Pirate (14 page)

C
harles Avery was just stepping out the door of his Washington, D.C., office when his secretary informed him that he had a call. “Can it wait? I have a dinner meeting scheduled.”

The other half of said meeting was currently sitting on the couch in the lobby just outside. A stunning twenty-something-year-old brunette named Suzette, who glanced up just then, saw him, and gave a flirty wave.

“It's Mr. Fisk,” his secretary said.

He glanced at Suzette, tempted to blow off Fisk's call—except he wanted to hear that the Fargos were now lying on the bottom of the ocean floor as fish food. “Send it to my phone,” he said, then strode into his office. He sat at his desk, then picked up. “I'm on my way to dinner. Is this important?”

“I've just met with the crew in São Paolo.”

“And?”

It seemed a heartbeat before he answered. “Something that might lead us to the cipher wheel.”

A feeling of elation swept through him. At long last, he thought. He glanced at the
Pyrates and Privateers
book he kept on his desk. For centuries, his family had been searching to recover what had been stolen from them. So close . . .

“Where is it?”

“Brazil. Near São Paolo. I'm headed to the airport as we speak.”

Charles was tempted to fly out himself—and he might have if he thought it didn't show weakness on his part or just how important the wheel was. Fisk knew that it was a family heirloom he wanted to recover. What he didn't know was what it led to. That was a secret he intended to guard until the right time. “The Fargos? What of them?”

“It appears they either drowned in a storm or went ashore and were bitten by an island snake. Rest assured, the Fargos have been dealt with.”

Finally. He leaned back in his seat, relaxing for the first time all week. He'd gone to great pains to hire out every charter boat once he learned the Fargos were en route to the Port of Santos. Did it really matter now that they were that much closer to finding the cipher wheel? Unless, of course— “How much of this can be traced back to me?”

“Not a thing. The crew has been dealt with. There are no paper trails. Every charter hired was through a shell account. Anyone looking into the Fargos' deaths won't find a thing. As of now, there is absolutely
nothing
that points to you.”

“Good,” Charles said. “Make sure it stays that way.”

“I will.”

He hung up, then sat there for several seconds, staring at the book, telling himself that soon all this money and trouble would pay off in a big way. So close, he thought, as his office door opened.

He looked up, surprised to see his wife, Alexandra, walk in.

Still beautiful, even at fifty, her blond hair cut in a short bob, she flipped the door closed, tossed her purse on the couch, then sat. “Who's the bimbo in the lobby?”

“A client.”

“Is that what we're calling them nowadays? Clients? Exactly who is paying for whose service here?”

“What do you want, Alexandra?”

“There seems to be a chunk of money missing out of my household account. I'm wondering what it is I paid for.”

“Nothing you need worry about.”

“Does this have something to do with that map you've been chasing after? Because if it does, the money should be coming out of
your
account, not mine. Wouldn't you agree?”

She got up from the couch and walked over to the liquor cabinet, examining the labels on the bottles, then reached past them for the brandy she kept for herself. She poured a finger of amber liquid into a crystal glass, swirled it and sipped, then walked over to the desk, running her hand along the spine of
Pyrates and Privateers
. “For a man who's busy hiding assets due to our impending divorce, I think you'd be more worried about what you're spending money on.”

Charles pushed his chair back, rose, then walked over to the liquor cabinet. He refused to let his wife bait him. The money
from her account had been used for something entirely different. He needed access to ready cash for some other projects because Fisk was using the other accounts for this hunt. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Don't play dumb, Charles. You think I haven't known about this obsession of yours ever since the beginning? One, I've hired a forensic accountant. So any money you
thought
you could hide will be found in short order. I don't intend to get fleeced in this divorce. Two, if this treasure really does exist and you find it using
our
money, that makes half of everything mine. Or did you forget we were married in California? Fifty-fifty, darling. Right down the middle.”

She held up her glass in a mock toast.

He poured his own and drank it down, then poured a second shot, before turning toward his wife. “The map would be an inheritance, something you're not entitled to.”

“Inheritance?” She walked around the desk and opened the book, turning the pages. “If memory serves me correctly, this map or code or whatever it is you're so keen on recovering was stolen centuries ago by your ancestors from the rightful owners. That is what you told me, isn't it? Back when we still talked?” She looked up from the book, her blue eyes filled with venom. “Pirates, weren't they? Your relatives? Apparently the apple hasn't fallen far from the tree.”

He walked over, closed the book, and pulled it away from her. “It was
stolen
from my family.”

“Stolen or recovered? After all, wasn't it your family who stole it to begin with? Or did I miss something in the retelling?”

“Is there some reason you're here? Or is it just to torment me?”

“I see my skills have improved somewhat. I used to only annoy you.” She finished her glass, then left it on the desk and walked over to the couch and picked up her purse. “Just wondering about the missing money. And when it's going to be replaced. I have expenses and I'd rather not drag this through court to get them paid.”

“Fine. I'll have a deposit made in the morning.”

“I appreciate it.” She opened the door and peered out. “Looks like your, uh, client, left. Hope it wasn't something I said to her on the way in.”

Charles resisted the urge to throw his glass at the door as she walked out. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction. Besides, she wasn't worth the waste of good scotch.

Everything she had was because of him. Once, he had loved her. But now? She was just another woman climbing the social ladder. Everything was about impressing someone else—even that charity she'd recently started.

Like that Fargo woman. It didn't matter he'd never met her. He knew she was just like his wife. Shallow, petty, and all about the money.

The thought angered him. If anything, it furthered his resolve to make sure
he
found the treasure. It belonged to him. Not his wife. Or anyone else. To him.

And he'd kill anyone who got in his way recovering it.

S
tart with the good news,” Sam told Lazlo as he took a seat next to Remi.

“Your underwater photographs were top-notch,” Lazlo said. “We were able to enhance the features—well, actually, Pete and Wendy get the credit for that,” he said, referring to Selma's research assistants, Pete Jeffcoat and Wendy Corden. “Photoshop or some such. Regardless, the artifacts you recovered allowed us to narrow down the countries of origin.”

“That's great news.”

“Yes. Except that it's
countries
, as in plural.”

Remi sighed. “Always something, isn't it?”

“Quite,” Lazlo replied. “But there is a bright side. The lead seal belonged to an English textile company that was only in business between the years of 1691 through 1696. The yellow brick you found in the ballast is Dutch.”

“Then what's the bad news?” Remi asked.

“Selma and I are still trying to come up with a viable plan to pinpoint our information leak.”

“Actually,” Sam said, “I think I've come up with something that might work. We pretend we searched the wrong shipwreck and we
now
know the correct location—then we wait for the results.” He gave a brief rundown of the idea.

Lazlo said, “You think this will work?”

“If Bree
is
leaking information, then I can't see how it'll fail. The men who stole the
Golfinho
want the cipher wheel, not some artifacts that may or may not lead to the ship's identity. What better way to lure them than to let them think
we
know where the cipher wheel is. Or, rather, that we're about to acquire it. Unless anyone has any objections, I think we should contact Ruben Hayward and arrange for assistance.”

“Very good,” Lazlo said. “We'll get started on it.”

Sam disconnected the call, then eyed Remi. “You're okay with this?”

How could she not be? These men were murderers and they needed to be stopped. Besides, just hearing Hayward's name brought her some peace. Hayward, a case officer in the CIA's Directorate of Operations, trained with Sam in covert operations while Sam had worked for DARPA. Fast friends ever since, there was no way Hayward would let Sam get involved in anything he couldn't handle—even if that meant bringing in outside assistance on occasions.

She nodded. “It's the only way to know for sure.”

“Then all we can do is wait.”

They didn't have to wait for long. By the next morning, Selma called to report that they'd told Bree about searching the wrong
shipwreck and the impending dive at the actual site, now that they'd found it. They figured they'd need to give it at least a day for Avery to ready his men, assuming he'd find a way to strike at the site or the dock. And to make sure the proper information was dispatched, Selma and Lazlo included Bree in their plans on setting up the dive: the boat chartered, when and where they'd leave, as well as the location—also off Snake Island but slightly north of the original dive site. “About security,” Selma said. “Mr. Hayward made all the arrangements with a firm called Archer Worldwide Security. He said that you'd know who that was and to expect a call.”

“Nicholas Archer,” Sam replied. “He trained with us at DARPA.”

“Very good. It looks like everything's in order. Good luck.”

“Likewise,” Sam said. “Let us know if anything comes up on your end with Bree.”

With everything in place, Remi thought she might have been able to relax. But that night, after she and Sam went to bed, she tossed and turned, trying to reconcile the woman and friend she thought she knew. This sort of betrayal seemed so out of character, which made her wonder if someone had something on Bree—was perhaps forcing her hand somehow.

That had to be it, she decided, and the thought calmed her enough that she was finally able to sleep.

The next morning, with someone from Archer Security posing as their driver, they left for their dive.

Remi had met Nicholas Archer in the past. And even though she knew of his background with Sam and Rube at DARPA, she had only the vaguest of ideas of what any of them had actually
done there. They'd always been very hush-hush over the matter. She'd gathered it had to do with Sam inventing something for the government—something that required travel to countries where they needed expertise in self-defense and weapons. Of course, one benefit of all Sam's training was that it had come in handy after his retirement. Many of their forays searching for treasure had put them in the path of some very dangerous sorts.

But where Sam had left DARPA for the private sector, Archer had remained in government service for a number of years, moving from DARPA to the FBI, before finally leaving to start his own international private security firm.

What made Archer a particularly good source was that he retained all his former government and law enforcement connections, like Rube Hayward, which gave him access to valuable intel should the need arise. More important, he could assemble a team at a moment's notice for international travel, drawing from former special ops types, all highly trained and extremely trustworthy. According to Sam, this group made anything he and Remi did look like the work of the high school junior varsity team.

Remi had a hard time believing
that
about her husband, but nonetheless she was glad to know they were in good hands. As expected, every aspect of this op was choreographed to the last detail, including a team standing by at their La Jolla house ready to move in. If Bree was their leak, they'd have her in custody by day's end.

So why, then, was her heart beating so hard as she, Sam, and Archer set out on the boat toward Snake Island?

Sam moved up beside her as they set off. “Are you okay?”

“I didn't sleep well last night.”

“I know. I felt you tossing and turning all night.”

“What if we're making a big mistake?”

“We're not,” he said as Archer walked up and joined them. “There's only one way anyone could have known we were coming here to begin with. All we can do is hope that she takes the bait the second time and Avery's men show up.”

Remi surveyed the boat. On the surface, it appeared to be a simple yacht converted to a research vessel. According to Archer, it was outfitted with a more powerful engine and a crew hiding inside with enough firepower to take down a cruise ship, should it be necessary. Archer had even supplied Sam with a fishing vest that looked innocent enough but had a hidden padded Velcro pocket that neatly holstered Sam's Smith & Wesson.

Sam and Remi wouldn't be diving, either. They had agents who were subbing for them.

Remi smiled at Archer. “I have to admit that your crew looks a bit more trustworthy than our last.”

“Each one personally vetted, Mrs. Fargo.”

“Remi—please,” she insisted. Although she'd only met Archer a couple of times in the past, she liked him. He was similar in height and build to Sam, tall and broad-shouldered. And, like Sam, his appearance was deceptive. Tan, with a shock of blond hair, he looked more like a surfer than some highly trained operative. “I know you've talked to my husband at length about this but I'm still concerned. What if something goes wrong?”

“We've looked at every possible scenario. We have you
covered, Mrs.—er—Remi. You'll be safe, and if all goes as planned, we'll make the dive, come up with the fake artifact, and then be able to take these men to local law enforcement.”

“I hope so.” She looked out to the horizon. Snake Island was a growing speck in the distance. The only things missing were any boats that seemed to be heading the same direction, something she pointed out to him.

He handed her a set of binoculars. “It's possible they'll wait until we return to port tomorrow before they make their move. Just in case. If you see a boat, you might recognize the suspects before we do.”

She hung the binoculars around her neck. “I'll keep an eye out.”

He left to oversee the rest of the operation, leaving her and Sam alone. She looked over at Sam. “Go,” she said.

“I'm perfectly happy standing here with you.”

“I know you are. But I also know you miss those days at DARPA and whatever missions you and Archer used to work.”

He smiled. “It wouldn't hurt to get an update on what they have planned.”

She held up the binoculars. “I'll let you know if I see any suspicious characters sailing about.”

“That's what I love about you, Remi.
One
of the reasons I love you,” he called out as he followed Archer into the cabin.

But in the time it took to sail out to Snake Island, spend the night, then allow for the two divers posing as Sam and Remi to make the dive the next morning, the few passing boats on the water never came close enough to pose a threat.

After eight hours, Archer called an end to the operation,
stating that if anything was going to happen, it would have happened by now. No sooner had they pulled anchor, a trawler rounded the southern point of Snake Island. Everyone tensed, silently taking their places. It chugged past, no one on board paying them the slightest attention beyond a passing glance.

As the trawler continued westward, Remi sensed a feeling of disappointment among the crew.

Archer looked at his watch. “Time to head back. Keep a sharp eye. It's highly likely that they're waiting for us in the port.”

But the danger never materialized.

No one was waiting in the port.

No one followed them along the winding mountain road to the airport.

“I don't get it,” Sam said later that evening when they were on board their plane, seated at the table. “This should have worked.”

Archer, who'd accompanied them to make sure they got off the ground safely, said, “It was a good plan. Maybe some of the intel wasn't as good as we thought.”

Sam got up from the table and walked over to the bar. “Something to drink?”

“No thanks,” Archer said. “I have to get back to my crew for debriefing.”

“Remi?” Sam asked, lifting the bottle of Glenfiddich.

“Actually, a glass of port right now would suit me.”

He set down the Glenfiddich and opened the temperature-controlled wine cabinet beneath, pulling out the port. “So,” he said to Archer after he'd opened the fifty-year-old wine and poured it, “any ideas on what went wrong? Is it possible they knew it was a trap?”

“Anything's possible. From what I can see, there were no signs on the docks that anyone had been watching before or after your arrival. I'd call it a complete no-show.”

Sam handed Remi a glass. “We should call Selma. She'll be wondering how it went.”

Remi sipped the port, thinking that this operation they'd so meticulously set up should have worked. Had Bree somehow found out and warned Avery and his men? “Call.”

Sam dug his cell phone from his pocket, called their house, and placed it on speaker function. “How goes it, Selma?”

“Mr. Fargo,” she replied. “I take it the operation failed.”

It wasn't a question, and Remi looked at Sam, who in turn looked at Archer. “Why would you say that?” Sam asked.

“Because—well, I'm afraid I have bad news.”