The Navigator

Nickerson.

Nickerson was tall and wiry, with the physique of a tennis player. His tanned face was relatively unlined, and he could have been in his sixties or seventies. He was dressed in beat-up, tan canvas shorts, weathered boat shoes, and a GEORGETOWNUNIVERSITY T-shirt that was one thread short of being a rag. His close-trimmed white hair and manicured fingernails, and the tinge of a prep school accent, suggested that he was no boat bum.

He regarded Austin with flinty gray eyes. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Austin. Thank you for coming by. Sorry about the cloak-and-dagger antics. I’d offer you a Barbancourt rum on the rocks, but it’s probably too early.”

Nickerson knew Austin’s current drink of choice. Either he’d been snooping in his liquor cabinet or he had access to government personnel files. “It’s never too early for good rum, but I’ll settle for a glass of water, and an explanation,” Austin said.

“The water I can provide immediately. The answer to your question will take a little longer.”

“I’ve got time.”

Nickerson called out to the boat’s captain and said they were ready to leave. The captain started the engines while his mate cast off the dock lines. As the boat pulled out into the river and cruised downstream, Nickerson ushered Austin into a spacious deck salon whose centerpiece was a rectangular mahogany table that had been polished to a mirror finish.

Nickerson offered Austin a seat at the table. Then he got a bottle of springwater from the refrigerator and poured Austin a glass.

“I’m with the Near East Section at the State Department, where I preside as chief mucky-muck and general factotum,” Nickerson said. “This outing has the blessing of my boss, the secretary of state. He thought it best that he not be involved at this time.”

“You’ve been digging around in my personnel file, which indicates clearance at a higher level than Foggy Bottom.”

Nickerson nodded. “When we brought this matter to the attention of the White House, Vice President Sandecker suggested that we go to your boss, Director Pitt. He said to dump this in your lap.”

“That was very generous of the director,” Austin said. Typical Pitt, he mused. Dirk liked decisions to be made by those most likely to be affected by their consequences.

Nickerson caught the irony in Austin’s voice. “Mr. Pitt was being sensitive to our wishes. He has the highest confidence in your abilities. It was my decision to do a background check on you. I have a reputation for being careful.”

“And mysterious as well.”

“Your file said you have little patience with small talk. I’ll get right to the point then. Two days ago, my office received a visit from Pieter DeVries of the NSA. DeVries is one of the most respected cryptanalysts in the world. He brought us information of a startling nature.”

For the next twenty minutes, Nickerson described in meticulous detail the discovery of the Jefferson file at the American Philosophical Society and the deciphering of the secret message it contained.

Nickerson wrapped up his presentation and waited for Austin’s reaction.

“Let me see if I understand,” Austin said. “A researcher at an organization started by Ben Franklin comes across a long-lost file containing a coded correspondence between Thomas Jefferson and Meriwether Lewis. Jefferson wrote Lewis and said he believed that Phoenicians visited North America and hid a sacred relic in Solomon’s gold mine. Lewis writes Jefferson and says he is coming to see him. Lewis dies en route.”

Nickerson let out a deep sigh. “I know. It sounds absolutely fantastic.”

“What does this fantastic story have to do with NUMA?”

“Please bear with me and I’ll make my motives clear.” He handed Austin a thick loose-leaf notebook. “These are copies of the Jefferson material and the deciphered messages. The information has been labeled and catalogued as to source.”

Austin flipped the notebook open and perused Jefferson’s tight, disciplined handwriting. After leafing through several pages, he said: “You’re sure this is authentic?”

“The Jefferson papers are the real thing. Their historical accuracy will have to be determined.”

“Even so, this discovery challenges all assumptions,” Austin said. “Any idea as to the nature of the relic?”

“Some of the analysts who have seen this suggested that it might be the Ark of the Covenant. What do you think?”

“There’s a good possibility that the Ark was destroyed during the Babylonian Captivity of Jerusalem. I’ve also heard that it’s under piles of rubble in an African mine. The Ethiopians say they have it, but few have seen it. Ark or not, this find will be a historical bombshell.”

“You’re right. The Ark is probably in splinters by now. We know that whatever was deposited in North America was of great concern to Jefferson.”

“You sound equally worried.”

“I am. Your bombshell metaphor is unfortunate but accurate.”

“Are you concerned about treasure hunters?”

“No. We’re worried about a conflagration that could start in the Middle East and spread into Europe, Asia, and North America.”

Austin tapped the notebook cover. “How would this cause a conflagration?”

“The discovery would be seen as a sign by certain groups that Solomon’s third temple must be built to house this relic. Building a new temple would necessitate destruction of the TempleMount mosque, the third most sacred site in Islam. The mere rumor of the find could trigger a violent reaction from Muslims around the globe. They would see news of the discovery in North America as nothing more than a U.S. plot. The U.S. would be accused of inciting anti-Islamic forces to destroy something that is sacred to Islam. It would make all previous conflicts in that region look like a day at the park.”

“Aren’t we jumping the gun? You don’t even know what this relic is.”

“It doesn’t matter. Perception is everything. A few years ago, a red heifer born in Israel was seen by some as setting off a chain of events that would have ended the world. That was only a bloody cow, for heaven’s sake.”

Austin pondered Nickerson’s words. “Why are you so worried now?”

“Too many people now know about this file. We can do our best to stem leaks, but it’s bound to come out eventually. The State Department will pursue diplomatic strategies to soften the blow if it comes, but we have to take other measures.”

Austin knew from experience that the government was leakier than a sprung dory. “What can I do to help?” he said.

Nickerson smiled. “I see why Dirk Pitt left this matter in your hands. Our best defense is the truth. We must find what the Phoenicians brought to our shores. If it’s the Ark, we’ll bury it for a thousand years. If it isn’t, we can scotch the story when and if it comes out.”

“Finding a needle in a haystack would be easier. NUMA is an ocean-research agency. Shouldn’t you be using land-based intelligence agencies?”

“We’ve tried. Without more information, it’s useless. NUMA is in a unique position to help. We’d like to concentrate on the ship and the voyage rather than the artifact. Your past experience with the Columbus tomb makes you the ideal one to lead the effort.”

Austin’s eyes narrowed. “If we could trace the route of the voyage, that would narrow it down. It’s a thought.”

“We’re hoping it’s more than a thought.”

“We can give it a shot. We’re talking about a voyage that happened thousands of years ago. I’ll talk to my colleague Paul Trout. He’s an expert at computer modeling and may be able to retrace the route.”

Nickerson looked as if he’d had a heavy burden removed from his narrow shoulders. “Thank you. I’ll tell the captain to turn back.”

Austin pondered their discussion. There was something about Nickerson that nagged at him. The State Department man seemed sincere, but his statements were too pat, and he seemed a bit sly for Austin’s taste. Maybe deviousness was a tool for surviving at the higher levels of government. He decided to push his doubts aside, but to keep them within reach, and to concentrate on the immediate problem.