The Explorer's Code

by Kitty Pilgrim

  He needed to think. Sinclair had a quick memory of Cordelia sitting in the seat next to him, crossing and uncrossing those fabulous legs as they drove to Cap Ferrat. He frowned remembering the Ferrari following them. Who was that? And what did they want? There was no doubt in his mind they had been trailing him.

  Sinclair pressed Start on the Bang & Olufsen sound system. The voice of Bizet’s Carmen grabbed his heart and squeezed. “Si tu ne m’aime pas . . . je t’aime. Mais si je t’aime . . . prends garde à toi!” He thought about the line: “If you don’t love me . . . I love you. But if I love you . . . you’d best beware!”

  You can say that again, sister. He followed the serpentine route along the coast to Eze sur Mer. He turned off the main route and headed straight up the side of the mountain. He boosted the opera louder and hunkered down for the challenge, driving the switchback fast enough to push his skill.

  He loved this network of roads along the coast, trimmed with narrow stone walls, at each turn a sheer drop-off on the other side. A plunge off the cliffs was usually fatal. It didn’t matter who you were. God rest poor Princess Grace.

  He tangoed the car back and forth up the mountain through a few hundred turns. Don’t think, just drive. Carmen egged him on in her seductive voice. About twenty minutes later, he was at the summit.

  Built into the cliffside, the village of Eze was a medieval fortress, with high stone ramparts and narrow streets. Sinclair parked and started walking up the steep cobblestones of the village. He turned right through a twisting alleyway. Then, next to the glass shop, there was an ancient portal. Through it was the lobby of the Château de la Chèvre d’Or, one of the most beautiful hotels on the Riviera. He walked out to the terrace.

  The view was stunning. The full panoply of the Mediterranean spread below: Cap Ferrat, Cap d’Antibes, and the Gulf of Saint Tropez. And his timing was perfect. It was what photographers call the “magic hour,” when late-afternoon sun casts a golden glow.

  “Monsieur Sinclair, we haven’t seen you in quite some time.”

  “Bonjour, Guillaume. How about that table by the railing? I’m alone today.”

  Sinclair looked around. There were only a few other diners on the terrace—by the affluent look of them, Americans, probably, from the luxury cruise ships.

  “À votre service. What can we offer you today?”

  “I’ll have your porcini mushroom ravioli and a green salad. And that incredible white wine we had last time, chilled.”

  “Very good, monsieur.”

  Sinclair sat and looked in the direction of Saint Jean Cap Ferrat. Good time to think. No pressure of conversation.

  Finally he snapped open his cell phone and dialed his office in Ephesus. The voice mail kicked in. His assistant would get the message tomorrow.

  “Malik, it’s Sinclair. I’m going to be away a couple more days. I’m thinking of taking a ship back instead of flying. Can you tell Karl? Oh, and give my love to Kyrie, and tell her I will be home soon.”

  Guillaume was shaving white truffle over his ravioli. The dusky scent blended with the fragrant Mediterranean air. He felt his appetite rise. Damn, it was good to be alive. The waiter withdrew.

  Sinclair took a sip of wine and thought of the lyrics again.

  “If you don’t love me . . . I love you. But if I love you . . . you’d best beware!”

  Both diesel engines on the Udachny were rumbling as Evgeny stood on the foredeck. The yacht’s stern lines had been cast off the dock, and the passer-elle was up. His crew stood on the deck, anxious and attentive, as they cast off the Mediterranean-style mooring. The boats were lined perpendicular to the dock, stern to, with the anchor chains extending out into the port, which made pulling out a delicate operation. As the windlass reeled in the anchor, the captain held his breath and prayed to Neptune that the anchor chains would not get tangled with those of the neighboring boats. If that happened, the only solution was for a diver to go down and untangle them.

  Evgeny watched the seventy-one-meter yacht float free of the dock. Slowly it slid forward into the harbor, with the crew carefully manning inflated fenders along the railing to avoid colliding with yachts on either side.

  Evgeny’s crew were terrified of him. He fired his people regularly, to keep his movements secret. No one had any real knowledge of his operations.

  He was headed roughly in the same direction as the Queen Victoria except he’d continue on to Cyprus. Half the Russian mob based their financial and banking operations there. Officials never even raised an eyebrow when Evgeny’s yacht came in.

  Evgeny looked at the trademark black hull and red funnel of the majestic Queen Victoria as they passed it to starboard on the way out of the harbor. The ship would leave at 5:00 p.m. that night with Cordelia Stapleton on board, carrying her precious journal in her luggage. Vlad, Anna, Bob, and Marlene should be in their staterooms by now. It was one of the strangest teams he had ever assembled for a job. But it was going to work: the Americans were there to befriend her; Vlad and Anna were there to do the tough stuff, if necessary. Of course, they were all in it for the money. There would be plenty to go around. But Evgeny was thinking of giving the Americans less. After all, who could they complain to? They had five days to get her to talk.

  Nothing like a nice relaxing ship to make friends and spill the beans. Cordelia was alone, and she’d open up pretty quickly to friendly strangers. Especially Bob and Marlene. Mom and Pop types who could cozy up to the girl. She was an orphan, probably susceptible to that type of thing. It just might work. By the time the Queen Victoria reached Turkey, they should know enough about the deed to find it. Either that or Miss Stapleton would have to deal with a lot rougher stuff than a cruise on a luxury liner.

  Bob and Marlene looked as if they were hosting a cocktail party in their suite on deck 7 of the Queen Victoria. Marlene held her flute of champagne, and was choosing a morsel from a plate of canapés. Bob sat stolidly with both feet planted on the floor. His plaid Ralph Lauren shirt pulled tight at the buttons over his vast stomach. From time to time he took a long swill of champagne, bumping his nose with the flute. Champagne clearly wasn’t his usual libation.

  Vlad and Anna sat on the couch across from them, wearing miserably pained expressions. On the low table, the hot appetizers and the cheese tray went untouched. The champagne in their glasses was going flat. From time to time they looked out the glass doors to the private balcony as if gauging a route for escape.

  The ship was about to move. The ship’s horns had just bellowed, and soon the Queen Victoria would glide out of the harbor. Outside in the corridors, they could hear a lot of thumping as the luggage was delivered and guests found their staterooms.

  “Are y’all going to attend the lady oceanographer’s lecture this afternoon?” asked Bob.

  Vlad and Anna exchanged glances as if it were a trick question.

  “We are,” said Marlene encouragingly.

  “I thought I would check the seating for dinner. We’ve requested that she be seated with us,” Vlad answered.

  “She’s traveling alone?” asked Bob.

  “Yes, I checked her stateroom. It’s a suite just down the corridor. She’s by herself,” said Vlad.

  “Good. We don’t want anyone near her, screwing this up,” said Bob, and he took another gulp of champagne.

  Quite a few people were already seated in the Queens Room when Cordelia walked in. The ballroom swayed slightly; the long curtains waltzed at the windows, and Cordelia could see the ocean streaming past as the ship moved. The Mediterranean Sea was churned into a froth by the bow. As she walked to the podium, she noticed the placard:

  CUNARD PROUDLY PRESENTS

  DR. CORDELIA STAPLETON

  GREAT-GREAT-GRANDDAUGHTER OF FAMOUS EXPLORER

  ELLIOTT STAPLETON

  CELEBRATED OCEANOGRAPHER

  WOODS HOLE OCEANOGRAPHIC INSTITUTION

  “THE SEAS, OUR MOST PRECIOUS RESOURCE.”

  A uniformed Cunard steward stepped forwar
d.

  “Miss Stapleton, thank you for being so prompt.”

  Cordelia shook her hand.

  “It took me a minute to find this room. I kept getting lost.”

  “It is a big ship,” the steward agreed.

  “It’s huge. And it’s so luxurious! I am not used to this. Chandeliers, carpets, paintings, a casino! Nothing like our exploration ships, that’s for sure.”

  “I hope you enjoy it.”

  “I love it. I can’t wait to see the rest!” Cordelia exclaimed.

  “Excuse me,” a male voice said right behind her. “I hope you won’t mind if I join the audience.”

  She recognized the voice. She whirled around and looked up at him.

  “John! What . . .”

  “I heard you were going my way,” said John Sinclair. His blue eyes were laughing, as if he had played a great joke on her. She felt a flash of annoyance.

  “I had no idea you were coming. . . . You never said anything,” she said in an accusatory tone. She hadn’t invited him. How dare he just presume to tag along?

  “I just decided at the last minute.” Sinclair looked amused.

  Cordelia just stared at him. He continued, “I’m headed back to Izmir. I asked myself, why not travel in style and pick up a good lecture along the way?”

  Cordelia didn’t know if she was flattered or annoyed. Now what was she going to do with this man—just the two of them on a ship?

  “I hope you don’t mind,” he added. He was smiling, but less confidently now.

  She shouldn’t get involved with him. He seemed like such an operator. And where was his supermodel girlfriend, anyway? Why wasn’t she with him?

  “I’m . . . just a little surprised,” she said.

  “Miss Stapleton, forgive me for interrupting. We’re about to start,” said the steward.

  Cordelia walked to the podium and looked down at her prepared notes. She felt off base, irritated. Now she was nervous with Sinclair out there. For the first time since the seventh-grade science fair, her hands were shaking.

  She looked out at the crowd. It was hard to focus, now that he was in the audience. She looked at a cluster of well-dressed women, who gave her a group smile. That helped. Her voice came out strong and confident: “By 2050 most physical oceanographers believe there will be very little year-round ice cover in the Arctic. It is very hard to tell what are permanent changes and what is natural variability. But the Arctic is one area where any climate change is very visible.”

  She didn’t look, but she could feel him sitting there on the left, in the back. She was conscious of his presence, and it made her awkward. The flow of the speech never came, and it felt too long, and lifeless.

  Finally it was over, and the applause was enthusiastic. Several guests came to the podium, but Cordelia could barely concentrate on their questions. As she answered, her eyes searched the ballroom. Some people were leaving. Chairs were being rearranged. Small tables were being set up as waiters started afternoon tea service. They shook out the white linens, flowing over the tables. A phalanx of gloved busboys streamed in, carrying trays at shoulder height. Soon the room was filled with the buttery scent of scones and pastries. More people came in and took seats at the little round tea tables. Then waiters came around with china pots and poured the tea, as the harpist began to play. There was no sign of Sinclair.

  Cordelia sat in her teak lounge chair, looking out at the Mediterranean and enjoying the beautiful September weather. Sinclair was on her mind, but she was trying to avoid thinking about him. She was going to stay on her private deck. She would deal with Sinclair later, when she had figured out how she felt about him. She adjusted her cashmere throw and picked up the journal.

  OGDEN MILLS ESTATE, STAATSBURG, SEPTEMBER 6, 1908

  I HAD THE OCCASION TO SPEAK TO ISABELLE VAN TASSEL AS THE LUNCHEON PARTY WAS DISPERSING FOR THE AFTERNOON. SHE EXPRESSED AN INTENTION OF WALKING DOWN THE LAWN TO THE BANK OF THE HUDSON RIVER, AND I OFFERED HER MY COMPANY. AFTER A MOMENT’S HESITATION SHE ACCEPTED, AND WE RISKED THE DISAPPROVAL OF THE ASSEMBLED COMPANY BY VENTURING OUT UNACCOMPANIED. SHE IS VERY BEAUTIFUL, EXTRAORDINARILY WELL-READ, AND EXTREMELY SPIRITED. I HAVE NEVER MET ANY WOMAN QUITE LIKE HER, BEING MORE ACCUSTOMED TO YOUNG WOMEN WHO ARE RETICENT AND SOCIALLY CONVENTIONAL IN THEIR REMARKS.

  When Cordelia looked up, the sun was setting and it was time to dress for dinner.

  Sitting at the table in the middle of the soaring Britannia dining room, Sinclair looked at his watch. It was fifteen minutes into the second seating for dinner, and her place was still empty. That was cause for worry. She hadn’t seemed at all pleased to see him. If she was avoiding him, he was now stuck at this table with a very strange lot. He reviewed his dinner companions.

  Across the table, Vlad and Anna had the look of fast money. Anna’s jewels and clothes indicated they had managed to get a lot of cash out of dear Mother Russia. The Americans, Bob and Marlene, had waistlines as broad as their accents. They introduced themselves as televangelists from the Church of the Enlightened Gospel, but they clearly enjoyed the material world. Bob wore a gold Rolex on one wrist and a platinum Atlas bracelet on the other. He had the shifty eyes and jovial manner of a double-dealer. Next to them was Joyce Chin. The young Asian woman was a really high-strung New Yorker. Any guy would be nuts to go for her—a perfectionist, by the look of her designer dress and impeccable coiffure. And watch out for those hard, calculating eyes. Gjertrud Flagstadt was a real Norwegian grandma type, and the mousy clothes spoke of a modest background. She must have saved up for the trip.

  Sinclair took a place next to Bob, making sure the seat next to him was open.

  “Where you from, son?”

  “The States originally, Boston,” Sinclair said, keeping it simple.

  “Did you hear the talk by that lady oceanographer?” asked Marlene. “She was just terrific this afternoon.”

  “She was? No kidding,” Sinclair deadpanned, hoping like hell she would turn up.

  Another few moments went by in aimless chitchat. Suddenly Sinclair noticed Bob shift into a more artificially jovial manner. Although Sinclair was facing the back of the restaurant, he could tell from the expectant look on Bob’s face that Cordelia was approaching. How curious that Bob seemed to be waiting for her as anxiously as he was. Sinclair looked at the others. They also seemed to be aware that she was approaching the table; their expressions were anticipatory. Cordelia seemed to have quite a fan club on this ship.

  Sinclair resisted the impulse to turn around until the last moment. When he did, he was astounded at how beautiful she looked. She was wearing something formfitting and elegant in a silver blue color. He met her eyes, and fought with himself not to look her up and down.

  Her pupils flashed recognition, but her gaze slid past him to the others, taking the introductions with easy grace. He stood as the waiter held her chair for her, and then sat down.

  A string quartet was playing dinner music; at the moment, Pachelbel’s Canon drowned out the sound of cutlery.

  “That was a fascinating lecture this afternoon, Cordelia,” Sinclair said, reaching for his napkin and unfolding it slowly.

  “Thank you.”

  There was a tense silence. She didn’t look at him as she unfolded her napkin and put it in her lap.

  “Are you angry with me for some reason?”

  She turned to him, and looked him in the eye.

  “I’m not mad at you. But you could have let me know. Why are you following me?”

  “I assure you I have no intentions other than . . .”

  “Miss Stapleton, would you mind if Bob took a picture of our table?” the middle-aged woman, Marlene, was asking, a small camera in her hand.

  Cordelia looked away from Sinclair, and answered with a gracious smile.

  “Oh, of course not. That would be fine.”

  They spent a moment arranging themselves for the picture.

  “Could you move closer,” Bob asked, waving his hand to indicate that
Cordelia should sit closer to Sinclair.

  “One, two, three.” Bob took the picture, and then sat down all smiles and compliments. “Great shot.”

  “That was good, honey,” Marlene said.

  Cordelia moved back away from Sinclair and settled her chair a chilly distance from his. Just then the waiter came with the menus. Cordelia accepted the leather folio and began to study the selections without further comment. Joyce Chin interrupted her perusal.

  “I don’t know if you eat seafood or not, but the Alaskan crabmeat risotto and the lobster bisque with tarragon are incredible. I highly recommend it. It’s better than they make it at Daniel in New York.”

  “I had the chicken cordon bleu with sherry cream sauce last night,” suggested Gjertrud.

  “I’d like to propose a toast,” said Vlad. He poured the bottle of Krug he had ordered for the table. His wife picked up her flute with a heavily ringed hand.

  “To our planet, and the people who protect it,” Vlad toasted, pronouncing it “PLAH-nyet.” He raised his glass to Cordelia.

  Anna smiled. She was wearing a very elaborate black chiffon dress with ruffles all along the neckline. Nestled in between the two mounds of her breasts was a dark green emerald the size of a jawbreaker. Cordelia couldn’t stop staring.

  Anna caught her gaze and smiled.

  “I love your necklace,” Cordelia felt compelled to say.

  “Thank you, dahling.” She fingered it with her very long French manicured nails. “Vlad gave it to me for our anniversary.”

  “Hey, that is a real beaut,” said Bob, and it was not entirely clear whether he was referring to the necklace. Then, for the benefit of his wife, he added, “What is that, an emerald?”

  “Yes, it’s called the Star of Jaipur, and was once owned by Empress Eugénie,” Vlad answered. He sat back and took a long swill of his champagne.