Clive Cussler, author of the best-selling Dirk Pitt novels Arctic Drift and Trojan Odyssey, and co-author Paul Kemprecos place their hero, Kurt Austin, in a globe-trotting race against time in The Navigator, the seventh novel of the action-packed NUMA Files series.

Iraq, 2003: in the post-war looting of the treasures from Baghdad's antiquities museum, a legendary Phoenicean statue is stolen . . .

Known as the Navigator, the statue points back to the days of King Solomon and is the vital clue to a secret of unimaginable power. Lucky then that UN investigator Carina Mechadi recovers it quickly. But a daring raid by helicopter in Iceberg Alley off Newfoundland and the statue is gone again - while Carina is only saved by the timely intervention of Kurt Austin of NUMA.

Now Austin and Carina are scouring the globe. Firstly, to track down the statue as it leaves a trail of murder and mayhem in its wake. And, secondly, to beat the thieves to the secret of the Navigator - for if it falls into the wrong hands, the world could be changed for ever.

Jam-packed with thrilling chases and blistering excitement, The Navigator is a magnificent treasure trove of action and adventure.

'Cussler is hard to beat' Daily Mail

Bestselling author Clive Cussler has kept readers on the edges of their seats for four decades with his thrilling action novels. As well as the NUMA Files series there are also the Oregon Files, the Dirk Pitt stories (which started it all), the Isaac Bell adventures and the Fargo series. The other titles in the NUMA files series are: Serpent, Blue Gold, Fire Ice,White Death, Lost City, Polar Shift, Medusa, Devil’s Gate, and The Storm.

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Prologue

A far-off land, about 900 B.C.

The monster emerged from the morning mists in the pearly light of dawn. The massive head, with its long snout and flaring nostrils, advanced toward shore where the hunter knelt, bowstring taut to his cheek, eyes focused on a deer grazing in the marsh. A rippling sound caught the hunter’s ear and he glanced out at the water. He uttered a fearful moan, threw the bow aside, and leaped to his feet. The startled deer disappeared into the woods with the terrified hunter close on its tail.

The tendrils of fog parted to reveal a giant sailing ship. Curtains of seaweed fringed the vessel’s twohundred- foot-long wooden hull of reddish brown. A man stood on the ship’s upswept stem behind the carved figurehead of a snorting stallion. He had been gazing into a small wooden box. As the ghostly shoreline materialized, the man raised his head and pointed to the left.

The helmsmen at the twin steering oars brought the ship around in a graceful turn that sent it on a new course parallel to the densely wooded shoreline. Deckhands expertly adjusted the vertically striped red-and-white square sail to compensate for the change in direction.

The captain was in his mid-twenties, but the serious expression on his handsome face added years to his appearance. His strong nose was curved slightly at the bridge. His thick black beard was arranged in rows around a full mouth and square jaw. Sun and sea had tanned his skin to a mahogany hue. The unfathomable eyes that scanned the shoreline were a deep brown that was so dark the pupils were almost invisible.

The captain’s high station in life entitled him to wear a purple robe dyed with the valuable extract from the murex snail. He preferred to go bare-chested, and wore the cotton kilt of an ordinary crewman. A floppy, conical knit cap covered the close- cropped, wavy black hair.

The briny smell of the sea had faded as the ship left the open ocean and entered the wide bay. The captain filled his lungs with air that was redolent with the scent of flowers and green growing things. He savored the prospect of freshwater and ached to set foot on dry land.

Although the voyage was long, it had gone well, thanks to the handpicked Phoenician crew, all seasoned deepwater mariners. The crew included a scattering of Egyptians and Libyans, and others from the countries bordering the Mediterranean. A contingent of Scythian marines provided security.

The Phoenicians were the finest seamen in the world, adventurous explorers and traders whose maritime empire extended throughout the Mediterranean and beyond the Pillars of Hercules and the Red Sea. Unlike the Greeks and the Egyptians, whose ships hugged the shore and dropped anchor when the sun set, the fearless Phoenicians sailed day and night out of sight of land. With a fair wind from astern, their big trading ships could cover more than a hundred miles a day.

The captain was not Phoenician by birth, but he was well versed in the sea arts. His command of navigation and seamanship and his cool judgment during bouts of bad weather had quickly gained the crew’s respect.

The vessel under the captain’s command was a ‘ship of Tarshish,’ built specifically for long-range commerce on the open ocean. Unlike the more-tubby short-haul traders, the vessel’s lines were long and straight. The deck and hull timbers were hewn from tough Lebanese cedar, and the thick mast was low and strong. The square Egyptian-linen sail, quilted with leather belts for strength, was the most efficient deepwater sailing rig in existence. The curved keel and upswept stem and stern presaged the Viking ships that would not be built until centuries later.

The secret behind Phoenician mastery of the sea went beyond technology. Organization aboard their ships was legendary. Each crewman knew his place in the well-oiled machinery that was a Phoenician sea venture. Rigging was neatly stowed in an easily accessible room that was the responsibility of the captain’s assistant. The lookout man knew the location of each piece of tackle, and constantly tested the ship’s rigging to make sure it would work if needed in an emergency.