The Navigator by Clive Cussler, Paul Kemprecos Page B

its way across the Atlantic. The murder of Ali Babbas some years before in Baghdad had shocked but not surprised her. Violence always lurked behind the scenes in the high-stakes trade in illegal antiquities. It was a shadowy world where enormous sums of money flowed and gentlemen were rarely found. Ali had probably double-crossed the wrong person.

    She had mourned his death nonetheless. Without Ali, it was doubtful she would ever recover the lost cache of antiques. Ali had been the middleman who moved stolen goods to market. He had committed nothing to paper. The names of his buyers and sellers had been in his head. With the sleazy dealer out of the picture, the antiquities she had sought had been scattered to the four winds.

    Carina had had plenty to keep her busy once she left Iraq and returned to her UNESCO office in Paris. Months after leaving Baghdad, she’d been was on the trail of a rare Etruscan statue when Auguste Benoir visited her office and presented his card. Benoir was a prim, perfidious man who reminded Carina of Agatha Christie’s fictitious detective Hercule Poirot.

    Benoir was a partner in a prestigious Paris law firm, and he got right to the point. “My firm has been retained to represent the Baltazar Foundation,” he said. “Mr. Baltazar is a wealthy businessman and philanthropist. He was quite saddened when he heard about the looting of the Baghdad Museum. Mr. Baltazar had read an article describing your efforts to find a cache of stolen antiquities, and he is hopeful that with funding from his foundation you could devote your talents to restoring these objects to the Iraqi collection.”

    “That’s very kind of Mr. Baltazar,” Carina had replied. “However, I believe I can be more valuable working with a worldwide organization like UNESCO.”

    “Forgive me for not being clear about Mr. Baltazar’s proposition. You would not be required to leave UNESCO.”

    Carina glanced at the folders piled up on her desk. “As you can see, I am buried in UNESCO work.”

    “Understandable.” Benoir produced a single sheet of paper from his briefcase. “This is the agreement that is being proposed. The foundation would donate an ongoing grant in a bank of your choice. You could draw on the bank account at any time for any purpose, with one stipulation: The money must be spent to recover the Iraqi artifacts. There is no current limit on the funds available.”

    Suddenly interested, Carina considered the offer. “Mr. Baltazar is most generous.”

    Benoir beamed. “Well, Mademoiselle Mechadi?”

    Carina was in a quandary. She was balancing several UNESCO assignments, but she couldn’t let a chance like this pass. She scanned the agreement. “Let me study this proposal and I’ll call you tomorrow with my answer.”

    The next day she called Benoir and told him her answer was yes. In her UNESCO job, Carina had worked with governments, international police, museum people, and archaeology experts, but the possibilities of unlimited funding opened up whole new worlds. With wads of cash in her hand, she would be able to buy access to the unsavory characters who populated the antiquities trade. And so it was. Soon she developed an effective network of police and underworld informants who often gave her leads on antiquities missing from countries other than Iraq.

    One of her more reliable sources was a crooked Egyptian army officer she knew only as the Colonel. Less than a week before, he had called her out of the blue with the news that the cache of Iraqi objects she had been looking for was being put up for sale by a petty thief named Hassan. She told the officer that she would see him within forty-eight hours, wired him a deposit, and told him to make the buy sight unseen.

    The agreement with the Baltazar Foundation required that she keep it informed of immediate developments. She called Benoir with the news about Hassan, and Benoir said he would pass the news along. Before flying to Cairo, she