The Explorer's Code Read Online Free PDF Page A

progress.”
    Charles studied him closely. Sinclair looked exhausted. Blue bruises under his eyes. Puffy eyelids from drinking, and his skin was sallow and dry. Clearly he was hungover.
    “ Bad late night? Or good late night?”
    “Argghhh,” Sinclair exhaled, with the ghost of a smile. “Let’s just say it wasn’t all that good.”
    “Do you want to talk about it? Or should we stick to business?” Charles ventured.
    “Business. Definitely business.”
    “I hereby call this meeting to order,” Charles said.
    But Sinclair derailed all formality.
    “Before we go into all that, I should tell you about Shari. You introduced us, after all.”
    “Shari? What’s she up to?”
    “Hector Corillo—the number-one driver for Team McAllister.”
    “The race-car driver?”
    Sinclair nodded, his face drawn.
    “Did you break it off with her?” Charles asked.
    “She did it.”
    Sinclair sounded depressed. He looked around the lobby, and took a long sip of his iced tea. He looked down at his glass as if surprised at its contents, and then took another long swig.
    Charles fussed with his monogrammed cuff links.
    “You knew,” Sinclair accused.
    “Yes, I knew.” Charles stopped with the cuff link and slid a magazine out from under him.
    “You were literally sitting on the story!” exclaimed Sinclair.
    “I didn’t want to be the one to tell you.”
    He handed over the rolled-up magazine. Sinclair unfolded the Paris Match. Shari and Corillo were entwined on the cover.
    “ ‘The Fast Life,’ “ translated Sinclair. “I guess I’m the last to know.”
    “Well, unless it’s carved on the marble in Ephesus, you’re not likely to read it.”
    Sinclair thumbed through the article, his brow furrowed, and handed the magazine back to Charles. Then he looked away, watching people walk through the lobby.
    “Listen, we have to talk about tonight,” Charles finally said.
    “So what’s the deal?” Sinclair’s voice was dispirited.
    “The usual.” Charles struck up a brisk tone, rummaging through his brown crocodile folio.
    “Six p.m. cocktails. Seven p.m. sit down for dinner. The program startsafter the main course is over, and runs through dessert and coffee. Dancing afterward.”
    Sinclair winced. “I don’t suppose you could take care of it, could you, Charles? I’m really not up to it.”
    “Sinclair, I can’t . It’s your foundation. It’s your award. You have to come.”
    Sinclair took a deep breath and blew it out in exasperation. There was a long moment as he decided.
    “OK,” he said resignedly. “Who does the opening remarks? The prince?”
    “Exactly,” Charles said, reading his notes, “His Serene Highness Prince Albert the Second will award the Monaco Prize to the Ocean Surface Topography Mission for their climate-change work. And right after the main course, during dessert, you’re up.”
    “Damned if I can remember who we are giving it to. I got the letter, but I don’t remember where I put it.”
    “It’s in some pile of bones on your desk in Ephesus, no doubt.”
    “Probably.”
    “We gave the award to Elliott Stapleton. American. Polar explorer and scientist. He was on expedition with Prince Albert’s great-great-grandfather Albert the First—he made quite a few expeditions, from about 1898 to about 1910.”
    Charles was again referring to his notes. “Accepting is . . . here we go, Cordelia Stapleton. Great-great-granddaughter. A big deal in her own right. Oceanographer at Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution in Massachusetts.”
    “Hometown girl,” said Sinclair approvingly.
    “Yup. Quite a babe, from what I hear.”
    “Oh, sure she is,” said Sinclair. “A real nature girl, I bet. Wears L.L.Bean. Swims five miles a day, dates ichthyologists. Do you have the speech?”
    Charles handed over the cream envelope with the Herodotus Foundation logo.
    “Don’t be bitter, Sinclair. Get even. Plenty of fish in the sea.”
    Sinclair looked over at Charles skeptically.
    “Are