Paul shrugged and flipped open his cell phone. He scrolled down the index until he found the number of a State Department staffer he had worked with on ocean jurisdiction issues. Moments later, he hung up.

“Nickerson is an undersecretary. My pal at Foggy Bottom doesn’t know him personally but says Nickerson is an insider and a survivor. He’s considered brilliant but eccentric, and he lives on an antique yacht on the Potomac. He gave me the name of the marina but not the yacht. How about making a quick stop along the Potomac on the way home?”

“Wouldn’t it be easier if we knew the boat’s name?” Angela said.

“If we liked doing things the easy way, we wouldn’t be working for NUMA,” Paul said.

THE SEARCH FOR Nickerson’s boat was tougher than the Trouts had anticipated.

A number of boats could have qualified as old, but only one—a white-hulled motor cruiser named Lovely Lady—that fit the bill as an antique.

Paul got out of the SUV and went over to the boat. The deck was deserted, and there didn’t seem to be any signs of life on board. He walked up the boarding plank and called hello a couple of times.

No one answered from the yacht, but a man popped his head out of a cabin cruiser in the next slip.

“Nick’s not on board,” he said. “Took off awhile ago.”

Paul thanked him and headed back to the car. On the way, he glanced at the boat’s name again and noticed that the transom was whiter than the rest of the hull. He went back to Nickerson’s neighbor and asked if the yacht’s name had been changed.

“As a matter of fact, it has,” the man said.

Minutes later, Paul slid behind the steering wheel. “No Nickerson,” he said.

“I saw you checking out the boat’s name,” Gamay said.

“Just curious. Nickerson’s neighbor said the yacht used to be called Thistle.”

Angela’s ears perked up. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Artichokes.”

“Come again?” Trout said.

“It’s something I came across when I was pulling files for my writer friend. The globe artichoke is a thistle.”

NUMA 7 - The Navigator

Chapter 42

SAXON UNLOCKED THE DOOR to his rented cottage near the bay and snapped the light on. Flashing a toothy grin, he said: “Welcome to the Saxon archaeological conservation lab.”

The chairs and sofa in the musty living room had been pushed back against the walls to make space for a plastic trash barrel and two folding picnic tables set up end to end. Stacked on the tables were layers of thick paper sandwiched between top and bottom plywood sheets.