The Navigator

Atlantic. I can turn this stuff over to the Coast Guard with a flick of a switch.”

“Tempting,” Austin said. “She’s in international waters, and even if the Coast Guard jumped in now at best we’d snag only the little guys. I want the brains behind the hijacking scheme.”

“I’ll keep sniffing around. How are you feeling, by the way?”

“A little stiff, but the incident taught me a good lesson.”

“That you should avoid men with guns?”

“Naw. That I should move faster. Keep me posted if you turn up anything before you leave for Istanbul.” Austin heard a knocking.” Got to go. Someone’s at the door.”

“Having company?”

“The very best kind. Ciao.”

The Italian connection dawned on Zavala. “Ciao? Hey—”

“Buona notte, Joe,” Austin said. He was chuckling as he hung up and went to open the front door.

CARINA MECHADI was waiting on the steps. She lifted the wine bottle in her hand. “I believe I have a dinner reservation for tonight.”

“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 sauteed 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.”