The Navigator (NUMA Files 7)

Defoe became uncomfortably aware of the menace behind Baltazar’s smooth veneer. “Sorry,” he said. “I’ll show you what I mean.” He clicked the remote and the screen displayed a faint network of curving lines. “We think this is a topographical map.”

“Where on the statue did you find it?”

The camera lens drew back to reveal the cat that formed part of the statue’s base.

“You’re telling me the information I want was written on the side of a cat?”

“It’s not really that far-fetched. The Egyptians regarded felines as sacred, and the Phoenicians drew upon Egypt for their religious themes.”

“What did your computer enhancement show?”

“This is the computer enhancement.”

“I see nothing.”

“It’s the best we could do. The surface was worn away for the most part except for a small area which you see here. We’ll include what we’ve found in the final report, but, for all intents and purposes, any information engraved in the metal is gone forever.”

“I’ll have to concur,” Dr. Gray said. “No technology on earth can re-create that which is no longer there.”

If not here, elsewhere, Baltazar thought.

“This lost wax process you mentioned. Could it be used to create a duplicate of this statue?”

“It would be no trouble if the sculptor used the indirect process, which forms the wax around a finely defined core.”

Baltazar stared at the useless image on the screen, and then he rose from his seat. “Thank you, gentlemen. My valet will show you the door.”

After the two men had been ushered out, Baltazar paced back and forth in front of the statue. He brooded about the time and money he had spent to acquire this useless piece of metal. The frozen grin seemed to mock him. Benoir had told him that Carina was going to Turkey to find a replica of the statue. He had ordered his men to intercept her. He was not a man who left things to chance. At the same time, he assumed possession of the original statue would give him an edge.

His dark thoughts were cut short by the chirping of his telephone. The call was from Istanbul. He listened to the caller describe the failed attack. He told the caller that his orders still stood and slammed the phone down.

Austin had more lives than a cat.

Cat.

He glared at the bronze feline at the foot of the statue. He lifted his eyes and saw, in his imagination, not the damaged features of an ancient Phoenician but Austin’s face.

Baltazar went over to a mace that was hanging on the wall with other deadly instruments from medieval days. He removed the mace from its rack and let the spiked ball swing at the end of its chain. Then he stepped between the camera stanchions, raised the handle above his shoulder, and swung.

The ball arched down at the end of its chain, slammed into the statue, and bounced off. The impact produced a sound like an off-key gong. A human being on the receiving end of the murderous weapon would have been reduced to a bloody pulp. The ball had made multiple dents in the statue’s chest, but the serene smile still lingered.

Uttering a mighty curse, Baltazar tossed the mace aside, stalked from the room, and slammed the door behind him.

Chapter 31

THE TROUTS WALKED BRISKLY PAST the line of tourists queuing up for a guided tour, turned down a side street, and headed away from the hustle-bustle around Independence Hall and toward the American Philosophical Library, a two-story brick building facing a quiet park.

Angela Worth was at her workstation in the corner of a reading room. She looked up and raised an eyebrow. The striking couple approaching her desk did not seem like the usual researchers.

The man was several inches over six feet tall, dressed in razor-creased khakis and a blue-green linen blazer over a pale green shirt. A color-coordinated bow tie adorned his neck. The tall woman at his side could have stepped out of the pages of Vogue by way of a triathlon. The olive-colored silk pants suit rippled around her athletic body, and she seemed to flow rather than walk.

The woman stopped in front of Angela’s desk and extended her hand.

“Ms. Worth? My name is Gamay Morgan-Trout. This is my husband, Paul.” She smiled, showing the slight space between her front teeth that didn’t diminish her attractiveness.

Angela realized she was slack-jawed. She regained her poise and stood to shake hands.

“You’re the people from NUMA who called yesterday.”