The Explorer's Code

by Kitty Pilgrim

  “The Oceanographic Institute is going to give it back to Cordelia Stapleton, Elliott Stapleton’s only living relative. She will read the journal. It will make more sense to her. It’s her family, after all.”

  “What makes you think she will look for clues in the journal?”

  “We will send her an offer for the land. Big money. So she will start to look for the deed. She will lead us right to it.”

  “So we follow her, right?” interrupted Bob.

  Evgeny gestured with a dismissive chop of his hand for the American to shut up.

  “Who is giving the journal to her? The Oceanographic Institute?” asked Evgeny.

  “No. They are going to pass it to the Herodotus Foundation. The American philanthropist John Sinclair runs it. He doesn’t know anything about the significance of the journal. He thinks he is just returning it as part of the foundation’s award ceremony—as a courtesy.”

  “Good,” said Evgeny. “When do we expect the girl?”

  “She’ll be there at the gala tomorrow. And then she will go to the cruise ship after that.”

  “Good, so we will start surveillance tomorrow night, when she gets the journal,” Evgeny said, and looked over at the two Americans and the two Russians sitting on the couches of the yacht. “It shouldn’t take long.”

  Monte Carlo, Monaco

  As she stepped out of the Hôtel Hermitage, Cordelia checked her reflection in the glass of the lobby doors. The fabric of the midnight blue column dress was heavy and silky against her legs. The slight train gave her movements a new, stately glide.

  “The Sporting Club,” she told the limo driver. “But can you drive around a bit, take the long way, so I can see Monaco?”

  The driver held the door for her.

  “Of course, mademoiselle.”

  Cordelia slid onto the seat and had the ridiculous feeling that the car was way too big for just one person. The Herodotus Foundation had hired the limo and chauffeur for the evening. The driver took his place behind the wheel and looked at her in the mirror.

  “Where shall we go, mademoiselle? Anywhere you wish.”

  “Just around. Whatever you think. I don’t have to be there until six thirty.”

  They started off at a slow pace and Cordelia looked out the limo windows. Monaco was magical. The floodlit pink palace was glowing against the deep blue sky. They drove past the Place du Casino and the harbor. Many of the yachts had lights strung along their masts. The car turned, and they drove through the charming cobblestoned streets of the town. Then, farther away from the casino, they followed the highway along the ocean to the Monte Carlo Sporting Club. Inside, the enormous Salle des Etoiles was the venue of choice for many large galas and events. The limo pulled up and stopped.

  Cordelia felt a twinge of nervousness as she waited for the driver to walk around to open the door. She looked at the red carpet going up the stairs and the line of photographers waiting for arrivals. Real paparazzi. This was heady stuff. Well, Monaco was certainly all it was cracked up to be. She was going to be the center of attention accepting this award. Her heart pounded, and she felt a surge of adrenaline.

  For the briefest flash she wished she had never come. It would be so much cozier to be having pizza and beer with Susan and Joel on board the research vessel rather than champagne and caviar at this award ceremony. But there was no choice; she had to accept the award. The car door opened and she gathered her skirts to step out.

  Inside the Salle des Etoiles, guests were milling around sipping cocktails. The cavernous hall was hung with royal blue and silver banners in commemoration of the 1906 Arctic expedition of Elliott Stapleton and Prince Albert I—great-great-grandfather of the reigning monarch. She looked at Elliott Stapleton’s name on the banners and suddenly Cordelia felt a burst of family pride. He and Prince Albert I had mapped half of the Norwegian Arctic together. She walked around, looking at the huge hall filled with people, and suddenly realized what a monumental figure her great-great-grandfather had been. Of course, she had always known about the expeditions, but to see all these people gathered tonight to commemorate his work was astounding.

  Cordelia noticed the reigning prince of Monaco, Albert II, in the center of a group. Middle-aged, handsome, he certainly looked royal. Look at that red-and-white sash and all those impressive medals. He was laughing. She tore her eyes away from him. She really shouldn’t stare. God knows she didn’t have the nerve to walk over and introduce herself.

  She walked a few paces, took a glass of champagne from the waiter, and looked around. How sophisticated everyone looked in their evening clothes. This was really very exciting! She relaxed and started to enjoy the buzz of the room. Cordelia walked toward the middle of the crowd and stopped again, taking another sip of champagne.

  Standing in front of her was a Russian undersea explorer. What was his name? She studied him and his group. They were clearly all Russians. The explorer was booming forth in his pompous way. What a fool. Her team had laughed at him last year, when he planted the titanium capsule with a Russian flag in the seabed at the North Pole, claiming it as Russian territory. Things got even more ridiculous when the Russian TV station Russiya reported on the expedition. The new show Vesti had spliced in undersea footage from the movie Titanic, saying it was from the expedition. They had labeled the footage “Northern Arctic Ocean,” but a thirteen-year-old Finnish kid had recognized the footage from his DVD at home and talked to his local paper.

  Cordelia took another sip. Alexandrov. That was it. How weird Alex-androv should be at the gala. He was the first to descend the fourteen thousand feet to the Arctic seabed by submarine. Technically pretty difficult, but Russia had then preposterously declared the region “Forever Russian.” Canada and the United States immediately accused Russia of a crude attempt to grab the Arctic.

  At the jingoistic press conference, Alexandrov had brandished the Russian flag and carried a stuffed polar bear, the symbol of United Russia, President Vladimir Putin’s political party. He had shouted, “Russia has what it takes to win! The Arctic has always been Russian.”

  Suddenly the group of Russians turned and looked in her direction. One of them was talking about her. She could tell by the way they pretended not to notice her. Why were they all so interested in her?

  Sporting Club, Monte Carlo

  John Sinclair circulated through the crowd at the Oceanographic Institute Ball, greeting as many guests as possible. If he was going to be here, he might as well do it right. Don’t let them see you down. Not this crowd. He smiled even harder. Shari who?

  Prince Albert II, surrounded by a mob, reached around to shake his hand. They exchanged a word, and the prince was drawn off to talk to another guest. Sinclair turned to work the other side of the room and realized too late he was on track to cross paths with the contessa Giorgiana Brindisi. After an imperceptible hesitation that showed only in his eyes, Sinclair moved confidently ahead. To avoid her would be a sign of weakness.

  “John,” she called, as she saw him approaching. She air-kissed him, brushing his face with her dark mane of hair. He caught the familiar scent of her intoxicating perfume, the one she had designed herself. It got him every time—even tonight. Sinclair stepped back with a tight smile.

  “Lovely to see you, Brindy.”

  “John, darling. You look marvelous.”

  Sinclair was aware of her escort, a tall, smoldering fellow about fifteen years her junior.

  “May I introduce Giancarlo Grimitti.”

  Sinclair’s eyes widened. It must be the son, not the father. The father would be, what, seventy by now? This man was not even thirty.

  “Delighted,” said Sinclair, shaking his hand. The young man made a small half bow, more of a nod, but did not reply. Sinclair stepped to the side of the couple, as if to continue through the crowd. “I’d love to stay and chat, but duty calls. I’m searching for Charles. Have a great time!”

  Sinclair walked slowly away, listening to the chatter build to a crescend
o in the large space. Brindy. The last person he wanted to see. Now all he needed was for Shari to show up with her race-car driver. And he couldn’t even have a drink until after his speech. The gloom came over him like a pall. It was going to be a real trial to get through this night.

  He walked to the enormous two-story windows of the Salle des Etoiles and looked out at the night view of Monaco. Right now he could use a nice sunset, an excellent whiskey, and a good book.

  “Nice night, isn’t it?” Charles appeared at his elbow.

  “Hmm . . .” said Sinclair.

  “Oh, don’t let Brindy get you down,” Charles said. “Who is that with her, the Principe de Parma y Bologna?”

  Sinclair barked a laugh in spite of his dour mood. He translated: “ ‘The Prince of Ham and Baloney.’ Good one, Charles.”

  “Seriously, who is that? Look at him—he’s a kid. How old is he? Brindy is risking charges of pedophilia.”

  “It’s the Grimitti heir.”

  “Are you joking!” said Charles in disbelief. “Wow, Brindy is really trolling for the next big one. How much you figure he’s worth?”

  “Charles, please. I can’t. Not tonight.”

  “Oh, sorry, sometimes I get carried away. Listen, do you have the speech?”

  Sinclair patted the lapel of his tuxedo. “All set.”

  “You’re at table two,” Charles said. “Did you remember to bring the journal?”

  “Yes, I have it.” Sinclair held it up in his other hand.

  “OK. Well, don’t forget to take it up with you to the podium.”

  “Charles, please stop harassing me.”

  “OK, I’m done. Cheer up, Sinclair. Go find somebody pretty to talk to.” Charles gave him a wink and drifted away, his glass of Perrier in hand. People were starting to sit down. Sinclair found table 2 and shook hands with a portly Italian industrialist and his wife. Thank God, here were his old friends from New York: the director of the World Wildlife Fund and his wife, Jody. He continued around the table, looking for his place card. What luck! Charles had done him a good turn in the seating arrangements. He was right next to Jean-Louis Etienne, the director general of the Oceanographic Museum in Monaco. The conversation would be bearable after all.

  “Mr. Sinclair, I have been hearing about your foundation for years. A pleasure to meet you,” Jean-Louis said, shaking his hand.

  “The pleasure is mine.”

  They took their seats and fell easily into conversation. When the appetizer of lobster thermidor was served, Sinclair realized he was hungry after all.

  “How did your expedition go?” Sinclair asked, sampling a forkful, which was rich and delicious.

  Etienne looked surprised.

  “We just got back. I am astonished you know of it. Your field is archaeology, is it not?”

  “Yes, but the foundation is looking at polar exploration next year. It seems like the right time to fund some research on the melting ice cap.”

  “That is great news! We usually go in April, when the pack ice is at its maximum thickness.”

  “That late?”

  “Yes, the ice is actually solid enough to land a plane on at that time of year. The air is stable then.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “The cold gives good buoyancy to the EM-Bird. We use that to measure the ice.”

  “So the air is less stable when it’s warmer?”

  “Absolutely. In April, you really only get turbulence over the ice fracture zones. That’s where the water evaporates into the air.”

  Sinclair felt someone brush his shoulder and take the seat next to him. Etienne looked past him and perked up the way Frenchmen do when a woman arrives.

  “Cordelia Stapleton.” A woman reached around him to shake Etienne’s hand. “A very great pleasure to meet you.”

  Sinclair turned to make his own introduction.

  “John Sinclair,” he said, shaking her hand and looking into a pair of very beautiful green eyes. Charles was right, she was a stunner. She smiled politely at him, but then her eyes moved past him to Etienne.

  “Are you talking about your expedition? I have been dying to hear about it.”

  “Yes, we got back last week,” said Etienne, clearly charmed.

  “What was your route?” she asked.

  “Up through Tromsø, then straight up Norway to the Barents Sea and Svalbard.”

  “Have you analyzed the data yet?” Her voice was firm and confident.

  Etienne was talking to her in the lingo. It was all Greek to him, so Sinclair inched his chair back. That way they could talk, and he could observe her. Young, a bit nervous. Great figure. Not much makeup, but didn’t need it. She clearly was not used to wearing an evening dress: she kept fidgeting with the long skirt.

  “We went over the polar drift current to the North Pole and then made radial trips to the latitude of eighty-five North,” Etienne explained. “Then we went to the Magnetic North Pole and the Beaufort Sea. We made about ten thousand measurements.”

  “Where did you land?”

  “Alaska.”

  Now they were talking over him as if he weren’t there. Sinclair found himself thinking he had never been so charmingly ignored in his life. The room quieted and the program began. Prince Albert began his opening speech.

  “We cannot go back in time,” the prince was saying. “It is essential to rise above political divisions and ask ourselves what measures we can take today for the development of our planet that are sustainable and respectful of nature.”

  Sinclair felt in his pocket for his speech. This was going to be good. Cordelia Stapleton had no idea she would be accepting her award from the man she had ignored through the first two courses of dinner. Well, she couldn’t ignore him now.

  “Presenting the Herodotus Foundation Award for Historical Contribution in Science and Exploration is John Sinclair, founder and chairman.”

  He rose and walked to the podium in a crescendo of applause. Sinclair waited a moment for the audience to settle, looking over the crowd. He started.

  “Elliott Stapleton was one of the great scientists of our time. His scientific discoveries outshone those of many of his peers. Several explorers gained more notoriety at the time because they were masters of publicity. But we at the Herodotus Foundation believe Elliott Stapleton was head and shoulders above the others. He was not only an explorer but also a dedicated scientist. He met Prince Albert I in Tromsø, Norway, in 1898, and that collaboration continued until 1910. During the prince’s expedition to Spitsbergen, the area now known as Svalbard, in the summers of 1898 and 1899, aboard the Princess Alice, they conducted a series of groundbreaking experiments. Together, these leading oceanographers made inroads in discovery we all still recognize. We are delighted to honor the expedition, the glorious collaboration of talent, and the historical contributions of the esteemed scientist Elliott Stapleton. Here accepting the posthumous award is his great-great-granddaughter, Cordelia Stapleton, one of the preeminent oceanographers in the world. She has come all the way from the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution. Please welcome Cordelia Stapleton.”

  Sinclair watched her walk up to the stage. A spotlight found her and followed her through the tables. The midnight satin dress flowed around her slender figure. He noted the simple elegant lines. Her dark hair fell shining to her shoulders. He was struck by her poise. She reached the podium and accepted the plaque, thanking him with regal grace. A flash went off.

  “Would you please hold for some additional pictures?”

  “Of course.” Sinclair stepped closer to her. There was a swarm of photographers at their feet. Cordelia looked around, searching for a place to put down her jeweled minaudière while she held the plaque.

  “I didn’t realize I’d brought my bag up with me,” she said to Sinclair. “Where should I put it?”

  “Allow me.” John took the small purse and slipped it into his tuxedo pocket so she would have both hands free.

  Cordelia faced forward on the
dais with the spotlight still in her eyes. She was suddenly very conscious of all the people in the vast hall watching her; there were so many more tables than she had realized. She shot a quick look over to Sinclair for an indication of what to do. He gave her an encouraging smile.

  He seemed very comfortable. He stepped right behind her, and she could feel the wool of his tuxedo jacket against her shoulder. Then he reached around her to take hold of the plaque, encircling her with one arm. As he folded his hand over hers to support the plaque, his touch was warm and strong. She reacted to his nearness, intensely attracted to him. He smelled of lemon verbena and soap—some kind of aftershave that evoked the scent of Mediterranean sunshine.

  “Look at the plaque,” a photographer called out.

  She looked down at their hands together on the dark wood. His hand was tan, and almost twice as large as hers. She was aware of how tall he was, standing behind her. She felt incredibly awkward as she stood still for the camera, almost holding her breath. How long did this take? How many pictures did they need?

  “Earlier, at dinner, I didn’t realize you were the head of the Herodotus Foundation,” she apologized as they held the pose. “I was corresponding by e-mail with someone named Charles Bonnard.”

  “I know,” John said. “It’s my foundation and Charles is the director. I should have mentioned that when I met you, but you were so interested in talking to Etienne, I didn’t want to interrupt your conversation.”

  There was a hint of teasing in his voice. She flushed, and let go of the plaque, turning to face him.

  “We were talking about his work. We’re in the same field.”

  “Of course.”

  His eyes were laughing at her.

  “I’m going to hand this to you again, for the cameras,” he said, and handed the plaque to her. She took it. A couple of flashes went off.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “You’re welcome.”

  His smile was devastating, and his eyes seemed to take in everything, intelligent and full of laughter. The irises were blue, light in the center, dark around the edges; and the color gave them an intensity that was startling. As their eyes made contact and held, the entire room faded away. She kept staring, a little too long. Then she looked away and began gathering the folds of her gown to walk down the steps.