The Navigator (37 page)

Sometimes she worried about her lack of a home base. She was a child of Europe and Africa, with a foot on each continent. Paris was where she lived and worked, but she spent more time on the road than at home. She looked forward to staying at Austin’s boathouse again. She liked the fearless and handsome American, and envied the way he had balanced globe-trotting and home. She would have to talk to him about how he managed to achieve the best of both worlds.

Carina became aware of a sweet fragrance, as if a heavily perfumed woman had gotten into the car. The odor was making her giddy. She tried to open a window but the lever wouldn’t work. The smell had grown in strength. She felt as if she were being smothered. She slid across the seat and tried the other window lever. Stuck.

She was becoming dizzy. She would pass out if she didn’t get some fresh air. She knocked on the divider to get the driver’s attention. He didn’t respond. She glanced at the driver’s ID card and thought that the photograph didn’t match the driver’s face. Her heartbeat accelerated, and she broke into a cold sweat.

Must…get…out.

She pounded with her fists on the plastic window. The driver glanced in the rearview mirror. She could see his eyes. Uncaring. The reflection in the mirror began to blur.

Her arms seemed made of lead. She was unable to lift her fists. She stretched out on the backseat, closed her eyes, and passed out.

The cabdriver looked in the mirror again. Satisfied that Carina was unconscious, he flicked a switch on the dashboard to shut off the gas flow to the backseat. He turned off Fifth Avenue and drove toward the Hudson River.

Minutes later, he drove the taxi up to a guardhouse at the entrance to a fenced-off area. The guard waved him through to a helipad at the edge of the river. Two tough-faced men stood near a helicopter whose rotors spun at a lazy speed.

The taxi parked next to the helicopter. The men opened the doors to the backseat, extracted Carina’s limp body, and loaded her on the helicopter.

One man got into the pilot’s seat and the other sat next to Carina holding a canister, ready to administer another whiff of knockout gas if she started to regain consciousness.

The rotors began to spin into a blur. The helicopter lurched, then lifted off the pavement. Within moments, it was only a speck in the sky.

“I AM HAPPY NO PLACE ELSE,” Gamay said, quoting from the guidebook. “Jefferson was unequivocal about his love for Monticello.”

“Do you
blame
him?” Paul pointed through the windshield toward the familiar columned portico and rotunda on a distant hill high above the green rolling Virginia countryside.

It had been at least a year since the Trouts had last visited Jefferson’s fabled retreat on one of the back-road motor treks they enjoyed in their Humvee. Paul usually drove. Gamay navigated and provided local color, drawing on a pile of guidebooks to recite little known facts.
Ad nauseam.

“Aha!”
Angela said.

Trout winced. Angela, who was sitting in the backseat, was proving to be Gamay’s equal in travel trivia. Since leaving Georgetown that morning, the two women had been taking turns reciting facts and factoids about Jefferson and Monticello.

“Too late,” Paul said in an attempt to cut the young woman off at the pass. “We’re here.”

“This is
important,
” Angela said. She had her nose buried in a thick paperback entitled
The Life and Times of Thomas Jefferson.
“This deals with the Jefferson material that was stolen on the riverboat trip to Monticello.”

Trout’s ears perked up. “Read on.”

Angela didn’t have to be prodded. “Jefferson is writing to his friend Dr. Benjamin Barton about the loss of his Indian vocabularies. Barton was a naturalist, and a member of the Philosophical Society. Jefferson calls the theft an ‘irreparable misfortune.’ Over thirty years, he had collected fifty Indian vocabularies, but had put off printing them because he hadn’t digested the stuff Lewis had collected. He thought some of the Indian words were common to Russian. He retrieved a few pages from the river, including some
Pani
Indian words Lewis collected, ‘and a little fragment of some other,’ which I see is in his handwriting, but no indication remains of what language it is.”

“I wonder if those fragments are similar to the words identified on the map as Phoenician,” Gamay said.

“Possible,” Paul said. “Maybe Jefferson wrote to Lewis and told him about the Phoenician words on the map. Lewis recognized the words as being similar to some other stuff he had collected in his travels but not given to Jefferson.”

“Why would he hold the material back?” Gamay said.

“He didn’t recognize their significance. After he got the missive from his old boss, he dropped everything and headed for Monticello with something he wanted to show Jefferson.”

“That means the map is quite significant,” Gamay said. “It makes the Phoenician connection, and shows the location of Ophir.”

“Tantalizing, but useless without more information,” Trout said with a shake of his head. “A compass rose. Measure of distance. Landmarks. Data like that would help.”

Angela opened her briefcase, rummaged through the Jefferson file, and pulled out the page with the squiggles, dots, and Phoenician words.

She waved the paper in the air. “We all agree that some of the details of the map are cut off,” she said.

“That’s right,” Paul said. “It appears to be part of a larger diagram.”

“If that’s true,” Gamay said with growing excitement, “it’s possible that what Lewis was carrying to Jefferson was the other half of the map. Lewis supposedly found a gold mine on his Pacific expedition.”

“Wow!” Angela said. “That means if our theory about the young slave holds true, Jefferson
knew
where the Ophir mine was.”

“Hold on a second,” Paul said with a grin. “We may have given you the wrong impression. Gamay and I tend to toss ideas around, but we can’t forget we’re scientists. That means we operate on the basis of
fact
. We’re making guesses based on assumptions that haven’t been proven.”

Angela looked crestfallen. Gamay tried to cheer the young researcher. “You’ll have to admit it’s an exciting suggestion, Paul, even with all the questions.”

“I’d be the first to agree that it is plausible,” Paul said. “Maybe we’ll start to find the answers here.”

He pulled the Humvee into a parking lot next to the Jefferson Library, an imposing, two-and-a-half-story, white-clapboard building about a half mile to the east of Monticello’s main entrance. They went into the lobby, gave the receptionist their names, and asked to see the archivist they had talked to on the phone. A few minutes later, a tall man in a tan suit strode into the lobby and extended his hand.

“Nice to meet you,” he said with a broad smile. Speaking in a soft-edged Virginia drawl, he said, “My name is Charles Emerson. Jason Parker, the archivist you talked to, referred your query to me. Welcome to the Jefferson Library.”

Emerson had a deep voice and the courtly manners of a Southern gentleman. His mahogany skin was virtually unlined, except for laugh crinkles at the corners of his eyes. He filled his suit with the sturdy physique of a believer in exercise, but the steel gray color of his hair suggested he could be in his sixties.

Gamay introduced Paul and Angela. “Thank you for seeing us,” she said.

“No problem. Jason told me that you’re with National Underwater and Marine Agency?”

“Paul and I work for NUMA. Miss Worth here is a researcher with the American Philosophical Society.”

Emerson raised an eyebrow. “I’m
honored.
NUMA’s accomplishments are well known. The Philosophical Society is one of this country’s scholarly jewels.”

“Thank you,” Angela glanced around the lobby. “Your library is pretty impressive as well.”

“We’re very proud of our building,” Emerson said. “It cost five and a half million dollars to build, and opened in 2002. We have shelf space for twenty-eight thousand volumes, and all sorts of reading and multimedia areas. I’ll give you a tour.”

Emerson showed them the library reading and research areas and then led the way to his spacious office. He invited his visitors to take a seat and settled behind a big oak desk.

“I’m not sure how the library can help you folks from NUMA,” he said. “The Virginia hills are pretty far from the ocean.”

“We noticed,” Gamay said with a smile. “But you may have more to offer than you think. Meriwether Lewis led an expedition to the Pacific Ocean on the orders of Thomas Jefferson.”

If Emerson thought the explanation was wide of the mark, he didn’t show it. “Meriwether Lewis,” he said thoughtfully. “A fascinating man.”

Angela couldn’t contain herself. “Actually, we’re more interested in his servant. A young man named Zeb Moses, who was with Lewis when he died.”

“Jason said you asked about Zeb when you called. It’s the reason he turned your query over to me. Zeb was an amazing man. Born into slavery. Worked at Monticello nearly his entire life. Died in his nineties, having lived long enough to read the Emancipation Proclamation.”

“You sound pretty knowledgeable about him,” Paul said.

Emerson smiled. “I
should
be. Zeb Moses was my ancestor.”

“That’s a wonderful coincidence,” Paul said. “It makes you the perfect person to answer a question that’s been nagging us.”

“I’ll do my best. Ask away.”

“Do you know how Zeb obtained his free slave status so soon after arriving at Monticello?”

Paul had a habit when deep in thought of inclining his head slightly and blinking his large brown eyes as if he were peering over the tops of invisible glasses. It was a deceptive idiosyncrasy that sometimes caught people off guard. Emerson was no exception.

He seemed to lose possession of his bland expression of geniality for an instant. His smile melted into a half frown, but he quickly recovered. He snapped the ends of his lips up in a broad grin.

“As I said, my ancestor was a remarkable individual. How did you learn that Zeb was a freeman?”

“We checked the Monticello database,” Paul said. The word ‘free’ is written next to Zeb’s name in Jefferson’s handwriting.”

“Well, Jefferson
did
free some of his slaves,” Emerson said.

“Not very many,” Angela said. “Jefferson had his reservations about slavery, but your own website says he always owned at least two hundred at a time. He sold more than a hundred, gave away eighty-five to his family. He only freed five of them in his will, and three of them, including your ancestor, while he was still alive.”

Emerson laughed. “Remind me not to cross intellectual swords with you, young lady. You’re absolutely right. But it goes to show that he
did
free slaves, although that was, regrettably, infrequent.”

“Which brings us back to my question,” Paul said. “Why was Zeb freed and given a preferred house job so soon after joining the work-force at Monticello?”

Emerson leaned back in his chair and tented his fingers. “I haven’t a clue. Do you folks have any idea why?”

Paul turned to Angela. He wanted to make up for the scientific lecture he’d given the young woman. “Miss Worth can explain.”

Angela jumped in. “We believe that Lewis was on a secret mission to deliver important information to Jefferson. Lewis was murdered because of it, but Zeb Moses traveled to Monticello to complete the mission. Jefferson rewarded Zeb with a job and freedom.”

“That’s quite a tale,” Emerson said with a shake of his head that implied skepticism without being rude. “What sort of information could have been entrusted to young Zeb?”

Gamay didn’t want to tip their hand. She interjected before Angela could answer. “We think it was a map.”

“A map of what?”

“We have no idea.”

“That’s a new one to me,” Emerson said. “Tell you what, though. I’ll look into it. You’ve got me really intrigued. I never dreamed Zeb was involved in cloak-and-dagger machinations.” He glanced at his watch and rose from his chair. “I’ll have to apologize for cutting short this fascinating discussion but I have an appointment with a potential donor.”

“We understand completely,” Paul said. “We appreciate your time.”

“Not at all,” Emerson said as he showed his guests to the door.

Emerson may have been through but Angela wasn’t.

“Oh, I almost forgot, Mr. Emerson,” she said. “Have you ever heard of Jefferson’s Artichoke Society?”

Emerson stopped with his hand on the doorknob. “No,” he said. “Never. Something to do with gardening?”

“Maybe,” Angela said with a shrug of her shoulders.

“I’ll have to look that that subject up too.”

Emerson watched from the entrance as his visitors got into the Humvee and drove off. His face wore an expression of utmost concern.

He walked briskly back to his office and punched in a number on the phone.

A man’s voice answered. Dry and brittle. “Good morning, Charles. How are you today?”

“I’ve been better. The people who called yesterday and inquired about Zeb Moses just left the library. A couple from NUMA and a young woman from the Philosophical Society.”

“I take it that you used your well-developed conversational skills to put them off.”

“I thought I was doing well until the young woman asked me about the Artichoke Society.”

For several seconds there was only silence at the other end, then the cold dry voice said: “We had better call a meeting of the others.”

“I’ll get right on it,” Emerson said.

He hung up and stared into space for a moment, and then he snapped to attention and punched in the first of a list of phone numbers from memory.

As he waited for the first person to answer, an image materialized in his mind’s eye. It was a giant ball of yarn unraveling.

“FIRST IMPRESSIONS,” Paul said as they drove past Monticello.

“Smooth, but not entirely forthcoming,” Gamay said.

“He’s hiding something,” Angela agreed.

“I was watching his reaction when you mentioned the Artichoke Society,” Paul said. “Classic deer caught in the headlights.”