The Explorer's Code (10 page)

“Cordelia, how nice to see you.”

“Hello, Mr. Sinclair,” she said, and walked over.

“Don’t make me feel a thousand years old. Call me John.”

“Of course, John.”

“Fascinating exhibit. Have you been here long?”

“Yes, I woke up early, with the jet lag. I read some of the journal last night and I wanted to see if there was anything about Elliott Stapleton in the exhibit. I was just finishing up.”

“It’s fascinating stuff. I stop by from time to time when I’m in Monaco. I’m just heading out. Can I interest you in lunch?”

“I hadn’t made plans.”

“Well, now you have.”

Sinclair pulled the silver Audi R8 up to the portico of the Hôtel Hermitage and leaned across to pull the handle and pop open the door.

“Hop in, we are going to drive down the coast a bit.”

“OK.”

Cordelia folded her tall frame into the passenger seat. She had changed into one of her new wrap dresses, and as she slid into the car her skirt unfolded just enough to reveal well-toned thighs. Sinclair had to force himself not to stare. She closed the panel of her skirt automatically, without noticing his look.

He put the Audi into gear and tried to get his mind off her body. It was going to be a rough afternoon if she was going to play like this. He headed for the lower route to Cap Ferrat. Hotel du Cap might be the right place to take her—exclusive, secluded, the venue of choice for the jet set and Hollywood royalty during the Cannes Film Festival every year. The food was the best on the Côte d’Azur, with only a few exceptions. She might just enjoy a nice, romantic little lunch. He knew
he
would.

Sinclair looked in the rearview mirror.

“I don’t mean to get personal, but you don’t happen to have a jealous boyfriend with a Ferrari, do you?” he asked.

Cordelia shook her head, not comprehending.

“This guy seems to be following us,” said Sinclair, flooring the Audi in a sudden burst of speed. The Ferrari Enzo, running on twelve cylinders, followed easily, keeping the same distance, turn after turn, as if on an invisible tether. Sinclair pulled to the right several times to allow the car to pass. The red Ferrari stayed put.

Sinclair frowned, and took the next sharp turn up the corniche. “I know a back way,” he said as the Audi accelerated. Cordelia clung to the armrests, startled.

“Sorry,” apologized Sinclair. “I want to shake this guy. I don’t like these kinds of games.” He kept checking the rearview mirror as he carefully executed the hairpin turns.

“Is the car still there?” asked Cordelia.

“No, we seem to have lost him,” said Sinclair. “It might just be me, but I could swear we were being tailed.”

What on earth for? she wondered.

Sinclair relaxed into his chair at the Hotel du Cap, studying the menu. Cordelia looked at him surreptitiously over the top of hers. Yes, he certainly was handsome; probably the most gorgeous man she had ever seen in her life. She looked at his face; it was severe in repose. He had a sensual mouth—but one that closed with a firm line, dispelling any suggestion of weakness. What would it be like to kiss him? She kept thinking about it. He was in wonderful shape; even his tanned arm resting on the white tablecloth was sculpted.

He looked up and caught her staring. She smiled back at him.

“I’ve followed your work. It’s really impressive, especially for someone your age,” he said, putting down the menu. His eyes seemed to register everything she was feeling.

“I’m not so young. I’ve been doing this now for nearly fifteen years.” She kept her voice detached, professional.

All the selections on the menu were swimming together. She needed to focus. The dishes were described in French and she didn’t know half the words. He drew her attention away again.

“Do you ever take any time off?”

“Well, it’s not easy with Alvin. The submersible has to go out to sea for months at a time, and, of course, I stay with it. We have to do long expeditions in order to make it worthwhile, in terms of cost.”

“Your work is truly impressive, but what do you do for fun?”

“Go to France for lunch.”

He looked at her and laughed.

“Glad to hear it.” He smiled.

Suddenly he seemed younger, not so imposing.

“Shall we order? I’m having the langoustine with drawn butter and fresh basil.”

She chose quickly.

“I’ll have fish, the
loup de mer
. . . but it’s served with
‘pois mange-tout.’
What’s that?”

“Tiny peas in a pod. You eat the whole thing. Very tender.”

“Sounds great.”

He took a chunk of French bread and coated it with sweet butter.

“You seem to work very hard, from what I am reading about your research. Do you ever relax a bit, just loaf around or travel?”

“Have you been talking to my team? They set you up to say that, didn’t they?”

“Not a bit.” He smiled.

She could hear the softest of accents in his speech. What did it remind her of? Yes, that was it, what phonologists would call the broad Boston
a
. Could he be from Boston?

He seemed absorbed in thinking about something. The silence lengthened. She noticed he had the same ability to sit in silence as people who spend a lot of time alone—a trait common in scientists. She did it herself. But now she could tell he was weighing some line of conversation.

“What do you want to ask me?” she broke in. “Clearly you have something on your mind.”

“Oh, yes, excuse me. I was lost in thought there. I wanted to ask you to help me with something I’m working on in Ephesus.”

“Ephesus? In Turkey? What use would I be at an archaeological dig?”

“We are trying to date some marine artifacts that we found in the earth there. Some of the carbon dating is turning up interesting results.”

“Marine artifacts?”

“Yes, Ephesus was a port until the harbor silted up.”

“I had no idea.”

He warmed to his subject, leaning forward.

“That is what is so interesting; the ruins are four kilometers inland. But at one time ships anchored right at the base of the main street.”

“What a great place for a dig.”

He flashed a brilliant smile. “It’s incredible. Cordelia, could I talk you into coming down there?”

She turned slightly away and pretended to look at the view. Was he really saying he wanted her to come to Ephesus with him? For what? They were talking about dating, all right, but it had nothing to do with carbon.

Was he really this fast? He would invite a complete stranger to Ephesus with him? Susan had said in her e-mail to stay away from him. And he was romantically linked with Shari, the supermodel, wasn’t he?

He was eating steadily, buttering the bread, as if unwilling to look up and gauge her reaction. But she knew he was entirely focused on her response.

“John, I can’t.”

Even before she could finish, he waved his hand in a dismissive gesture, still chewing.

“No problem. Just a thought.”

He seemed to expect a rejection. He was light about it, but she sensed
an undercurrent of disappointment. She had a strong impulse to spare him any discomfort.

“John, I really
would
like to come. But I’m sailing on the
Queen Victoria
. The ship is leaving Monaco tomorrow evening.”

He looked up in surprise, his bread suspended.

“Oh, that is
wonderful.
How long are you going to be on the ship?”

“I guess about a week—it goes all through the Mediterranean.”

“That sounds like a great trip.”

“I am really looking forward to it. I’m scheduled for a lecture the first day. Then I can disembark at any port I want.”

“What are the ports of call?” he asked.

“Down the coast of Italy, Livorno, Naples, then Malta, Crete and then to Izmir, and the—”

“
Izmir?
That’s less than fifty miles away from Ephesus. I could pick you up.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize . . .” She faltered.

“It would be great,” he urged.

Evgeny picked up the yacht’s phone and dialed Moscow. With a new Ku-band satellite, he could do business twenty-four hours a day, call anywhere in the world, whether he was docked or at sea. Bulletproof windows in the guest area on the main and upper decks increased his confidence in the yacht’s security. The connection clicked through to Moscow. He didn’t identify himself, but began speaking immediately.

“We believe we can locate the deed,” Evgeny said. “If the girl has it, we’ll offer ninety-seven million U.S. dollars for the land rights. If she will sell, that will be easy. No problem. Straight legal sale. But if not, we’ll wait until she finds the deed and then take it. After that you can do what you want with it.”

Evgeny listened for a moment, then replied, “I think it’s pretty simple. If you destroy the deed, you can make a Russian claim on the land. Russian miners settled in Spitsbergen in 1900 and that claim would hold in a court of law.”

The cat came into the main salon of the yacht, drawn by the sound of its master’s voice, and wound through Evgeny’s legs as he talked. “No, no need for violence,” he explained. “We don’t want to attract attention. We
have four people sailing on the
Queen Victoria
. They will cozy up to her and find out about the deed.” Evgeny stroked the cat as he explained. “We have to keep the Norwegians away from her. We can’t let Norway talk her into giving up the land.”

The voice on the other end of the phone was harsh and spoke at length.

“No, I understand,” said Evgeny levelly. “We will get the deed first. Everything is in place, I assure you.”

T
he dark-haired man sat in a car in the parking lot of the Queen Mary College in London. He took a lab coat with his fake ID out of the backseat of the car and slung it over his arm. The white coat was a subconscious clue, a badge of legitimacy that showed he belonged in the research building. It was good camouflage to any observer, but more convincing if he carried it casually and didn’t put it on.

Walking toward the locked service door, he took his time, trying not to look rushed. It was five thirty at night and few people would still be around. The researchers at this facility kept early hours. At least that was what the head office in Moscow told him. The back door opened, and a middle-aged scientist came out carrying a large briefcase overstuffed with papers.

“Please hold it,” the dark-haired man called in a passable Scottish accent. He jogged up to the open door. “I forgot something.”

“Sorry, you still need to swipe in,” said the scientist. “Regulations.”

He stepped aside to allow the other man to scan his ID card.

“Thank you,” the dark-haired man said. “I must dash back inside. My wife would be upset if I forgot the wine for tonight’s dinner party.”

“I totally understand,” the scientist said, and continued toward the parking lot.

The dark-haired man found his way through the maze of corridors and oddly shaped offices. He located Paul Oakley’s office on the second floor, cracked the standard lock, shaking his head at the pathetic security. The
door creaked open. The office was empty. He looked around the lab—a squirrel’s nest of academic papers and documents. Only the lab counter and sink were clear. He opened the door on the far side. Oh, this was nice—an office suite with its own loo. That would make the overnight stay more comfortable.

The man hung his lab coat up on a hanger on the back of the door, sat down at the desk, and took out his newspaper. He had a twelve-hour vigil until the courier was due. He would be here to sign for it. The package had been sent to Oakley from Svalbard yesterday, and Moscow wanted to know if it contained a land deed.

At 8:30 a.m. the next morning, Paul Oakley was reading the
Financial Times
and eating toast with marmalade. He chewed and looked out over his back garden. The rain dripped depressingly from the rhododendrons. He was not feeling all that sprightly. He had to stop falling asleep with the telly on. It ruined his REM sleep when he woke up at 3:00 a.m. with the TV blaring. Abominable habit, but living alone encouraged indulgences like that. A domestic partner would have put a stop to it, but it had been awhile since there was anyone to account to. He hated living alone, but somehow he never made the time or effort to meet anyone new. Some weeks he barely acknowledged his housekeeper as she crept around trying to clear up his mess. Paul feared he was going to turn into a recluse if this continued.