The Explorer's Code

by Kitty Pilgrim

  Miles and Oakley had been comrades-in-arms for decades against the new influenza strains that were emerging in the world. Most recently, they had been conducting clinical trials using new vaccines and antiviral drugs.

  Paul Oakley had already tried to get samples from the high Arctic. He had funded a team last year to try to get tissue from the old miners’ graveyard in Longyearbyen. The mission had been only partially successful. This year they might succeed in Barentsburg.

  This was not a mere ego trip, or the resolution of an unfulfilled scientific quest from decades ago. Miles and Oakley knew it was a critical race against time. Tissue samples were essential to discovering the genomic connection to the avian flu that was ravaging Asia. The pandemic of 1918 would be the key to stopping the new avian flu outbreak from spreading.

  “We’re almost there,” he encouraged the men who were digging.

  They were covered in mud. The steam helped, but the diggers still had a hard time, their strong young arms wielding picks and shovels. The slurry was heavy with water, rock, and mud. The rectangle they dug was six feet wide and twenty-eight feet long. As the ground melted, and the earth warmed, the powerful grave stench came up. They dug steadily despite the retch-inducing smell.

  Now the remains of bodies came to their muddy hands, as if longing to be resurrected. First badly decomposed skeletons, no soft tissue, but bits and pieces mixed with the gravel and dirt. As they dug deeper, there were chunks of protoplasmic goo. Suddenly Miles felt the hair lift on his head.

  Eight feet down, there she was. And he knew she would be a good sample. A fully preserved cadaver. Her blue parka crusted with mud, the Arctic fox-fur trim still intact. Clearly the young woman had been obese in life, and for that reason her remains were astonishingly preserved in death. The extra adipose had insulated her remains in the frozen grave.

  Miles gestured for the men to stop digging and knelt in prayer. The diggers removed their caps and fell silent. His prayer was inchoate, distracted by intense elation.

  Without delay he began to slice her up. Kneeling in the thawed mud, he set to work. The lungs were still frozen as he cut into them with his autopsy instruments.

  Monaco

  John Sinclair walked through the golden district, the Carré d’Or, of Monaco in his shirtsleeves with his jacket slung over his shoulder. His tie was undone, and he had the measured pace of a man who was out too late, with one glass of whiskey too many.

  The streets of Monaco were quiet. The gala event was long over. He had stopped for an after-dinner drink with his friends from New York. He had chosen the famous La Rascasse bar, which was popular during race time in Monaco with the Formula One fans. Situated on one of the most difficult turns of the course, it gave spectators a perfect view of the cars as they came around the bend. In addition to its Formula One fame, it was an exceptionally good restaurant. Off-season, as it was now, Sinclair would frequently go there to spend an evening with friends. This evening had been even longer than usual. It was three o’clock in the morning.

  After saying his good-byes, Sinclair was glad to be walking. The distance back to the Hotel Metropole was just enough to sober him up from the long evening. It was a gorgeous night, and the town was quiet. For the first time since he had so publicly fought with Shari, he felt good. He had no idea why, he just felt better.

  He looked down on the harbor, leaning on the stone parapet above the yacht basin. There were a lot of boats this year. It used to be that two hundred feet was big enough for a yacht, and three hundred feet was vulgar. Now four hundred feet didn’t raise an eyebrow. And the lines were god-awful, all angles and smoked glass. Some even had helicopter landing pads, Jet Skis, minisubmarines, all kinds of tow toys and rafts.

  He rested his arms on the stone wall and looked over the boats. The Udachny was one of the gaudiest down there. Udachny meant “good luck” in Russian. Owned by some superstitious oligarch, no doubt, who was looking over his shoulder counting on luck as he counted the coin.

  Back in the late 1920s the British author Somerset Maugham lived in nearby Cap Ferrat, and had called Monaco a “sunny place for shady people.” Of course, nowadays that was not the case. Now a very progressive prince was determined to make Monaco into a shining example for the world. Prince Albert II had become an outspoken leader on environmental issues, and also initiated a real effort to make Monaco’s banking operations more transparent. His work was paying off, earning Monaco the reputation of being above reproach in major international circles. Consequently the real estate was more desirable than it had ever been. Monaco was now seen as a glittering backdrop for corporations and new entrepreneurs, as well as for its more traditional reputation as a playground for the fabulously wealthy, famous, and beautiful.

  Nevertheless, Sinclair would hazard there were still crooks, money launderers, and oligarchs mixed in with the superrich in this sunny tax haven. People like that were always drawn to extreme wealth, like flies to a picnic, and they continued to be a scourge, from Dubai to Dubrovnik. Monaco was no exception.

  Sinclair draped his jacket over the wall, and something clanked against the stone. He picked up the jacket again and felt in his side pocket. A lady’s purse. He looked down at it in his hand, a small jeweled oval. How did that get there? He searched his fuzzy mind for an explanation. The last drink didn’t help him much. Then it struck him. He had taken it from Cordelia Stapleton as they had posed for photos. He had a quick flashback of offering to hold it for her. She had fled the stage soon after. The bag was small enough not to notice for the rest of the evening. He held it in his hand as he leaned on the wall and considered what to do. He would return it tomorrow. Charles would know where she was staying.

  Pretty girl. He had a mental picture of her walking up to the podium in the spotlight. Why did she leave so fast? He didn’t see her after giving her the award. Why did she leave without saying good-bye?

  The Udachny caught his attention again. The oval windows of the Benetti looked sinister, like eyes watching the night. Very flashy, that Jacuzzi on deck, and a bar on the sundeck, a thirty-six-foot Hinckley speedboat, two Yamaha Jet Skis, a trampoline, two kayaks, and a fourteen-foot Novurania tender. A bloom of satellite gear, three domes, sat on the upper structure. Not too many people on board from the look of it, just the light on in the master cabin. Sinclair picked up his jacket and headed back to his hotel.

  Cordelia slipped off her shoes as soon as she stepped inside the hotel room and closed the door. The room was neat, cool, silent, the air conditioner whirring. Had it been only a few hours since she had left for the gala? It felt like her entire life had changed, not in a dramatic way but in an organic shift—the way the introduction of a nonindigenous species into a natural setting will ultimately alter every living organism in that environment.

  She laughed at herself. That was a bit complicated for this time of night. She stepped out onto the hotel balcony. The cool tile floor was soothing to her bare feet. They absolutely ached from the unaccustomed high heels.

  The view was stunning. A couple of hundred meters away, in Monte Carlo’s avant-port, she could see the Queen Victoria. The dark gray hull was easily recognizable, as was the black-and-red smokestack. Cordelia admired the lines. It was much more elegant than the white cardboard-box cruise ships. The berth was a semifloating mole attached to the shore on the southern end. The northern end was held in place with eight very large anchor chains, probably about sixty meters deep to the bottom.

  She would board the day after tomorrow. Cordelia stepped back off the balcony into the cool stillness of the hotel room. Her laptop was open on the writing desk. She pulled up the chair and started a new message.

  Susan. I’m here in Monaco. Do me a quick favor. Send me anything you can find on John Sinclair—Chairman Herodotus Foundation. Thanks a million. Delia.

  There was an unopened e-mail in her in-box. She clicked on it.

  Dear Ms. Stapleton,

  We are writing to you to inquire about a possible sale
of land rights in Svalbard that have passed into your ownership as a result of your recent inheritance. We would like to know if you would consider selling or donating this land to our nonprofit organization, Bio-Diversity Trust, which administers the International Seed Vault.

  The International Seed Vault is now located on the site of the former Arctic Coal Mining Company owned by Elliott Stapleton. The government of Norway constructed the seed vault on your inherited property without a proper title search. Therefore, the land on which the seed vault is built belongs to you. The government of Norway will undoubtedly contact you in the near future to ask you to sell the rights to the land. We urge you not to do so.

  We believe that no sovereign nation should be in possession of the vault. It should remain in trust to protect the common interest of humanity, and its benefits should remain outside the conflict of national interests. We respectfully request that you contact our solicitor at your earliest convenience to discuss this matter.

  Yours sincerely,

  Thaddeus Frost, Executive Director, Bio-Diversity Trust

  She hit the Forward button and sent it to Jim Gardiner in New York. What on earth were they talking about? Jim could figure it out.

  She was absolutely exhausted. With the time-zone shift, even her bones were tired, and her head was spinning. She walked to the bathroom, dropping her gown to the floor. She’d pick it up later. Cordelia had barely enough energy to splash water on her face and brush her teeth. Her nightgown felt light and cool. She pulled down the coverlet, slipped into the silkiness of the Frette sheets, and closed her eyes.

  But even as tired as she was, Cordelia was not at all sleepy. Her mind was racing through a montage of all the spectacular scenes from the event. She kept hearing the speeches, and replaying the long walk to the podium in the spotlight with John Sinclair looking at her. The scent of his lemony, herbal cologne, and the feel of his hand next to hers. His jacket sleeve brushing her shoulder. What an unnerving man. She reviewed her conversation with Prince Albert II and marveled at how much knowledge he had about environmental matters. She remembered her conversation with Charles Bonnard. She really must have jet lag, to refuse a drink with him.

  The whole evening had been sensory overload, and she couldn’t find the off switch to her brain. After forty minutes of listening to the soft whir of the air conditioner, Cordelia sat up, turned on the bedside lamp, and picked up the battered leather journal of Elliott Stapleton.

  JANUARY 1, 1908

  IN THIS LEAP YEAR OF 1908, I MAY WELL NEED THE EXTRA DAY TO RECOVER FROM THE FESTIVITIES OF LAST EVENING. I SPENT MUCH OF THE EARLY EVENING AT RECTOR’S ON BROADWAY, WHERE LANGDON HALE HAD ASSEMBLED A DOZEN OF HIS COMPATRIOTS. WE CONSUMED QUANTITIES OF CHAMPAGNE ALONG WITH OYSTERS THE SIZE OF SAUCERS. ALMOST AN HOUR BEFORE MIDNIGHT WE ASSEMBLED IN THE BROAD PLAZA, TIMES SQUARE, IN FRONT OF THE TIMES TOWER BUILDING, THE SECOND TALLEST STRUCTURE IN THE CITY.

  ON THE SUMMIT, THEY HAVE ERECTED A 70-FOOT FLAGPOLE AND A LARGE SPHERE, ENTIRELY COVERED IN ELECTRICAL LIGHTS. WE WERE TOLD AT MIDNIGHT IT WOULD DESCEND. THE ROWDINESS OF THE CROWD INCREASED AS THE HOUR DREW NEAR. SEVERAL OF LANGDON’S FEMALE FRIENDS WERE CLINGING TO ME IN THE HOPE OF KEEPING WARM. SUDDENLY THE CROWD BROKE INTO A THROBBING CHANT, AND THE LIGHTED GLOBE STARTED MOVING SLOWLY DOWNWARD UNTIL BRIGHT LIGHTS PULSED THE YEAR 1908.

  A GREAT CHEER WENT UP AND MY COMPANIONS WERE EMBRACING EACH OTHER. ONE WAS EMBOLDENED ENOUGH TO PRESS HER LIPS TO MINE IN A CELEBRATION OF THE MOMENT. WE THEN REPAIRED TO THE FAMOUS MARTIN’S, BUT BY THREE IN THE MORNING MY ENTHUSIASM FOR THE COMPANY HAD WANED AND I SENT MYSELF OFF TO BED.

  The sunlight was blazing in from the balcony. Her reading light was still on and the journal was lying across her chest. Cordelia put the journal gently on the night table and walked outside. It was breezy, her cotton batiste nightgown billowed around her limbs, and the sun warmed her body through the thin fabric. How could she have slept so long? Time to get moving. She wanted to sightsee in Monaco today. She dialed room service and her breakfast arrived within minutes. Hot coffee, croissants, beautiful strawberry jam, and the lovely sweet butter—the kind found only in Europe. She gorged herself on three croissants and fruit, washing them down with the aromatic coffee.

  On the way to the shower Cordelia checked her e-mail. Susan had replied.

  Delia, I have attached John Sinclair’s bio. It looks like he founded the Herodotus Foundation just after leaving Wharton. He sold his Internet business at the height of the tech bubble and is now involved in archaeology. I also attached the newspaper account of his wife’s car accident. She died six years ago. John Sinclair is single, but he is currently dating Shari (yes, THAT Shari). I would steer clear of him. He seems like quite a player. I hope you are managing to have some fun. XX Susan.

  P.S. Joel asked me out last night! Can you believe it! I almost died of shock. We had Mexican food.

  Cordelia smirked and closed down the computer. No wonder Joel wanted her out of the way. She picked up her cup, but the coffee was already cold. She checked the thermal pot and there was none left. As she reached to call room service, the phone rang under her hand.

  “Miss Stapleton, a gentleman has returned your handbag to the front desk, and we are sending it right up.”

  “Is he still there?”

  “No, mademoiselle, he has left.”

  Cordelia was relieved she didn’t have to face Sinclair. She didn’t want to explain or apologize for her behavior and her abrupt departure.

  “Can you send up another pot of coffee with the purse?”

  “Certainly, mademoiselle.”

  The waiter came with the coffee and the handbag on a silver tray. She poured a cup and picked up her purse to tip him as he left. There, wedged into the clasp of the handbag, was a personal calling card. The name John Sinclair was engraved in plain black script, and handwritten underneath was his international mobile number. Interesting that he didn’t use his Herodotus Foundation business card. OK, she got it. He wanted her to call for social reasons; it had nothing to do with the foundation or the award ceremony.

  She put the card back on the tray and sipped the coffee, looking over at the newspapers. They had been delivered to her door earlier, and she had read them thoroughly already. But she picked up the Monaco Times again and looked at the write-up of the ball. She scrutinized a picture of the prince talking to Sinclair, and another of Sinclair standing next to her, holding the award. She didn’t look nervous at all; in fact, she looked very composed. But that moment with him on the podium had been electric. He certainly was a very handsome man. She looked over at his card lying on the room service tray.

  In the paper, the caption under the photo read: “In addition to the Herodotus Award, Miss Stapleton was given the missing journal of her great-great-grandfather from the year 1908.”

  Cordelia looked over at the journal on the nightstand, still open to the page she read last night. She walked over, picked it up, and read another entry.

  FEBRUARY 19, 1908

  THE MOST INGENIOUS APPARATUS I HAVE SEEN IN THE ARCTIC IS THAT WHICH IS FASHIONED FOR AERIAL BALLOONS. WHEN BALLOONS ARE NOT FEASIBLE, BIG KITES ARE SENT UP FOR THE SAME PURPOSE. ALL THE DATA IS RECORDED ON THE GROUND, INCLUDING TEMPERATURE, HUMIDITY, AND RAINFALL, AND, MOST INTERESTINGLY, EARTHQUAKE VIBRATIONS THAT ARE ACCURATELY LOGGED ON A SEISMOGRAPH. THIS METHOD IS ALSO USED TO RECORD THE VIBRATIONS OF ICE FALLS FROM THE GLACIERS.

  Cordelia closed the journal and gazed out at the harbor, thinking. Elliott Stapleton was describing the first version of the kind of Arctic ice survey Jean-Louis Etienne was doing with his team now.

  Longyearbyen

  The excavation had gone well, and the common grave was interred again. Miles was elated, and paid the young men twice what he had promised. The diggers had been so grateful, they had insisted on shaking his hand all over again; his departure had taken another half hour. Miles looked at his watch as he headed for the Land Rover. He needed to send the tissue samples out on the flight from Longyearbyen, fi
fty-five miles away. But first he needed to pack them properly.

  Arriving at his hotel about two hours later, he knew the timing would be tight. He pulled into the gravel parking lot in front of the door and unloaded his Styrofoam coolers of samples. The hotel was an old mining barracks that had been converted into a very snug guesthouse for about twenty visitors. He claimed his key from the desk and headed up the wooden stairs.

  Inside the room, Miles put the Styrofoam coolers on the table. He had assembled all the packing materials on the bed before he left, and now he began to wrap and tape the package with care. The courier label from Global Delivery Express was filled out and ready.

  The cadaver had given him more than forty perfectly intact samples of lung, kidney, brain, and liver. The 1918 pandemic virus would certainly be recoverable in one of them. Miles checked his watch again. He had an hour before the last flight from the small airport in Longyearbyen.

  As he packed, he thought about that call to Paul Oakley. The scientist had been characteristically subdued on the phone. Of course, that was just British sangfroid. He was probably wild with anticipation. Oakley was one of the most talented young virologists in the world. And for Miles, it was a pleasure to do his dirty work, so to speak. He was glad to help crack the sequence of one of the deadliest viruses in history.

  Miles had only one other thought as he packed the small Styrofoam crate. He also wanted to check out the Arctic Coal Mining Company graveyard in Longyearbyen. There were nine miners who died of the pandemic buried in the company plot. The company had done right by them. They had been buried in good wooden caskets, deep into the permafrost. The American company had treated its employees well, even in death.