misdeed?”

“Solomon’s reputation for wisdom was well deserved. There are writing fragments on the papyrus that indicate Menelik was transporting a cargo of great value.”

“Nothing more specific?” Austin said.

“Unfortunately, no. The rest of the papyrus is basically a ship’s log. Menelik is the author, which means he must have been the captain. I found the word
Scythians,
repeated a couple of times. The Phoenicians often hired mercenaries to guard their ships. There is reference to a ‘Great Ocean,’ some weather observations, but the main part of the log is obscured by mold.”

“Now it’s your turn to cheer
me
up,” Austin said with a shake of his head.

“I think I can do that,” Saxon said. He pointed to several un-stained sections. “The roll was wrapped very tight here. The mold couldn’t get in. These lines describe a landfall. The captain talks about sailing into a long bay, almost like a small sea, where he could no longer smell the ocean.”

Austin came to attention. “The Chesapeake?”

“It’s a thought. The ship anchored near an island at the mouth of a wide river. He describes the water as more brown than blue.”

“I noticed the muddy quality of the water when we set out today,” Zavala said. “We passed an island near Aberdeen Proving Grounds.”

Austin still carried the Chesapeake Bay chart in a plastic map pouch. He unfolded the creases and spread the chart out on the floor. Borrowing a grease pencil from Saxon, he marked an X near Havre de Grace at the mouth of the Susquehanna. “We’ve got our Phoenicians cooling their heels here. What did they do with the cargo?”

“Maybe they hid it in a gold mine,” Saxon said.

“Your book suggested that Ophir was located in North America. Are you saying that this thing was hidden in King Solomon’s mine?”

“When I first started looking for Solomon’s mine, I concentrated on the area around the Chesapeake and Susquehanna,” Saxon said. “There was extensive gold mining within walking distance of Washington a hundred years before the big California Gold Rush of 1849.”

“We know that,” Austin said.

“Thelma Hutchins mentioned that her husband was aware of the gold mines,” Zavala said.