The Navigator

Carina was on less sure ground. “I’ve heard the name, but I have never read it. I was raised Roman Catholic.”

“The Kebra Nagast was supposedly found in the third century A.D., in the Santa Sophia library of Constantinople. It may have been written later, but that doesn’t matter. If you had read it, you would know that the book tells the story of Solomon and Mekada, Queen of Sheba. I submitted Mechadi to an expert in onamastics, the study of names. Verified that your family name is derived from Mekada.”

“That proves nothing! That would mean every boy named Jesus or Christian can claim ties to the Messiah.”

“I would agree with you, except for one thing. The cup you drank from when you had the Navigator on display contained traces of your DNA. I had the samples analyzed by three different laboratories so there would be no doubt. The results were the same in all instances. Your DNA, and mine, both contained the same DNA. I believe it goes back to Solomon. You through Sheba. I through her handmaiden. I’ll have the lab results sent to your room and you can see them for yourself.”

“Laboratory reports can be forged.”

“That’s true. But these were not.” He smiled again. “So don’t consider this an incarceration. It is more of a family reunion. At our first meeting you said you’d like to have dinner with me. We dine at six.”

As Baltazar walked away, Carina called out: “Wait!”

Baltazar was unused to commands. He turned and a flicker of anger flashed across his face. “Yes, Miss Mechadi?”

She plucked at her gown. If Baltazar thought she was descended from a queen, she would act like one. “This is not to my liking. I want my own clothes back.”

He nodded. “I’ll have them sent to your room.”

Then he walked away and disappeared through one of the doorways into the house.

Carina stood in stunned silence, unsure of what to do. The valet came out and as he cleared the dishes, he said, “Mr. Baltazar says you are free to return to your room.”

The reminder that she was a prisoner shocked her out of her trance.

She spun on her heel and strode through the door, down the corridor and into her room. What had been a prison a short while earlier now seemed a safe haven.

She shut the door and leaned against it, shutting her eyes tight, as if by doing so she could transport herself to another place.

There was no way she shared the same blood with that repellent snake of a man.

His mere presence revolted and frightened her.

But even more frightening was the possibility that his story was true.

Chapter 41

PROFESSOR MCCULLOUGH GREETED HIS VISITORS on the steps of the University of Virginia rotunda, the domed, red-brick building based on the Jefferson designs that echoed Monticello and the Pantheon in Rome. The professor suggested a stroll along the tree-bordered cloisters whose columns enclosed the great terraced lawn. “I can give you twenty minutes before I have to scoot off to my ethics class,” said the professor, a big, heavyset man whose full gray beard resembled a clump of Spanish moss. His cheeks were apple red, and he effected a rolling gait more like a retired merchant seaman than an academic. “I’ve got to tell you, I was intrigued when you called and asked about the Artichoke Society.”

“It’s apparently something of an enigma,” Gamay said as they strolled past the pavilions that framed the green space.

McCullough stopped in midstep. “It’s a mystery, all right,” he said with a shake of his head. “I stumbled on it while I was preparing a paper on the ethics of belonging to a secret society.”

“Interesting topic,” Paul said.

“I thought so. You don’t have to be part of a conspiracy to take over the world to have your ethics questioned. Even membership in the innocent organizations can present undesirable potentials. Exclusiveness. Them versus us. The strange rituals and symbols. The elitism. The quid pro quo among members. The belief that only they know the truth. Many are male-only. Some countries, like Poland, for instance, have banned secret societies. At one end of the spectrum, you’ve got frat houses; at the other, you’ve got Nazis.”

“What got you interested in secret societies?” Paul asked.

McCullough continued on his stroll. “The University of Virginia is famous for its covert ops. We’ve got nearly two dozen secret societies on the campus. And those are the ones I know about.”

“I’ve read about the Seven Society,” said Angela, who seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of arcane information at her fingertips.

“Oh, yes. The Sevens are so secret that we know someone has been a member only when he dies and his obit appears in the campus publications. His grave will be adorned with a black magnolia wreath in the shape of the numeral seven. The university chapel bell tower chimes every seven seconds for seven minutes on the seventh dissonant chord.”

“Was Jefferson a member of any of these groups?” Gamay said.

“He joined the Flat Hat Society when he attended William and Mary. It became the Flat Hat Club later on.”

“Unusual name?” Gamay said.

“In the old days, students wore mortarboard caps all the time, not just at graduation.”

“Like Harry Potter,” Angela said.

McCullough chuckled at the allusion. “No Hogwarts that I know of, but the Flat Hats had a secret handshake. They used to meet and talk on a regular basis. Jefferson admitted, in his words, that the society had ‘no useful object.’”

Gamay steered the professor back on topic.

“Could you tell us what you know about the Artichoke Society?” she said.

“Sorry for going off on a tangent. I was researching my paper in the university library and came across an old newspaper article. A reporter claimed that as he rode up to the mansion hoping for an interview with the ex- president, he had seen John Adams getting out of a carriage in front of Monticello.”

“A reunion of the Founding Fathers?” Paul said.

“The reporter couldn’t believe his eyes. He went to the door of the mansion and talked to Jefferson himself. Jefferson said the reporter was mistaken. He had seen a local plantation owner who had come by to discuss new crops. Asked what kind of crops, Jefferson smiled and said, ‘Artichokes.’ He reported the conversation, noting that Jefferson’s friend looked like Adams.”

“Who first suggested that the Artichoke Society actually existed?” Angela asked.

“I’m afraid I’m the culprit.” McCullough had a sheepish expression on his ruddy face.

“I don’t understand,” Gamay said.

“I did a ‘What if?’ Suppose there had been a meeting as described. Why would the Founding Fathers get together? Travel wasn’t easy back then. I wrote a humorous article for a university publication based on the story and the UVA penchant for secret societies. I had pretty much forgotten about it when your writer friend called last week. He had come across a Jefferson paper on artichokes at the American Philosophical Society. A Google search turned up my article.”

“Angela works for the Philosophical Society,” Gamay said. “She’s the one who discovered the paper.”

“Quite a coincidence,” McCullough said. “I told Mr. Nickerson the same thing.”

“Who is Mr. Nickerson?” Gamay said.

“He said he was with the State Department. He’s a Jefferson history buff, and he had read my article, wondered what else I knew. He was going to look into it, but he never got back to me. Stocker called last week. Then you.” He checked his watch. “Damn. This is fascinating stuff, but it’s almost class time.”

Paul handed him a business card. “Please give us a call if you think of anything else.”