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"What inspired him to search in the first place?" Giordino asked Kelly.
She shook her head. "I have no idea. He never told my mother and me what it was he
was looking for."
"The cave in the high cliffs," Pitt said slowly.
"You think that's what he was looking for?"
"I do," Pitt came back positively.
"Do you think he found it?"
"I do," Pitt repeated.
"But there is no cave," Kelly protested.
"It's a question of looking in the right place. And if we find it, too, it will open the door to a closetful of mysteries, including your father's secret project."
"You might take a new direction in your search," said Marlys.
"What are you suggesting?" asked Pitt.
"I believe it would be helpful if you consulted with Dr. Jerry Wednesday."
"And he is ... ?"
"A leading expert on the ancient Hudson River Valley Indian tribes. He might be able to throw some light on contact with the Norsemen."
"Where can we reach him?"
"Marymount College in Tarrytown, New York. Dr. Wednesday is a professor of cultural history."
"I know Marymount," said Kelly. "A Catholic women's college just across the river from Dad's farm."
Pitt looked at Giordino. "What do you think?"
"When searching for a historical treasure, you can never do enough research."
"That's what I always say."
"I thought I heard it somewhere."
Pitt turned and shook Marlys's hand. "Marlys, thank you. Thank you for your hospitality and for being so helpful."
"Not at all. You've given me gossip for the neighbors."
She stood and watched, hand shielding her eyes from the sun, as the NUMA helicopter rose into a cloudless sky and set a course northeast to Duluth. Her thoughts traveled back to Elmore Egan. He'd been a true eccentric, an oddball but lovable, she recalled. She fervently hoped that she had given them a direction for their search, and that Dr. Wednesday might provide the final clue to the adventure.
40
Inconspicuous-looking, dusty four-wheel-drive Jeeps, Durangos and a Chevy Suburban cruised down the private road to the Cerberus-owned lodge beside Tohono Lake. None of the SUVs were new, and none were younger than eight years. They were chosen by design to blend in with the vehicles driven by the local residents of the county. As they passed through nearby towns on their way to the lake, no one paid the least bit of attention to their passengers, who were dressed as fishermen.
They arrived ten to fifteen minutes apart and entered the lodge, carrying fishing tackle boxes, rods and reels. Oddly, none gave the slightest glance at the dock or the boats that had been tied to the mooring cleats. Once they disappeared into the lodge, they stayed inside and made no attempt at baiting a hook or casting a plug. Their mission went far beyond the solitude and joy of fishing.
Nor did they did gather socially in the main hall with the huge moss-rock fireplace and high log ceiling. There would be no relaxing in the chairs and sofas draped with Navajo rugs amid the Western decor enhanced by Russell and Remington paintings and bronze sculptures. Rather, they assembled in a large basement room beneath the lodge, a room separated by a massive steel door from an escape tunnel that traveled more than two hundred yards into the safety of the forest. From there a path led half a mile to an open field, where helicopters could be called in at a moment's notice. Security systems with alarms watched over the road and grounds around the lodge for intruders. The setting was planned to look unobtrusive and ordinary, but every precaution had been taken against surveillance by government agents or state and local law enforcement.
Down in the lavishly furnished basement room, six men and two women sat opposite one another around a circular pine conference table. The ninth person, Curtis Merlin Zale, was seated at one end. He passed out several leather-bound folders and leaned back in his chair, waiting for the others to study the contents.
