The Navigator

Saxon read the Phoenician writing on the paper. “This shows exactly where the mine is in relation to the river.”

“Before we get too ecstatic, I have to point out a problem with this,” Austin said. “The Susquehanna is a mile wide and a foot deep, as the locals say. It’s studded with rapids and islands. There’s no way a ship of Tarshish could have made its way upriver.”

“But cargo could have come down,” Saxon said. “The river would have been deep enough for a boat to come down during the spring snowmelt.”

“Tricky, but possible with the right kind of boat,” Austin admitted.

“The right kind of boat was called a Susquehanna Ark,” Saxon said with a smile. “They started running them in the 1800s from Steuben County, New York, downriver to Port Deposit, Maryland. They were basically big pontoon rafts, seventy-five feet long and sixteen feet wide of beam. They came down in the spring flood tide as the snow melted, carrying produce to market. The arks would be dismantled, their lumber sold, and the crews walked home. It took eight days to float down and six to walk back. They carried millions of dollars in cargo before the railroads put them out of business.”

“A simple but brilliant concept,” Zavala said. “The Phoenicians could have used the same technique to transport gold.”

Saxon let out a hearty laugh. “Rider Haggard will be spinning in his grave. He and the rest of the world have assumed King Solomon’s mines were in Africa.”

Zavala had been looking at the maps. “I have a problem of my own. There’s a body of water covering the site pinpointed on the old map.”

Saxon’s eyes followed Zavala’s pointing finger. “So it is. That complicates matters.”

“Only a little bit,” Austin said. “I suggest we pull the Special Assignments Team together for a water-search operation tomorrow,” Austin said. “It’s a short hop to St. Anthony’s Wilderness by helicopter. We can be there first thing in the morning.”

“Splendid!” Saxon said. I’ll go over the papyrus again, and dig into my research, in case I’ve missed something.”

Austin pinched his chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Solomon went through a lot of trouble to hide this relic from mankind’s eyes.”

Zavala sensed the seriousness in his colleague’s voice. “I think you’re saying we may be grabbing a tiger by the tail.”

“In a manner of speaking. Let’s say we find this object. What do we do with it?”

“I never thought of that,” Saxon said. “Religious artifacts have a way of stirring people up.”

“My point exactly,” Austin said in a flat tone that caused Saxon’s brow to crease. “Solomon might have been a lot wiser hiding this thing than we are looking for it.”

Chapter 43

CARINA WAS STRETCHED OUT on the bed, staring at the ceiling for lack of anything better to do, when she heard a soft knock. She investigated and found that someone had left a wicker basket with her clothes outside the door. She picked up the note from on top of the neatly folded pile.

Dear Miss Mechadi. Please join me for dinner at your convenience. VB

“How absolutely civilized,” she murmured as she shut the door.

Carina couldn’t get the white dress off fast enough. Wearing her own clothes gave her a sense of control. She knew that it was only an illusion, but it felt good anyhow. She reread the note. She would have preferred not to spend another second with Baltazar, but she knew that he held the key to her fate.

She threw her shoulders back and marched down the deserted hall to the courtyard. A guard was waiting to escort her to the other wing. She was ushered into a spacious dining room done in a Spanish motif. The walls were pale stucco, edged with colorful tile, and decorated with wall hangings. Tall terra-cotta urns were tucked into the corners.

The valet appeared and seated Carina at a leather-topped table with wrought-iron legs. The table was set for two, and illuminated with ornate iron candelabra.

Baltazar arrived a minute later, dressed in black tie, as if for a formal ball.

“Miss Mechadi, how nice of you to join me,” he said with the warmth of old acquaintance.

Carina smiled without humor. “Did I have a choice?”

“We all have choices, Miss Mechadi.”

Baltazar snapped his fingers, and the valet filled their wineglasses with a hearty rioja. He raised his glass in a silent toast and didn’t seem bothered when she ignored the gesture. She picked at her salad and the fragrant paella that was the main course. She pushed away the flan dessert but sipped at her espresso.

They ate their meal in silence, like an old married couple with nothing left to say to each other. Baltazar asked how she had enjoyed the meal and the wine. Carina answered with a grunt.

“Good,” he said. He produced a thin cigar, which he lit, keeping his eyes on Carina the whole time. “I have a question,” Baltazar said, his head hidden behind a cloud of purple smoke. “Do you believe in divine destiny?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’m talking about the concept that the course of our lives is dictated not so much by our acts but by our fate.”

“Predestination is not a philosophy that is original with you.” She looked him straight in the eye. “I believe that we are all responsible for the consequences of our behavior. If you jump out of a window of a tall building, the consequence will be your death.”

“You are quite correct. Our acts do affect our lives. But I must ask you to ponder the unfathomable forces that would make me want to jump out of a window.”

“What are you getting at?” Carina said.

“It’s very difficult to put into words. I can show you better than tell you.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“In this case, no,” he said, rising from his seat. He snuffed the cigar out in an ashtray and came around to pull her chair back. Then he escorted her to the portrait gallery.

“These are some of my forebears,” Baltazar said. “Do you see the family resemblance?”

Carina gazed at the dozens of paintings that hung on the walls of the large room. Most of the men had been painted wearing decorative armor. While the faces in the portraits often differed physically, many, including the women, possessed Baltazar’s wolfish gleam in their eyes, as if predatory instincts had been passed on in their genes.

“Yes,” she said. “There are definite family characteristics.”

“This lovely lass was a countess,” he said, going over to the eighteenth-century oil of the young matron. “She’s quite special.”

He put his face inches from the portrait and pressed the carved panels to either side. Carina thought he was kissing the painting. Noting the bewildered expression on Carina’s face, he explained about the eye and hand scans. He guided her down the stairway to the steel door, with its combination lock.

The door swung open. Carina was surprised to see the glass-enclosed cabinets that lined the walls. “It looks like a library,” she said.

“This room holds the family archives of the Baltazars. These volumes contain our history going back for more than two thousand years. This is a treasure trove of intrigue in Europe and Asia during that time.”

He went to the far end of the library and opened another door. He removed a torch from a wall sconce and lit it with his cigarette lighter. The flare from the torch illuminated the curved stone walls of a circular room. Carina stepped into the room and saw the statue beckoning at her with outstretched arms.

“Dear God! What is that thing?”

“It’s an ancient offering statue. It has been in my family for thousands of years.”

Her eyes took in the pointed nose and chin and the leering mouth, features made even more prominent by the leaping shadows from the fluttering torch.

“It’s hideous.”

“Some people might think so. But beauty is in the eye of the beholder. It’s not the statue I wanted to show