The Explorer's Code

by Kitty Pilgrim

  “May I offer you a little more—you must be tired from your journey.”

  “Yes, thank you,” said Cordelia. “I can’t thank you enough for letting me hide here.”

  Madame Bonnard did not reply as she poured.

  “Where is Charles?” asked Cordelia.

  “He mentioned he wanted to take some photos. It’s very foggy and he thought he might get some nice shots of the Seine. He will be back later.”

  “I didn’t know he was a photographer,” said Cordelia. “I have only just met him, but I think he is great.”

  His mother smiled. “I am afraid I had quite the wrong impression about you when you arrived. I thought you were a friend of Charles’s—a romantic friend.”

  Cordelia blushed. “Oh, no, not at all. He just agreed to help John Sinclair protect me for a while.”

  “And this John Sinclair, have you known him long?” asked Madame Bonnard gently.

  “Actually no—just a few weeks. But he has helped me so much.”

  “A few weeks! Are you aware of his reputation, my dear?” asked Madame Bonnard. She passed Cordelia the plate of madeleines.

  “I know he was dating a fashion model. But he told me it’s over. Charles did too. So I’m not too worried.”

  Madame Bonnard looked down and fussed with the edge of the tablecloth. She folded it to her satisfaction, and then looked up.

  “One must not leap into these romances,” said Madame Bonnard. “I speak from experience, my dear. Very hard experience.”

  “Usually I can tell right away if someone is good for me,” said Cordelia stubbornly, putting down her teacup.

  Madame Bonnard looked doubtful. “I think one becomes infatuated easily. If an older man makes a fuss over one, it is easy to lose one’s head.”

  There was a long silence. Cordelia didn’t know what to say. Finally Madame Bonnard spoke again. “I understand you lost your parents when you were young.”

  “Yes.”

  “I wish you would allow me to give you some advice. Not as a parent—I would not presume. But accept this advice from an older woman. I know you will make up your own mind. But the experience of a previous generation may be helpful.”

  Cordelia was leaning back in her chair. She didn’t want to hear whatever Madame Bonnard was preparing to say.

  “If you will indulge me by listening to a personal anecdote. This story has some relevance to the dangers of quick romances.”

  Cordelia nodded.

  “I fell in love with Charles’s father in a matter of days. He was twenty-eight, I was seventeen. He was American and had come to Paris for a few months after graduating from law school. His visit was to be an introduction to European culture.”

  Cordelia drank her tea and listened.

  “Paris is a dangerous place for young men. They feel that they deserve to have a great love here, that the Parisian experience would not be complete without it, and the reputation of the city demands it.”

  “Paris is very romantic,” Cordelia agreed cautiously, taking a bite of her madeleine. She was glad the topic had shifted away from John Sinclair.

  “Charles’s father was the son of an American senator. He was being groomed for political office. And it is not good for American politicians to have a foreign wife.”

  “What happened?” asked Cordelia.

  “His family heard about me and demanded that he come back to Savannah. He was summoned home. But after he left I realized I was enceinte— you know . . . carrying Charles.”

  Cordelia looked at the woman, fascinated. She hadn’t expected this kind of revelation.

  “Of course, this was many years ago. When Charles was born there was no chance of him being acknowledged by his American father. The pregnancy was a personal and political inconvenience. And, of course, Charles’s father did go on to public office, just like his father before him. He became a very famous American senator.”

  “How awful for you,” said Cordelia in sympathy.

  “My own family was horrified, but then they helped me in my ‘embarrassed’ condition. I was married quietly to a very good man, a family friend, Alphonse Bonnard. He was willing to do this for me. And all of Paris society thought that Charles was born prematurely.”

  “Why did you have to get married?” asked Cordelia.

  “It was out of the question to have Charles on my own. I come from one of the oldest families in France, and so did Alphonse Bonnard; so Charles, despite the rejection of his real father, has a heritage to be proud of.”

  “And there was never any reconciliation with his real father?”

  “No, Charles has never met his birth father. He knows who he is, but he has never spoken to him or written to him. In fact, his father has not spoken to me since the day he left Paris. I was contacted by a lawyer after I wrote to tell him I was carrying his child.”

  “It’s a sad story,” admitted Cordelia. “I can’t help feeling that his father is the only one who lost out. Charles would make a lovely son for anyone.”

  Madame Bonnard smiled. “I certainly think he is very special. I tell you this not to catalog the charms of my son but to give you a word of caution. The few weeks you have known John Sinclair are insufficient for you to see all the nuances of his life.”

  “It is true, I don’t know a lot about him. But he has been so utterly . . .” Cordelia paused, looking for just the right word.

  “John Sinclair may find you enchanting one moment and inconvenient the next. It can happen, my dear.”

  Cordelia stared at Madame Bonnard and swallowed hard.

  “I have been worrying . . . John and I had a discussion in England about the future. He said we live very different lives, and we may not end up together in the end.”

  Madame Bonnard looked grave. “What else did he say?”

  “He said we live worlds apart, on different continents. We have different lives. He didn’t see how it would work.”

  “My dear, what did you do?”

  Cordelia sat upright, suddenly very anxious.

  “I made him stop talking, and promise to give our romance a try.”

  Madame Bonnard reached over and patted Cordelia’s hand again.

  “Charles tells me you are a smart girl. An accomplished girl. And you are at the top of your field. I advise you to also be cautious until you know John Sinclair better.”

  Cordelia flushed. “Thank you for your kind advice, Madame Bonnard.” She stopped for a moment and then added with sudden energy, “I feel I am very much in love with John Sinclair. And he has been very, very kind to me in my difficult situation. And Charles thinks the world of Sinclair.”

  “Charles is a man,” said Madame Bonnard simply. She picked up a little silver bell and rang it to have the housekeeper come and clear the tea tray.

  “Cordelia, I hope with all my heart that John Sinclair is the love you have always dreamed about. But you should make him prove that he is worthy of your love. And that will take some time.”

  Longyearbyen

  Sinclair stood at the window of the Spitsbergen Hotel and surveyed the Arctic landscape. The refurbished miners’ lodge, located halfway up the mountain, gave him a clear view of all the surrounding landscape. At this time of year, the light was still bright late into the evening, and the scene in front of him had all the beautiful desolation of the moon. The original name of the place, Spitsbergen, meant “jagged mountain” in Dutch. The peaks formed a ring around the town of Longyearbyen. Most of the houses were nestled along the main street, and the lights were beginning to glow faintly against the uncertain dusk.

  Sinclair was awestruck at the intrepid spirit that prompted people to live here. While the summer months were blessed with long days of light, in the winter, the town was plunged into total darkness. The sun never rose from the horizon, and the moon alone circled overhead in the sky, tracing a single orbit each day, illuminating the snow with ambient light. But hiding in that vast whiteness was man’s single most deadly predator: Ursus
maritimus, the polar bear.

  Sinclair marveled at the courage of Cordelia’s great-great-grandfather to come here to explore, and in subsequent years to establish the first settlement of miners, in the hope of building his Arctic Coal Mining Company into a thriving operation. Sinclair fully understood how valuable the journal really was. He was glad Cordelia could read it and understand her great-great-grandfather better.

  He looked out at the landscape that Elliott Stapleton had loved, and made a silent vow to protect Cordelia’s legacy. He would find the deed and restore this land to her. Then it would be up to her to decide what to do with it.

  As he looked across the land, Sinclair silently asked Elliott Stapleton a question. There was no one else to ask, and he felt it was fitting to do it here. Sinclair asked Cordelia’s great-great-grandfather for permission to marry her. It seemed the thing to do, somehow respectful and proper. She was, in essence, the polar explorer’s true daughter, even if the generations didn’t quite match up.

  Sinclair listened inside his head. There was no psychic answer—only the silence of the desolate mountains that now lay before him. He hadn’t expected any answer, really; it mattered only that he, in his own mind, had stated his intention honorably and sincerely. He would ask Jim Gardiner later. But the only answer that mattered now was Cordelia’s. That question and answer would have to wait.

  He heard the bathroom door open. He turned, and Erin came out wearing only a towel. She hadn’t bothered to take the large one, so there wasn’t much Sinclair could not see. He was irritated. Her intrusion broke into his thoughts and disturbed him in more ways than one. He felt his body react in a way he could not control. He surveyed her openly, unable to stop himself.

  At first he told himself he was looking at her like an inanimate object, taking in the lines of her. But that was a bald-faced lie; his sexual attraction to her was intense. Previously, under the soft drape of women’s clothing, she had managed to look alluring. But now, nearly naked, her body was almost irresistible. He could imagine it under his fingertips. What would it be like to grasp those strong legs and make love to her? Her breasts were soft, the nipples large. As she turned around, he could see her buttocks were full and round. Her long red curls cascaded down her back and ended halfway to the cleft in her buttocks. Sinclair broke out in a slight sweat. He didn’t think he could take it much longer. Then it got worse.

  Erin abandoned the pretense of the towel and began to ransack her Harrods shopping bag. She scooped up fistfuls of lacy white lingerie and piled them on the bed. She began cutting the sales tags off with a pair of nail scissors. After she had stacked the frothy lingerie on the bed, she dug back into the shopping bag and began tearing the cellophane off boxes of creams and cosmetics. Then, as she reached one more time into the shopping bag, she took out a red package containing a bottle of perfume. The mere sight of the box nearly tore the breath out of him. He stared. Of all the perfume in the world, why in God’s name did it have to be Aphrodite?

  She turned to him, fully naked.

  “When I got this assignment, I didn’t have time to pack.”

  She was challenging him. It was a clear and open invitation. His eyes were riveted by her body, and she seemed to be silently demanding his homage.

  Sinclair mustered his strength. He wanted to walk over to her—he really wanted her—but the price was too high. There was no going back on the promise he had just made to Cordelia in his mind. Any justification of a last fling would only cheapen it. He met Erin’s eyes.

  “Let’s keep our minds on the mission, shall we?”

  She twisted her beautiful mouth into a smirk.

  “Finding it difficult?” she countered. “Frost said you would be a real challenge.”

  “I presume you were talking about the assignment,” Sinclair retorted. “And speaking of difficult, I don’t exactly find Frost an easy guy to deal with.”

  “Thaddeus Frost is a national treasure,” Erin snapped. “He is the best there is. You are damn lucky he was assigned to handle this case.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Let’s hope you live up to his expectations.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t disappoint you,” she purred.

  He turned back to the window. Behind him he heard the rustling of cellophane, a box being opened, and the cap of a bottle being popped off. At the sound of light spritz, he shut his eyes. Slowly drifting toward him was the scent of the perfume Aphrodite, which in the past had signaled his destruction.

  Sinclair woke up early, with the light streaming in the window. The Arctic morning was full upon the town. At this latitude and longitude, 78°13’0N, 15°38’0E, the sunlight was intense, but a quick look at his watch on the bedside table told him it was only five o’clock in the morning. There were another eighteen hours of daylight to go in this day, and he was glad of it. He had a lot to do.

  Erin was sprawled on the other side of the bed, still deeply asleep. Her red hair covered her face. Last night she had put on a tiny pair of panties and a minuscule T-shirt, and slid into her side of the bed. Sinclair had ignored her, keeping his long limbs well away from her and putting a pillow in between them. They had to share the bed to maintain their cover as lovers. He couldn’t have the hotel staff talking about the couple who slept in separate rooms. Everyone had to believe that Erin was Cordelia; it was the only way to keep Cordelia safe.

  But it was torture to sleep with a woman like this. And he had to hand it to her, she had an impressive repertoire of feminine wiles: hair tossing, stretching languorously, slathering her legs with body cream right in front of him. But when they retired he had turned away and faced the window to sleep.

  The light coming in from the window hit him in the eyes. He sat up cautiously, making no noise. If all went well today, and he found the deed, he could drop this charade and send Erin packing. But for now he wanted her exactly where she was: asleep. He had work to do and he didn’t need this woman around. He didn’t need her protection. He didn’t care what Frost had said about teamwork. He could handle it by himself if anything turned up.

  Sinclair quietly got out of bed, and moments later he was dressed and slipping out the door. The desk clerk looked up, startled to see him in the lobby so early.

  “Good morning,” Sinclair said, greeting the clerk. “It’s so light outside I couldn’t sleep. This takes some getting used to.”

  “You’ll adjust after a few days,” the young man replied. “I just made fresh coffee if you would like some.”

  He indicated the self-serve coffee bar near the large picture window. Sinclair walked over to fix his coffee and survey the town. Not a creature was moving about in the entire landscape.

  “What time does the town clerk’s office open?” asked Sinclair.

  “The town clerk?”

  “Yes, you know—where all the official paperwork is done, permits and things like that,” he said.

  “It’s in the center of town. Right across from the general store.”

  “I was thinking of applying for a marriage license,” lied Sinclair. “It’s a romantic place to get married, don’t you think?”

  “It certainly is,” agreed the hotel clerk, looking out at the barren landscape. “I think the office opens sometime around ten o’clock.”

  “Could I get out and roam around a bit before that?” asked Sinclair. “Rent a vehicle or something?”

  “Sure,” the young man replied. “I could get you a Land Rover for about two hundred dollars for the week. That wouldn’t include petrol, of course, but they do throw in the rifle for free.”

  “Rifle?”

  “For bears.” The man pointed to the large sign behind the desk illustrated with the silhouette of a polar bear and listing several safety rules. The poster cautioned: VENTURING OUTSIDE THE SETTLEMENTS WITHOUT A RIFLE IS PROHIBITED.

  “Oh, I’ll be careful,” assured Sinclair. “How soon could you get a vehicle here?”

  The young man looked at his watch. “My dad owns the company
that rents Land Rovers to tourists. I figure in about half an hour.”

  Sinclair drove down the rutted track, off the mountain, and through the middle of town. It was the same route Miles had traveled the day he met his fate in the graveyard of the Arctic Coal Mining Company. Sinclair was headed to the exact same spot, only he was making certain to keep his rifle loaded and ready. After what Frost had told him about Miles and the polar bear, Sinclair was ready to shoot almost anything that moved.

  The road snaked behind the town buildings and headed out along the coast of Advent Bay. In this season, the ground was gray and patchy with coal dust. The grimy residue and lack of vegetation made the landscape stark. A coating of snow would have turned it into magic. He should come back during polar night and see this place during its most fiercely beautiful season.

  The road curved, and Sinclair could see the spire of the old miners’ church, and the filigree of the wrought-iron fence that hemmed in the several dozen headstones. As he pulled up, he noticed the gate listed drunk-enly on one hinge. Sinclair parked his vehicle, keeping the engine running while he surveyed the graveyard. He reached back for the gun.

  He walked along the rows of stones reading the names. They were quaint and formal, and the majority of them not Norwegian names: Jeremiah, Samuel, Nathaniel, Benjamin, Thomas. And then suddenly there it was: Percival. PERCIVAL SPENCE. An empty grave that held the deed.

  Sinclair squatted down and looked at the headstone. After a long discussion with Tom and Marian Skye Russell, they had pretty much concluded that there was no such person as Percival Spence. No records existed except his listing as “silent partner” in the Arctic Coal Mining Company documents. Was this silent partner silent as the grave? Did it make sense that Elliott Stapleton would bury the deed here if he were headed farther north, to the pole? Sinclair’s mind turned over the possibilities as he looked at the headstone.