The Explorer's Code Read online

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  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2011 by Kitty Pilgrim

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  First Scribner hardcover edition July 2011

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  ISBN 978-1-4391-9719-6

  ISBN 978-1-4391-9727-1 (ebook)

  To Maurice

  The tension of life has tilted dangerously towards the material side of the watershed, disabling the balance of our soul; so that we are constrained at intervals to leave the social structure of our time, and turn away for our stability to breathe in quiet, hoping for the Unexpected.

  —FREYA STARK, EPHESUS, IONIA: A QUEST

  Contents

  Chapter 1: London, England

  Chapter 2: Ephesus, Turkey

  Chapter 3: Guaymas Basin, Gulf of California

  Chapter 4: Villa San Angelo, Anacapri, Capri, Italy

  Chapter 5: Hotel Metropole, Monaco

  Chapter 6: Fifth Avenue, New York City

  Chapter 7: Hôtel de Paris, Monaco

  Chapter 8: Port Hercule Marina, Monaco

  Chapter 9: Monte Carlo, Monaco

  Chapter 10: Sporting Club, Monte Carlo

  Chapter 11: Udachny Motoryacht, Monaco

  Chapter 12: London

  Chapter 13: Svalbard, Norway

  Chapter 14: Monaco

  Chapter 15: Longyearbyen

  Chapter 16: Oceanographic Institute, Monaco

  Chapter 17: London

  Chapter 18: Monaco

  Chapter 19: Monaco Fencing Club

  Chapter 20: Villefranche-sur-Mer, France

  Chapter 21: London

  Chapter 22: Monaco

  Chapter 23: Porto Mediceo, Livorno, Italy

  Chapter 24: London

  Chapter 25: Queen Victoria

  Chapter 26: Marsaxlokk, Malta

  Chapter 27: Queen Victoria

  Chapter 28: London

  Chapter 29: LuEsther T. Mertz Library, New York Botanical Garden

  Chapter 30: Queen Victoria

  Chapter 31: Grand Bazaar, Kusadasi, Turkey

  Chapter 32: Queen Victoria

  Chapter 33: London

  Chapter 34: Queen Victoria

  Chapter 35: London

  Chapter 36: Queen Victoria

  Chapter 37: Izmir, Turkey

  Chapter 38: The Udachny

  Chapter 39: Ephesus, Turkey

  Chapter 40: London

  Chapter 41: Oxfordshire, England

  Chapter 42: Cliffmere, England

  Chapter 43: Moscow

  Chapter 44: Cliffmere

  Chapter 45: Golden Horn Inn, Oxfordshire

  Chapter 46: Cliffmere

  Chapter 47: New York City

  Chapter 48: Cliffmere

  Chapter 49: London

  Chapter 50: Paris

  Chapter 51: Oslo, Norway

  Chapter 52: Paris

  Chapter 53: Longyearbyen

  Chapter 54: Paris

  Chapter 55: Longyearbyen

  Chapter 56: Paris

  Chapter 57: Longyearbyen

  Chapter 58: Flight SK 4414, Oslo to Longyearbyen

  Chapter 59: Longyearbyen

  Chapter 60: London

  Chapter 61: London

  Chapter 62: SAS Flight SK 802

  Chapter 63: Longyearbyen

  Chapter 64: Oslo

  Chapter 65: Longyearbyen

  Chapter 66: Cliffmere

  Chapter 67: Ephesus

  Acknowledgments

  Under Roman law the Latin expression “terra nullius” meant “land belonging to no one,” or no-man’s-land. In international law the term refers to territory that is not under the sovereignty of any state. Sovereignty over terra nullius is achieved through occupation of the land.

  London, England

  Peter Stapleton sat with his feet up on the leather ottoman. A light rain misted the dusk outside the window; evening was just setting in. He had done nothing all day except work on his portfolio. While everyone was piling into financials, he had moved into the safety of cash and a couple of choice investments. He flipped through his broker’s reports. It looked like he got out in time. The whole world was in a credit meltdown, banks collapsing like bamboo huts in a tsunami.

  He looked past his monogrammed velvet slippers propped up on the ottoman. The fire was just dying down again. He would ring for more wood in a moment. Oh, on second thought, Magda would have left for the day. It was time to get dressed for dinner. Sara and David had a great cook, and meals at their home were always a delight. Not that he needed it, five stone overweight and still gaining. He really should get a grip on the weight; the doctor just kept shaking his head every time he went for a checkup.

  He looked back at his financial documents. The Packton Fund was the ticket; that fellow in Chicago was a genius. And, of course, there was that little deal that Andrew had put him on to. The return on that was almost criminal. He took a sip of his highly sugared Earl Grey, but the tea had gone cold.

  There was a noise a floor below. Magda must still be here. He rang the electronic bell beside his chair. Nothing. Only the sound of the clock on his desk. Must be his imagination. No, there was the noise again. It sounded like things falling to the floor. Peter Stapleton got up, heaving his enormous bulk out of the leather chair. Better check that out. It could be a window open, things blowing about.

  He started down the stairs, feeling a little light-headed after sitting all afternoon. He had tried to stave off his indigestion after lunch, had drunk some tea. Lamb chops were always a bit heavy, nothing to be alarmed about. Of course, the sticky date pudding wasn’t really necessary, but Magda did it so well. The heaviness had sat on his chest on and off all afternoon. Walking about now, he started to feel a bit nauseous and clammy.

  As he moved down the stairs he heard the unmistakable sounds of the contents of his living-room bookshelf being pulled to the floor. What was going on?

  He glimpsed the intruder as he stood in the doorway. What in the bloody hell? The man was slight, dark, wearing a sweat suit and Wind-breaker, still wet from outdoors. Peter Stapleton looked at the spots of rain beaded on the nylon. It must be raining hard. He must have just come in.

  That was his last real thought. Suddenly he felt very short of breath, his face flushed hot. His vision blurred and he was racked with a searing pain in his left arm. The man started toward him. Dark, foreign-looking. Not English. Peter Stapleton reached out to him, a perfect stranger, as he fell.

  Ephesus, Turkey

  For the last hour, John Sinclair had been crouched over a fragment of bone sticking up from the earth. With a small camel-hair brush he flicked away grains of soi
l.

  “Karl, take a look at this,” he shouted over his shoulder. There was no reply.

  Sinclair stood and looked around the site. Ephesus was strangely deserted. The silent ruins stretched out for miles in the sunshine, and not a soul was moving among the white chunks of marble. Even the few off-season tourists had left. He glanced at his watch, dustproof, shockproof, and well suited to his work. It was noon.

  He spent most of his time in Ephesus on his hands and knees in the dust, breathing it, smelling it, and—truth be told—worshipping the ground of the ancient city. He loved the palpable heat that beat down on his back every day as he worked, baking the soil, warming the ancient marble ruins. Sinclair experienced Ephesus through his senses: the smell of the dust, and the feel of the warm stones beneath his hands. The carvings were as clear to him as if they had been done yesterday. He would trace, like a man reading Braille, the Greek and Latin inscriptions on a wall, or the secret Christian symbols carved into the marble pavement.

  In the ancient graveyard he would handle every bone fragment with a deep reverence, because for him these people were real, and this was a living city. When he walked among the crowds of tourists along the ancient streets, he had no problem imagining that he was walking in the Ephesus of Roman times, along a broad marble avenue trod by leather sandals and resounding with a polyglot of archaic languages.

  Sinclair realized his passion for the ancient city bordered on the irrational. If he were a superstitious man he would attribute his obsession to the power of ancient ghosts. If he had a strong belief in reincarnation, he might conclude he was influenced by the memory of a past life. If he were a religious man, he would say God was calling him. But Sinclair was neither superstitious nor very religious; he liked to think of himself as a man of science.

  Sinclair wiped his forehead, streaking a smear across his temple. His dark hair was coated with dust. The intense blue eyes swept around the archaeological site. No sign of Karl. He sat down, leaning against a warm marble slab, and closed his eyes to the Turkish sun. There wasn’t a sound.

  He drowsed, and his mind roamed freely: first he reviewed his find of the day, a new femur, and the utter thrill of lifting it out of the ancient soil. As he relaxed, he recovered the sense-memory of a pair of beautifully curved buttocks cupped in his hands, and the way he could slide two of his fingers between them as he pulled the woman’s body toward him. Then he felt her beautiful legs as they wound around his back, her head tilted, goading him, her eyes half shut with desire.

  The shrill pierce of a cell phone sounded. Without opening his eyes, he worked it out of the pocket of his cargo shorts and flipped it open.

  “Sinclair.”

  A voice on the other end began speaking at a rapid pace. The pitch was feminine. He listened for a moment in silence, and his eyes finally opened and focused on the distance.

  “Sure, I can work it out.”

  The woman’s voice continued.

  He answered. “I was planning on coming at the end of the week for the award ceremony, but I can come today if you need me.”

  He consulted his watch. “I’ll get a flight this afternoon.”

  The BMW R1200GSA Adventure was parked under the tree where he left it this morning. He put his notebook in the Zega side pannier, climbed on, and started the engine. The sound of the bike roared over the silence of Ephesus. Sinclair swerved sharply out of the dirt parking lot onto the macadam and followed the road uphill through an olive grove. As he left the dig, he scanned his cherished site. Random bits of marble stuck up from the grass like giant teeth, irregular and gleaming white. Only about 15 percent of Ephesus had been excavated, and the remnants of marble scattered around the fields were hints of more treasure to come.

  Sinclair pushed the bike faster, and the wind cooled his face. He loved this ride. The road climbed steadily up into the arid hills for several miles. Across the landscape there was nothing but scrubby vegetation, mostly silver-leafed olive trees and narthex, a plant used in ancient Ephesus as a torch to light early church gatherings.

  At the summit of the mountain, Sinclair pulled into the courtyard of a modest stone house and cut the engine. No other vehicles were in the yard. He walked to the door, unlocked it, and pushed it open. Inside, the single room was nearly empty: a neatly made bed, armoire, writing desk, and a couch by the window. He punched the sound system on the desk as he walked past, and the Baroque melody of Arcangelo Corelli’s La Follia filled the air. As he walked to the shower, he stripped naked, his uncovered flesh gleaming white in contrast to his deep tan. Throwing his clothes in a bin, he stepped into the shower and let the hot needles of the water sluice away the dust. He had to bend his knees to rinse his hair.

  Sinclair stood at an impressive six feet four inches; his legs hinted of some extreme form of exercise; the muscles of his thighs were striated. An obvious guess would put him as a triathlete or competitive cyclist. But a closer look would reveal one thigh was slightly thicker, the telltale mark of a champion fencer. His broad shoulders had some bulk, but he carried no spare weight.

  He finished his shower and walked to the phone naked, a towel thrown over his shoulder, dialed, and waited for the beep.

  “Karl, it’s Sinclair. Sorry, but I have to leave for Monaco this afternoon. I’ll be back in a couple of days to help with the new quadrant. I think I just found a very nice femur there. Take a look and let me know what you think.”

  The second call was to Charles Bonnard. Voice mail again.

  “Charles, I’m heading to Monaco a few days early. If you’re still in Capri, don’t worry. There’s no rush; we can still meet at the end of the week if that works for you.”

  He dialed again, and this time someone answered.

  “Malik, it’s John Sinclair. Can you come pick me up right away? I need to get to the airport.”

  Sinclair listened and then continued.

  “It’s not a scheduled flight; I need a charter. Can you arrange it? Yes, for Monaco. Thanks, Malik, I’ll be waiting.”

  Then he walked to the armoire and pulled it open. Nothing in the modest room would have given a hint of what lay inside: six immaculately tailored Italian suits, crisply ironed English-made shirts, dozens of silk socks, a rainbow of exquisite ties, and two rows of custom-made shoes. Sinclair pulled on a pair of Egyptian-cotton boxers and started to dress. Five minutes later he was tying his tie. When he heard the van rumbling up the hill, he scooped up his keys and tossed them into an earthenware bowl over the sink and walked out onto the terrace. If all went well, Sinclair would be in Monaco by evening.

  Guaymas Basin, Gulf of California

  Cordelia Stapleton unzipped her full-body dive skin, peeled it off, and flung it on the deck in a sodden black heap. Underneath was a blue tank suit. She could feel the ocean water evaporate instantly from her back, leaving the sensation of dried salt on her shoulder blades. Her dark hair was still wet, splayed like tentacles over her shoulders.

  Dripping, she walked over to the bin of towels. She took one and rubbed her limbs vigorously, conscious of the deep tiredness that comes after swimming for hours. She massaged her leg muscles to warm them up. Cordelia was long and lean, and her body was well toned. The ocean currents served as her personal trainer, and the workouts were daily. She tied the towel around her waist into a sarong.

  That was a good morning’s work. She had volunteered to be one of the two swimmers to retrieve the submersible. She and another diver had attached the tag line, to pull the Alvin to the stern of the vessel. The crew was now in the process of raising it up to secure it in the hangar.

  She was not happy about the manipulators. The check of the robotic arms turned up multiple issues. They would need extensive repair. The whole thing was frustrating; those arms had just been installed two years ago.

  “Hey, Delia,” Joel said, coming out on deck. “You have a phone message. The Herodotus Foundation called.”

  “Never heard of it,” she said, taking another towel and drying her l
ong hair.

  “Well, they heard of you. They said they’ve been e-mailing you about an invitation for the last six months and you never replied,” Joel said, padding over in L.L.Bean flip-flops. His red shorts were faded to pink, and the logo on his shirt read WOODS HOLE OCEANOGRAPHIC INSTITUTION.

  Cordelia took the pink message slip, trying not to drip on it: Charles Bonnard, Herodotus Foundation. 377 92 16 4738.

  “Where is this? Where is three seven seven?”

  “Monaco. Too late to call them back now; they’re nine hours ahead. I’ll remind you tomorrow.”

  She didn’t answer. She tried to hand the message back to him, but Joel ignored her and walked away.

  “They want you to come to Monaco to accept an award in honor of your great-great-grandfather,” he said.

  Cordelia said nothing, staring at the pink message slip again.

  “Hey, I had no idea you were related to someone famous. How come you never said anything about it?” Joel challenged.

  “Most people haven’t heard of him.”

  “What did he do?”

  “His name was Elliott Stapleton. He was a polar explorer.”

  “Are you kidding me? You are related to that Stapleton. Delia, he was huge, in what . . . the Victorian era?”

  “Yes, but he made his most important expedition later, after the turn of the century—in 1906.”

  “That is incredible! I had no idea you were related. So I guess the Herodotus Foundation wants you to accept his award. You have to go!”

  Joel hoisted himself up to sit on a gear locker but didn’t break his gaze, which was magnified by his thick lenses. His skinny legs dangled down, and his flip-flops fell onto the deck and lay there like dead fish. He was the only man she knew who could spend his life on a ship and still look white and anemic. So typical for him to push his point like this. She ignored him, hosing off her flippers and mask, and setting them up against a gear locker to dry. When she looked back, he was still staring.

  “Joel, I can’t go to Monaco. I have too much to do here.”