The Navigator - Cussler Clive (читаем книги онлайн бесплатно полностью .TXT) 📗

“What do you know about the statue?”

“It must have been taken from the museum at the same time as the other loot. Professor Nassir, the director of the museum, remembered the statue as being stored in the basement. He considered it a curiosity.”

“In what way?”

“It appears to be a Phoenician sailor, but it’s carrying a compass. I’m told there is no evidence that the Phoenicians had the compass.”

“That’s right. The Chinese get credit for the compass.”

“Professor Nassir figured it might have been a copy of the type of trade goods that the Phoenicians sold. Sort of like the classic statues that are sold as souvenirs in Egypt or Greece.”

“Did your professor friend know where the statue was found?”

“It came from a Hittite site excavation around BlackMountain in southeastern Syria back in the 1970s. It found its way to Baghdad where its authenticity came into question. I’ve talked to a National Geographic photographer who was on the site.”

“Strange that it would suddenly be of interest to thieves, and later to hijackers, after sitting in a museum basement all that time.”

“Only a few people ever knew about it, which was why I was so surprised when Mr. Saxon mentioned it to me at the Iraqi embassy reception.”

Austin’s ears perked up at the name. “Not Anthony Saxon?”

“Yes. He seemed quite knowledgeable about the statue. Do you know him?”

“I’ve read his books and attended a lecture he gave. He’s an adventurer and writer with an unconventional views of history not accepted by mainstream scientists.”

“Could he have had anything to do with the hijacking?”

“I can’t picture it. But it would be worth learning why he is so interested in the statue. I’d be interested in meeting the Navigator myself.”

“I’m inviting a select few to view the statue. It’s at a Smithsonian warehouse in Maryland. Would you like to come tomorrow morning?”

“Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.”

She drained the last of her limoncello. “This has been a wonderful evening.”

“I think I hear a ‘but’ in your voice.”

She laughed. “Sorry. I’d love to stay, but I have much work to do on the tour.”

“I’m completely heartbroken, but I understand. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

A thought seemed to occur to her. “I’m going to try to set up a meeting with the National Geographic photographer. He lives in Virginia. Would you like to go along?”

“I’m officially on sick leave, but a ride in the country would do wonders for the healing process.”

She rose from the chair. “Thank you so much, Kurt. For everything.”

“My pleasure, Carina.” He walked outside to her car. Austin expected to receive the customary European buss on both cheeks, which was what happened. But she also gave him a warm and lingering kiss on the lips. She tossed a smile over her shoulder, got in the car, and drove off.

Austin had a funny smile on his face as he watched the car tail-lights disappear down the driveway. Then he went back into the house and went out on the deck to clear away the glasses. He extinguished the lamps, and happened to glance toward the river. A figure was silhouetted against the reflection of the night sky on the rippling water. He knew every inch of the riverbank and was sure he was not looking at a tree or a bush.

He whistled a tune and carried the glasses back into the house. He set the tray aside and went over to a locked cabinet where he kept his Bowen. The flat-topped customized Colt single-action revolver was one of several Bowen models that he collected, in addition to his dueling pistols.

He loaded the gun, grabbed a flashlight, and descended from his living-room study to the first level, where he kept his racing scull and smaller hydroplane. He slid the door aside on well-oiled rollers and stepped out onto the boat ramp.

He let his eyes become accustomed to the darkness, and made his way along the foundation of his house, moving across the lawn where Zavala had found him trying out his new dueling pistols. He stopped and stared at the space between two large trees. The figure had disappeared. He decided against a search on his own and crept back into the house and up the stairs, where he called the police and reported a prowler.

The police car showed up exactly eight minutes later. Two officers knocked on his door. He and the policemen made a thorough search of the area around the house. Austin found a shoe print in the mud near the river, which helped convince the police that he wasn’t seeing things. They said they would check back later than night.

Austin made sure the doors of the house were locked and the burglar alarm was on. Rather than sleep in his turret bedroom, he stayed fully dressed and stretched out on the living-room sofa. He was sure that whoever had been watching his house had left. But he kept his Bowen close by his side.

Chapter 20

THE NEXT MORNING Austin arose early and threw on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. Slipping into a pair of sandals, he made his way to the river’s edge and knelt next to the muddy heel mark. The footprint was still faintly visible. He measured the outline next to his own foot. Big man.

Austin stood for a minute deep in thought, squinting at the silver sheen of sunlight on the Potomac. There was little he could do now; the peeping Big Foot was long gone. He shrugged and headed back to the boathouse. Austin might not have been so complaisant if he had glanced above his head and seen a compact transceiver with a whisker-thin antenna that was attached to the branch of an oak tree.

Austin took a quick shower and changed into slacks and a polo shirt. He filled a travel mug with the Jamaican coffee he favored, slipped behind the wheel of a turquoise Jeep Cherokee from the NUMA motor pool, and headed toward the Maryland suburbs.

He arrived at the Smithsonian Institution’s complex of warehouses a half hour earlier than Carina had asked him to come. He wanted time alone with the statue that had caused so much commotion. The security guard at the door checked his name against a clipboard list and waved him into the corrugated-metal building. Running the length of the building’s interior were rows of shelves neatly stacked with labeled cardboard cartons that held overflow from the Smithsonian’s massive collections.

A slender man was fiddling with a camera mounted on a tripod that stood next to a bronze statue. The photographer looked up from the viewfinder and frowned.

Austin extended his hand. “Anthony Saxon, I presume.”

Saxon hiked a bushy eyebrow. “Have we met?”

“My name is Kurt Austin. I’m with NUMA. I attended your lecture on lost cities a couple of years ago at the Explorers Club. I recognized you from the jacket of your last book, Quest for the Queen.”

Saxon’s frown vanished and he reached out and shook Austin’s hand like a pump handle.

“Kurt Austin. You found Christopher Columbus. I’m honored to meet you.”

Austin hedged his reply. “I was part of a team effort that found old Chris taking a nap.”

“Nevertheless, your discovery of the Columbus mummy on a Phoenician ship in a Mayan tomb established the scientific base for pre-Columbian contact in the New World.”

“Many people still don’t accept it as fact.”

“They are Philistines! I used your find as a foundation for my theories. What did you think of my book?”

“Entertaining and informative. The concepts are highly original.”

Saxon snorted. “When people call my work original, they’re often saying that it’s nutty. They compare my stuff to those books that brought UFOs, cow mutilations, and space aliens into the debate.”

“I didn’t think the book was nutty at all. Your theory that the Phoenicians came across the Pacific, as well as the Western Hemisphere, was fascinating. When you stirred the Queen of Sheba into the mix, it was bound to cause controversy. You made a strong case that she is the key that will unlock the ancient puzzle of Ophir.”