The Explorer's Code (5 page)

Each had its own style. In the early evening, as the sunlight faded and the interior lights were turned on in the main salons, the activities of the inhabitants were clearly visible from the dock. On some boats, the interiors were festive, people having cocktails, sitting on the couches or standing out on deck. Other boats were the picture of domesticity, children sprawled before the television, with sodas and pretzels, their parents relaxing with a glass of wine before dinner. Still others were dark, silent, their wealthy occupants pursuing other pleasures in other parts of the world.

On the enormous megayacht the
Udachny,
five people sat in tense silence. The room was sleek, luxurious, and well designed. A discriminating yacht owner might quibble that there was a little too much gold in the details of the décor, but despite the glitz, the artwork on board was above reproach. A bronze Rodin nude posed in a recessed alcove by the bar, and a Jackson Pollock hung on the wall.

The only nonhuman occupant of the yacht—a Russian Blue cat—walked across the bar, leapt to a chair, and finally made a deft spring into its master’s lap. During its tour of the salon, the animal avoided touching the floor.

Evgeny, the yacht owner, wondered why the cat did that even when the seventy-one-meter Benetti was docked. It probably hated the vibration of the twin marine diesel engines. The cat always spooked when they were
running. Evgeny pulled its ears in a rough kind of massage, and the cat settled down.

He looked at the two couples across from him. There were two Russians: Vlad and Anna. Sitting across from them were two Americans: Bob and Marlene. Vlad returned his gaze belligerently, while his wife, Anna, sat staring at Evgeny with compressed lips and darting, nervous eyes. Evgeny scanned her up and down. She was an expensive-looking woman, all plastic and designer—like most expat Russian women these days. But she looked like she knew the score and would keep her husband in line. Vlad was only about thirty-five or so, and too much of a hotshot for his own good. Too vulgar, too flashy. Oligarch wannabe, with none of the talent. But Anna, she could kill. He stared at her ripe breasts, half exposed like fruit. She saw him looking and didn’t flinch. Yes, she would do what was necessary if given the chance.

The Americans, Bob and Marlene, were sitting together, with absolutely bovine expressions, seemingly upholstered into the white leather sofa, in pools of their own flesh. Only Americans could get big like that. It must be the corn diet. Evgeny liked fat people. Appetites like that could be counted on. They were weak and greedy—the best possible combination. Bob and Marlene would be no problem.

It was a weird crew: two high-rolling Russians and two fat Americans. Strange bedfellows, but it might work. They were all in it for the money. No high principles to get in the way. Vlad and Anna could do the legwork; the Americans could get cozy with the young woman. Disarm her with their friendliness. A young American girl on her own might be drawn to them.

Evgeny picked up the phone and dialed a number, then punched the speakerphone button.

“We’re all here,” he said. “What have you got?”

Vlad, Anna, Bob, and Marlene all leaned forward, as if they could discern who was on the other end of the line. But there would be no names used. Russian politicians like to keep their hands clean. And a wild card was always good in every game. It kept people on their toes. No one in Moscow could be identified if things went wrong, and that would make for an easier mop-up in the end. Evgeny would be the eraser on the chalkboard, so to speak.

The voice on the phone was factual, calm, the accent thick.

“We got the journal. They found it in the old storeroom of the Arctic

Coal Mining Company up in Svalbard. We read every word of it and only found a few references to the land deed. There is not enough information for us to go on.”

Vlad looked sideways at Anna. Staring at the phone, she didn’t move. The voice continued.

“There is a guy digging around up in Svalbard, in the old graves. He appears to be a scientist looking for medical specimens. But he also might be looking for the deed. We are following him to see if he turns up anything.”

“So what do you want us to do?” asked Evgeny.

“We’ll keep an eye on the guy up in Svalbard. You need to keep track of the journal.”

“Where is the journal now?” asked Evgeny.

“We planted the journal in the archives of the Oceanographic Institute of Monaco. And, good little researchers that they are, they found it already,” said the voice from Moscow.

“Then what?” asked Evgeny.

“The Oceanographic Institute is going to give it back to Cordelia Stapleton, Elliott Stapleton’s only living relative. She will read the journal. It will make more sense to her. It’s her family, after all.”

“What makes you think she will look for clues in the journal?”

“We will send her an offer for the land. Big money. So she will start to look for the deed. She will lead us right to it.”

“So we follow her, right?” interrupted Bob.

Evgeny gestured with a dismissive chop of his hand for the American to shut up.

“Who is giving the journal to her? The Oceanographic Institute?” asked Evgeny.

“No. They are going to pass it to the Herodotus Foundation. The American philanthropist John Sinclair runs it. He doesn’t know anything about the significance of the journal. He thinks he is just returning it as part of the foundation’s award ceremony—as a courtesy.”

“Good,” said Evgeny. “When do we expect the girl?”

“She’ll be there at the gala tomorrow. And then she will go to the cruise ship after that.”

“Good, so we will start surveillance tomorrow night, when she gets the journal,” Evgeny said, and looked over at the two Americans and the two Russians sitting on the couches of the yacht. “It shouldn’t take long.”

A
s she stepped out of the Hôtel Hermitage, Cordelia checked her reflection in the glass of the lobby doors. The fabric of the midnight blue column dress was heavy and silky against her legs. The slight train gave her movements a new, stately glide.

“The Sporting Club,” she told the limo driver. “But can you drive around a bit, take the long way, so I can see Monaco?”

The driver held the door for her.

“Of course, mademoiselle.”

Cordelia slid onto the seat and had the ridiculous feeling that the car was way too big for just one person. The Herodotus Foundation had hired the limo and chauffeur for the evening. The driver took his place behind the wheel and looked at her in the mirror.

“Where shall we go, mademoiselle? Anywhere you wish.”

“Just around. Whatever you think. I don’t have to be there until six thirty.”

They started off at a slow pace and Cordelia looked out the limo windows. Monaco was magical. The floodlit pink palace was glowing against the deep blue sky. They drove past the Place du Casino and the harbor. Many of the yachts had lights strung along their masts. The car turned, and they drove through the charming cobblestoned streets of the town. Then, farther away from the casino, they followed the highway along the ocean to the Monte Carlo Sporting Club. Inside, the enormous Salle des Etoiles was the venue of choice for many large galas and events. The limo pulled up and stopped.

Cordelia felt a twinge of nervousness as she waited for the driver to walk around to open the door. She looked at the red carpet going up the
stairs and the line of photographers waiting for arrivals. Real paparazzi. This was heady stuff. Well, Monaco was certainly all it was cracked up to be. She was going to be the center of attention accepting this award. Her heart pounded, and she felt a surge of adrenaline.

For the briefest flash she wished she had never come. It would be so much cozier to be having pizza and beer with Susan and Joel on board the research vessel rather than champagne and caviar at this award ceremony. But there was no choice; she
had
to accept the award. The car door opened and she gathered her skirts to step out.

Inside the Salle des Etoiles, guests were milling around sipping cocktails. The cavernous hall was hung with royal blue and silver banners in commemoration of the 1906 Arctic expedition of Elliott Stapleton and Prince Albert I—great-great-grandfather of the reigning monarch. She looked at Elliott Stapleton’s name on the banners and suddenly Cordelia felt a burst of family pride. He and Prince Albert I had mapped half of the Norwegian Arctic together. She walked around, looking at the huge hall filled with people, and suddenly realized what a monumental figure her great-great-grandfather had been. Of course, she had always known about the expeditions, but to see all these people gathered tonight to commemorate his work was astounding.

Cordelia noticed the reigning prince of Monaco, Albert II, in the center of a group. Middle-aged, handsome, he certainly looked royal. Look at that red-and-white sash and all those impressive medals. He was laughing. She tore her eyes away from him. She really shouldn’t stare. God knows she didn’t have the nerve to walk over and introduce herself.

She walked a few paces, took a glass of champagne from the waiter, and looked around. How sophisticated everyone looked in their evening clothes. This was really very exciting! She relaxed and started to enjoy the buzz of the room. Cordelia walked toward the middle of the crowd and stopped again, taking another sip of champagne.

Standing in front of her was a Russian undersea explorer. What was his name? She studied him and his group. They were clearly all Russians. The explorer was booming forth in his pompous way. What a fool. Her team had laughed at him last year, when he planted the titanium capsule with a Russian flag in the seabed at the North Pole, claiming it as Russian territory. Things got even more ridiculous when the Russian TV station Russiya reported on the expedition. The new show
Vesti
had spliced in undersea footage from the movie
Titanic,
saying it was from the
expedition. They had labeled the footage “Northern Arctic Ocean,” but a thirteen-year-old Finnish kid had recognized the footage from his DVD at home and talked to his local paper.

Cordelia took another sip. Alexandrov. That was it. How weird Alex-androv should be at the gala. He was the first to descend the fourteen thousand feet to the Arctic seabed by submarine. Technically pretty difficult, but Russia had then preposterously declared the region “Forever Russian.” Canada and the United States immediately accused Russia of a crude attempt to grab the Arctic.

At the jingoistic press conference, Alexandrov had brandished the Russian flag and carried a stuffed polar bear, the symbol of United Russia, President Vladimir Putin’s political party. He had shouted, “Russia has what it takes to win! The Arctic has always been Russian.”

Suddenly the group of Russians turned and looked in her direction. One of them was talking about her. She could tell by the way they pretended
not
to notice her. Why were they all so interested in her?

J
ohn Sinclair circulated through the crowd at the Oceanographic Institute Ball, greeting as many guests as possible. If he was going to be here, he might as well do it right. Don’t let them see you down. Not this crowd. He smiled even harder. Shari who?

Prince Albert II, surrounded by a mob, reached around to shake his hand. They exchanged a word, and the prince was drawn off to talk to another guest. Sinclair turned to work the other side of the room and realized too late he was on track to cross paths with the contessa Giorgiana Brindisi. After an imperceptible hesitation that showed only in his eyes, Sinclair moved confidently ahead. To avoid her would be a sign of weakness.

“John,” she called, as she saw him approaching. She air-kissed him, brushing his face with her dark mane of hair. He caught the familiar scent of her intoxicating perfume, the one she had designed herself. It got him every time—even tonight. Sinclair stepped back with a tight smile.

“Lovely to see you, Brindy.”

“John, darling. You look marvelous.”

Sinclair was aware of her escort, a tall, smoldering fellow about fifteen years her junior.

“May I introduce Giancarlo Grimitti.”

Sinclair’s eyes widened. It must be the son, not the father. The father would be, what, seventy by now? This man was not even thirty.

“Delighted,” said Sinclair, shaking his hand. The young man made a small half bow, more of a nod, but did not reply. Sinclair stepped to the side of the couple, as if to continue through the crowd. “I’d love to stay and chat, but duty calls. I’m searching for Charles. Have a great time!”

Sinclair walked slowly away, listening to the chatter build to a crescendo in the large space. Brindy. The last person he wanted to see. Now all he needed was for Shari to show up with her race-car driver. And he couldn’t even have a drink until after his speech. The gloom came over him like a pall. It was going to be a real trial to get through this night.

He walked to the enormous two-story windows of the Salle des Etoiles and looked out at the night view of Monaco. Right now he could use a nice sunset, an excellent whiskey, and a good book.

“Nice night, isn’t it?” Charles appeared at his elbow.

“Hmm . . .” said Sinclair.

“Oh, don’t let Brindy get you down,” Charles said. “Who is that with her, the Principe de Parma y Bologna?”

Sinclair barked a laugh in spite of his dour mood. He translated: “ ‘The Prince of Ham and Baloney.’ Good one, Charles.”

“Seriously, who is that? Look at him—he’s a kid. How old is he? Brindy is risking charges of pedophilia.”

“It’s the Grimitti heir.”

“Are you joking!” said Charles in disbelief. “Wow, Brindy is really trolling for the next big one. How much you figure he’s worth?”

“Charles, please. I can’t. Not tonight.”

“Oh, sorry, sometimes I get carried away. Listen, do you have the speech?”

Sinclair patted the lapel of his tuxedo. “All set.”