“There’s a good possibility that the Ark was destroyed during the Babylonian Captivity of Jerusalem. I’ve also heard that it’s under piles of rubble in an African mine. The Ethiopians say they have it, but few have seen it. Ark or not, this find will be a historical bombshell.”
“You’re right. The Ark is probably in splinters by now. We know that whatever was deposited in North America was of great concern to Jefferson.”
“You sound equally worried.”
“I am. Your bombshell metaphor is unfortunate but accurate.”
“Are you concerned about treasure hunters?”
“No. We’re worried about a conflagration that could start in the Middle East and spread into Europe, Asia, and North America.”
Austin tapped the notebook cover. “How would this cause a conflagration?”
“The discovery would be seen as a sign by certain groups that Solomon’s third temple must be built to house this relic. Building a new temple would necessitate destruction of the TempleMount mosque, the third most sacred site in Islam. The mere rumor of the find could trigger a violent reaction from Muslims around the globe. They would see news of the discovery in North America as nothing more than a U.S. plot. The U.S. would be accused of inciting anti-Islamic forces to destroy something that is sacred to Islam. It would make all previous conflicts in that region look like a day at the park.”
“Aren’t we jumping the gun? You don’t even know what this relic is.”
“It doesn’t matter. Perception is everything. A few years ago, a red heifer born in Israel was seen by some as setting off a chain of events that would have ended the world. That was only a bloody cow, for heaven’s sake.”
Austin pondered Nickerson’s words. “Why are you so worried now?”
“Too many people now know about this file. We can do our best to stem leaks, but it’s bound to come out eventually. The State Department will pursue diplomatic strategies to soften the blow if it comes, but we have to take other measures.”
Austin knew from experience that the government was leakier than a sprung dory. “What can I do to help?” he said.
Nickerson smiled. “I see why Dirk Pitt left this matter in your hands. Our best defense is the truth. We must find what the Phoenicians brought to our shores. If it’s the Ark, we’ll bury it for a thousand years. If it isn’t, we can scotch the story when and if it comes out.”
“Finding a needle in a haystack would be easier. NUMA is an ocean-research agency. Shouldn’t you be using land-based intelligence agencies?”
“We’ve tried. Without more information, it’s useless. NUMA is in a unique position to help. We’d like to concentrate on the ship and the voyage rather than the artifact. Your past experience with the Columbus tomb makes you the ideal one to lead the effort.”
Austin’s eyes narrowed. “If we could trace the route of the voyage, that would narrow it down. It’s a thought.”
“We’re hoping it’s more than a thought.”
“We can give it a shot. We’re talking about a voyage that happened thousands of years ago. I’ll talk to my colleague Paul Trout. He’s an expert at computer modeling and may be able to retrace the route.”
Nickerson looked as if he’d had a heavy burden removed from his narrow shoulders. “Thank you. I’ll tell the captain to turn back.”
Austin pondered their discussion. There was something about Nickerson that nagged at him. The State Department man seemed sincere, but his statements were too pat, and he seemed a bit sly for Austin’s taste. Maybe deviousness was a tool for surviving at the higher levels of government. He decided to push his doubts aside, but to keep them within reach, and to concentrate on the immediate problem.
Phoenicians again.
He seemed to be encountering these ancient mariners at every turn. He began to plot a strategy. He’d give Trout a call and get him started on the problem. Tony Saxon would be ecstatic if he knew that his oddball theories of pre-Columbian contact in the Americas were about to be vindicated by an international crisis. Austin wanted to take another look at the Navigator, only, this time, he’d bring along his own Phoenician expert.
THE CELL PHONE in his pocket was vibrating. He clicked it on and said, “Kurt Austin.”
A man’s voice said, “This is Sergeant Colby of the District police, Mr. Austin. We found your name in the wallet of a Miss Mechadi.”
Austin’s jaw muscles worked as he listened to the police officer go through the details in the monotonic, euphemistic language that is peculiar to police.
“I’ll be there in thirty minutes,” he said. He made his way to the pilothouse. While Austin was urging the captain to crank every possible ounce of speed out of the Lovely Lady’s engines, Nickerson was in the salon talking on the phone.
“Austin bit,” he was saying. “He’s taken the assignment.”
“From what I know about Austin, I’d be surprised if he hadn’t,” said the voice on the other end.
“Do you think this scheme will work?”