Sinclair was looking intently at her. She seemed so young and fragile standing there in her pretty formal gown, the slight breeze blowing her hair behind her. The wind pressed the light fabric against her slim body. What a lovely girl.
She gave a slight shiver; Sinclair took off his jacket and placed it over her shoulders. She accepted it with a smile.
“Thank you.”
“You looked cold. Do you want to go inside?”
“Not yet.”
“Cordelia, I am so sorry to hear all of this. Having no family is awful. I can’t imagine how hard it was for you. But you have turned yourself into a success; you are at the top of your field. Your great-great-grandfather and your parents would be proud of you.”
She gave him a wistful smile.
“I wish I could have met him. I swear I could feel him with me at the Oceanographic Institute that day when I ran into you. I had this incredible feeling of being so close to him.”
“I expect he was there,” Sinclair said.
There was a moment of companionable silence. The stars were becoming brighter in the night sky. She clutched his jacket around herself and suddenly felt happier than she had in years.
“What about you?” Cordelia asked. “What about your family?”
Sinclair turned to look back out at the ocean. His white shirt was glowing against the dark sky.
“I stopped seeing them. Sometimes family can be a problem. It’s not easy either way—having them or not having them.”
Cordelia turned to him. He looked hard as he stared out at the dark waves. He started pulling his tie loose as if to remove shackles.
“Any family is better than nothing,” she said.
“Well, I went for years without seeing my family,” he said, rolling up his tie and putting it in his pants pocket.
“Why?”
“I could never live up to what my parents expected of me,” Sinclair admitted. “I was a big disappointment to them, so I avoided them.”
“How could you possibly be a disappointment? You are so successful. You have a foundation; you’re a well-known archaeologist. What could they possibly disapprove of?”
“My dad was in business—Sinclair International—and he wanted me to join the family firm after college. But I wanted to be a doctor.”
“Did you go to medical school?” she asked.
“Yes, I got through the first year, but someone very close to me had a fatal car accident. I was there, riding in the car, at the time. I didn’t have any real injuries. But I was trapped in the wreckage and couldn’t save her.”
His voice faltered slightly. Cordelia waited while he controlled his emotions. He spoke slowly and haltingly.
“It was my . . . well . . . she was my wife.”
“How awful. I am so sorry,” said Cordelia.
“I was devastated. I dropped out and spent a year in Europe avoiding my family, mostly visiting archaeological sites. Then I came back, caved in to the pressure, and agreed to do a business degree.”
“Where did you go?”
“My father is on the board at Harvard, so he tried to shove me into their business program. With the little bit of rebelliousness I had left, I chose Wharton.”
Cordelia smiled. “Did you like it there?”
“I don’t mind business. I got my degree. But while I was there, I spent most of my free time at the University of Pennsylvania’s Archaeology and Anthropology Department. They have a large museum with pretty decent Greek and Roman collections. And the Egyptian artifacts are also excellent.”
“Is that how you got into archaeology?”
“Yes. Not at first, though. I had a big breakthrough in business. I started an Internet company based on the premise of sharing scientific data internationally. It was a huge success. I called the system Herodotus, after my favorite ancient historian. Of course, the company I sold it to immediately changed the name.” He laughed.
“Is that when the Herodotus Foundation started?”
“Yes. I sold the company for a ridiculous price, and I started the Herodotus Foundation with the money.”
“What happened with your father?”
“I told my father I was leaving, and walked out on Sinclair International.”
“So what did he do?”
“Well, he never forgave me. He always thought I was playing around, wasting my life. And I’m afraid I haven’t done much to dispel that impression.”
Cordelia said nothing. She just stood at the rail looking out to sea with him. Eventually he continued.
“Anyway, that is why I live here.” He waved his hand at the coastline. “Avoiding my family was part of the reason. There are other reasons, too complicated to go into right now.”
“Are you ever going home?”
“No point. Both my parents are dead. Dad died of a heart attack, and Mom six months later of a staph infection at the hospital where she was being treated for duodenal ulcers.”
“I’m sorry to hear you lost so many people you love.” Cordelia looked at his face, closed and inscrutable. “Will you ever go back to the States?”
“Never,” he said, and his tone was final.
On deck 7 at that very moment, Bob had a new plan. He picked up the phone in his suite and dialed the Church of the Enlightened Gospel in Grand Prairie, Texas. It wasn’t much of a church—just a studio and back office—but the phone lines were always open for viewer donations.
“Francine, honey, is that you?”
He waited a moment.
“Can you put Lance on the phone? Thanks a lot, hon.”
“Lance, this is Bob. I need you to do something for me. There is a ship in San Diego. It’s the ship that runs that minisubmarine for Woods Hole. Yes, that is what I said. You know that itty-bitty submarine they have? I need you to go get something off that launch ship.”
Bob listened.
“Yes, it’s a bit hush-hush . . . if you know what I mean. I’m trying to find that deed to the seed vault. I want somebody to check Cordelia Stapleton’s stuff.”
Bob waited for the reply.
“Yes, she lives on board. We’re looking for some papers. A deed. She might have it in her desk or something. Take a look for me, will you, son? Much appreciated. Oh, and, Lance, don’t get caught.”
Bob laughed heartily at the reply and hung up the phone.
Vlad and Anna were wolfing cheeseburgers in the Golden Lion Pub on deck 2 when Bob and Marlene came in. Bob looked at their frosty mugs of beer and signaled the waiter. Marlene slid onto the leather banquette next to Anna and picked up the menu.
“Well, it turns out our John Sinclair is quite the man,” said Bob, pulling out his notebook. “I got his bio this morning from the folks in Texas.”
“He sure is a pain in the ass,” agreed Vlad. “So what’s the deal?”
“First of all, he’s a multimillionaire. Not quite Forbes list but no slouch. He’s from Boston but hasn’t lived there in more than a decade. Left the States after his wife died in a car accident. Came back and went to Wharton for business.”
Bob skimmed his notes. “He runs an archaeological site in Turkey and has a foundation based in Monaco. He doesn’t run the day-to-day on the foundation—that’s handled by a Charles Bonnard. Sinclair just shows up from time to time.”
“Sounds like the CIA.”
“Nah. That kind of money wouldn’t bother with a chickenshit outfit like the CIA. What for? He has all the dough he needs.”
“They are chickenshit,” said Vlad, taking another bite of cheeseburger. He wiped the burger juice off his chin. “Weapons training?”
“Nope. No military, nothing that I can see. Looks like a pussy to me.”
“He doesn’t look like a pussy to me,” chimed in Anna. They both ignored her.
“I think I’ll have the club sandwich with extra bacon,” said Marlene, looking up from her menu.
“OK, honey, I’ll call the waiter.”
Later, on deck 3, Vlad opened his ce
ll phone and dialed Evgeny.
“We have a major problem here,” he said. “The girl’s not alone.”
He listened for a moment.
“John Sinclair. Archaeologist, American. He lives in Ephesus. That’s in Turkey. Yup.”
Evgeny spoke for quite awhile, and Vlad listened.
“I don’t know where, but he must live close to the dig. I’m guessing he is going to get off the ship either at Kuşadas1 or Izmir. We’re stopping in both ports in a couple of days.”
Vlad listened again, nodding as he held the phone to his ear.
“Exactly, that’s the question. If he gets off, does she go with him? We’ll keep our eyes open for that.”
He snapped the phone shut. Goddamn Sinclair.
The morning dawned clear; the ocean was teal blue and flat. The wake was streaming off the back of the ship, forming clearly marked parameters that fanned out into the ocean as broad as an interstate. Cordelia was aft, in a lounge chair on the Lido Deck, sunning, dozing, and occasionally looking out over the water. There was nothing to see except the horizon and her beloved sea. She felt Sinclair standing there before she even opened her eyes.
“Hello, Delia.”
He was wearing a jogging suit and had a white towel around his neck. She put her hand up to her eyes to look at him as he stood silhouetted against the sun.
“Oh, it’s you. Hi, John.”
She tried to sound casual, but her heart was pounding. Why did he have this effect on her?
He sat down sideways on a lounge chair next to her, his eyes registering the journal in her hands, but he said nothing about it.
“Are you going in for lunch?”
“I thought I would get something to eat here on deck, it’s so beautiful out,” she said.
“Not a bad idea. Well, I won’t disturb your reading.” He stood up.
Why on earth did she say that? Clearly she was trying to keep herself from falling for him, to keep him at a distance. But there was no reason for her to rebuff him like this. Maybe she didn’t trust herself.
Just then Bob and Marlene waddled up on deck and came right over, with expectant smiles on their faces.
“Hi, y’all. Do you mind if we join you?” Bob and Marlene were toting books, towels, sunblock, hats, and all kinds of paraphernalia. They eyed the vacant deck chairs beside Cordelia and Sinclair.
“Oh, so sorry,” said Cordelia. “John and I were just going in to lunch.”
“Yes,” said Sinclair, picking up Cordelia’s tote bag. “We were just headed in.”
“Oh, honey, that’s a shame. We could have had a real gossip session. Well, we’ll see y’all later,” said Marlene, looking disappointed.
As Sinclair and Cordelia walked away, Bob muttered under his breath, “I’d like to throw that guy overboard.”
Marlene’s eyes widened.
“Bob, you wouldn’t do that in a million years.”
“The hell I wouldn’t,” he replied.
When Cordelia and Sinclair went through the doors of the Lido Lounge, Sinclair turned to her.
“Close call.” He smiled.
“They seem harmless, but I wanted to read.” She smiled back at him. Sinclair handed her the tote bag.
“Happy reading.” He gave her a warm smile. “I’ll catch you at tea, perhaps? I’ll be there at four.”
“Great. See you then,” said Cordelia, and headed to the library.
The ship’s library was a gorgeous two-story room lined with bookshelves, connected by a beautiful wooden spiral staircase. Writing desks faced out to the ocean. At midday, it was quiet, and many of the large upholstered chairs were empty. As she passed the glass doors of the bookcases, six thousand titles whispered to her imagination. But she had her journal. She settled into a chair and read a passage.
NEW YORK, SEPTEMBER 8, 1908
THE FINANCIAL PANIC OF 1907, I AM AFRAID, IS STILL WITH US. NEARLY SIX MONTHS LATER, IT HAUNTS THE GREAT MANSIONS OF NEW YORK. THEY DO NOT SUFFER GREATLY, HOWEVER. I AM STRUCK BY THE FACT THAT IN THIS SOCIETY ECONOMIZING CONSISTS OF THE ORDERING OF A VIN ORDINAIRE RATHER THAN FRENCH CHAMPAGNE. THE EVAPORATION OF WEALTH ON WALL STREET BEDEVILS BOTH THOSE WHO SOCIALIZE IN TOWN AND THOSE WHO ARE INVITED TO PARTAKE IN WEEKEND DIVERSIONS IN THE COUNTRYSIDE. WORRY ABOUNDS. THE PHANTOM OF BANKRUPTCY SITS AS CLEARLY AMONG THE COMPANY AS IF IT HAD COME TO JOIN US FOR A CIGAR.
Cordelia looked for another passage about her great-great-grandmother, and found one almost immediately.
SEPTEMBER 9, 1908
I HAD THE OCCASION TO MEET ISABELLE VAN TASSEL AT THE OPERA LAST NIGHT, IN BETWEEN THE FIRST AND SECOND ACTS OF LA BOHèME. DID I IMAGINE HER EXPRESSION OF DELIGHT UPON DISCOVERING THAT HER COUSIN HAD BROUGHT ME, LIKE SOME EXOTIC TROPHY, TO THE DOOR OF HER OPERA BOX? I RECALL WITH PLEASURE HER HAND CLASPING MINE THROUGH HER KIDSKIN GLOVE. AS I WAS LEAVING, I WAS BOLD ENOUGH TO WHISPER TO HER THAT HER APPEARANCE WAS PARTICULARLY ENCHANTING. SHE LOWERED HER HEAD, AND I WATCHED THE TIPS OF HER EARS FLUSH PINK AS SHE ACCEPTED THE COMPLIMENT.
Cordelia found another reference to raising funds for the expedition.
SEPTEMBER 10, 1908
FIFTY YEARS AFTER CHARLES DARWIN PUBLISHED HIS ON THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES, I FIND THAT NATURAL SELECTION IS VIGOROUSLY AT WORK IN THE RAISING OF EXPEDITIONARY FUNDING IN THE METROPOLIS OF NEW YORK. AS MR. DARWIN POINTS OUT, ONLY THE VERY STRONG AND TENACIOUS CAN SURVIVE. IN THE COMPETING EFFORTS TO RAISE MONEY FOR THE OUTFITTING OF AN EXPEDITIONARY PARTY, I COUNT MYSELF AMONG THOSE WHO WILL SUCCEED IN THE CURIOUS PHYSICAL TRIALS OF SUCH AN ENDEAVOR. THE GRUELING TEST OF STRENGTH INVOLVES MANY GLASSES OF CHAMPAGNE IN OVERHEATED SALONS, AND THE ENDURANCE OF ENDLESS HOURS OF CONVERSATION. IT IS REMARKABLE THAT THE SUCCESS OF AN ARCTIC EXPEDITION DEPENDS ON THE POSSESSION OF SUCH SURVIVAL SKILLS.
The mention of aviation in another entry was thrilling.
SEPTEMBER 14, 1908
I HAVE BEEN FOLLOWING THE EXPERIMENTS IN AVIATION OF WILBUR AND ORVILLE WRIGHT. A JANUARY HEADLINE IN THE TIMES PROCLAIMED “MAN MAY FLY IN 1908,” AND I DO BELIEVE WE ARE ON THE VERGE OF ACCOMPLISHING IT. ORVILLE WRIGHT HAS IMPROVED ON HIS FLYING TIME OF MORE THAN AN HOUR, YESTERDAY CLOCKING SEVENTY-FOUR MINUTES ALOFT, SPENDING MUCH OF THAT TIME 100 FEET ABOVE THE EARTH. I AM TOLD HE ACCOMPLISHED FIGURE EIGHTS WITH THE EASE OF AN EAGLE, AND HAS THE ENTIRE WASHINGTON PRESS CORPS AGOG WITH HIS DEMONSTRATIONS, DRAWING FIVE THOUSAND SPECTATORS AND ENTICING CABINET SECRETARIES AND THE DEPARTMENT OF THE NAVY OFFICIALS TO THE AIRFIELD TO WITNESS HIS SUCCESS.
There was even social commentary.
OCTOBER 4, 1908
I HAVE BEEN THINKING ABOUT MR. UPTON SINCLAIR’S NEW WORK THE METROPOLIS, WHICH I HAVE JUST RECEIVED FROM MY BOOK DEALER. CAN WE ALL BE AS VULGAR AS HE DESCRIBES? AFTER READING THE VOLUME UNTIL TWO IN THE MORNING, I AM TIRED AND DISPIRITED. WILL ALL THIS ABUNDANCE OF RICHES LEAD TO A LIFE OF INDOLENCE? I AM PARTICULARLY REPULSED BY THIS NEW BREED OF WHAT IS BEING COMMONLY CALLED “THE AMERICAN COUNTESS,” NEW YORK MILLIONAIRES MARRYING THEIR DAUGHTERS OFF TO THE ARISTOCRACY OF EUROPE ONLY TO REPATRIATE THEM, GOWNED AND BEJEWELED, TO PRESIDE AT FASHIONABLE EVENTS ON THIS SIDE OF THE ATLANTIC. HOW I LONG FOR THE CLEANSING PURITY OF THE ARCTIC AND THE SOCIAL STRATA OF THE WILDERNESS, WHICH REWARDS COURAGE, HEART, AND STAMINA. I HAVE BEEN TOO LONG IN THIS PLEASURE-LOVING CITY, AND I MUST PURSUE THE GOAL OF SECURING MY FUNDING FOR THE EXPEDITION WITH ALL SPEED.
Time for lunch. She closed the journal. As she was walking past the periodical table, she noticed Paris Match. The name Shari caught her eye. Sinclair was dating Shari, wasn’t he? That’s what Susan had said in her e-mail. She picked up the magazine, tucked it under her arm, and found a secluded chair in the corner of the library. Cordelia flipped through the magazine until she found the article. It was titled “Shari’s Big Blowup.”
Shari’s antics sold more magazines than those of any other star in the world. It was always headline stuff. She managed to look fabulous as she crashed her Lamborghini, fell down drunk in nightclubs, stole other women’s boyfriends, and romped with her fri
ends and hangers-on at wild yacht parties on the Côte d’Azur. But, of course, she never lost an opportunity to audition for sainthood: visiting terminally ill babies in hospitals, serving in a soup kitchen, or flying off to a third world country to look concerned and chic—all done in a size 2 safari suit. The whole world knew that Shari was a joke but couldn’t take their eyes off her. From time to time, even Cordelia followed her adventures.
This article was more salacious than usual. Cordelia couldn’t understand most of the French, but the pictures told the story. It was a knockdown, drag-out fight between Shari and her “archaeologist boyfriend,” John Sinclair.
It was a shock to see him in the photos. Cordelia thumbed through the article eagerly. Truth be told, the limelight was not so flattering for John Sinclair. At first the pictures were romantic, and Cordelia felt a little pang of envy as she looked at the photo of them holding hands across the table.
Next, the conversation between Sinclair and Shari had turned ugly—into a real screaming match. It had reached such a pitch, they had been asked to leave the restaurant. There was Sinclair looking pained and Shari struggling with the mâitre d’, clearly a little too deep into the champagne.
The most dramatic photo was Sinclair holding up his hands in a STOP gesture as Shari hurled her Chanel bag at him. Outside now: Shari was calling for a cab at the door of the restaurant, her mouth open in a snarl, and Sinclair running to catch up. The most pathetic photo was of Sinclair running after the cab, palms open in entreaty. In the murky interior of the cab, Shari wasn’t even looking at him.
Cordelia examined his face in the grainy photo. He looked more vulnerable than she had ever seen him—with his tie askew and his hair rumpled. Cordelia closed the magazine and slid it under the cushion of the chair. No wonder he wanted to sail away from Monaco.
Porto Mediceo, Livorno, Italy
Evgeny stood on deck and surveyed the anchorage. It looked all right. Livorno was a working port in the Tyrrhenian Sea, and the Udachny was docked among all kinds of vessels. The ugly harbor was crammed with fishing boats, modern cargo ships, and passenger ferries that serviced the local islands of Corsica and Sardinia.
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