The Explorer's Code (17 page)

There was even social commentary.

O
CTOBER 4, 1908

I
HAVE BEEN THINKING ABOUT
M
R.
U
PTON
S
INCLAIR’S NEW WORK
T
HE
M
ETROPOLIS, WHICH
I
HAVE JUST RECEIVED FROM MY BOOK DEALER.
C
AN WE ALL BE AS VULGAR AS HE DESCRIBES?
A
FTER READING THE VOLUME UNTIL TWO IN THE MORNING,
I
AM TIRED AND DISPIRITED.
W
ILL 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
A
MERICAN
C
OUNTESS,”
N
EW
Y
ORK MILLIONAIRES MARRYING THEIR DAUGHTERS OFF TO THE ARISTOCRACY OF
E
UROPE ONLY TO REPATRIATE THEM, GOWNED AND BEJEWELED, TO PRESIDE AT FASHIONABLE EVENTS ON THIS SIDE OF THE
A
TLANTIC.
H
OW
I
LONG FOR THE CLEANSING PURITY OF THE
A
RCTIC 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 friends 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.

E
vgeny 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.

It was a gray day, extremely windy and not good for sailing. They would stay put for now. The
Udachny
crew were scrambling all over the structure for routine maintenance, swarming like an army of ants. They wore black polo shirts with a gold crest on the breast pocket and khaki shorts.

The yacht would head out to sea tonight, after Evgeny’s dinner with the bankers in Florence. About 11:00 p.m. they would push farther down the west coast of Italy, passing through the Canale di Piombino, a strait separating the island of Elba from mainland Italy by about five nautical miles. Evgeny liked cruising at night and staying docked by day. There were fewer eyes to track his movements.

Evgeny went back into the main salon to look over his financial statements. The documents were spread out all over the bar, with his usual twin paperweights, a bottle of SKYY vodka, and a Baccarat glass filled with ice.

He dreaded this evening’s meeting with his bankers. The Raiffeisen Bank in Austria had refinanced a €500 million Deutsche Bank loan to save him from a margin call on his mining operation. That was last fall. Evgeny was hoping for another two-month reprieve to restructure his debt. Right now he wanted a moratorium on payments until he could get the Russian government to provide state support for his operations. He needed about $2.6 billion to repay a syndicated loan from major international banks. Sure, when he gave the interview to
Fortune
magazine he had appeared
confident, saying, “We do not need any financial aid from the Russian state.” But he needed it badly. The Russian government would bail him out for a steep price. He had to come up with the deed—a deed to a
defunct
coal mine in the Arctic. To think his company was being held hostage for that!

Evgeny pounded the bar in frustration. A steward came in with cautious eyes.

“You needed something, sir?”

“Get out.”

Evgeny gathered his financial documents together and put them in an envelope. There was not much choice. He was going to have to team up with that fat bastard, Oleg, and go begging the Kremlin for the money. Either that or find the deed to the mine in Svalbard. If he could find the deed, he didn’t need Oleg. He would get the money on his own.

Why not snatch that American bitch and get it out of her? She would know where the deed was. Why have Vlad, Anna, Bob, and Marlene shadow her? It was taking too much time.

The cat walked in, swishing its tail, and stopped, crouching down, sensing the dangerous mood in the salon.

“Get out!!” Evgeny screamed. The cat hissed at him, then took off into the galley at top speed.

The Britannia Restaurant was emptying out after the eight-thirty dinner seating. Joyce Chin, nursing her cognac, told Vlad, “There is just no liquidity, it’s nearly impossible to get credit.”

Vlad was concentrating on his chocolate soufflé, listening to her with half an ear.

“So how
did
your hedge fund do, Joyce?” he asked.

“No worse than some others—actually a lot better, because I avoided the mortgage securitizations. But it’s no picnic out there.”

Joyce was dressed in black satin for the Black-and-White Ball, a traditional event on every cruise, and one of the most spectacular nights of every voyage. Guests were asked to dress in a combination of black and white for the formal evening. Joyce looked absolutely opulent in her black satin, with the requisite touch of white—a silk camellia pinned in her décolletage and a platinum necklace encrusted with diamonds and pearls.

Anna was also dressed sumptuously, in a black beaded dress. She leaned across Vlad to put her spoon into his soufflé.

“Dahling, let me have a bite, it looks divine.” Anna’s dress was precariously low-cut, and the maneuver with the spoon tested the laws of physics.

Bob looked on with a pleased smile. Marlene, engaged in conversation with Gjertrud, missed the show.

“What about your business, Bob?” asked Vlad. “Are you having any problems because of the economy?”

“Not a worry,” said Bob, picking up the plate of petits fours and crystallized ginger.

“God is recession-proof.” He bit into a small pink-iced square of cake and palmed a second petit four before passing the plate to Marlene.

“What do you mean by that?” asked Cordelia.

“Oh, he doesn’t mean to be so flip about it,” Marlene said, looking over the cakes, “but the Church of the Enlightened Gospel is doing really well. Everyone is turning to God.”

“And away from their brokers,” Joyce interjected with a laugh.

Marlene took three petits fours, one at a time, and put them on her plate.

“Our viewership is up twenty-nine percent since last year. We broadcast right into people’s living rooms, so they don’t have to go anywhere, or spend money on gas, to hear Bob preach.”

“Praise the Lord,” added Bob.

“Do you
charge
for that?” asked Vlad.

Bob darted a sharp look at him.

“No sirree. The broadcast is free. But we’re on cable, so viewers have to subscribe to get the channel. We’re being listed in more and more markets, so there’s ad revenue. And then people can donate to the church if they want.”

“And then they can also order the DVD Bible for twenty-nine dollars and ninety-five cents. We’ve sold half a million in the last six months and there’s no sign of that slowing down,” said Marlene.

“You’re
selling
the Bible?” asked Gjertrud.

“Yes, Old and New Testament. Plus a tour of the Holy Land, on two DVDs. They’re going like hotcakes. Ninety percent profit,” said Bob.

“God bless America,” observed Vlad.

“You own the channel?” asked Sinclair.

“People just send you money in the mail. Incredible,” mused Vlad.

“The Church of the Enlightened Gospel owns the channel. I am the founder and CEO of that corporation.”

“I worry, being on a fixed income,” chimed in Gjertrud. “My late husband put it all in very safe investments, but everything is down.”

Cordelia noticed she was wearing a rather tired-looking black velvet skirt, not quite right for the Mediterranean.

“If you want me to take a look at your portfolio, give me a call,” said Joyce, sliding her business card across the table. “This is my New York office number, and you can get me at the Westport, Connecticut, number on weekends.”

“What business are you in, Mr. Sinclair?” asked Gjertrud.

“I am an archaeologist. Our dig has been underwritten by an Austrian foundation for the next five years, so we’re in good shape.”

“Enough about these
boring
things, why are we talking about business?” said Anna, looking at Cordelia and Sinclair. “Let’s talk about
love.”

Everyone else at the table collectively raised their eyebrows.

Hundreds of black and white balloons were floating on the ceiling of the Queens Room, with their silver streamers dangling down to make a shining forest for the Black-and-White Ball. The streamers wafted gently with the movement of the ship. Cordelia had chosen a white gown—a dress slightly Grecian in design. A silver cord bound the waist, and the folds of the beautiful silk chiffon fell straight to the floor. Her tan, deepened from the last expedition in the Guaymas Basin, was her only accessory.

“Would you like to dance?” Sinclair asked.

She slipped easily into his arms. As they danced, she had a little trouble at first finding her footing on the moving dance floor of the ocean liner, but after a few moments she found her balance. Dancing with Sinclair was easy. He moved with incredible lightness and grace.

She relaxed and thought how nice it was to be dressed up and dancing. How glamorous. Dancing so closely together, she was again reminded of how tall he was. Her hand looked very small against the black wool of
the tuxedo jacket. A memory came to her and she was transported back to another lifetime. At a father-daughter dance in seventh grade, she had danced with her father just like this. He had worn a satin-lapelled tuxedo. The image of her small hand against the black satin came back to her. The memory hit her hard.

She closed her eyes and savored the image. It was the spring before the accident. She was all dressed up in a white organdy party dress and her first pair of high heels. She remembered the slightly citrus smell of his aftershave and the way his strong fingers had closed over her entire hand. She remembered the way he had to lean forward slightly to dance with her, even though she was tall for her age, a gangly girl on the edge of becoming a teenager. She felt tears prick her eyes.

Suddenly it was too much, to be thinking about this while she was dancing with Sinclair. She felt the tears spilling out from under her closed eyelids. She kept her head down so he wouldn’t see. He didn’t seem to notice at first. But then he stopped dancing, and felt in his pocket for a handkerchief and handed it to her. He didn’t say a word. Neither did she. The dancers around them glided to the Cole Porter song. She and Sinclair stood still in the forest of silver streamers. She finished blotting her eyes, smiled, and handed the handkerchief back. He put it in his pocket and pulled her tight into his chest. They continued to dance.

Her suite was on the port side; his stateroom was on the same deck, starboard. They were quiet on the walk back. At her stateroom, he took her card key from her, opened her door, and handed it back to her. She murmured good night and started to go inside.

“Cordelia.” His voice was low.

“Yes?”

She met his eyes. He looked very kind. She thought he might kiss her.

“Good night. Sleep well.”

He leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead.

Sinclair had brought his KWV 20 Year Old brandy out with him onto the promenade deck, and its fumes were strong in the open air. As he stood
at the railing and looked at the dark sea, he rolled the brandy over his tongue. The deep amber liquid had a spicy aroma, rich with the essence of dried fruit. It brought back pleasant memories of Cape Town.