The Navigator

Chapter 18

PROFESSOR PIETER DEVRIES WAS turning the Jefferson file over in his mind as he waited in a reception area at the State Department’s Bureau of Near Eastern Affairs. He had read every line and found no inconsistencies.

The receptionist picked up the buzzing intercom phone and exchanged a few words with the person on the other end.

“Mr. Evans will see you now, Professor DeVries,” she said with a smile. “Third door on the right.”

“Thank you.” DeVries slipped his reading material into a file case, tucked it under his arm, and walked down the hallway. He knocked lightly, then opened the door and stepped into an office. A tall, long-jawed man in his late thirties was waiting to greet him with a hand shake.

“Good morning, Professor DeVries. My name is Joshua Evans. I’m an analyst with the bureau. Have a seat.”

DeVries sat down and said, “Thanks for seeing me.”

Evans settled his lanky frame behind a desk whose clinical orderliness suggested a compulsive personality. “It’s not every day that I get a visit from the NSA,” Evans said. “You folks usually keep to yourselves. What brings you to over to Foggy Bottom?”

“As I explained on the phone, I’m a code breaker with the agency. I’ve come across information that might be of interest to your bureau. I came directly to State rather than go through NSA channels. This is a matter of some delicacy.”

“You’ve got my interest,” Evans said.

The professor opened his file case and handed over the folder that held copies of the original Jefferson material and the deciphered version. He gave Evans a capsule account of the file and how he had acquired it.

“Quite a story,” Evans said with a lightness of tone that suggested he’d been listening to a Mother Goose tale. He eyed the professor’s baggy tweed suit and Vandyke beard. “I’m still not clear why you brought it to Near Eastern Affairs.”

The professor spread his hands apart. “Phoenicia was in the geographical area that is the responsibility of your bureau.”

“Phoenicia,” Evans said with a wan smile.

“That’s right. It was one of the greatest seafaring empires of all time. It spread from its original home to the shores of Spain and beyond the Pillars of Hercules.”

Evans sat back and clasped his hands behind his head. “That may be so, Dr. DeVries, but Phoenicia longer exists.”

“I understand that, but the descendents of the Phoenicians still inhabit the countries of Lebanon and Syria.”

“Unlike those two countries, Phoenicia was not a member of the United Nations, the last I knew,” Evans said with an indulgent chuckle.

DeVries pasted a grin on his face. The professor was a battle-scarred veteran of the bureaucratic process. He knew that he would have to work his way up the ladder through self-satisfied staff people like Evans.

“I’m a mathematician, not a diplomat like yourself,” DeVries said, using a bit of flattery. “But it seems to me that when we talk about such a volatile region, any development that shakes deeply held beliefs should be given serious consideration.”

“I apologize for seeming dismissive. But artichokes? Secret codes? A long-lost Jefferson file? You must admit that the story is a fantastic one.”

DeVries gave a short laugh. “I would be the first to agree.”

“And, besides, how do we know that any of this is true?”

“We can’t authenticate the content, but the translation of the enciphered message into clear text is accurate. The fact that the material you’re holding was produced by the third president of the United States and the author of the Declaration of Independence must give it some weight.”

Evans hefted the packet of papers as if they were on a scale. “You’ve authenticated Jefferson as the source of this material?”

“Some NSA handwriting experts looked at it. There is no doubt that Jefferson wrote it.”

A confused look came to Evans’s face. DeVries had seen the same panicked expression with bureaucrats who’d been asked to deviate from their normal function, which was to gum up the workings of government. Evans’s worst nightmare had come true. He might have to make a decision. The professor offered Evans a lifeline.

“I realize the material I’ve brought you seems far-fetched. That’s why I hoped for guidance from the State Department. Perhaps you could tell your superior about our discussion?”

Passing the buck was a strategy Evans could understand. A relieved look came to the young man’s face. “I’ll bring it up with my boss, Hank Douglas. He’s head of cultural affairs for the bureau. I’ll get in touch with you after I talk to him.”

“That’s very kind of you,” DeVries said. “Could you call Mr. Douglas while I’m still here so I won’t have to bother you later?”

Evans saw that DeVries was making no attempt to rise from his chair. He picked up his phone and punched out Douglas’s number. He was hoping Douglas was out and was chagrined when his colleague answered the phone.

“Hello, Hank, this is Evans. Wondered if you had a few minutes.”

Douglas replied that he had an hour before his next appointment and invited him to stop by his office. “Okay,” Evans said. He hung up and said to DeVries, “Hank’s busy right now. I’ll see him this afternoon.”

DeVries stood and extended his hand. “Thank you,” he said. “If you ever need anything from the NSA, I’m sure we will be similarly accommodating. I’ll call you later today.”

After DeVries took his leave Evans stared at the closed door for a moment, then he sighed and picked up the packet of Jefferson material. Passing the buck had its hazards. As he left his office, he thought that he would have to be careful how he handled this hot potato.

DOUGLAS WAS a genial African American in his fifties. The circular bald spot on the top of his head made him look like a tonsured monk. He had been a history major at HowardUniversity, where he’d excelled at his studies. His office shelves were lined with books encapsulating the history of homo sapiens going back to Cro-Magnon times.

He was one of the most respected people in the bureau. He backed up his diplomatic skills with practical knowledge, having spent several years in the Near and Middle East. He was an expert on the region’s politics and religion, the two often entwined, and spoke Hebrew and Arabic.

Evans had figured out a face-saving approach: derision. He puffed out his cheeks as he stepped into Douglas’s office. “You won’t believe the odd conversation I just had.”

Evans rendered a reasonably accurate description of his talk with DeVries. Douglas listened intently as Evans did his best to portray himself as the victim of an encounter with a nutty professor. Douglas asked to see the file DeVries had delivered. He studied the pages for several minutes.

“Let me see if I understand what your professor is saying,” Douglas said as he finished the last page. “A code expert from the NSA has deciphered secret correspondence between Thomas Jefferson and Meriwether Lewis. The material suggests that Phoenicians visited North America.”

Evans grinned. “Sorry to take your time with this. I thought you’d find the story amusing.”

Douglas neither smiled nor laughed. He picked up the copy of the artichoke garden layout and gazed at the strange words. Then he reread the translations made so long ago by Jefferson’s professor friend. He said the first one out loud.

“Ophir,” he said.

“I saw that. What does it mean?”

“Ophir was the legendary location of King Solomon’s mines.”

“I always thought that was something somebody made up,” Evans said.

“Perhaps,” Douglas said. “The fact is, Solomon amassed great amounts of gold in his lifetime. The source of that gold has always been a mystery.”

“Based on what you say, and this material, Jefferson believed Ophir was in North America. Isn’t that crazy?”

Douglas didn’t answer. He read the second translation.

“Sacred relic.”

“More craziness. What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Not sure. The most sacred relic associated with Solomon would have been the Ark of the Covenant.”

“You’re saying Jefferson’s biblical object is the Ark?”

“Not necessarily. The sacred relic could be Solomon’s sock.” Douglas fiddled with a ballpoint pen. “God, I wish I could smoke my pipe at times like this.”

“What’s wrong, Hank? Jefferson or not, this thing about the Ark sounds like a fairy tale. There probably isn’t a word of truth in this stuff.”

“Makes no difference if it’s true or not,” Douglas said. “It’s all about symbols.”

“I don’t understand. What’s the big deal?”

“This is trouble any way you look at it. Remember what happened at the TempleMount in 1969, and again back in 1982?”

“Sure. An Australian religious fanatic set the mosque on the mount on fire, and later a religious group was arrested for plotting to blow it up.”

“What would have happened if they had been successful in clearing the mount to make way for the rebuilding of Solomon’s third temple?”

“Their action could have provoked a strong reaction, to say the least.”

“Now imagine that reaction if the discovery of Solomon’s sacred relic is used as an excuse to build a new temple and that the object is in the United States.”

“Given the paranoid nature of that part of the world, some people would say that it was another U.S. plot against Islam.”

“That’s right. The U.S. would be open to charges that it is scheming to clear the TempleMount of any Muslim presence. Every extremist of every major religion would be brought into this mess.”

“Damn!” Evans said. “This stuff is hot!”

“Firehouse material,” Douglas said.

The color drained from Evans’s face. “What do we do with it?” he said.

“We’ve got to go to the secretary of state. Who else knows about the Jefferson file?”

“Professor DeVries and his student from the NSA museum. Then there’s the researcher from the American Philosophical Society. The NSA people know how to keep their mouths shut.”

“Nothing stays a secret longer than six months in Washington,” Douglas said. “We’ve got to think of ways to undermine the story so that when it does come out, this country has plausible deniability.”

“How do we do that? The NSA says the material is authentic.”

“The NSA is a secret organization. It can say it never heard of this stuff. I say we attack the basic premise. That it would be impossible for a Phoenician ship to have made the trip from the eastern Mediterranean to North America. The sailing skills and technology of the day would not have allowed it.”

“Do we know that for a fact?”

“No. We’ll need a source to help lay the foundation for our argument.”

“How about the National Underwater and Marine Agency? NUMA has the experts, the database, and they know how to be discreet. I’ve got a few contacts over there.”

Douglas nodded. “You get busy on that. I’ll set up a meeting with the undersecretary. Get back to me in an hour.”

After Evans had departed, Douglas reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a pipe and tobacco pouch. Although his office was off-limits to smoking, he stuffed the pipe bowl with tobacco and lit up. With the smoke curling around his head, he leaned back in his chair and let his thoughts drift.

It all still seemed so fantastic. Maybe it was a hoax, as Evans theorized. He dove into the Jefferson file, reading every word this time.

Like many African Americans, Douglas was ambivalent about Thomas Jefferson. He recognized the man’s genius and greatness but found it hard to reconcile that with the fact that Jefferson kept slaves. As he reread the file material, he couldn’t help connect with its author on a human level. Although Jefferson’s correspondence with Lewis showed him as cool and competent, there was no doubt that the man was worried.

Douglas could have been excused if the hand holding the pages shook slightly.

The potential for chaos in today’s world was far greater than Jefferson could ever have dreamed of.