“The plans indicate the ship is only fifty-five feet long,” Trout pointed out.
“This is a composite of the Israel ships. I’ll add some length. I tweaked the program so that it will automatically add in design features that would have evolved with the increase in the ship’s size.”
A skeletal, three-dimensional image appeared, outlining the ship’s timbers and other structural elements. The spaces between the timbers began to fill in. Decks, oars, rigging, and sail materialized, along with a ramming beak on the prow. The last feature was a carved horse head on the bow.
“Voilà! A ship of Tarshish.”
“It’s magnificent,” Gamay said. “The lines are functional yet graceful.”
“She would be around two hundred feet long, as I reckon,” Summers said. “That ship could go anywhere in the world.”
“Which brings us back to our original problem,” Trout said. “How do we figure out that vessel’s transatlantic routes?”
Pursing his lips, Summers said, “It’s possible to back into a solution like those guys did with the nau. You’d need wind, current, and weather patterns, work in the ship’s probable speed, figure out the pilot’s choices according to ship design, and then factor in historical accounts.”
Gamay let out a heavy sigh. “We’ve got a lot of work to do.”
Summers glanced at his wristwatch. “Me too. They want the Atlantis ready to sail in three days.”
THE TROUTS thanked Summers and walked back along the main street of Woods Hole. “Where do you think we should go from here?” Gamay said.
“Tough to say. Kurt only gave us a few crumbs of information. He’s not going to be happy, but I don’t think we have enough to pull this thing together. We may need another approach.”
Like many married couples, Paul and Gamay had a way of anticipating each other’s thoughts. Their work for the NUMA Special Assignments Team, where unspoken communication could mean the difference between life and death, had honed their skills to a sharp edge.
“I’ve been thinking the same thing,” Gamay said. “Every sea voyage starts on land. Let’s go through the Jefferson file again. There may be something we missed.”
Back at the house, they sat at the kitchen table, read half the file, and then exchanged the sections. They both finished reading at about the same time.
Gamay put the papers down and said, “What pops out at you?”
“Meriwether Lewis,” Trout said. “He was on his way to tell Jefferson what he had found when he died.”
“That intrigued me too.” She riffled through the papers in front of her. “Lewis had material evidence he wanted to show Jefferson. I suggest that we try to figure out what happened to it.”
“Might be almost as tough as reconstructing a Phoenician voyage,” Trout said.
“There’s a nexus that might help us,” Gamay said. “Jefferson was president of the American Philosophical Society in Philadelphia. He sent Lewis there to prep him in the sciences for his historic exploration. While Lewis was in Philadelphia, Jefferson devised the cipher for them to use.”
Trout blinked his large brown eyes in a barely noticeable show of excitement and picked up the thread. “Jefferson wrote to members of the society to tell them about his Indian language research and the theft of his papers. He contacted a society scholar, who identified the words on the vellum map as Phoenician. The artichoke file was found at the society.”
“That’s better than knowing Kevin Bacon or six degrees of separation,” Gamay said. She looked through the file and found a number for the Philosophical Society and the name of the researcher who had discovered the file. She called Angela Worth, identified herself, and made an appointment to meet the next day.
As Gamay hung up, Trout grinned and said, “You realize our vacation has come to an end.”
“That’s okay,” Gamay said. “I think I’m getting tired of fishing.”
Trout gave a weary shrug of his shoulders.
“I know I am,” he said.
Chapter 26
WITH A CRUISING SPEED OF more than five hundred miles an hour, the turquoise-colored Cessna Citation X aircraft flew to Istanbul in three hours after a quick refueling stop in Paris. The raked-tail aircraft touched down at KemalAtatürkInternationalAirport and taxied away from the main terminal. The six passengers went through a special entry gate reserved for VIPs and were politely whisked through customs.
The Subvette had arrived earlier on a special NUMA cargo plane and was being stored in an airport warehouse. Zavala wanted to inspect the submersible to see how it had fared on its journey. He told Austin he would catch a taxi to the excavation after he arranged for the vehicle to be transported to the dig.
Two vans awaited their arrival. One vehicle would take their luggage to their hotel while another went directly to the excavation. The NUMA scientists were eager to get to the site. The team’s leader was a veteran nautical archaeologist named Martin Hanley.
On the transatlantic leg of the flight, Hanley had explained the reason for haste. He had made a preliminary trip to Istanbul to see the port which had been built when the city was still known as Constantinople. The port was found in Yenikapi, on the European side of the narrow Bosphorus Straits, when squatter shanties had been cleared to build a new hub railroad station. The site had been named the Port of Theodosius.
The archaeological excavation could delay construction of a tunnel connecting the European and Asian sides of the city. Hanley and the Turkish archaeologists were worried that important finds could be overlooked in the hurry to excavate the site. He had returned to Washington to assemble his team.
The American scientists were greeted warmly by their Turkish counterparts. Round-the-clock shifts were working the muddy excavation.
“Sure you don’t want to stick around?” Hanley said. “They’ve found a church, eight boats, shoes, anchors, lines, and part of the old city walls. Who knows what treasures they’ll discover next?”
“Thanks. Maybe after we do some sightseeing.”
Austin hailed a cab that took them along Kennedy Caddesi, the busy thoroughfare that runs along the edge of the Bosphorus. An unbroken line of cargo ships was queuing up to pass through the busy connector between the Black Sea and the Mediterranean. Austin turned to Carina and said, “How long have you known your Turkish connection?”
“A year or so. Cemil helped me recover some Anatolian treasures that had been stolen from the TopkapiPalace. He used to be a smuggler. No arms or drugs, he says. Cigarettes, appliances, anything that was covered by high tariffs.”
“Is he connected to the Turkish mafia?”
She laughed. “I asked him that. He said that in Turkey everyone is in the mafia. He came through for me, but he’s…” Carina’s English failed her for a moment. “How do you say it? Mysterious.”
“I had concluded that. You’re sure he said to meet him at the ‘upside-down woman with the stone eyes’?”
“Positive. He likes to talk in riddles. It’s quite maddening at times.”
Austin asked the cab driver to take them to Sultanamet. They got out of the cab and walked across the busy street. “We’ll find your friend right below our feet if I’m not mistaken,” Austin said.
“He’s not the only one who talks in riddles.”
Austin went over to a kiosk and bought two admission tickets to the Basilica Cisterns. They went down a flight of stairs. The cool, damp air that brushed their faces felt good after the heat of the city.