The Navigator

Austin told him about Carina and his intention to comply with the kidnapper’s orders.

“I’ll go along with anything you say, Kurt, but do you think going into this will help Carina?”

“I don’t know. It may put me close enough to her to help. The fact that I have a lead on the location of the mine might give me some leverage.”

“Hate to rain on your parade, but what if they’re simply after your hide and don’t want to bargain?”

“I’ve given that possibility serious consideration. I’ll have to take that chance. Meanwhile, I want you to find the mine. It could be a trump card. Speed is of the essence.”

“I’ve already arranged for a chopper and talked to the Trouts. We’ll hook up with Saxon at first light. Good luck in the meantime.”

“Thanks,” Austin said. “I’ll need it.”

Austin told Zavala that Flagg would be in touch with him and hung up. He parked the Jeep in the NUMA underground garage and caught a cab to the Lincoln Memorial. He got there a minute before the ninety minutes had elapsed. Seconds after the taxi pulled away, a black Cadillac Escalade SUV pulled up to the curb and the rear door opened. A man got out and pointed to the backseat.

Austin took a deep breath and got into the car. The man slid in behind him, wedging Austin between another occupant. The SUV sped away from the memorial and joined the traffic stream.

The man to his left reached under his jacket. Austin saw the gleam of metal. He couldn’t tell whether it was a knife or a gun. He cursed his bad judgment. They weren’t taking him anywhere. They were going to kill him immediately.

He brought his arm up to protect himself.

Something cold pressed against his neck and he heard a soft hiss.

Then someone pulled a blackout curtain down over his eyes.

His body went limp, his eyes closed on their own, and his head lolled. Only the presence of the men on either side of him prevented him from falling over.

Before long, the SUV was on the outskirts of the capital, moving as fast as the speed limit allowed, in the direction of the airport.

Chapter 45

THE MCDONNELL DOUGLAS MD 500 utility helicopter darted through the sky high over Chesapeake Bay, its turquoise fuselage bathed in the soft light of dawn. Joe Zavala was at the controls. Gamay was in the passenger bucket seat. Paul Trout’s long form was stretched out on the rear bench seat, which he shared with bags of dive gear.

Zavala squinted through the tinted bubble canopy and jabbed his forefinger downward. “That’s where Kurt and I dove on the wreck,” he said. “Havre de Grace coming up.”

The white spike of the Concord Lighthouse came into view. Then the railroad bridge at the mouth of the Susquehanna River.

Zavala followed the course of the river as the muddy waterway headed in a northwesterly direction. The Susquehanna’s flow was broken here and there by scraggly islands. Rolling agricultural fields out of a Grant Wood painting flanked both shores.

Cruising at a speed of one hundred fifty miles per hour, the aircraft quickly covered the distance to Harrisburg. Traffic on the roads was still light. About ten miles north of the Capitol dome, the helicopter veered east, away from the river and toward a range of mountains. The helicopter passed over dense woodlands and farms, finally dropping down through the early-morning mists to land at a grassy airstrip.

Saxon’s secondhand Chevy Suburban was parked at the edge of the tarmac. As the helicopter’s skids touched the ground, Saxon started the engine and drove across the field. The Suburban pulled up next to the helicopter and Saxon bounded out. He strode under the spinning rotors to greet Zavala and the Trouts with vigorous handshakes. He was decked out for an African safari in cargo pants, a cartridge vest, and a bush hat with the brim curled up on one side.

“Where’s Kurt?” Saxon said.

“Called away unexpectedly,” Zavala said. He hid his misgivings about Austin’s mission with a cheerful smile.

“Damn shame,” Saxon said with disappointment. “Kurt’s going to miss all the fun when we find the mine.”

“You sound pretty confident,” Paul said.

“Joe knows from experience that I tend toward grandiose pronouncements. Showmanship goes with my occupation,” Saxon admitted. “But I would swear on Sheba’s grave that we have the mine within our grasp. I’ll show you.”

Saxon went over to his car and dropped down the tailgate. He snapped open his battered suitcase and extracted a thick wad of papers.

“You’ve been busy,” Zavala said.

“I’m bleary-eyed from staying up all night doing research,” Saxon said. “But it’s been worth it. This is a topographical map of the area of interest. And this diagram shows the old railroad that used to service the coal mines. Joe has probably filled you in,” he said to the Trouts, “but what drew me to this place were the persistent rumors of a legendary gold mine and Indian burial caves. There’s the Gold Mine Road, which winds through the mountains, and an abandoned village called Gold Mine.”

Trout surveyed the woods surrounding the quiet airstrip. His large brown eyes blinked, as they often did when his brain went into ponder mode.

“You’ll have to pardon my scientific skepticism,” he said with typical New England bluntness, “but it’s hard to believe that Phoenicians sailed from halfway across the world and found a gold mine in this pretty Pennsylvania countryside.”

“Skepticism is healthy,” Saxon said. “You have to look at the context. We see walking trails, sleepy villages, and farms. But this land was once inhabited by at least five tribes who lived in twenty villages. In 1600, when the Europeans rediscovered the place, there were nearly seven thousand Susquehannock Indians living in these hills and valleys.”

“What’s your theory on first contact?” Gamay asked.

“I believe a Phoenician scouting ship in search of copper heard about the gold from the Indians. With their skill at organization, the Phoenicians could have hired the locals to open the mine, refine the gold, and established land and sea routes to transport it home.”

“Difficult but not impossible,” Trout said with a nod of his head. “Did I understand you to say that you can actually lead us to the mine?”

“I can lead you to where I think it is. Hop in the car and we’ll go for a ride.”

They shifted their bags from the helicopter to the Suburban. Saxon drove from the airport onto a winding country road. After a few miles, he turned off the road and followed a pair of ruts into the woods.

“Welcome to St. Anthony’s Wilderness,” Saxon said as the vehicle bumped in and out of cratered potholes. “This is the second-largest roadless area in Pennsylvania. The Appalachian Trail runs through it. You’ve got fourteen thousand acres of woodlands between First and Second mountains.”

“I wasn’t aware that St. Anthony visited North America,” Gamay said.

“He didn’t. It was named after a missionary named Anthony Seyfert. The locals know it as StonyValley. It’s as quiet as the grave around here now, but in the 1800s hundreds of men and boys toiled in the coal mines. Rail lines came into the village of Rausch Gap, and later served the Cold Springs resort. Almost everyone left when the mines played out.”

“You said almost,” Zavala said.

Saxon nodded. “Some smart developers figured out a way to profit from the gold mine legend. They built a place called the Gold Stream Hotel. Tourists stayed at the hotel, and took boat rides into a cave—Pennsylvania is loaded with them. The highlight was the opportunity to pan for gold.”

“They actually found gold?” Gamay said.

“Enough to make the tourists happy. The hotel sold lockets to hold your gold dust. The hotel went out of business after the railroad pulled out.”