The Navigator by Clive Cussler, Paul Kemprecos Page A
Authors: Clive Cussler, Paul Kemprecos
Tags: Fiction, General, Juvenile Nonfiction, Action & Adventure, Adventure fiction, Composition & Creative Writing, Language Arts, Iraq War; 2003-, Archaeological Thefts, Iraq, Austin; Kurt (Fictitious Character), Marine Scientists
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to let the
Navigator
fall into anyone else’s hands. This seemed to be the only way.”
“You were absolutely right to follow orders. It is important that we find the object first. We have waited nearly three thousand years. A little more time won’t matter.”
Adriano breathed a sigh of relief. He had been trained not to feel pain or fear, but he was well aware of the fate of those who displeased his benefactor. “Do you want me to try to track it down?”
“No. I’ll try to go through international channels once more. It’s becoming too dangerous there for you.”
“I’ve made arrangements to leave the country through Syria.”
“Good.” There was a pause at the other end of the line. “This woman, Carina Mechadi, may prove useful.”
“In what way, sir?”
“We shall see, Adriano. We shall see.”
The line went dead.
He grabbed his bag and closed the hotel-room door behind him. He planned to meet an oil smuggler who had promised to get him out of Iraq. In accordance with his standing orders to leave no trace of his passing, he would, of course, dispatch the man to Allah once he was safe across the border.
He smiled as he savored the prospect.
CHAPTER 4
FAIRFAX COUNTY, VIRGINIA, THE PRESENT
THE RED CORVETTE CONVERTIBLE swung off the road, with its stereo speakers blasting salsa music like a Tijuana jukebox on wheels. The car breezed along a driveway that ran past a Victorian mansion and lawns which looked as if they had been clipped with manicure scissors. Joe Zavala pulled his car up in front of an ornate boathouse built on the banks of the Potomac River and was about to slide out from behind the steering wheel when he heard the gunshot.
As a brilliant designer of undersea craft for the National Underwater and Marine Agency, Zavala ordinarily carried nothing more lethal than a laptop computer. But his years working for NUMA’s Special Assignments Team had taught him the wisdom of the Boy Scout adage to be prepared. Zavala reached under the car seat, his fingers closed on a quick-release holster, and his hand came out with a Walther PPK handgun.
He got out of the car and made his way around the boathouse, moving with the stealth of a deer hunter. Pressing his back to the exterior wall, he edged his way to the corner and popped out into the open, gun extended with both hands and ready to find a target.
A broad-shouldered man dressed in tan shorts and white T-shirt was standing on the riverbank with his back to Zavala. The man held a pistol down by his thigh and was inspecting a paper bull’s-eye pinned to a tree. A cloud of purple smoke hung in the air. The man slipped a pair of ear protectors off his head just as Zavala stepped on a twig. He turned at the snapping sound and saw Zavala creeping around the corner with the gun clutched in his hands.
Kurt Austin, Zavala’s boss on NUMA’s Special Assignments Team, grinned and said, “Going on a turkey shoot, Joe?”
Zavala lowered the gun and walked over to the tree to inspect the hole that had been punched slightly off the center ring of the target.
“
You’re
the one who should be hunting turkeys, deadeye.”
Austin removed his yellow protective shooting goggles to reveal blue eyes the color of coral under water. “I’ll stick to stationary targets for now.” He glanced at Zavala’s pistol. “What’s with the SWAT team imitation?”
Zavala tucked the gun into his belt. “You didn’t tell me you’d turned your expensive riverfront property into a shooting gallery.”
Austin blew the smoke away from the pistol barrel like a gun-fighter who’d beaten his opponent to the draw.
“I couldn’t wait to try out my new toy at a shooting range.”
He handed the flintlock dueling pistol to Zavala, who inspected the walnut stock and the engraved octagonal barrel.
“Nice balance,” he said, hefting the weapon. “How old is it?”
“It was made in 1785 by Robert Wogdon, a London gunsmith. He
Navigator
fall into anyone else’s hands. This seemed to be the only way.”
“You were absolutely right to follow orders. It is important that we find the object first. We have waited nearly three thousand years. A little more time won’t matter.”
Adriano breathed a sigh of relief. He had been trained not to feel pain or fear, but he was well aware of the fate of those who displeased his benefactor. “Do you want me to try to track it down?”
“No. I’ll try to go through international channels once more. It’s becoming too dangerous there for you.”
“I’ve made arrangements to leave the country through Syria.”
“Good.” There was a pause at the other end of the line. “This woman, Carina Mechadi, may prove useful.”
“In what way, sir?”
“We shall see, Adriano. We shall see.”
The line went dead.
He grabbed his bag and closed the hotel-room door behind him. He planned to meet an oil smuggler who had promised to get him out of Iraq. In accordance with his standing orders to leave no trace of his passing, he would, of course, dispatch the man to Allah once he was safe across the border.
He smiled as he savored the prospect.
CHAPTER 4
FAIRFAX COUNTY, VIRGINIA, THE PRESENT
THE RED CORVETTE CONVERTIBLE swung off the road, with its stereo speakers blasting salsa music like a Tijuana jukebox on wheels. The car breezed along a driveway that ran past a Victorian mansion and lawns which looked as if they had been clipped with manicure scissors. Joe Zavala pulled his car up in front of an ornate boathouse built on the banks of the Potomac River and was about to slide out from behind the steering wheel when he heard the gunshot.
As a brilliant designer of undersea craft for the National Underwater and Marine Agency, Zavala ordinarily carried nothing more lethal than a laptop computer. But his years working for NUMA’s Special Assignments Team had taught him the wisdom of the Boy Scout adage to be prepared. Zavala reached under the car seat, his fingers closed on a quick-release holster, and his hand came out with a Walther PPK handgun.
He got out of the car and made his way around the boathouse, moving with the stealth of a deer hunter. Pressing his back to the exterior wall, he edged his way to the corner and popped out into the open, gun extended with both hands and ready to find a target.
A broad-shouldered man dressed in tan shorts and white T-shirt was standing on the riverbank with his back to Zavala. The man held a pistol down by his thigh and was inspecting a paper bull’s-eye pinned to a tree. A cloud of purple smoke hung in the air. The man slipped a pair of ear protectors off his head just as Zavala stepped on a twig. He turned at the snapping sound and saw Zavala creeping around the corner with the gun clutched in his hands.
Kurt Austin, Zavala’s boss on NUMA’s Special Assignments Team, grinned and said, “Going on a turkey shoot, Joe?”
Zavala lowered the gun and walked over to the tree to inspect the hole that had been punched slightly off the center ring of the target.
“
You’re
the one who should be hunting turkeys, deadeye.”
Austin removed his yellow protective shooting goggles to reveal blue eyes the color of coral under water. “I’ll stick to stationary targets for now.” He glanced at Zavala’s pistol. “What’s with the SWAT team imitation?”
Zavala tucked the gun into his belt. “You didn’t tell me you’d turned your expensive riverfront property into a shooting gallery.”
Austin blew the smoke away from the pistol barrel like a gun-fighter who’d beaten his opponent to the draw.
“I couldn’t wait to try out my new toy at a shooting range.”
He handed the flintlock dueling pistol to Zavala, who inspected the walnut stock and the engraved octagonal barrel.
“Nice balance,” he said, hefting the weapon. “How old is it?”
“It was made in 1785 by Robert Wogdon, a London gunsmith. He
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