“On the other hand, this fairy tale may be a hoax, the product of a clever imagination.”

“Do you really believe that, sir?”

“No. I think the document is for real. The story it tells is another matter.”

“How do we handle this thing?”

The professor tugged at his beard so hard it was a wonder that the Vandyke didn’t come off.

“Ve-ry carefully,” he said.

NUMA 7 - The Navigator

Chapter 17

TRAFFIC WAS HEAVY ON P STREET, where the Republic of Iraq had its embassy in the historic nineteenth-century Boardman House. A stream of limousines and luxury cars passed in front of the three-story Romanesque-style building near Dupont Circle, stopping from time to time to disgorge men in tuxedos, women in gowns, attired for a black-tie affair.

The doorman waved a taxi in to take the place of a departing diplomatic limo and opened the passenger door. Carina Mechadi emerged, her lithe figure sheathed in an ankle-length velvet dress whose black-brown color matched shoulder-length hair that was pinned back in a French twist. The gown’s scooped neckline displayed a décolletage that hovered between proper and sexy. An embroidered white shawl covered her bare shoulders and set off her creamy dark skin.

She thanked the doorman with a smile that sent his middle-aged temperature soaring to unhealthy levels and followed the other guests through the arched front entrance. A young male embassy employee glanced at her gilt-edged invitation and checked her name off a list.

“Thank you for coming to our reception, Ms. Mechadi. The Embassy of Iraq welcomes you as our guest.”

“Thank you,” Carina said. “I’m pleased to be here.”

The vestibule echoed with the conversational hubbub created by dozens of chatting guests. Carina glanced around with her bold blue eyes, unsure whether to linger or peel off into a side room. As the other guests became aware of her presence, they turned her way, causing a lull in the level of voices.

Carina was not a tall person, yet she had a compelling physical presence that seemed to demand attention. The women in the room sensed her female magnetism and instinctively gripped the arms of their escorts, relaxing only after a tall, middle-aged man broke off from the crowd and made his way toward the newly arrived guest.

He clicked his heels and bowed gallantly. “Carina Mechadi, the Angel of the Antiquities, if I’m not mistaken.”

An anonymous headline writer had given Carina the lofty title in an article published by Smithsonian magazine. She smiled graciously and took control of the conversation. “I’ve never liked that description, Mr.—”

“Pardon me, Ms. Mechadi. My name is Anthony Saxon, and I offer my profound apologies if I have offended you.” He spoke in the vaguely British accent that was once cultivated in exclusive American prep schools.

“Not at all, Mr. Saxon.” She extended her hand. “How did you recognize me?”