The Explorer's Code (39 page)

Sinclair marveled at the courage of Cordelia’s great-great-grandfather to come here to explore, and in subsequent years to establish the first settlement of miners, in the hope of building his Arctic Coal Mining Company into a thriving operation. Sinclair fully understood how valuable the journal really was. He was glad Cordelia could read it and understand her great-great-grandfather better.

He looked out at the landscape that Elliott Stapleton had loved, and made a silent vow to protect Cordelia’s legacy. He would find the deed and restore this land to her. Then it would be up to her to decide what to do with it.

As he looked across the land, Sinclair silently asked Elliott Stapleton a question. There was no one else to ask, and he felt it was fitting to do it here. Sinclair asked Cordelia’s great-great-grandfather for permission to marry her. It seemed the thing to do, somehow respectful and proper. She was, in essence, the polar explorer’s true daughter, even if the generations didn’t quite match up.

Sinclair listened inside his head. There was no psychic answer—only the silence of the desolate mountains that now lay before him. He hadn’t expected any answer, really; it mattered only that he, in his own mind, had stated his intention honorably and sincerely. He would ask Jim Gardiner later. But the only answer that mattered now was Cordelia’s. That question and answer would have to wait.

He heard the bathroom door open. He turned, and Erin came out wearing only a towel. She hadn’t bothered to take the large one, so there wasn’t much Sinclair could not see. He was irritated. Her intrusion broke into his thoughts and disturbed him in more ways than one. He felt his body react in a way he could not control. He surveyed her openly, unable to stop himself.

At first he told himself he was looking at her like an inanimate object, taking in the lines of her. But that was a bald-faced lie; his sexual attraction to her was intense. Previously, under the soft drape of women’s clothing, she had managed to look alluring. But now, nearly naked, her body was almost irresistible. He could imagine it under his fingertips. What would it be like to grasp those strong legs and make love to her? Her breasts were soft, the nipples large. As she turned around, he could see her buttocks were full and round. Her long red curls cascaded down her back and ended halfway to the cleft in her buttocks. Sinclair broke out in a slight sweat. He didn’t think he could take it much longer. Then it got worse.

Erin abandoned the pretense of the towel and began to ransack her Harrods shopping bag. She scooped up fistfuls of lacy white lingerie and piled them on the bed. She began cutting the sales tags off with a pair of nail scissors. After she had stacked the frothy lingerie on the bed, she dug back into the shopping bag and began tearing the cellophane off boxes of creams and cosmetics. Then, as she reached one more time into the shopping bag, she took out a red package containing a bottle of perfume. The mere sight of the box nearly tore the breath out of him. He stared. Of all the perfume in the world, why in God’s name did it have to be Aphrodite?

She turned to him, fully naked.

“When I got this assignment, I didn’t have time to pack.”

She was challenging him. It was a clear and open invitation. His eyes were riveted by her body, and she seemed to be silently demanding his homage.

Sinclair mustered his strength. He wanted to walk over to her—he really wanted her—but the price was too high. There was no going back on the promise he had just made to Cordelia in his mind. Any justification of a last fling would only cheapen it. He met Erin’s eyes.

“Let’s keep our minds on the mission, shall we?”

She twisted her beautiful mouth into a smirk.

“Finding it difficult?” she countered. “Frost said you would be a real challenge.”

“I presume you were talking about the assignment,” Sinclair retorted. “And speaking of difficult, I don’t exactly find Frost an easy guy to deal with.”

“Thaddeus Frost is a
national treasure,
” Erin snapped. “He is the
best
there is. You are damn lucky he was assigned to handle this case.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Let’s hope
you
live up to his expectations.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t disappoint you,” she purred.

He turned back to the window. Behind him he heard the rustling of cellophane, a box being opened, and the cap of a bottle being popped off. At the sound of light spritz, he shut his eyes. Slowly drifting toward him was the scent of the perfume Aphrodite, which in the past had signaled his destruction.

Sinclair woke up early, with the light streaming in the window. The Arctic morning was full upon the town. At this latitude and longitude, 78°13’0N, 15°38’0E, the sunlight was intense, but a quick look at his watch on the bedside table told him it was only five o’clock in the morning. There were another eighteen hours of daylight to go in this day, and he was glad of it. He had a lot to do.

Erin was sprawled on the other side of the bed, still deeply asleep. Her red hair covered her face. Last night she had put on a tiny pair of panties and a minuscule T-shirt, and slid into her side of the bed. Sinclair had ignored her, keeping his long limbs well away from her and putting a pillow in between them. They had to share the bed to maintain their cover as lovers. He couldn’t have the hotel staff talking about the couple who slept
in separate rooms. Everyone had to believe that Erin was Cordelia; it was the only way to keep Cordelia safe.

But it was torture to sleep with a woman like this. And he had to hand it to her, she had an impressive repertoire of feminine wiles: hair tossing, stretching languorously, slathering her legs with body cream right in front of him. But when they retired he had turned away and faced the window to sleep.

The light coming in from the window hit him in the eyes. He sat up cautiously, making no noise. If all went well today, and he found the deed, he could drop this charade and send Erin packing. But for now he wanted her exactly where she was: asleep. He had work to do and he didn’t need this woman around. He didn’t need her protection. He didn’t care what Frost had said about teamwork. He could handle it by himself if anything turned up.

Sinclair quietly got out of bed, and moments later he was dressed and slipping out the door. The desk clerk looked up, startled to see him in the lobby so early.

“Good morning,” Sinclair said, greeting the clerk. “It’s so light outside I couldn’t sleep. This takes some getting used to.”

“You’ll adjust after a few days,” the young man replied. “I just made fresh coffee if you would like some.”

He indicated the self-serve coffee bar near the large picture window. Sinclair walked over to fix his coffee and survey the town. Not a creature was moving about in the entire landscape.

“What time does the town clerk’s office open?” asked Sinclair.

“The town clerk?”

“Yes, you know—where all the official paperwork is done, permits and things like that,” he said.

“It’s in the center of town. Right across from the general store.”

“I was thinking of applying for a marriage license,” lied Sinclair. “It’s a romantic place to get married, don’t you think?”

“It certainly is,” agreed the hotel clerk, looking out at the barren landscape. “I think the office opens sometime around ten o’clock.”

“Could I get out and roam around a bit before that?” asked Sinclair. “Rent a vehicle or something?”

“Sure,” the young man replied. “I could get you a Land Rover for about two hundred dollars for the week. That wouldn’t include petrol, of course, but they do throw in the rifle for free.”

“Rifle?”

“For bears.” The man pointed to the large sign behind the desk illustrated with the silhouette of a polar bear and listing several safety rules. The poster cautioned:
VENTURING OUTSIDE THE SETTLEMENTS WITHOUT A RIFLE IS PROHIBITED.

“Oh, I’ll be careful,” assured Sinclair. “How soon could you get a vehicle here?”

The young man looked at his watch. “My dad owns the company that rents Land Rovers to tourists. I figure in about half an hour.”

Sinclair drove down the rutted track, off the mountain, and through the middle of town. It was the same route Miles had traveled the day he met his fate in the graveyard of the Arctic Coal Mining Company. Sinclair was headed to the exact same spot, only he was making certain to keep his rifle loaded and ready. After what Frost had told him about Miles and the polar bear, Sinclair was ready to shoot almost anything that moved.

The road snaked behind the town buildings and headed out along the coast of Advent Bay. In this season, the ground was gray and patchy with coal dust. The grimy residue and lack of vegetation made the landscape stark. A coating of snow would have turned it into magic. He should come back during polar night and see this place during its most fiercely beautiful season.

The road curved, and Sinclair could see the spire of the old miners’ church, and the filigree of the wrought-iron fence that hemmed in the several dozen headstones. As he pulled up, he noticed the gate listed drunk-enly on one hinge. Sinclair parked his vehicle, keeping the engine running while he surveyed the graveyard. He reached back for the gun.

He walked along the rows of stones reading the names. They were quaint and formal, and the majority of them not Norwegian names: Jeremiah, Samuel, Nathaniel, Benjamin, Thomas. And then suddenly there it was: Percival.
PERCIVAL SPENCE
. An empty grave that held the deed.

Sinclair squatted down and looked at the headstone. After a long discussion with Tom and Marian Skye Russell, they had pretty much concluded that there was no such person as Percival Spence. No records existed except his listing as “silent partner” in the Arctic Coal Mining Company documents. Was this silent partner silent as the grave? Did it
make sense that Elliott Stapleton would bury the deed here if he were headed farther north, to the pole? Sinclair’s mind turned over the possibilities as he looked at the headstone.

He leaned closer and examined the ground. It had been dug up not too long ago. He picked up some soil. It was soft, and the dirt had pebbled a bit from moisture. But the topsoil had an entirely different look from that of all the other grave sites. Sinclair stood up and put a boot onto the corner of the grave site and pressed. His foot left a clear depression of about six inches in the soil. The other sites had hard-packed soil that had settled for many seasons. This one did not.

Oakley’s expedition was a year ago, wasn’t it? The ground would have settled by now. And Miles never got a chance to start excavating. But this grave had been dug up recently—certainly well after the snow had melted for the summer season.

Sinclair stood and looked around rapidly to make sure he was alone. As tempting as it was, he could not unearth the coffin at this moment. He would need permission. It had to be official. The deed had to be valid for Cordelia, and if he broke any laws acquiring it they might be tied up in court for years.

He started back to the truck, cradling his rifle in the crook of his arm. With any luck, he would find the town official in charge of this when the municipal offices opened.

He wanted to do it before Erin caught up with him. She must be stirring by now, and would come looking for him. Finding the deed this morning would shut down this whole cursed operation, and not a moment too soon.

T
he sun was streaming through the silk drapes in the bedroom at 40 rue de Vaugirard. Cordelia woke feeling as if she had been asleep for centuries. She stretched her limbs and felt new energy flow through her. She checked her watch—7:30 a.m.

Suddenly she was ravenously hungry—and it was the kind of hunger that would not be quelled. She needed some solid food. She showered and dressed in the charming little boudoir off the bedroom.

Cordelia opened her door and walked into the upstairs hall. All was silent. She felt like a stranger in this place, and didn’t know which way to turn. But then there was a voice. Charles was speaking farther down the long corridor, his voice echoing back to her.

She walked toward the sound—along elegant crimson carpet, past a hall table with fresh flowers. The corridor was softly lit. To her right was an elaborate private elevator that connected the two floors of the apartment. Charles could be heard clearly now farther along. A paneled door was partially open and she knocked.

“Entrez!”
said Charles.

She pushed the door open wide and stood absolutely still. The room was a collage of fashion sketches and photos. Every surface was pasted with cuttings from magazines: fashion shoots, glossy magazine covers, clippings from catalogs and art books.

Then Cordelia saw Charles and a young woman with blond hair seated at a drawing board. They appeared to be looking at a sketch. The windows beyond framed them in a charming cameo, their heads together. Charles was medium blond, and the woman had the same coloring but slightly
lighter. There was something similar about them, in the way they were seated, the postures identical. Charles stood immediately.

“Cordelia! You are up?” he said.

“Hi, Charles,” she said, hesitating. Surely she was interrupting.

“No, come on in,” he said, immediately drawing her forward by her hand. “Meet my sister, Clothilde.”

Cordelia looked at the young woman and was struck by her beautiful gray eyes and soft blond hair. She was very pale, almost ethereal. But what surprised Cordelia was the way the girl moved to greet her. She glided forward in a wheelchair.

The kitchen of 40 rue de Vaugirard faced the inner courtyard of the building. Looking down at the cobbled square from the kitchen window, Cordelia had the perfect vantage point to observe all the comings and goings. She watched a small European car zip into its spot in the enclosed parking area.

“Keep an eye out for a white Peugeot,” said Charles. “Maman is out; she hates us messing around in her kitchen.”

“Can you believe we are still scared of our mother?” Clothilde laughed.

Charles was slicing bread with a long serrated knife. Clothilde was wheeling expertly around the kitchen in her chair, collecting orange juice from the refrigerator and making coffee. The counters had all been built low to accommodate her.