The Navigator (46 page)

“Bad luck, Austin,” Baltazar yelled. “But you can still save the woman.”

The trumpet drowned out Austin’s suggestion that Baltazar jump off the bridge.

Both men barely had time to get their helmets back on when the herald sounded the signal to lower lances.

Squire had called the third tilt the money shot.

Austin was rattled at the ease with which Baltazar had placed the lance point. At the same time, the metal-cored spear would give him an advantage. Austin intended to use it. He gritted his teeth and lowered his head.

The trumpet sounded again.

The horses charged. Baltazar was hunkered behind his shield so that only the helmet horns were visible. Austin aimed directly for the shield. Baltazar’s lance hit Austin’s shield dead center. As Squire had predicted, the shaft broke behind the point.

Austin’s lance penetrated Baltazar’s shield as if it were made of air. The sharp point would have neatly skewered Baltazar if Austin’s aim had been better. The point caught a corner of the shield, tore through the leather-and-wood frame, and levered Baltazar out of his stirrups.

He crashed down on the steel bridge and disappeared over the edge.

Austin cursed as only a sailor can. He had zero sympathy for Baltazar. But Baltazar had taken the car key with him.

Then Austin swore again, this time with joy. The twin horns on Baltazar’s helmet were rising above the bridge. Baltazar was trying to pull himself up. The weight of his chain mail and helmet compounded the difficulty. The shield still hung from his arm.

Austin pulled his helmet off and threw his lance aside. He slipped out of the saddle and ran out on the bridge.

Baltazar had one shoulder up. He saw Austin bending over him.

“Help me,” he pleaded.

“Maybe this will lighten your load.” Austin plucked the car key from the horn.

Austin was tempted to send Baltazar to oblivion with a shove of his foot. But Baltazar’s men had recovered from the shock of seeing their leader unhorsed and were running for the bridge.

Austin turned and loped toward the car.

As he drew near, he saw that Carina had her head against the dashboard as if she had been unable to watch the tilt. He called her name. The figure in the passenger seat lifted its head. The unshaven face of one of Baltazar’s men leered at him from under a head covering.

“Thanks for rescuing me,” the man said in a falsetto imitation of a female voice. He reached under the folds of his dress for a gun but got tangled up.

Austin hauled back his mailed right fist and channeled his fury into a crashing blow to the man’s chin that knocked him cold. He pulled the unconscious man from the car. He slipped behind the steering wheel and muttered a prayer that Baltazar hadn’t switched keys. The engine started.

He decided not to head away from the bridge into unknown territory. The woods he saw in the distance might be a dead end.

Baltazar’s men had pulled him back onto the bridge. He screamed at his men to get Austin. Half a dozen guards advanced across the bridge. Austin retrieved the lance he had discarded. He angled the point out as if he were in a tilt, drove away from the gorge, then spun the wheel around and aimed for the bridge.

Baltazar saw the Bentley speeding toward him and ducked behind the tilt barrier, but the lance swept his men from the bridge like crumbs being brushed off a table.

When Austin had gained the other side, he discarded the lance and nailed the accelerator. The wheels spun on the grass, but Austin kept the fishtailing car under control and drove onto the road that led back to the tents.

He glanced in his rearview mirror. An SUV was on his tail. Someone had radioed ahead because another SUV came directly at him. Austin aimed the Bentley at the oncoming vehicle and pressed his hand down on the horn.

The SUV driver must have figured the heavier vehicle would win the game of chicken. At the last second the Bentley swerved aside. The SUV crashed head-on into the chase vehicle.

Austin breezed past the entrance to a driveway that led to a big house in the distance. He stayed on the road for another mile until he came to a gate and guard post. He slowed the car, in expectation that a guard would pop out of the shelter, but he drove up to the gate without being challenged. Austin guessed that the gate guards had been given permission to desert their post for the joust.

He got out of the car and went inside the hut, where he punched the button that would open the double cast-iron gates.

As he stepped out of the guardhouse, Austin heard the sound of motors. A convoy of black SUVs was speeding toward the gate. He drove through the open gates, stopped the car, and went back into the guardhouse. Then he closed the gates, picked up a heavy chair, and hammered the controls with the chair leg until they were useless.

The convoy was less than an eighth of a mile away.

Austin climbed a tree and crawled out onto a thick branch that extended over the fence. He dropped to the ground, knocking the wind out of his lungs, but quickly recovered. He scrambled back into the Bentley and mashed the accelerator in a jackrabbit start.

He was speeding along an open road flanked by green pastures and agricultural fields. Farm silos rose in the distance. No one was on his tail. He glanced at the cloudless blue sky, and it occurred to him that Baltazar might have access to a helicopter.

The bright red car would make an easy target from the air.

He turned onto a narrow lane. The closely grown trees on either side formed a thick canopy that shielded the car from above.

He noticed a car pulled over onto the shoulder. A man in a dark suit was leaning against the fender, and he looked up from the map as the red car blasted his way. As Austin flew by, he caught a fleeting glance of the man’s face. He hit the brakes, put the car into a fast backup, and slammed to a reverse stop.

“Hello, Flagg.” Austin said.

The CIA man looked out of place in his dark suit and tie. When he saw Austin, a half-moon grin crossed his face. His heavy-lidded eyes took in the Bentley and Austin’s mail jacket.

“Fancy wheels. NUMA must be paying you big bucks. Suit’s nice too.”

“They’re not mine,” Austin said. “I borrowed them from Baltazar. What are you doing here?”

“I found out Baltazar’s got a place around here. I was nosing around.”

Austin jerked his thumb to the rear. “It’s back there a few miles. Where are we?”

“Upstate New York. What about your lady friend?”

“I couldn’t get to Carina. How fast can you line up some muscle?”

“Police might be faster.”

“The local gendarmerie wouldn’t stand a chance against Baltazar’s mercenaries.”

Flagg nodded and pulled a phone out of an inside pocket. He punched in a number and talked for a few minutes before hanging up. “Got a ‘go’ team coming out of Langley. They’ll be here in two hours.”

“Two
hours
!” Austin said. “It might as well be two years.”

“Best they can do,” Flagg said with a shrug. “How many bad guys you say there were?”

“About three dozen, counting Baltazar.”

“Odds are about right for a couple of tough old company men,” Flagg said. He opened the door to his car and reached under the seat to pull out a Glock 9mm pistol, which he handed to Austin. “This is a spare.” He patted his chest. “I’m already carrying.”

Austin remembered that Flagg was a walking arsenal.

“Thanks,” Austin said, taking the weapon. “Hop in.”

Flagg slid into the passenger side of the Bentley.

“Damnit, Austin,” Flagg said. “I had forgotten until now how boring my life had become since you left the company.”

Austin levered the gearshift into low and put the car into a tight U-turn.

“Hold on to your hat,” he said over the squeal of spinning tires. “Life is about to become very interesting.”

“SHOULDN’T THEY BE UP BY NOW?” Saxon said, sounding a note of concern.

“Don’t worry. They’re both experienced divers,” Trout said.

He and Saxon sat in the rubber raft near the marker buoy. Trout was more worried than he let on. He had glanced at his wristwatch a few minutes before Saxon spoke. Gamay and Zavala were pushing their air supply to the limit, especially if they needed decompression stops. Dire scenarios materialized in his imagination. He could picture the divers lost or their tanks entangled in the unknown passages below the hotel.

Trout had been staring at a blue heron skimming over the lake when he saw a disturbance on the surface.

He pointed at the mounding bubbles. “They’re
up
!”

He grabbed his paddle and told Saxon to do the same. They dug in and were only a few yards from the first head to break the surface. Gamay. Zavala surfaced seconds later.

Gamay inflated her buoyancy regulator and floated on her back. She pulled the regulator mouthpiece from between her teeth and took gulps of fresh air. Trout tossed a rope to his wife.

“Hey, beautiful, how about a ride?” he said.

“That’s the best offer I’ve heard all day,” Gamay said in a weary voice.

Zavala hitched onto the line behind Gamay. Trout and Saxon towed the two tired divers into shallow water. The divers removed their tanks and fins and slogged onto shore. They dropped their weight belts, climbed to the edge of the grassy banking, and sat down to rest.

Saxon hauled the raft onto shore. Trout opened a cooler and passed around cold bottles of water. He was unable to contain his curiosity. “Don’t keep us in suspense. Did you find King Solomon’s mine?”

A faint smile came to Zavala’s lips. “He’s
your
husband,” he said to Gamay. “Maybe you should break the bad news.”

Gamay sighed. “Someone beat us to it.”

“Gold prospectors?” Trout said.

“Not exactly,” Zavala said. He got to his feet and retrieved the carrying bag from the beached raft. He pulled out the pewter box, which he handed to Trout. “We found
this
in the mine.”

Paul’s eyes blinked rapidly as he stared with speechless disbelief at the name embossed on the lid. He handed the box to Saxon.

Saxon was less restrained. “Thomas Jefferson!” he burst out. “How can that be?”

Gamay slipped a small knife out of a leg sheath and gave it to Saxon. “Why don’t you do us the honors?”

Despite his excitement, Saxon exercised extreme care as he picked away at the rusted fastener. The lid had been sealed with wax, but it opened easily. He gazed into the box for a few seconds, and then lifted out two soft squares of vellum, wrapped in stiff waxed paper and marked with lines and Xs and tightly written script. He put the squares together where their ragged edges matched.

“It’s the rest of the Phoenician map,” he whispered. “It shows the river and bay.”

Gamay took the vellum from Saxon’s trembling hands and studied the markings without comment before passing them to her husband.

“The plot thickens,” she said.

“
This
plot is as thick as clam chowder,” Trout said with a shake of his head. “Where exactly did you find this stuff?”

Gamay described their dive into the cave and down the shaft. Zavala picked up the narrative, laying out their exploration of the cave tunnels and the chamber where the box rested on a stone platform.

Saxon had recovered from his shock and put his mind to work again.

“Fascinating,” Saxon said. “Any indication of gold?”

“Nothing that we could see,” Gamay said.

Saxon’s eyes narrowed. “Either there
was
gold and you didn’t see it or the mine had been played out and abandoned.”

“In either case, how does what they found fit in with the stories of King Solomon’s fabled gold mine?” Trout said. “Is this Ophir or not?”

“Yes and no,” Saxon said. He chuckled at Trout’s puzzled expression. “Some people believe Ophir was not a specific location, but the name given to several different sources of the king’s gold. This may have been
one
of his mines.”

Gamay stared out at the placid surface of the lake. “What better place to hide something than an abandoned mine with nothing of value in it?”

“Which brings us back to the Phoenician expedition,” Saxon said. “Its purpose was to hide a sacred relic.”

“Which raises the question of what happened to that relic,” Trout said.

Gamay picked up the metal box. “Maybe we should ask Mr. Jefferson.”

Saxon had been holding the vellum squares. He held them up for a better look at the markings and said, “
This
is interesting. I believe the map is a palimpsest.”

“A palim
what
?” Trout said.

“It’s a term for vellum that has been used more than once,” Saxon said. “Byzantine monks perfected the practice of washing and scraping writing from vellum so it could be used again, but the process could be much older. See there, when you hold it to the light, faint writing is visible.”

He passed the vellum around for the others to examine.

“Too bad we can’t retrieve the original message,” Trout said.

“Maybe we
can,
” Saxon said. “The curators at the Walters Art Museum in Baltimore recently deciphered a thousand-year-old message that had been hidden in a palimpsest. They may be able to do something with this. I wish Austin were here to share these wonderful discoveries. When will he be back from his errand?”

Zavala had been thinking about Austin even in the subterranean depths of the lake. Austin was a survivor, but by allowing himself to be kidnapped by the ruthless Baltazar, he was jumping into the abyss. As he got to his feet and prepared to collect his dive gear, he said, “Soon.
Damn
soon, I hope.”

AUSTIN AND FLAGG SAT IN the Bentley with the motor running, eyeing the entrance to Baltazar’s estate.

“I thought you said these folks were unfriendly,” Flagg said. “Looks like they’re expecting us.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Austin said.

They had spent the last hour trying to find another way into Baltazar’s estate but encountered heavy woods and electrified fence. They got lost in the maze of dirt roads around the property and found themselves back at the main gate. It was wide-open.