The Navigator (NUMA Files 7)

“What’s this about slaves and Monticello?”

Helen Woolsey, Angela’s boss, had seen the huddle in Angela’s office. She stood in the doorway with a grin pasted on her face.

Angela was fast on her feet. “Oh, hi, Helen. We were discussing the fact that Jefferson had slaves even while he was saying all men are equal.”

“Fascinating. Won’t you introduce me to your friends?”

“Sorry. This is Paul and Gamay Trout. This is my boss, Helen Woolsey.”

They shook hands. Woolsey glanced at the clearly labeled Jefferson file folder on the desk. “Is that the same material you brought to me the other day, Angela?”

Gamay reached out and retrieved the file, holding it on her lap with her hands on top. “This is our folder,” she said. “Angela has been helping us with some background on Meriwether Lewis.”

“Paul and I are with NUMA,” Paul said, figuring a half-truth was better than a whole lie. “We’re conducting historical research on the importance of the Pacific Ocean to the United States. We thought we’d start with Lewis, who led the first expedition to reach the ocean.”

“You’ve come to the right place,” Woolsey said.

“Angela has been most helpful,” Gamay said.

Woolsey said to let her know if she could be of help.

Gamay watched her walk across the reading room. “Cold fish,” she said.

Angela laughed. “I call her Miss Smarty-Pants, but I like your name better.” Her face grew serious. “Something’s up. I gave her a copy of the Jefferson file days ago. She said she was going to tell the board of directors but didn’t do anything with it that I know of.”

“She zeroed right in on the Jefferson file.”

Angela gathered up the Lewis material. “I’ll dig into the slave angle. Could you come back in a couple of hours, when Miss Smarty-Pants isn’t snooping around?”

“We’ll be glad to,” Paul said.

Angela watched them leave. She was newly energized. She locked the Lewis folder in her desk and tended to some routine chores, until Woolsey came back into the reading room, obviously checking on the Trouts. When she had gone, Angela got on her computer.

With a few strokes of the keyboard, she turned the clock back to 1809.

Chapter 32

ZAVALA FINISHED HIS DETAILED inspection of the Subvette and stepped back from the trailer, his mouth widening in a broad smile. Austin took his friend’s expression as a good sign. On the return trip to the abandoned boatyard, Zavala had tried to be upbeat, but he couldn’t hide the sadness in his eyes at the damage to his creation.

He said, “I built her like a tank, so the frame is intact, and the propulsion system is in good shape, but the lights are cockeyed and some of the sensors were damaged. She’s going to be out of commission until I get back to the States.”

Austin put his hand on Zavala’s shoulder. “She was wounded in a good cause. We’d be dead meat otherwise. You can always build another and donate this one to the Cussler car museum. Looks like your ride is here.”

A tow truck had turned into the boatyard. Austin had asked Mustapha to line up something more suited than Ahmed’s chicken truck to the task of towing the submersible trailer back to the airport. The captain had made a few phone calls and found someone willing to do the job. While the truck hooked up to the trailer, Austin thanked Mustapha again for all his help. Zavala rode in the tow truck, Austin and Carina got into their rental car and followed the trailer along the coastal road to DalyranAirport.

Austin and Carina hitched a ride to Istanbul on the transport plane with Zavala. They parted company at the airport. Zavala would be working late to prepare the submersible for its trip home and planned to stay near the airport. Austin and Carina went back to the hotel, where they had spent their first night in Istanbul. This time, they shared the same room.

THE NEXT MORNING, Austin caught a cab to the Bosphorus archaeological dig and walked down a makeshift wooden ramp that had been set up for wheelbarrow traffic. He wove his way past the hundreds of workers who were hacking away at the exposed sea bottom with picks and shovels.

Hanley knelt in the hardened mud, examining pieces of broken pottery. The archaeologist got to his feet and extended a mud-caked hand.

“Good to see you, Kurt. Ready to get back into some good old Marmara muck?”

“I’ll have to take a rain check,” Austin said. He surveyed the activity on the site. “Looks like the project is going well.”

Hanley’s face flushed with excitement. “This is the most fantastic dig I’ve ever participated in.”

“I hope you won’t be too busy to do me a small favor,” Kurt said.