The Navigator, Page 7

  The Fiat drove across the traffic-snarled city toward the Citadel, a complex of mosques and military buildings. Saxon’s heart fell. An army would not be able to find him in the labyrinth of narrow streets around the Citadel.

  Hassan’s car pulled up to the entrance of a nondescript building. The sign out front said, in English and Arabic, POLICE STATION.

  Hassan and his men hustled Saxon out of the car, through a dimly lit lobby into a small windowless room smelling of sweat and stale cigarette smoke. The only furniture was a metal table and two chairs. Light came from a single overhead bulb.

  Saxon was only partially relieved. He knew that in Egypt people who go into police stations sometimes didn’t come out.

  He was told to sit down and hand over his billfold. He was left alone for a few minutes. Then Hassan appeared with a balding, grizzled man who had a cigarette dangling from his thick lips. The newcomer unbuttoned the suit jacket that was tight across his ample belly and eased into the chair to face Saxon. He mashed his cigarette into an ashtray filled with butts and snapped his fingers. Hassan handed him the billfold, which he opened as if it were a rare book.

  He looked at the ID. “Anthony Saxon,” he said.

  “Yes,” Saxon replied. “And you?”

  “I am Inspector Sharif. This is my station.”

  “May I ask why I am here, Inspector?”

  The inspector slapped the billfold down. “I ask the questions.”

  Saxon nodded.

  The inspector jerked his thumb at Hassan. “Why did you want to meet with this man?”

  “I didn’t,” Saxon said. “I talked to somebody named Hassan. This is obviously not he.”

  The inspector grunted. “Correct. This man is Officer Abdul. Why did you want to see Hassan? He is a thief.”

  “I thought he might be able to lead me to property stolen from the BaghdadMuseum.”

  “So you wished to receive stolen goods,” the inspector said.

  “I would have returned the property to the museum. You can talk to the real Hassan if you want to check my story.”

  The inspector shot a knowing glance at Abdul. “Not possible,” he said to Saxon. “Hassan is dead.”

  “Dead? I talked to him yesterday on the phone. What happened?”

  Carefully watching Saxon’s reaction, the inspector said, “Murdered. Very big mess. You’re sure you don’t know about this?”

  “Yes. Very sure.”

  The inspector lit up a Cleopatra cigarette and blew twin plumes of smoke through his nostrils. “I believe you. Now you may ask questions.”

  “How did you know I was going to meet Hassan?”

  “Simple. You are in his appointment book. We look up your name. You’re very famous writer. Everybody reads your books.”

  “I wish more people read them,” Saxon said, with a faint smile.

  The inspector shrugged. “Why is a big writer interested in a thief?”

  Saxon doubted whether the inspector would understand the obsession that had launched him on a journey throughout Europe, the Middle East, and South America in his quest to solve one of the puzzles of the ages. There were times he didn’t understand it himself. Choosing his words carefully, he said, “I believed that Hassan could have helped me find a woman.”

  “Ah,” the inspector said. He turned to Officer Abdul. “A woman.”

  “Hassan had an antiquity that could have helped me with a book I’m writing and a film I hope to produce on the Queen of Sheba.”

  “Sheba,” the inspector said with disappointment. “A dead woman.”

  “Dead and not dead. Like Cleopatra.”

  “Cleopatra was a great queen.”

  “Yes. And so was Sheba. As beautiful as the day.”

  The door opened to admit another man. Unlike the rotund and grubby inspector, he was tall and slim. He was dressed in a pale olive suit that had razor creases in the trousers. Sharif got up from his chair and stood at attention.

  “The man said, “Thank you, Inspector. You and your officer may go.”

  The inspector snapped off a salute and left the room with the officer.

  The man eased into the inspector’s chair and placed a manila file on the table. He stared at Saxon with amusement on his narrow face.

  “I’m told you like the camel market,” the man said in perfect English.

  “I admire the way camels hold their heads high. They remind me of aristocrats who have fallen on hard times.”

  “Interesting,” the man said. “My name is Yousef. I am with the Interior Ministry.”

  Saxon knew that the Interior Ministry was synonymous with national security.

  “You’re very kind to come out here.”

  “Kindness had little to do with this situation.” He opened the folder. “This is the file of the real Hassan.” His manicured fingers extracted several sheets of paper stapled together, which he slid across to Saxon. “And this is the list of antiquities.”

  Saxon read the list, which was in English. “This corresponds to the list published by the BaghdadMuseum.”

  “Then I am afraid you are too late.” Yousef sat back and tented his fingers. “The items were removed by the army. They are in the possession of a representative from UNESCO. The day after the transfer, Hassan was tortured and murdered.” Yousef drew his finger across his throat.

  “If he didn’t have any antiquities, why did he tell me he had them?”

  “A thief steals more than once. He may have felt he could dupe a rich foreigner.”

  “Do you know who killed him?”

  “We are working on it.”

  “Who was the UNESCO representative?”

  “An Italian woman. Her name is Carina Mechadi.”

  “Do you know if she is still in Cairo?”

  “She left on a ship with the antiquities some days ago. She is taking them to the United States under an arrangement with the Baghdad government.”

  The wind went out of Saxon’s sails. He had been so close to his goal. “May I be allowed to go now?”

  “Anytime you wish.” Yousef rose from his chair. “There is always a woman at the heart of every case.”

  “Miss Mechadi?”

  He shook his head. “Sheba.”

  The Egyptian flashed an opaque smile and held the door open. Saxon drove back to the Marriott Hotel. Back in his room, he made some telephone calls and reached a contact at UNESCO, who confirmed that Carina Mechadi was on her way to America.

  Saxon went over to the window and looked out on the timeless Nile and the sparkling lights of the ancient city. He recalled Yousef’s smile at the mention of his quest for the ghost of a woman who died three thousand years ago.

  After a moment of thought, he picked up the phone again and made reservations for a flight to the United States. Then he began to pack.

  His long journey in search of the perfect woman had carried him to the most remote and dangerous places on the globe. He wasn’t about to give up now.

  NUMA 7 - The Navigator

  Chapter 8

  THE CONTAINERSHIPOcean Adventure could hold nearly two thousand cargo containers, but even at seven thousand tons and a length of five hundred feet it was a pygmy compared with newer box ships that were as long as three football fields laid end to end. The finer points of spatial relativism were lost on Carina Mechadi as she strode along the ship’s long deck huddled against the bone-chilling rawness of the North Atlantic.

  Since boarding at Salerno, Carina had arisen early each morning and descended from her cabin on the third level of the bridge house to go on a brisk walk before breakfast. Her compulsion was fueled by an unnecessary obsession with keeping her lithe figure in shape and to sooth her impatience at reaching her destination. The number of laps varied according to the weather, which ranged from raw dampness to the bitingly cold air off the coast of Newfoundland.

  The Ocean Adventure inspired little of the romance immortalized by Joseph Conrad’s tales of the doughty tramp steamers that
plied the world’s oceans in a bygone age. The ship was a seagoing platform that carried steel container units twenty feet long by about eight feet tall. They were stacked six high and covered most of the deck, except for fore and aft, and narrow aisles on either side. Hundreds more containers were stored belowdecks.

  As Carina made her way along the starboard rail, she recalled the chain of events that had brought her to a ship plowing its way across the Atlantic. The murder of Ali Babbas some years before in Baghdad had shocked but not surprised her. Violence always lurked behind the scenes in the high-stakes trade in illegal antiquities. It was a shadowy world where enormous sums of money flowed and gentlemen were rarely found. Ali had probably double-crossed the wrong person.

  She had mourned his death nonetheless. Without Ali, it was doubtful she would ever recover the lost cache of antiques. Ali had been the middleman who moved stolen goods to market. He had committed nothing to paper. The names of his buyers and sellers had been in his head. With the sleazy dealer out of the picture, the antiquities she had sought had been scattered to the four winds.

  Carina had had plenty to keep her busy once she left Iraq and returned to her UNESCO office in Paris. Months after leaving Baghdad, she’d been was on the trail of a rare Etruscan statue when Auguste Benoir visited her office and presented his card. Benoir was a prim, perfidious man who reminded Carina of Agatha Christie’s fictitious detective Hercule Poirot.

  Benoir was a partner in a prestigious Paris law firm, and he got right to the point. “My firm has been retained to represent the Baltazar Foundation,” he said. “Mr. Baltazar is a wealthy businessman and philanthropist. He was quite saddened when he heard about the looting of the BaghdadMuseum. Mr. Baltazar had read an article describing your efforts to find a cache of stolen antiquities, and he is hopeful that with funding from his foundation you could devote your talents to restoring these objects to the Iraqi collection.”

  “That’s very kind of Mr. Baltazar,” Carina had replied. “However, I believe I can be more valuable working with a worldwide organization like UNESCO.”

  “Forgive me for not being clear about Mr. Baltazar’s proposition. You would not be required to leave UNESCO.”

  Carina glanced at the folders piled up on her desk. “As you can see, I am buried in UNESCO work.”

  “Understandable.” Benoir produced a single sheet of paper from his briefcase. “This is the agreement that is being proposed. The foundation would donate an ongoing grant in a bank of your choice. You could draw on the bank account at any time for any purpose, with one stipulation: The money must be spent to recover the Iraqi artifacts. There is no current limit on the funds available.”

  Suddenly interested, Carina considered the offer. “Mr. Baltazar is most generous.”

  Benoir beamed. “Well, Mademoiselle Mechadi?”

  Carina was in a quandary. She was balancing several UNESCO assignments, but she couldn’t let a chance like this pass. She scanned the agreement. “Let me study this proposal and I’ll call you tomorrow with my answer.”

  The next day she called Benoir and told him her answer was yes. In her UNESCO job, Carina had worked with governments, international police, museum people, and archaeology experts, but the possibilities of unlimited funding opened up whole new worlds. With wads of cash in her hand, she would be able to buy access to the unsavory characters who populated the antiquities trade. And so it was. Soon she developed an effective network of police and underworld informants who often gave her leads on antiquities missing from countries other than Iraq.

  One of her more reliable sources was a crooked Egyptian army officer she knew only as the Colonel. Less than a week before, he had called her out of the blue with the news that the cache of Iraqi objects she had been looking for was being put up for sale by a petty thief named Hassan. She told the officer that she would see him within forty-eight hours, wired him a deposit, and told him to make the buy sight unseen.

  The agreement with the Baltazar Foundation required that she keep it informed of immediate developments. She called Benoir with the news about Hassan, and Benoir said he would pass the news along. Before flying to Cairo, she called Professor Nasir in Baghdad and told him that she was close to recovering the cache.

  Nasir was delighted, but conditions were still chaotic in Iraq and he was worried about the safety of the collection. He was trying to find funds to set up an efficient record-keeping system for the museum’s existing collection. Nasir enthusiastically embraced Carina’s suggestion that the artifacts be used to leverage donations. He would sign a waiver allowing her to keep the artifacts temporarily in her possession and would contact the Iraqi embassy in Washington to alert the diplomatic staff to the possibility of a tour.

  Events moved quickly when she got to Egypt. Over lunch at the Nile Sheraton Hotel, the Colonel said he had already acquired the collection. He gallantly bought her lunch after she had paid him his full fee. That night, in a warehouse on the docks of Port Said, she had waited with growing excitement for the truck that pulled in shortly after midnight.

  The artifacts in the truck were covered with dirt, but they were in more or less decent condition. She did a quick inventory by flashlight, writing down a description and number for each item. One of the larger pieces was a tall statue of a man wearing a kilt and conical cap. The bronze surface was caked from grime from the bearded face to the cat at the feet of the figure. The statue didn’t appear on her original artifact list, but a wrinkled paper tag affixed to one arm by a string identified the work as the Navigator. After spreading more of Baltazar’s wealth around the waterfront and the customs office, she had the load put on a freighter that was leaving for Italy.

  Flying ahead of the freighter to Salerno, she arranged for the trans-shipment of the cargo to the United States on the Ocean Adventure, and, during the nervous wait, she nailed down the tour plans with Nasir and the embassy. When the freighter finally arrived, she called Benoir and told him she had taken possession of the antiquities in preparation for a tour. He sounded strangely disappointed but called back later, saying he had consulted with Baltazar, who congratulated her on the find. Carina decided not to let the artifacts out of her sight again and had booked a cabin on the containership.

  She stopped during her walk now and peered down an alley between stacks to make sure that the blue-painted container was still there. She continued on to the bow, where a blast of icy air hit her as she stepped out onto the open deck.

  The captain had told her over dinner the night before that the ship’s cruising speed was eighteen knots. He would reduce that as they neared Newfoundland and entered the area known as “Iceberg Alley.” The warning made her more curious than fearful.

  She paused at the bow to look for icebergs. Only trunk-sized chunks floated in the gray sea. Several layers of clothing were still not enough to keep the icy fingers of wind from tickling her ribs. Hot coffee and scrambled eggs would be waiting in the mess hall. She turned her back to the open sea and headed along the ship’s port side.

  Carina was about two-thirds of the way to the bridge when she heard a beating sound above the swash of the hull through the sea. She looked up and saw a pair of helicopters flying close together a couple of hundred feet above water level. They were rapidly approaching the ship. No markings of any kind were visible on the black fuselages.

  Carina was surprised at their sudden appearance. The ship was a hundred miles from land. She remembered the captain’s mention of oil and gas rigs in the area. The helicopters must belong to a drilling platform.

  The helicopters buzzed the ship barely above mast level, banked around in a tight formation, and circled the moving vessel like birds of prey in an ever-tightening spiral before disappearing out of the line of sight. The sound of spinning rotors faded. The helicopters evidently had landed on top of the container stacks.

  Carina was sure she’d learn the identity of the visitors when she got to the mess hall. She resumed her walk, only to suddenly stop in her tracks
. Ahead of her, a figure dropped down from a container stack at the end of a rope and landed on the deck. Three more figures rappelled down the rope and stood in her way. Masks hid their faces except for the eyes. They were dressed in tight-fitting black uniforms and armed with short-barreled automatic weapons.

  Carina turned and ran, but four more armed figures had descended from the stacks behind her, and they closed in on her. One of the strangers grabbed her by the arm and spun her around, and her wrists were roughly tied behind her back with duct tape.

  She was shoved in the direction of the bridge house and a gun muzzle was jabbed hard between the shoulder blades. More figures were coming in their direction. Carina recognized two Filipino crewmen. She saw their smiling faces and the situation became crystal clear. The Filipinos were working with the hijackers.

  The raiding party split up into two groups. One crewman set out toward the bridge house with four hijackers. The other man led the way along the deck. The whole operation had been conducted in silence. These men knew what they were doing and what they wanted, Carina thought. But she was dumbfounded when the crewman directed her to the container box holding her artifacts and rapped his gloved knuckles on the metal surface.

  The container door was hemmed in by other boxes. A hijacker opened a metal suitcase and removed a torch and oxygen tank. He assembled the torch, ignited the flame, and adjusted it to a fine point. He donned a pair of goggles to protect his eyes from the shower of sparks and methodically began to cut a hole in the side of the container.

  An involuntary cry of protest escaped Carina’s lips. Her outburst brought an instant response. One of her captors grabbed her arms and kicked her in the ankle at the same time. Catrina, having lost her footing and unable to use her arms to break her fall, hit the deck. Her forehead smashed against a hard surface and she blacked out.

  When she regained consciousness, she was lying on her back in semidarkness. Her head throbbed with pain. She rolled over on her side and saw that she was wedged between two wooden cartons inside the container. Light streamed into the space from a rectangular hole framed by ragged edges from the cutting torch.