The Navigator (49 page)

Baltazar descended the stairway to retrieve the flaming torch. Austin’s gun was empty. He tucked it into the holster and sprinted up the stairs.

Baltazar snatched up the burning brand and stuck it in Austin’s face. Austin ducked and threw his shoulder into Baltazar’s midsection. Baltazar dropped the torch but he was a physical match for Austin, and his rage gave him added strength. They struggled for a moment, lost their footing, and rolled down the staircase to the edge of the pool.

Baltazar head-butted Austin, got to his feet, and kicked Austin in the ribs. He aimed another kick at Austin’s face. Austin ignored the searing pain, grabbed Baltazar’s boot, and twisted. Baltazar stood on one foot, trying vainly to maintain his balance, and then fell head-first into the pool.

Austin scrambled to his feet and saw Baltazar trying to swim in the thick liquid. His head and face gleamed with the black oil.

“Get back, Kurt!”

The bandages that held Carina had stretched during her travels. She had freed herself and climbed off the statue’s arms. Now she stood on the stairs, holding the torch in her hand. With her white dress, and lovely features contorted in anger, she looked like an avenging angel.

“Wait,”
Austin said. He started up the stairs.

Carina hesitated. She started to lower the torch. Then she saw that Baltazar was trying to climb out of the pool, a task made difficult by the oil on his hands. He struggled at the edge like a reptilian monster emerging from the deep. Carina raised her arm back and threw the torch. It arced through the air ahead of a trail of embers and landed in the middle of the oil pit.

There was a loud
whoof.

Austin raced up the stairs and grabbed Carina around the waist. He pushed her into the space behind the statue and threw his body on top of hers.

Although the statue shielded them from the searing heat, they were in danger of choking from the cloud of greasy black smoke that billowed up to the ceiling. Even with smoke escaping through the vent in the ceiling, the chamber was filled with toxic fumes within seconds.

Austin was wrapping his arm tighter around Carina’s slim body when he felt a handle on the wall. He pulled the handle and a section of wall slid back. Cold air flowed from the rectangular opening. Austin was barely able to get the words out but he shouted at Carina to crawl through the opening. Then he followed her and slid the wall section shut.

Austin dug a penlight out of his jacket and flashed it around. They were in a room barely bigger than a closet. The air was musty but free of smoke. He guessed that it had been built to protect Baltazar’s ancestors when they were making sacrifices to Ba’al.

They stayed behind the statue until the oil burned itself out. Austin slid the door open a crack. The air was foul but mostly free of smoke. They used some of Carina’s gauze bandages to fashion makeshift smoke masks. Then they crawled out from behind the statue and made their way down the stairs to the door.

As they passed the smoking fire pit, Carina averted her eyes. Austin glanced into the pool as if he expected Baltazar to crawl from the depths. But all he saw was the noxious blackness of the abyss.

AFTER HIS QUICK PHONE CALL to Baltazar, Adriano had driven to New Jersey to work on his plans for NUMA.

He stayed in a cheap motel, where he devised an intricate plan for NUMA that involved multiple assassins, car bombs, biological agents, and old standbys, such as high-powered rifles. He methodically plowed through staff listings and gave priority to targets that would gut the agency. He moved on the next day and stayed in another motel. By the third day, he had put the finishing touches on his scheme for mass death and destruction. Then he waited for word from Baltazar.

After two days, Adriano tried to call Baltazar but got no answer. He hung up on the busy signal and punched in another number that connected him with the recording device he had planted in Austin’s tree.

“Hello, Joe,” Austin’s voice said. “How’s your research going?’

“We’ve got the mine pinned down,” Zavala said. “The papyrus told us exactly where to find it.”

Adriano raised an eyebrow and listened intently.

“Terrific! Feed me the details.”

Zavala told him about the hotel submerged under the lake in St. Anthony’s Wilderness, and went into great detail about the shaft leading from the kitchen into the mine. He gave Austin the GPS coordinates.

“How soon can we make an exploratory dive?” Austin said.

“I’m pulling together a dive team now. We can be on site in forty-eight hours.”

“Good work. We’ll go over the details tomorrow.”

The two men hung up after some unrelated chitchat.

The call had been made earlier that day. Adriano read the notes he’d written down. He checked out of his motel room and drove to a storage unit, one of several he maintained near Washington. The unit contained weapons and ammunition, money, changes of clothing and identity, and, for his immediate purposes, a complete set of scuba gear, which he loaded into the trunk of his car.

The next morning his car was bumping along the dirt road into St. Anthony’s Wilderness. He parked at the edge of the lake, got into a wet suit, and slipped into his buoyancy compensator and tank. Adriano was an accomplished diver, having learned his skills from the SEALs who’d been on Baltazar’s payroll.

He swam to a buoy floating in the lake, glanced at the reading on his portable GPS, and dove down to the hotel with powerful flutter kicks. He made his way to the kitchen and found the shaft. He dove into the opening without hesitating. Even if he hadn’t been anxious to get to the mine, it was doubtful he would have noticed the block-shaped plastic objects buried in the rubble within a few feet of the shaft opening.

When Adriano got to the bottom of the shaft, he was surprised to see a waterproof slate with an arrow drawn on it and the words: THIS WAY.

He followed the direction the arrow was pointing and came to another slate indicating a tunnel off the main cave. He followed it to an intersection. Another slate, another arrow. He came to the end of the tunnel. A fourth arrow pointed the way into the large mine chamber with the dais.

AS ADRIANO followed the arrow on the slate, two figures slipped quietly from the woods and made their way to the water’s edge. Austin checked his watch. “It’s been thirty minutes,” he said.

“That would put him down the shaft and into the mine,” Zavala said.

The phony telephone conversation had been set up as bait. Time to spring the trap. Austin waded into the water up to his waist. He was holding a transmitter protected in a waterproof case. He waited a few minutes, then lowered the transmitter into the water and pressed a button. Seconds later, multiple mounds of foam disturbed the surface of the lake.

Austin watched, tight-lipped, until the expanding ripples washed against his chest.

Then he turned and sloshed his way back to shore.

He was met by a grim-faced Zavala, who gave him a folder he’d found in Adriano’s car. The folder was marked NUMA.

FAR BELOW THE SURFACE of the lake, Adriano heard the explosions as a series of thuds.

He considered turning back but decided to keep on. Adriano had a robotlike sense of purpose, which made him an effective assassin, and he was determined to find the mine and its gold.

Following the arrow, he swam into the altar room. His pulse quickened at the sight of the raised dais, where the Thomas Jefferson box had rested.

Nestled in the shreds of wood was a diver’s slate with the words:

WHEN YOU GET TO HELL, ADRIANO, GIVE MR. BALTAZAR OUR REGARDS.

Austin again.

Adriano stared at the message, then threw the slate aside and swam with all his strength along the route that would take him back to the shaft. When he got there, he discovered a pile of rubble that was the only evidence of the collapsed shaft.

He glanced at his air gauge. He had minutes left. Even if there was a way out, he didn’t have enough air to search for it. Adriano sat on the pile of rubble until his air ran out completely. The last in the line of Spain’s official garrotters died, in a twist of irony, of asphyxiation.

“AHOY, MR. NICKERSON,” Austin said. “Request permission to come aboard the
Lovely Lady.
”

Nickerson poked his head out the open door of the salon and smiled when he saw Austin. “Permission granted.”

Austin went up the gangway and shook hands with the State Department man.

He tapped a black plastic pouch. “I have something to show you, if you’ve got a few minutes.”

“I
always
have time for you, Mr. Austin. Come below, and I’ll brew up some coffee. I’ll mix in something to chase away the chill.”

“It’s eighty degrees, Mr. Nickerson.”

“No matter. It’s chilly
some
where,” Nickerson said.

They went into the cabin, and Nickerson made a pot of strong coffee, which he laced with slugs of Kentucky bourbon. They clicked glasses, and Nickerson said, “Well, now, what do you have for me?”

Austin opened the pouch and produced the squares of vellum. He handed one to Nickerson. “This is the piece Jefferson acquired from an Indian. Meriwether Lewis came across the other vellum in his travels. Together, they form a map showing the location of Solomon’s mine in Pennsylvania.”

“Wonderful! I knew you could do it. Have you explored the mine?”

“Yes, we have. That’s where we found the vellum sections. They had been placed there by Thomas Jefferson.”

“That’s beyond belief! And what of the relic?”

“The gold Ten Commandments? I think you might know the answer to that question.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“There was another text written under the map. It’s apparently a set of the Ten Commandments that’s quite a bit different from the original. Probably what’s on the gold tablets.”

“Go on, Mr. Austin.”

“These commandments were handed down by several pagan gods, including one who demanded human sacrifice. Now I know you know why you were so worried. The Mideast situation wasn’t the real reason for your concern.”

“Indeed. The Ten Commandments are supposed to be infallible moral guides, declared by a monotheistic god. They provide the foundation for religions followed by millions of people and the underpinnings of Western governmental thought. Some people say they are the inspired source of the legal systems of all Western countries. If the original Ten Commandments were based on pagan writings this frail foundation could be eroded further.”

Austin remembered Baltazar’s predictions.

“Bringing the world yet another source of unneeded conflict,” Austin said.

“Right on the mark. No one knows who had the commandments inscribed on gold instead of clay, but their existence implies validity. Solomon wanted the gold tablets as far away from him as possible. They contained the possibility of instigating unrest in his day. Much as they do today, I might add.”

“You knew when we first talked that the tablets were not in the mine.”

“I’m afraid I did.”

“Then why did you send me on this wild quest?”

“We know where the tablets
are,
not where they
were.
The ancient writings say that a Navigator will show the way to Ophir. When we heard about the attempted theft of the
Navigator
statue and the discovery of the Artichoke file, we feared that someone would track down the mine and that would lead them to the tablets.”

“
We,
meaning the Artichoke Society.”

“That’s correct. We learned of your role in the hijacking, heard about your team’s reputation, and thought you’d be best qualified for the job.”

“You owe me an introduction to these Artichokes, Mr. Nickerson.”

“Yes, I’m afraid I do.”

He reached for a telephone. After a short conversation, Nickerson said. “How soon can you assemble your team?”

“Almost immediately. Where shall I tell them to meet?”

Nickerson smiled. “A little place called Monticello.”

LATER THAT DAY, Austin, Zavala, and the Trouts, with Angela, walked between the columns at the entrance to the Jefferson mansion. Emerson and Nickerson were waiting to greet them and ushered them over the threshold.

Emerson waited for a tour group to pass. “I apologize for being devious about this matter,” he said.

“Apology accepted,” Gamay said. “If you fill in the blanks.”

Emerson nodded. “You were close. Meriwether Lewis had come across the missing half of the mine map in his travels. He had assumed that it was for a western location. He realized his mistake, and was trying to get it to Jefferson when he was murdered by those who wished to keep the mine a secret. Zeb carried the missing piece to Monticello. With the full map in his possession, Jefferson found the mine, and the tablets. He left the map in the mine. Like Solomon, he decided the tablets were best kept out of sight, and formed an organization to ensure this was the case.”

“The Artichoke Society you said didn’t exist?” Angela said.

“As a member of the society, I’m sworn to secrecy. The original Artichokes consisted of some of the country’s founders. As they aged, they recruited new members to take their place. You might be surprised at the names of current members.”

Austin gave a shake of his head. “I’m not surprised at
anything
having to do with the subject,” he said. “What happened to the tablets?”

“Jefferson formed a work party that included my ancestor Zeb,” Emerson said. “They found the mine and brought the tablets back here.”

“To
Monticello
?” Angela said. She glanced around as if the tablets were in plain sight.

Emerson tapped the floor with his shoe. “Under our feet. Preserved in a secret room.”

There was a stunned silence, broken when Trout asked, “Do you think the world will ever be made aware of their existence?”

“That’s up to the Artichokes,” Emerson said. “Maybe future members of the society will decide the time is ripe.”