The Navigator (20 page)

“Your table is ready and waiting,
Signorina
Mechadi.”

“You said
casual
. I hope I’m dressed for the occasion.”

Carina was wearing jeans with flowers stitched on them and a sleeveless blouse of turquoise. Her outfit emphasized her feminine curves in the most flattering way possible.

“A queen could not be more fashionably attired,” Austin said.

“Thank you,” Carina purred. She appraised Austin with equally appreciative eyes. He was wearing white shorts that emphasized his tanned, muscular legs, and his wide shoulders strained against a flowered silk shirt. “And you look quite smashing in that shirt.”

“Thanks. Elvis Presley wore the same design in the movie
Blue Hawaii.
Come right in.”

Carina stepped into the house, and her eyes took in the comfortable, Colonial-style dark wood furniture that was set off by white walls hung with original paintings by the local artists Austin liked to collect. There were some antique ocean charts and shipbuilding tools, a photo of Austin’s sailboat, and a scale model of his racing hydroplane.

“I thought I would see old anchors and stuffed swordfish hanging on the walls. Maybe an old diving helmet or ship models in bottles.”

Austin roared with laughter. “I used to drink margaritas in a Key West divers’ bar that fits that description.”

“You know what I mean,” Carina said with a smile. “You work for the world’s foremost oceanographic agency. I expected more evidence of your love of the sea.”

“I’ll guess that your place in Paris has little in it that would indicate to a stranger what your job is.”

“I have a few reproductions of classic artworks, but the rest is quite traditional.” She paused. “I get your point. It’s healthy to have some space from your work.”

“I’m not ready to move to Kansas, but the sea is a demanding mistress. That’s why the old ship captains usually built their houses inland.”

“Nevertheless, this is quite lovely.”

“It wouldn’t qualify for a photo spread in
Architectural Digest,
but it’s a great landside retreat for an old sea dog in between assignments. This building was a fixer-upper when I bought it, but it was it was riverfront property, and close to Langley.”

Carina picked up on the Langley connection. “You were in the CIA?”

“Underwater intelligence stuff. Mostly, spying on the Russians. We closed shop when the Cold War ended, and I went over to NUMA, where I work as an engineer.”

Despite Austin’s denial, his affinity to the sea was subtly evident in the wall shelves filled with the sea adventures of Joseph Conrad and Herman Melville. There were dozens of books on ocean science and history. The most hand-worn volumes were on philosophy. She pulled out a well-thumbed book.

“
Aristotle.
Pretty heavy reading,” she said.

“Studying the great philosophers supplies me with profound quotes that make me seem smarter than I am.”

“There is more here than bons mots. These books have been much read.”

“You’re very observant. I’ll use a maritime analogy. The wisdom in those pages keeps me anchored when I’m drifting into ambiguous waters.”

Carina thought about the contrast between Austin’s warmth and the way he had coldly dispatched her attacker. She replaced the book on the shelf. “But there is nothing ambiguous about the pistols over the fireplace.”

“You’ve exposed my weakness for collecting. I’ve got around two hundred braces of dueling pistols, most stored in a fireproof vault. I’m fascinated by their history as well as the art and technology that went into them. I’m intrigued by what they say about the role of luck in our fates.”

“Are you a fatalist?”

“I’m a realist. I know I can’t always make my own luck.” He smiled. “But I
can
make your dinner. You must be hungry.”

“Even if I weren’t, the wonderful fragrances coming from your kitchen would make me believe I’m famished.” She handed over the bottle of wine.

“A Barolo,” Austin said. “I’ll open it and let the wine breathe. We’re dining al fresco.”

While Austin went to uncork the wine, Carina wandered out onto the deck. The table was lit with oil lamps whose colored glass lent a festive appearance to the setting. Lights sparkled along the Potomac, and there was the slightly rank, but not unpleasant, smell of the river. Austin put on a recording from his extensive jazz collection, and the soft piano notes of an Oscar Peterson number floated from a couple of Bose speakers.

Austin came out with two chilled glasses of
Prosecco
. They drank the sparkling Italian wine with an antipasto of
Prosciutto di Parma
over honeydew melon. Austin excused himself and came back with plates of fettucine with cream-and-butter sauce. Carina almost swooned when he blanketed the dishes with shaved white truffles.

“Dear God! Where did you find truffles like this in the U.S.?”

“I
didn’t.
A NUMA colleague has been going back and forth to Italy.”

Carina devoured the fettuccine, along with the
secondi
course, a sautéed veal chop, and a mushroom-and-cheese salad, again with white truffles. They polished off the bottle of wine. She didn’t slow down until she came to
dolce,
or dessert. As she dug into a dish of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia, she said, “This is
magnifico,
” for about the tenth time during the meal. “You have added master chef to your array of accomplishments.”

“Grazie,”
Austin said. He had been amazed at Carina’s gusto but not unpleased. A hearty passion for food often revealed appetite in other areas. They finished off the meal with small frosted glasses of
limoncello
liquor.

As they clinked glasses in toast, Austin said, “You never told me how you came to be babysitting an old statue on its journey to America.”

“It’s a long story.”

“I have time, as well as another bottle of
limoncello.
”

She laughed softly and stared out at the river to collect her thoughts. “I was born in Siena. My father, a doctor, was an amateur archaeologist who was fascinated with the Etruscans.”

“Understandable. The Etruscans were a mysterious people.”

“Unfortunately, their art was in great demand. As a girl, I saw a site that had been plundered by
tombaroli,
tomb robbers. There was an arm of pure marble lying in the ground. Later, I went to the University of Milan, then to the London School of Economics, and drifted into journalism. My interest in antiquities was revived by research I did for a magazine article on the role of museums and dealers in art theft. The image of that marble arm stuck with me. I joined UNESCO and became an investigator. Stealing a country’s history is one of the worst things someone could do. I wanted to take looting face on.”

“That’s a pretty tall order.”

“As I quickly found out. The trade in illegal antiquities ranks third in international monetary terms behind drug smuggling and weapons sales. The UN has tried to discourage the trade through treaties and resolutions, but the challenges are formidable. It would be impossible to stop the sale of every cylinder seal or tablet.”

“You’ve evidently had great success.”

“I work with a number of international agencies such as Interpol and governments trying to track down certain high-profile items, mainly through dealers, auction houses, and museums.”

“Is that what brought you to Iraq?”

She nodded. “Weeks before the invasion, we heard rumors that crooked dealers were in touch with the unscrupulous international art dealers and diplomats. They were taking orders for specific artifacts. The thieves were in place, ready to move in as soon as the Republican Guard moved out of the museum.”

“Where did the
Navigator
figure in all this?”

“I didn’t even know it existed. It was not on the list of artifacts that I tried to recover through an unsavory dealer named Ali. He was murdered, which is no loss to the world, but he knew where the objects were. I left the country after hearing a warning that I was going to be kidnapped as a hostage. Not long after that I was contacted by the Baltazar Foundation.”

“That’s the organization that is sponsoring your tour?”

“Mr. Baltazar is a wealthy man who was appalled at the Iraq looting. I met him for the first time at the reception last night. His foundation provided the funds to keep after the artifacts that had eluded me in Baghdad. Not long ago, an Egyptian source said the Iraqi objects were on sale in Cairo. I flew to Egypt and bought the cache. The
Navigator
was part of the deal.”

“What do you know about the statue?”

“It must have been taken from the museum at the same time as the other loot. Professor Nassir, the director of the museum, remembered the statue as being stored in the basement. He considered it a curiosity.”

“In what way?”

“It appears to be a Phoenician sailor, but it’s carrying a compass. I’m told there is no evidence that the Phoenicians had the compass.”

“That’s right. The Chinese get credit for the compass.”

“Professor Nassir figured it might have been a copy of the type of trade goods that the Phoenicians sold. Sort of like the classic statues that are sold as souvenirs in Egypt or Greece.”

“Did your professor friend know where the statue was found?”

“It came from a Hittite site excavation around Black Mountain in southeastern Syria back in the 1970s. It found its way to Baghdad where its authenticity came into question. I’ve talked to a
National Geographic
photographer who was on the site.”

“Strange that it would suddenly be of interest to thieves, and later to hijackers, after sitting in a museum basement all that time.”

“Only a few people ever
knew
about it, which was why I was so surprised when Mr. Saxon mentioned it to me at the Iraqi embassy reception.”

Austin’s ears perked up at the name. “Not Anthony Saxon?”

“Yes. He seemed quite knowledgeable about the statue. Do you know him?”

“I’ve read his books and attended a lecture he gave. He’s an adventurer and writer with an unconventional views of history not accepted by mainstream scientists.”

“Could he have had anything to do with the hijacking?”

“I can’t picture it. But it would be worth learning why he is so interested in the statue. I’d be interested in meeting the
Navigator
myself.”

“I’m inviting a select few to view the statue. It’s at a Smithsonian warehouse in Maryland. Would you like to come tomorrow morning?”

“Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.”

She drained the last of her
limoncello.
“This has been a wonderful evening.”

“I think I hear a ‘but’ in your voice.”

She laughed. “Sorry. I’d love to stay, but I have much work to do on the tour.”

“I’m completely heartbroken, but I understand. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

A thought seemed to occur to her. “I’m going to try to set up a meeting with the
National Geographic
photographer. He lives in Virginia. Would you like to go along?”

“I’m officially on sick leave, but a ride in the country would do wonders for the healing process.”

She rose from the chair. “Thank you so much, Kurt. For
every
thing.”

“My pleasure, Carina.” He walked outside to her car. Austin expected to receive the customary European buss on both cheeks, which was what happened. But she also gave him a warm and lingering kiss on the lips. She tossed a smile over her shoulder, got in the car, and drove off.

Austin had a funny smile on his face as he watched the car tail-lights disappear down the driveway. Then he went back into the house and went out on the deck to clear away the glasses. He extinguished the lamps, and happened to glance toward the river. A figure was silhouetted against the reflection of the night sky on the rippling water. He knew every inch of the riverbank and was sure he was not looking at a tree or a bush.

He whistled a tune and carried the glasses back into the house. He set the tray aside and went over to a locked cabinet where he kept his Bowen. The flat-topped customized Colt single-action revolver was one of several Bowen models that he collected, in addition to his dueling pistols.

He loaded the gun, grabbed a flashlight, and descended from his living-room study to the first level, where he kept his racing scull and smaller hydroplane. He slid the door aside on well-oiled rollers and stepped out onto the boat ramp.

He let his eyes become accustomed to the darkness, and made his way along the foundation of his house, moving across the lawn where Zavala had found him trying out his new dueling pistols. He stopped and stared at the space between two large trees. The figure had disappeared. He decided against a search on his own and crept back into the house and up the stairs, where he called the police and reported a prowler.

The police car showed up exactly eight minutes later. Two officers knocked on his door. He and the policemen made a thorough search of the area around the house. Austin found a shoe print in the mud near the river, which helped convince the police that he wasn’t seeing things. They said they would check back later than night.

Austin made sure the doors of the house were locked and the burglar alarm was on. Rather than sleep in his turret bedroom, he stayed fully dressed and stretched out on the living-room sofa. He was sure that whoever had been watching his house had left. But he kept his Bowen close by his side.

THE NEXT MORNING Austin arose early and threw on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. Slipping into a pair of sandals, he made his way to the river’s edge and knelt next to the muddy heel mark. The footprint was still faintly visible. He measured the outline next to his own foot. Big man.

Austin stood for a minute deep in thought, squinting at the silver sheen of sunlight on the Potomac. There was little he could do now; the peeping Big Foot was long gone. He shrugged and headed back to the boathouse. Austin might not have been so complaisant if he had glanced above his head and seen a compact transceiver with a whisker-thin antenna that was attached to the branch of an oak tree.