The Explorer's Code (6 page)

“You’re at table two,” Charles said. “Did you remember to bring the journal?”

“Yes, I have it.” Sinclair held it up in his other hand.

“OK. Well, don’t forget to take it up with you to the podium.”

“Charles, please stop harassing me.”

“OK, I’m done. Cheer up, Sinclair. Go find somebody pretty to talk to.” Charles gave him a wink and drifted away, his glass of Perrier in hand. People were starting to sit down. Sinclair found table 2 and shook hands with a portly Italian industrialist and his wife. Thank God, here were his old friends from New York: the director of the World Wildlife Fund and his wife, Jody. He continued around the table, looking for his place card. What luck! Charles had done him a good turn in the seating arrangements. He was right next to Jean-Louis Etienne, the director general of the Oceanographic Museum in Monaco. The conversation would be bearable after all.

“Mr. Sinclair, I have been hearing about your foundation for years. A pleasure to meet you,” Jean-Louis said, shaking his hand.

“The pleasure is mine.”

They took their seats and fell easily into conversation. When the appetizer of lobster thermidor was served, Sinclair realized he was hungry after all.

“How did your expedition go?” Sinclair asked, sampling a forkful, which was rich and delicious.

Etienne looked surprised.

“We just got back. I am astonished you know of it. Your field is archaeology, is it not?”

“Yes, but the foundation is looking at polar exploration next year. It seems like the right time to fund some research on the melting ice cap.”

“That is great news! We usually go in April, when the pack ice is at its maximum thickness.”

“That late?”

“Yes, the ice is actually solid enough to land a plane on at that time of year. The air is stable then.”

“I had no idea.”

“The cold gives good buoyancy to the EM-Bird. We use that to measure the ice.”

“So the air is less stable when it’s warmer?”

“Absolutely. In April, you really only get turbulence over the ice fracture zones. That’s where the water evaporates into the air.”

Sinclair felt someone brush his shoulder and take the seat next to him. Etienne looked past him and perked up the way Frenchmen do when a woman arrives.

“Cordelia Stapleton.” A woman reached around him to shake Etienne’s hand. “A very great pleasure to meet you.”

Sinclair turned to make his own introduction.

“John Sinclair,” he said, shaking her hand and looking into a pair of very beautiful green eyes. Charles was right, she was a stunner. She smiled politely at him, but then her eyes moved past him to Etienne.

“Are you talking about your expedition? I have been dying to hear about it.”

“Yes, we got back last week,” said Etienne, clearly charmed.

“What was your route?” she asked.

“Up through Tromsø, then straight up Norway to the Barents Sea and Svalbard.”

“Have you analyzed the data yet?” Her voice was firm and confident.

Etienne was talking to her in the lingo. It was all Greek to him, so Sinclair inched his chair back. That way they could talk, and he could observe her. Young, a bit nervous. Great figure. Not much makeup, but didn’t need it. She clearly was not used to wearing an evening dress: she kept fidgeting with the long skirt.

“We went over the polar drift current to the North Pole and then made radial trips to the latitude of eighty-five North,” Etienne explained. “Then we went to the Magnetic North Pole and the Beaufort Sea. We made about ten thousand measurements.”

“Where did you land?”

“Alaska.”

Now they were talking over him as if he weren’t there. Sinclair found himself thinking he had never been so charmingly ignored in his life. The room quieted and the program began. Prince Albert began his opening speech.

“We cannot go back in time,” the prince was saying. “It is essential to rise above political divisions and ask ourselves what measures we can take today for the development of our planet that are sustainable and respectful of nature.”

Sinclair felt in his pocket for his speech. This was going to be good. Cordelia Stapleton had no idea she would be accepting her award from the man she had ignored through the first two courses of dinner. Well, she couldn’t ignore him now.

“Presenting the Herodotus Foundation Award for Historical Contribution in Science and Exploration is John Sinclair, founder and chairman.”

He rose and walked to the podium in a crescendo of applause. Sinclair waited a moment for the audience to settle, looking over the crowd. He started.

“Elliott Stapleton was one of the great scientists of our time. His scientific discoveries outshone those of many of his peers. Several explorers gained more notoriety at the time because they were masters of publicity. But we at the Herodotus Foundation believe Elliott Stapleton was head and shoulders above the others. He was not only an explorer but also a dedicated scientist. He met Prince Albert I in Tromsø, Norway, in 1898,
and that collaboration continued until 1910. During the prince’s expedition to Spitsbergen, the area now known as Svalbard, in the summers of 1898 and 1899, aboard the
Princess Alice,
they conducted a series of groundbreaking experiments. Together, these leading oceanographers made inroads in discovery we all still recognize. We are delighted to honor the expedition, the glorious collaboration of talent, and the historical contributions of the esteemed scientist Elliott Stapleton. Here accepting the posthumous award is his great-great-granddaughter, Cordelia Stapleton, one of the preeminent oceanographers in the world. She has come all the way from the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution. Please welcome Cordelia Stapleton.”

Sinclair watched her walk up to the stage. A spotlight found her and followed her through the tables. The midnight satin dress flowed around her slender figure. He noted the simple elegant lines. Her dark hair fell shining to her shoulders. He was struck by her poise. She reached the podium and accepted the plaque, thanking him with regal grace. A flash went off.

“Would you please hold for some additional pictures?”

“Of course.” Sinclair stepped closer to her. There was a swarm of photographers at their feet. Cordelia looked around, searching for a place to put down her jeweled minaudière while she held the plaque.

“I didn’t realize I’d brought my bag up with me,” she said to Sinclair. “Where should I put it?”

“Allow me.” John took the small purse and slipped it into his tuxedo pocket so she would have both hands free.

Cordelia faced forward on the dais with the spotlight still in her eyes. She was suddenly very conscious of all the people in the vast hall watching her; there were so many more tables than she had realized. She shot a quick look over to Sinclair for an indication of what to do. He gave her an encouraging smile.

He seemed very comfortable. He stepped right behind her, and she could feel the wool of his tuxedo jacket against her shoulder. Then he reached around her to take hold of the plaque, encircling her with one arm. As he folded his hand over hers to support the plaque, his touch was warm and strong. She reacted to his nearness, intensely attracted to him. He smelled of lemon verbena and soap—some kind of aftershave that evoked the scent of Mediterranean sunshine.

“Look at the plaque,” a photographer called out.

She looked down at their hands together on the dark wood. His hand
was tan, and almost twice as large as hers. She was aware of how tall he was, standing behind her. She felt incredibly awkward as she stood still for the camera, almost holding her breath. How long did this take? How many pictures did they need?

“Earlier, at dinner, I didn’t realize
you
were the head of the Herodotus Foundation,” she apologized as they held the pose. “I was corresponding by e-mail with someone named Charles Bonnard.”

“I know,” John said. “It’s my foundation and Charles is the director. I should have mentioned that when I met you, but you were so interested in talking to Etienne, I didn’t want to interrupt your conversation.”

There was a hint of teasing in his voice. She flushed, and let go of the plaque, turning to face him.

“We were talking about his
work
. We’re in the same field.”

“Of course.”

His eyes were laughing at her.

“I’m going to hand this to you again, for the cameras,” he said, and handed the plaque to her. She took it. A couple of flashes went off.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You’re welcome.”

His smile was devastating, and his eyes seemed to take in everything, intelligent and full of laughter. The irises were blue, light in the center, dark around the edges; and the color gave them an intensity that was startling. As their eyes made contact and held, the entire room faded away. She kept staring, a little too long. Then she looked away and began gathering the folds of her gown to walk down the steps.

The photographers were packing up, starting to leave. The crowd was ignoring the activity on the dais; the noise level picked up, and the waiters were serving dessert; Sinclair stepped closer and put a hand on her arm, speaking quietly.

“Please, stay a moment. I have another announcement.”

Sinclair stepped to the microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen, another moment of your attention, please.” Sinclair waited as the room settled down.

“We have something else for Miss Stapleton—something quite special. The Herodotus Foundation has the great pleasure of returning part of her very prestigious heritage.”

He seemed quite pleased with something. Almost as if he had been planning a surprise.

“We are pleased to return the journal of Elliott Stapleton from the year 1908. It was discovered in the archives at the Oceanographic Institute here in Monaco. We return it now, to his direct descendant, Cordelia Stapleton, a woman of considerable distinction in her own right.”

Sinclair presented her with a battered leather journal. He did it with great formality, holding it out to her with both hands. She didn’t speak. She could not stop staring at the brown leather journal in his hands. Finally she took it, clutching it to her along with the plaque. The room grew quiet, sensing something highly charged in the exchange. The silence lengthened in the vast ballroom. She had no idea what to say. Sinclair felt her awkwardness and spoke into the microphone as if continuing his presentation.

“Perhaps you will come to know your great-great-grandfather in more detail as you have the opportunity to read his personal observations in that momentous year.”

“Thank you,” she finally managed.

She looked up at him. There was a lump in her throat and, to her horror, tears welled in her eyes. How could he know what this meant to her—to recover just a tiny fraction of the family she had lost? Suddenly she thought about her parents, and emotions took over. They would have
loved
to be here. They were always very proud of Elliott Stapleton, and talked about him often. She missed them more at this moment than she had in decades.

She looked up at Sinclair, her eyes shining with tears. Sinclair looked startled. For the first time all evening, he seemed uncertain what to do. Realizing her emotional distress, he took a small step toward her, as if to take her arm, but stopped. His eyes questioned her. She couldn’t answer. They stood frozen on the dais as the people at the tables watched. Cordelia dropped her eyes, tucked the journal and the plaque under her arm, gathered her long skirt, and fled the stage.

Cordelia stood outside the Salle des Etoiles waiting for her limo. The gala was still going on, people were dancing and talking, but she was ready to leave.

It had been an exciting night. After the award, the press representative of the Royal Palace had appeared, inviting her to join the prince at
his table. In awe, Cordelia had followed the palace official and suddenly found herself conversing with Prince Albert. He abandoned small talk and immediately began questioning her about her work on the submersible Alvin. The prince was passionate about preserving the marine environment around Monaco, and Cordelia was surprised at his expertise. She told him about her work in deep-ocean biodiversity and the marine-life census project she had been involved in. He described a similar project that was going on in the Mediterranean. When she left his table, he promised to contact her about collaboration between the Oceanographic Institute and Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution.

Cordelia was then surrounded by people who wanted to congratulate her. She nodded and responded for nearly an hour, until suddenly jet lag caught up to her. It really was time to go.

As she walked to the entrance of the Salle des Etoiles, she felt happy, but relieved that the pressure of the evening was over. It had gone well, except for her gaffe while accepting the diary. How long had she stood there just gaping? It felt like ten minutes. Thank God John Sinclair had filled in the awkward moment for her. The audience might not have noticed, but Sinclair certainly had. She could still see his blue eyes looking at her in absolute confusion.

She felt cowardly sneaking out like this, without saying good-bye to him. But it was better to leave quietly. She couldn’t think of a thing to say, and certainly didn’t want to explain why she had been so moved when he gave her the journal.

She looked down at the leather book in her hand. To her, this was the most valuable thing she could ever own—her great-great-grandfather’s journal. The famous polar explorer had captured her imagination since she was a child. She had modeled her work and career on his life. Here was his legacy, her heritage, right here in her hand.

Her dark limo broke out of the pack and moved forward to pick her up. Her driver smartly stepped around to the back of the car to open the door for her. Just then she heard her name being called.

“Miss Stapleton. A moment, please.”

She turned in the direction of the voice and saw an attractive man sprinting over to speak to her. Light-blond and in his midthirties, he moved with incredible speed. She would swear his feet didn’t touch the flight of stairs as he flew down them. He was like a beam of light incarnate. She had never seen anyone move like that in her life.