Clive Cussler: The Pharaoh's Secret

“I couldn’t agree more,” said Kurt. “Especially since those armored cars wouldn’t have been there, waiting for us to come along. Had they gone out to battle, they would have been massacred by the British.”

“So now what?” she asked, stroking one of his arms. “Do we get to stay here forever and drink fine champagne, swim in warm water and sleep in the sun?”

Kurt stared across the turquoise sea. “I fail to see why not.”

Unnoticed behind them, hanging on the railing beside the hull, Zavala threw his dive gear on the deck. “Better go easy on the bubbly. You’re on tap for diving tomorrow. The remains of that Phoenician wreck you found below waits for no man.”

“You have to promise to stay out of my wine cellar,” replied Kurt.

“Surely you jest.” Zavala made a sour face. “You’re talking to a man who never touches that sissy water.”

“And what do you drink?” asked Renata.

Zavala grinned. “Dear heart, you’re talking to a man — a real man — who drinks straight tequila, with lime and salt on the rim, and smokes cigars.”