The Navigator (NUMA Files 7)

“It’s on the TurquoiseCoast. About five hundred miles. Are you thinking of extending your visit to Turkey?”

Austin picked up a figurine. “I’d like to talk to the artist who made this.”

“So would I,” Carina said. “It’s quite possible he used a life-sized model.”

“This statue must be very valuable.”

“Maybe,” Austin said. “Maybe not.”

“I understand the need for discretion,” Cemil said, rising from the table. “Dalyran is only about an hour from here by plane. From there, it’s not a bad drive to Kayakoy. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way, but if you need any help please let me know. I have a great many connections in Istanbul.”

A few minutes after Cemil left, Austin and Carina hailed a taxi to drive them back to the hotel. The desk clerk found two seats on an early-morning plane to Dalyran and made car rental arrangements as well. As they stood in the hotel lobby, Carina said, “Now what, Mr. Tour Guide?”

Austin pondered her question and said, “I think I can do something off the beaten path.”

A cab took them back to the archaeological dig. Austin asked Hanley if he needed volunteers. He put them to work shoveling mud through strainers. Carina didn’t seem to mind being covered from head to toe with Bosphorus mud. She jumped about like an excited schoolgirl whenever they found a coin or broken pottery from the muck.

They worked until late at night, when the van came by to take the NUMA crew back to the hotel. As they trudged through the hotel lobby, Austin and Carina were so tired they hardly noticed the pair of men sitting in plush chairs reading magazines. Nor were they aware that two pairs of eyes followed them every step of the way to the elevator.

Chapter 27

AUSTIN TURNED THE RENTED RENAULT off the TurquoiseCoast highway onto a road that twisted and turned like a spastic snake. The road ran for several miles through cultivated countryside and sleepy villages. As the car rounded a bend, ruins could be seen on the crest of a hill.

Austin parked next to a cluster of buildings. The abandoned village had become a state-run tourist attraction. The inevitable ticket seller was waiting to take their modest admission fee. He pointed the way toward the village, and went to intercept a car with two men in it that pulled up next to the Renault.

An ascending mule path went past an outdoor restaurant, souvenir shop, and several freelance vendors peddling their wares. After a hike of a few minutes, Austin and Carina had an unimpeded view of the village.

Hundreds of roofless houses baked under the hot sun. Plaster had peeled off the outside of the silent structures to expose their rough stucco walls. A few houses had been taken over by squatters who had spread their laundry out to dry. The only other sign of life was a satanic-faced goat that munched contentedly on a weed-choked garden.

“It’s hard to believe that this place was once full of life,” Carina said. “People making love. Women crying out in labor. Fathers bragging about their newborns. Children celebrating birthdays and baptisms. Mourning the passing of old ones.”

Austin was only half listening to Carina rhapsodize. Two men had stopped on the trail about a hundred feet behind them. One was taking photos of the goat. They were in their twenties, Austin estimated, both dressed in black pants and short-sleeved white shirts. Their arms were thick and muscular. Their faces were shaded by the brims of their caps and sunglasses.

Carina had continued along the mule path. When Austin caught up with her, she was strolling across the courtyard of an abandoned church toward an old man perched on a wall under a shade tree. Decorated bowls and plates were lined up on the wall, which he was using to showcase his wares.

Austin greeted the man and asked if he were Mehmet’s friend, Salim.

The man smiled. “Mehmet buys my work for the covered bazaar.”

“Yes, we know. He told us where to find you,” Carina said.

Salim had the Pablo Picasso look that comes to Mediterranean men of a certain age. The skin on his cheeks and bald head was tanned the color of tanbark and his face was as unlined as a baby’s. Good humor and wisdom lurked in big eyes that were as dark as raisins. He gestured toward his wares.

“Mehmet tells you of my souvenirs?” he said.

Austin pulled the Navigator figurine from his pocket. “We were looking for something like this.”

“Ah,” Salim said, his face lighting up. “The eunuch.” He made a horizontal cutting motion with an invisible knife. “I stop making them. No one buys.”

Austin carefully considered the next question. “Does the eunuch have a grandfather?”

Salim gave him a puzzled look and then flashed a big-toothed grin. He drew his arms in wide arcs as if they were describing a large circle. “Büyük. Big eunuch.”

“That’s right. Büyük. Where?”

“In Lycée tomb. You understand?”

Austin had noticed the strange Lycian tomb