The Navigator (24 page)

Austin knelt by his side. “How are you feeling?”

“Like crap,” Benson said. “How do I look?”

“Like crap,” Austin said.

Benson managed a weak smile. “
Bastards
. They were waiting when I came back from my walk to meet with the lady from the UN. Is that you?”

“I’m Carina Mechadi. I’m an investigator with the UNESCO. Mr. Austin here is with the National Underwater and Marine Agency.”

The light of recognition sparkled in Benson’s gray eyes. “Did stories on both your outfits years ago.”

“Tell us what happened after you returned from your walk,” Austin said.

“Saw a car out front. Black SUV. Virginia license plates. I always leave the door unlocked. They were inside going through my stuff.” He grimaced. “In case I pass out again, tell the cops there were four of them. All masked. All with guns. One was a real big guy. Think he was the leader.”

Austin and Carina exchanged glances.

“Did he say anything?”

Benson nodded. “He wanted all my negatives. I told him to go to hell. He laid the barrel of his gun across my head. Guess I should be grateful he didn’t shoot me. Only dazed. Played dead. Saw him and his pals go through my negative cabinets. Dumped all my stuff into plastic trash bags. They get my computer? Laptop.”

Austin glanced around. “Looks like they cleared the place out.”

“They figured I had done back-up. Every picture I ever took was on disk. Twenty-five years’ worth.” Benson chuckled. “Jerks. So busy beating up on me they didn’t know I had backed up the backup. What the hell did they want?”

“We think they were after photos you took of an archaeological dig in Syria,” Carina said.

He furrowed his brow. “I remember. Photographer remembers every shot he ever made. Nineteen seventy-two. Cover story. Hotter’n hell out there.”

“The backup disk. Can we borrow it?” Austin said.

“Help catch those bastards?”

“Maybe.” Austin lifted his shirt to show the bandage on his ribs. “You’re not the only one with a score to settle.”

Benson’s eyes widened. “Guess they
really
didn’t like you.” He grinned. “Check my barn. Third stall on the right. Steel door under the hay. Key’s hanging in the kitchen labeled BACK DOOR.”

Carina said, “There was a big statue excavated in Syria. It was called the
Navigator.
”

“Sure. Looked like a cigar-store Indian with a pointy hat. Don’t know what happened to it.” His eyes rolled as if he were about to pass out, but Benson pulled himself together. “Check out the living-room mantle.”

Austin found the key to the disk-storage safe in the kitchen and went into the living room. The fireplace mantle was crowded with hunks of rock and figurines Benson must have collected on his travels. One figure caught Austin’s attention. He picked up a scale model of the
Navigator
about four inches high.

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.”

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 Geographi
c 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 being 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.