The Navigator

Gamay put the papers down and said, “What pops out at you?”

“Meriwether Lewis,” Trout said. “He was on his way to tell Jefferson what he had found when he died.”

“That intrigued me too.” She riffled through the papers in front of her. “Lewis had material evidence he wanted to show Jefferson. I suggest that we try to figure out what happened to it.”

“Might be almost as tough as reconstructing a Phoenician voyage,” Trout said.

“There’s a nexus that might help us,” Gamay said. “Jefferson was president of the American Philosophical Society in Philadelphia. He sent Lewis there to prep him in the sciences for his historic exploration. While Lewis was in Philadelphia, Jefferson devised the cipher for them to use.”

Trout blinked his large brown eyes in a barely noticeable show of excitement and picked up the thread. “Jefferson wrote to members of the society to tell them about his Indian language research and the theft of his papers. He contacted a society scholar, who identified the words on the vellum map as Phoenician. The artichoke file was found at the society.”

“That’s better than knowing Kevin Bacon or six degrees of separation,” Gamay said. She looked through the file and found a number for the Philosophical Society and the name of the researcher who had discovered the file. She called Angela Worth, identified herself, and made an appointment to meet the next day.

As Gamay hung up, Trout grinned and said, “You realize our vacation has come to an end.”

“That’s okay,” Gamay said. “I think I’m getting tired of fishing.”

Trout gave a weary shrug of his shoulders.

“I know I am,” he said.

Chapter 26

WITH A CRUISING SPEED OF more than five hundred miles an hour, the turquoise-colored Cessna Citation X aircraft flew to Istanbul in three hours after a quick refueling stop in Paris. The raked-tail aircraft touched down at KemalAtaturkInternationalAirport and taxied away from the main terminal. The six passengers went through a special entry gate reserved for VIPs and were politely whisked through customs.

The Subvette had arrived earlier on a special NUMA cargo plane and was being stored in an airport warehouse. Zavala wanted to inspect the submersible to see how it had fared on its journey. He told Austin he would catch a taxi to the excavation after he arranged for the vehicle to be transported to the dig.

Two vans awaited their arrival. One vehicle would take their luggage to their hotel while another went directly to the excavation. The NUMA scientists were eager to get to the site. The team’s leader was a veteran nautical archaeologist named Martin Hanley.

On the transatlantic leg of the flight, Hanley had explained the reason for haste. He had made a preliminary trip to Istanbul to see the port which had been built when the city was still known as Constantinople. The port was found in Yenikapi, on the European side of the narrow Bosphorus Straits, when squatter shanties had been cleared to build a new hub railroad station. The site had been named the Port of Theodosius.

The archaeological excavation could delay construction of a tunnel connecting the European and Asian sides of the city. Hanley and the Turkish archaeologists were worried that important finds could be overlooked in the hurry to excavate the site. He had returned to Washington to assemble his team.

The American scientists were greeted warmly by their Turkish counterparts. Round-the-clock shifts were working the muddy excavation.

“Sure you don’t want to stick around?” Hanley said. “They’ve found a church, eight boats, shoes, anchors, lines, and part of the old city walls. Who knows what treasures they’ll discover next?”

“Thanks. Maybe after we do some sightseeing.”

Austin hailed a cab that took them along Kennedy Caddesi, the busy thoroughfare that runs along the edge of the Bosphorus. An unbroken line of cargo ships was queuing up to pass through the busy connector between the Black Sea and the Mediterranean. Austin turned to Carina and said, “How long have you known your Turkish connection?”

“A year or so. Cemil helped me recover some Anatolian treasures that had been stolen from the TopkapiPalace. He used to be a smuggler. No arms or drugs, he says. Cigarettes, appliances, anything that was covered by high tariffs.”

“Is he connected to the Turkish mafia?”

She laughed. “I asked him that. He said that in Turkey everyone is in the mafia. He came through for me, but he’s…” Carina’s English failed her for a moment. “How do you say it? Mysterious.”

“I had concluded that. You’re sure he said to meet him at the ‘upside-down woman with the stone eyes’?”

“Positive. He likes to talk in riddles. It’s quite maddening at times.”

Austin asked the cab driver to take them to Sultanamet. They got out of the cab and walked across the busy street. “We’ll find your friend right below our feet if I’m not mistaken,” Austin said.

“He’s not the only one who talks in riddles.”

Austin went over to a kiosk and bought two admission tickets to the Basilica Cisterns. They went down a flight of stairs. The cool, damp air that brushed their faces felt good after the heat of the city.

They were in a huge, dimly lit vault that resembled an underground palace. Fish darted through the murky green water that covered the floor. Elevated boardwalks ran between rows of columns. Voices echoed in the cavelike chamber. Classical music played in the background. The drip-drip of water could be heard from a dozen different locations.

“The Romans had built these cisterns to hold a water supply for the GrandPalace,” Austin said. “The Byzantines discovered them when people started catching fish through holes in the floors of their houses. The stone lady is this way.”

They walked to the end of a boardwalk and descended to a platform. Two thick columns rested on bases carved into the faces of Medusa. One face lay on its side; the other, upside down. A steady stream of tourists came and went, after pausing to take snapshots of the curiosity.

Finally, the only other person left was a middle-aged man who had been there since they arrived. He carried a camera but hadn’t used it. He was wearing dark slacks and a white short-sleeved shirt with no tie, the standard uniform for many Turks. He wore aviator-style sunglasses, although the light was low in the cistern.

“Why do you think the Romans put the heads in this strange position?” he asked Carina, speaking English with a slight accent.

Carina studied the sculptures. “Maybe it’s a joke. One face looks at the world as it should be and the other as it is. Topsy-turvy.”

“Excellent. Would you be Signorita Mechadi?” the man said.

“Cemil?”

“At your service,” he said with a smile. “And this must be your friend, Mr. Austin.”

Austin shook hands with the Turk. After hearing of Cemil’s underworld exploits, he had expected a Damon Runyon character with a Turkish twist. This man looked more like someone’s favorite uncle.

“It’s good to meet you after all our dealings, Senora Mechadi. How can I help you?”

“We’re looking for a statue that’s the twin of one stolen from the IraqNationalMuseum.”

Cemil glanced at a new group of tourists and suggested a walk. As they strolled between rows of columns, he said, “There’s been a steady stream of Baghdad merchandise through Istanbul. It’s depressing prices. Do you have a photograph?”

Austin handed over the Navigator figurine. “This is a scale model. The actual statue is almost as tall as a man.”

Cemil produced a loupe-penlight instrument and examined the figurine. He chuckled. “I hope you didn’t pay too much for this artifact.”

“Do you recognize it?” Carina said.

“Oh, yes. Come with me.”

Cemil led the way to the exit, and they climbed back into the bright sunlight. The Grand Bazaar was a short tram ride away. The bazaar was a labyrinth of hundreds of shops, restaurants, and cafes, and former caravan- storage depots called hans. Politely aggressive proprietors lurked like trap-door spiders