“Incorrect,” Max said. “The photograph does not rule out female pilots.”
Kurt often laughed at Hiram’s banter with Max, sometimes wondering if he’d made Max’s personality too close to that of his wife’s. “The parish records in San Sebastián list the burial of a young man,” Kurt said. “But male or female, whoever got in that plane in 1927 would have to be a pilot. Can you search the records for any pilots who went missing during the time Melbourne’s plane vanished?”
“Stand by,” Max said. In seconds Max accessed diverse records contained in various governmental databases and cross-referenced them with information from other sources. “No other federally licensed pilots went missing over a two-month period surrounding the disappearance of the Golden Ram. Eight died in crashes, but all bodies were recovered and identified.”
“What about someone else Melbourne might have been associated with?”
Another momentary delay, but this time Max gave them something to work with. “The only missing person report connected with Jake Melbourne during that time relates to a freelance mechanic named Stefano Cordova who worked at Roosevelt Field prior to Melbourne’s flight.”
“Prior to but not after?” Kurt asked.
“Correct,” Max said. “Cordova’s fiancée reported him missing eight days after Melbourne’s flight took off. But, according to the report, she hadn’t seen him in over a week. He was never found.”
Hiram looked at Kurt, who nodded. They were onto something.
Max spoke next. “By your rising skin temperatures, you obviously consider this an important fact.”
“Stop watching my skin temperature,” Kurt said. “And, yes, it’s definitely important. Tell us how Cordova was connected to Melbourne.”
“He was a known associate who worked on Melbourne’s aircraft. The missing person report suggested they were close friends and that his fiancée feared that Cordova had committed suicide after Melbourne’s plane vanished, perhaps blaming himself.”
“Could Cordova be the pilot in the photograph pretending to be Melbourne?”
“Uncertain,” Max said. “Cordova’s height was listed in the missing person report at five feet seven inches. That correlates to the height of the figure in the blurred photograph to an accuracy level of only seventy percent.”
“Add in the ostrich-skin boots and it’s a direct hit,” Hiram said.
“A valid assumption.”
Kurt turned to Hiram. “Did MI5 share the pages of the mechanic’s log with you?”
“They emailed copies to us. Why?”
“Max,” Kurt said. “Compare the handwriting of the mechanic’s entries in the early part of the logbook with the notes scribbled on the last few pages.”
Max didn’t disappoint. “Based on repeatable characteristics, I find a ninety-six percent probability that both sets of writing were done by the same person. The handwriting also matches Stefano Cordova’s known writing samples on his petition for a marriage license, filed in the Nassau County Courthouse on December 1st, 1926.”
Hiram beamed with pride. “Now use that powerful brain of yours to tell us why a mechanic who did work on Melbourne’s plane would have had reason to kill him and take his place.”
“Insufficient information,” Max said. “I’m brilliant, but I can’t pull answers out of thin air.”
“Can you speculate?”
“The most logical connection would be Stefano Cordova’s family,” Max replied. “He was the nephew of Carlo Granzini, a smuggler known to deal in stolen paintings, statuary and historical artifacts.”
“That’s damn fine speculation,” Kurt said. “If NUMA ever retires you—and you don’t want to be a doctor—I suggest you go work for the FBI.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should,” Kurt said. “What else can you tell us about the Granzini family and their smuggling activities?”
“At the time of the flight, they were wanted by J. Edgar Hoover and the Bureau of Investigation.”
“For what crimes?” Hiram asked.
“Unknown,” Max said. “All records relating to the Bureau’s investigation into activities of the Granzini family are classified under the National Heritage Protection and International Stability Act of 1913. NUMA clearance levels are insufficient to access materials classified under that Act.”
Hiram fell silent. Kurt wondered if Max was playing a joke on them. Considering the computer’s personality, he couldn’t put it past her. But, Max said nothing more.
“What the heck is the National Heritage and whatever you said after that Act?” Kurt asked.
“The National Heritage Protection and International Stability Act, passed by Congress in 1913, signed by President Woodrow Wilson that same year. This Act allows the President to identify material important to American heritage and international stability. It grants the President the powers to classify such materials and all knowledge of them as a national secret without restraint of Congress or the Courts. Suggested time period of classification is fifty to one hundred years, but no upper limit is established. The Act expressly considers the possibility that the President be given the power to protect materials and secrets for a term without end.”
“Forever?” Hiram said.
“That would be my reading of the language,” Max said.
Kurt had worked in the government for most of his adult life. Both he and Hiram had top secret clearance, both of them had knowledge that went beyond what the public would ever know, but neither of them had ever heard of this particular Act nor had they ever heard of a secret being classified for all eternity.
“This sounds like we-faked-the-moon-landing kind of stuff.”
“It’s going to take some work to dig the truth out,” Kurt replied.
Hiram narrowed his gaze. “You have a plan for that?”
“The beginnings of one,” Kurt said. He got up and stretched. The way Kurt saw it, if a President could classify something, then perhaps a Vice President could unclassify it. Or at least find out what had been hidden and why.
“Not going to elaborate, are you?”
Kurt shook his head. “Thanks for the help,” he said. “And the water. I feel more alert and sharper already.”
“Where are you going?” Hiram asked.
“Home to take a nap,” Kurt replied. “Got up way too early this morning. And since I have a party to go to later, I want to look my best.”
Chapter 45
Cambridge, England
Morgan Manning pulled up to the cottage-style house in East Cambridge expecting the worst. Several police cars were already on-site, their lights bathing the neighborhood in continuous blue flashes.
A uniformed officer in a neon windbreaker stopped her from approaching. “I’m sorry, but this is a crime scene,” he said. “You’ll have to turn around.”
She held up her ID. “Section 5,” she said. “What happened here?”
“Break-in and assault, by the looks of it,” the officer said.
“Anyone inside?” she asked.
“No, mum. But it looks like a hell of a fight took place, if you don’t mind me saying.”
Morgan parked the car and got out. “Have your men begin a search of the surrounding area. Get any video you can find from the traffic cameras. I want to know who did this.”
She walked into the house and studied the damage. The living room had been torn apart, with the furniture flipped over and shredded and the shelves swept clean of books and trinkets, which now lay scattered about the floor.
The bedrooms and den were in the same condition. In the kitchen, she found blood on the counter and along the floor. A discarded knife had blood on it as well, while a cricket bat had been broken in half where it had been smashed against a hard surface.
It looked as if Professor Cross had put up a courage
ous fight. The fact that he was gone and not lying dead in the house was both hopeful and ominous.
Hopeful because they might have a chance to save him if they could figure out where Barlow and his men were going next. Ominous because without the professor to help them, and the Writings of Qsn to clue them in, Morgan had no idea where that might be.
She stared at the cricket bat. “Sticky wicket,” she whispered. “Indeed.”
Returning to her car, she called Pembroke-Smythe and relayed the bad news. Her next call went out long-distance to Kurt Austin in America. She left a simple message. “Professor Cross has been abducted. His house has been destroyed. Hope you’re making better progress than I am.”
Chapter 46
Number One Observatory Circle, Washington, D.C.
Kurt appeared overdressed as he walked toward the gate of the large home on the grounds of the Naval Observatory. He wore a sharply tailored tuxedo, patent leather shoes and a black bow tie. His French-cuffed shirt was starched nearly to the point of being armor and his cuff links and matching studs were made of cobalt that had been mined from the bottom of the sea.
Before he reached the white-painted house with the green shutters, he stopped at a guardhouse and presented his ID to a member of the Secret Service. After being scanned with a metal detector, he walked up to the canted porch and was allowed into the house by a staff member.
“He’s out on the veranda,” she said. “He requested that you meet him there.”
Kurt was led through the formal reception hall and then through an elegantly appointed living room. From there, he passed through the garden room and out onto the back porch.
Number One Observatory Circle was the official residence of the Vice President of the United States. It was designed to support a family and guests, though for the last several years the only official full-time occupant was a confirmed bachelor.
Kurt found that bachelor on the back deck, puffing away on an impressive cigar.
“Mr. Vice President,” the assistant said. “Your guest has arrived.”
James Sandecker measured just over five feet six inches tall. Despite the lack of height, he commanded the attention of everyone who met him. He had a stocky build, an intense face and bright red hair. The perfectly trimmed Van Dyke beard on his chin was his calling card.
Before accepting the honor of becoming Vice President, Sandecker had built NUMA into the organization it was today. It had been his idea, based on a love of the sea, and he still took a special interest in its activities.
Sandecker nodded to the assistant and then stared at Kurt suspiciously. “You’re a little overdressed for a scuba diver.”
Kurt grinned like a wolf. “And I thought admirals wore white to formal occasions.”
“I’d prefer it,” Sandecker admitted. “On the other hand, your penguin costume has me concerned. Is there a reason you’re in a tux?”
“Thought you might need a wingman for the fund-raiser,” Kurt said. “Unless you already have a date for the party.”
Sandecker had an active social life and was in high demand on the Washington social circuit. His appointment to the Vice Presidency had brought oversight and restrictions that complicated his personal life to a degree, but, being a resourceful man, Sandecker had found ways around them.
“Number one rule of fund-raisers,” Sandecker said. “Never take a date to one of these things. It bores them to tears and makes the other women jealous.”
Kurt tapped the side of his head. “I’ll keep that in mind if I ever accidentally become a politician.”
Sandecker put the cigar back in his mouth, then blew a cloud of blue smoke out into the backyard. “What makes you think I need a wingman for tonight? I don’t recall sending you an invitation.”
Kurt had expected the question and was ready with his response. “My first month at NUMA you had me extract you from a tedious gala where agency Directors were forced to spend the night schmoozing with Congressmen and Senators in hopes of getting larger budgets for the following year. I recall you suggesting my job prospects depended on how successful I was.”
“That they did,” Sandecker said. “Fortunately for you, you didn’t let me down.”
“Glad to hear it,” Kurt said. “Now, the way I figure it, if there’s anything worse than a gaggle of Congressmen and Senators looking to be fawned over, it has to be lobbyists and money donors who want to suck the life out of you before handing over a dollar. Which makes tonight’s gala even more of a torture test.”
Sandecker preferred blunt, straight-to-the-point talk, something in short supply since he’d become a politician. He appreciated Kurt’s assessment. “You’re not wrong,” he admitted. “But I’m the Vice President now. I can fake a national emergency if I need to get away.”
Kurt adjusted his cuffs. “You could,” he said. “But you wouldn’t do it right out of the gate. Bring me along and I’ll tell you a story to help pass the time. You’re going to like this one. It begins with lost Egyptian treasure, ends with a pilot unknown to history who crossed the Atlantic on his own a few weeks before Lindbergh.”
“What’s on tap for the middle part?”
“A beautiful English agent, a group of arms dealers who’ve been making my life extremely difficult for the last few weeks and intrigue at every turn.”
Kurt noticed Sandecker’s eyes glinting in the light. He’d momentarily stopped puffing on the cigar, but it remained clenched between his teeth.
“Or,” Kurt suggested, “I could leave you to the special interest groups and send you a written summary next week.”
Sandecker released another cloud of smoke, aiming this one upward into the still night air. It formed a perfect ring before dissipating. “Don’t be so hasty,” he said. “Can’t hurt to bring you along. I’ll get you an earbud and we’ll pretend you’re with the Secret Service. Who knows, someone might shoot at me tonight. But first I want to know what the objective is. What are you after?”
“What makes you think I’m after something?”
Sandecker laid the cigar down carefully, placing it in an ashtray and allowing it to go out naturally rather than mashing it, which would cause it to smoke bitterly.
“Kurt,” he said like a knowing father. “If you’re going to survive in Washington, you’re going to have to become a better liar. Tonight will do you some good. Some of these people could teach a master class in the art of untruthful speaking.”
Officially invited, Kurt offered a slight bow as if to say, Lead on.
The two men walked to the front of the house and stepped out under the portico. In his previous position as head of NUMA, Sandecker had pointedly refused to be chauffeured around in limousines, avoiding them as if they were a sign of the Apocalypse. Maintaining that independence wasn’t as easy now that he was Vice President. Official functions demanded official transportation. And while this was technically a private affair, the agents on Sandecker’s protection detail were as stubborn as he was.
“Morris,” Sandecker said, speaking to the lead Secret Service agent. “I won’t be in need of your services tonight.”
“Are you canceling the fund-raiser?”
“No,” Sandecker said. “I’m using Kurt here for close protection.”
Morris didn’t bat an eye. “I’m sorry, Mr. Vice President. With all due respect to Mr. Austin, I can’t allow you to go alone.”
Sandecker exhaled a dissatisfied grunt. “So much for wielding the reins of power. What’s the minimum detail that won’t get you fired?”
“The driver and myself.”
“Fair enough,” Sandecker said. “Let’s go.”
Morris called for the VP’s car and a large black sedan pulled up to the front of the house. From the outside, it appeared to be a Cadillac with all the right badges. Underneath, it was actually a purpose-built armored vehicle. It rode on a truck chassis, we
ighed nearly twenty thousand pounds and was protected by five-inch-thick bulletproof glass, along with layers of steel, ceramic plating and Kevlar.
Kurt and Sandecker climbed in the back, Morris got in the front with the driver and the armored vehicle began to move off.
“Comfortable?” Sandecker said, settling in across from Kurt.
“Beats the crosstown bus,” Kurt said. “Mind if I have a drink? Max says I’m dehydrated.” He reached toward a small refrigerator.
“That fridge won’t help you,” Sandecker warned.
Kurt had already pulled it open. Instead of cold beverages, he found clear bags of red liquid hanging inside. Labels stuck to the bags were covered in fine print, the name SANDECKER sticking out prominently. “Did you become a vampire since the last time we met or—”
“It’s my own blood,” Sandecker said.
“That’s only slightly less creepy.”
“They draw liters of the stuff every other month,” Sandecker explained. “It starts right after you take office. It goes with me wherever I travel, in case something terrible were to befall me and I needed a transfusion on the way to the hospital.”
Kurt closed the door, noticing now that a placard on the outside read MEDICAL SUPPLIES. “I see.”
“They used to keep the stuff in the trunk,” Sandecker explained. “But I pointed out, that wouldn’t do me much good if we got rear-ended by a suicide bomber or hit in the tail with an RPG.”
Kurt sat back while Sandecker opened a different refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of water. It even had the Vice Presidential seal on it. “You can keep the bottle as a collector’s item. Might be worth ten cents someday.”
As Kurt twisted the cap off, Sandecker opened another compartment and plucked a big cigar from a humidor. “Had this installed myself. More important than the blood bank.”
Kurt had to laugh.
“Now,” Sandecker said, lighting the cigar, “tell me the story.”
Kurt relayed the details in a conversational way, leading Sandecker into asking questions, piquing his interest with cliff-hangers and answers. As they pulled up to the fund-raising venue, Kurt threw out the final hook, explaining how the Writings of Qsn had once been on American soil but that the truth about those who’d smuggled the tablets remained hidden in files he couldn’t access.
Journey of the Pharaohs Page 23
