Clive Cussler - Lost Empire

“He wanted twenty,” Sam replied. “We talked him up. Selma. He’s a dying man and he’s got grandkids to put through college.”

“Sounds like a con man to me.”

“We don’t think so,” Remi replied. “The staff’s seven feet tall, made of black ironwood, and topped with the bronze clapper from the Ophelia’s bell.”

“Is this pull-a-joke-on-Selma day?”

Sam replied, “You’ll see it for yourself. Morton’s including it in the first shipment from the museum. We’re also FedExing you a copy of Blaylock’s biography. We need you to work your magic on it. Dissect it, cross-reference every name, place, and description . . . You know what to do.”“I haven’t heard you two this excited since you called from that cave in the Alps.”

“We are excited,” Remi replied. “It appears Winston Blaylock spent a good portion of his adult life chasing a treasure, and, unless we’re wrong, it’s something Rivera and his boss don’t want us to find. Blaylock could be our Rosetta stone.”

Sam turned the Land Cruiser onto the road leading to their villa, then slammed on the brakes. A hundred yards away through the windshield they saw a figure walk across the patio and disappear into the bushes.Remi said, “Selma, we’ll have to call you back,” then hung up. “Is it them, Sam?”

“It’s them. Check out the patio. The bell’s gone.”

Ahead and to the right, the figure emerged from the bushes bordering the beach and began sprinting toward the waterline, where a twenty-seven-foot Rinker powerboat sat alongside the quay across from their Andreyale. A half mile out the yacht Njiwa sat at anchor. Standing on the Rinker’s afterdeck were two figures. Between them was the Ophelia’s bell.“Damn it!” Sam muttered.

“How did they find us?” Remi said.

“No idea. Hold on!”

He punched the gas pedal. The tires bit into the dirt, and the Land Cruiser lurched forward. Sam watched the speedometer climb past fifty, then swung the wheel left, then right, aiming the hood squarely at the brush-covered berm.“Oh, boy . . .” Remi said. She pressed her hands against the dashboard and her head against the rest.

The berm loomed before them. The Land Cruiser tipped backward. Sky filled the windshield, then they were tipping forward again, soaring through the air, the engine roaring as the tires spun freely. The Cruiser crashed to the earth. Sand peppered the windshield. Sam jammed the accelerator to the floorboard, and after a momentary groan of protest the engine responded and they were again moving forward, albeit at half speed as the tires struggled to find purchase in the dry sand.Ahead, the running figure had nearly reached the quay. He glanced over his shoulder, saw the Land Cruiser, and stumbled. It was Yaotl.

“Guess he didn’t like our hospitality,” Sam called.

“Can’t imagine why,” replied Remi.

Yaotl was back on his feet. He charged up the quay’s steps, taking them two at a time, then dashed toward the waiting Rinker, where Rivera and Nochtli were waving their arms, urging him on.

Sam kept going, jostling the wheel and trying to feel his way to firmer ground. The quay was fifty yards away. Yaotl reached the Rinker and jumped aboard. Thirty yards to go. Nochtli moved to the driver’s seat and settled behind the wheel. Smoke burst from the exhaust manifold.

Quite casually, Rivera stepped past the panting Yaotl, gave him a clap on the shoulder, then stepped to the transom. He stared at the approaching Land Cruiser for a moment, then raised his hand as if to wave.Sam muttered, “Son of a-”

Remi said, “He’s got something.”

“What?”

“In his hand! He’s holding something!”

Sam slammed on the brakes. The Land Cruiser slewed sideways and shuddered to a halt. Sam shifted the transmission into reverse, his foot ready to move from the brake to the accelerator.

His eyes never leaving theirs, Rivera smiled grimly, then reached up, pulled the pin on the grenade, turned, and tossed it into the Andreyale. Ahead of a rooster tail of water, the Rinker shot away from the quay and headed for the Njiwa.

With a dull crump, the grenade exploded. A geyser of water and wood splinters shot upward and rained down on the quay. The Andreyale settled lower in the water, then slowly disappeared beneath the surface in a cloud of bubbles.

AFTER BACKING THE SUV over the sand and dunes to the road, they watched Rivera and his men tool out to the Njiwa. Within minutes the anchor was weighed, and the yacht got under way, heading south down the coast.“I’d started to grow attached to that bell,” Sam muttered.

“And you don’t like losing,” Remi said. When Sam shook his head, she added, “Me neither.”

Sam leaned sideways across Remi’s lap and retrieved the H amp;K P30 from the glove box, then said, “I’ll be right back.” He climbed out, walked down the road to the villa, then slipped inside. He emerged two minutes later and gave Remi the OK sign. She scooted into the driver’s seat and pulled the Toyota into the driveway.“Did they toss the house?” she asked, climbing out.

Sam shook his head. “But I know how they found us.”

He led her through the villa to the guest room where they’d been keeping Yaotl. Sam walked to the headboard and pointed to the loop that had been secured around their guest’s left wrist. It was stained a dark reddish brown. The remaining three loops had been untied.“That’s blood,” Remi said. “He worked his way free.”

“Then called Rivera,” Sam added. “I’ll give him this much: He’s got a high tolerance for pain. His wrist must be raw down to the bone.”

“Why didn’t they ambush us?”

“Hard to say. Rivera’s no dummy. He knows we’ve got Yaotl’s gun and didn’t want to risk attracting the police.”

“I think we’re a secondary concern. They got what they came for. Without that, all we’ve got is an interesting story. Sam, what in the world can be so important about that bell?”

ERRING ON THE SIDE of caution, they agreed the villa was no longer safe. They packed what few belongings were left inside, got back into the Toyota, and drove eight miles south to Chwaka, a small town whose only claim to fame seemed to be that it was home to the mysteriously named Zanzibar Institute of Financial Administration. They found a beachfront restaurant with air-conditioning and went inside. They asked to be seated in a quiet area near an aquarium.Remi pointed out the window. “Is that . . . ?”

Sam looked. Two miles offshore they could see the Njiwa, still steaming south at a leisurely pace. Sam grumbled a curse under his breath and took a sip of ice water.“Well, what do you want to do about it?” Remi prodded.

Sam shrugged. “I can’t decide if my ego is just bruised because they stole something we worked so hard to get. That’s not much of a reason to put ourselves back in their gunsights.”

“It’s more than that. We know how badly they don’t want people to know about the bell or the ship it was attached to. They probably murdered for it. They’re going to either destroy it or dump it in the deepest part of the ocean, where it’ll never be found again. It’s a piece of history, and they’re going to treat it like garbage.”

Sam’s phone rang. He said, “Selma,” to Remi, then answered and tapped the Speakerphone button. As was her way, Selma jumped in without preamble: “That bell you’ve got is an interesting find.”“Had,” Sam replied. “We don’t have it anymore.” He explained.

Remi said, “Tell us anyway, Selma.”

“Do you want the fascinating news or the astounding news first?”

“Fascinating.”

“Wendy used her Photoshop wizardry skills and ran the pictures through some filters or something. Most of what she said was Greek to me. Under all that marine growth there’s engraved writing.”“What kind?” asked Sam.