Clive Cussler - Pirate

“Mr. Pickering said this was a copy?”

She poured two glasses. “One of several. Why?”

He looked over at her, saying, “You might want to rethink that.”

“I’m thirsty.”

“I mean, around the book.” He stood aside so that she could see. “No way is this some made in China copy, Remi. It’s the real deal.”

Remi stared for several seconds, noticing the worn leather binding, the gold-tooled markings, gilded pages, and the inked typeset lettering that could never be mistaken for modern-day laser print. “This is not the same book he showed me.”

“Then how did you end up with it?”

“I don’t know. I only paid forty-nine dollars plus tax. I—” Remi reached out and touched it, then pulled her hand back. “We should be wearing gloves.”

“Back up there, Remi. What do you mean you only paid forty-nine dollars for this? Or did you forget a few zeroes before that decimal point?”

“No. But when that gunman walked in, Mr. Pickering grabbed the reproduction from me and said he’d wrap it up. The book he took from me was not this one.”

“Do you think he switched it with the book from the safe?”

“He must have. He must have known that man’s intent when he saw him walk into the store.” She glanced down at the volume on the table, still unable to believe what she was seeing. “We should probably let the police know about this.”

“Undoubtedly. But if we do that, they’re going to want to see it. And, right now, I’d like to know what’s so important about this particular volume.”

“So we take it to the expert in Phoenix first?”

“Definitely. Then we inform the police.”

They flew to Phoenix the following morning, meeting with Professor Ian Hopkins, whose studies focused on sixteenth- and seventeenth-century English literature. He also repaired antique books, a hobby he’d taken up after his retirement, and was working on one when they walked in. He looked at them over the rims of his dark-framed glasses. “You must be Mr. and Mrs. Fargo.”

“We are,” Sam replied. “But call us Sam and Remi.”

“Ian,” he said, standing. He reached out and shook hands with them both. “So. My friend Lazlo tells me you have a decent copy of The History of Pyrates and Privateers .”

Remi pulled the carefully wrapped book from her tote and set it on the counter. “We weren’t aware that it was supposed to be particularly valuable, but it seems someone believes it is.”

“Let’s have a look.” He donned white gloves, then examined the book, turning it over in his hands. “Full leather binding and spine in good shape. The gold-tooled geometric pattern on front and back still visible… Gilding on the page edges apparent, not worn…” He set the book on the table, then opened the cover. “This,” he said, running his gloved hand on the front endpaper, illustrated with a map, then flipping the book over and opening the back of the cover, also illustrated with a map, “is where the value lies in copies of this particular book. The endpapers have been removed from most of the copies I’ve seen. You’ll notice that the maps aren’t the same? The front differs from the back? No one realized that for quite some time.”

“Why,” Remi asked, “would someone remove them?”

“I believe they’re copies of actual pirate maps that are described in the book. But since the same maps appear in the endpapers of later editions, including current reproductions, it’s more likely that someone thought the older illustrated endpapers would make a nice framed decoration. That’s the speculation from the author of an article on the recent endpaper theft from a copy contained at the British Library last year. A rather daring burglary, considering the cameras and such.” He touched the edge of the back map along the bottom of the cover and the endpaper lifted slightly. “Not that they would have been all that difficult to remove. You can see the glue is no longer holding on to this copy.”

Sam figured that was the minor damage Selma and Lazlo had mentioned. “With the endpapers intact,” Sam said, “would that increase the value so much that someone would be willing to kill over it?”

The professor looked over at Sam, a bit surprised. “Not in my opinion. There are certainly far more valuable books out there. That being said, this is an excellent copy. I suppose it’s possible someone would want it to add to a collection.”

“How much?” Remi asked. “Assuming you were a collector and wanted this?”

“Assuming the rest of the book is in pristine condition and nothing is missing… four, five thousand.”

“That’s it?” Sam asked.

“It’s not a particularly rare book. Just old, and with a subject matter that makes it highly appealing to the maritime collector and anyone interested in pirates. So, yes. No more than five thousand, I’d think. And that’s due to the endpapers being intact.”

“Still,” Remi said, her brows arching, “that’s a pretty penny, considering I paid less than fifty dollars for it. Unfortunately, I think we need to turn this volume over to the police.”

“For what reason?” he asked her. “If you paid for it, legally it’s yours.”

She explained how the book came into her possession.

Professor Hopkins ran his gloved fingers along the leather cover. “Quite the interesting history for this little volume.”

“Exactly,” Remi said. “Which makes me wonder if we’re not overlooking something.”

“We are,” Sam replied. “The two thugs in our hotel room who were asking if we’d found a key of some sort.”

The professor glanced up from the page he’d been examining. “A key? For what?”

“That,” Sam said, “is part of what we’re hoping you might discover. Is there something different about this book in comparison to the others? Invisible writing? Pages that might differ from other copies?”

“I’d be glad to take a closer look for you. Examine it under different lighting. Photograph each page so that you can make the comparisons later. Of course, there is a fee. And one other appraisal ahead of yours.”

Sam pulled out his wallet. “And what’s your standard fee?”

“One twenty-five an hour. With only the one small volume, I don’t expect it will take much over an hour, maybe two at the most.”

Sam took five hundred-dollar bills from his wallet. “Would that cover moving it to the head of the line?”

“I’ll give my client a call and let him know his appraisal will be late.”

“We’d appreciate it.” Sam looked at his watch, saw it was half past eleven, and asked Remi, “Lunch while we’re waiting?”

“Definitely,” she said. Then to Professor Hopkins, “Any recommendations?”

“There’s an excellent Italian restaurant a couple of miles from here. Marcellino Ristorante. Highly recommended. In fact, if you prefer, I can bring the book to you there when I finish looking it over. The client I have to visit is actually very near there.”

“Perfect,” Remi said. “We’ll see you then.”

The restaurant was located in an open-air plaza that backed up to the waterfront in Old Town Scottsdale. Sam opened the wrought-iron gate for Remi and then the glass door. The sound — and scent — of sizzling garlic and fresh herbs wafted toward them as a charming woman introduced herself as Sima, warmly welcomed them and led them to their seats, wishing them a “Buon appetito.”

There were two empty tables near the window overlooking the patio. She sat them at the table to the right, since the one in the corner on the left held a small placard stating it was Reserved for Authors and Muses . After looking at the menu, Remi started with insalata caprese of fresh mozzarella, garden tomatoes, red pepper, and basil, followed by cozze in bianco —mussels sautéed in white wine. Sam opted for the carpaccio , with raw ahi tuna on a bed of arugula, and grilled salmon, and, for the table, a bottle of sparkling white wine, Falanghina Nudo Eroico.