Clive Cussler - Pirate

“Unless,” Remi asked Bree, “the value had something to do with this key everyone seems so interested in?”

“Even that is historically questionable. After all, the key is to the maps in the book, maps that are related to pirates and privateers who came several centuries after King John. So you see, I don’t know how that could help much.”

Remi smiled at her. “An interesting history nonetheless.”

“You both have been so nice to me. After everything that’s happened—” She stopped, tried to smile, then broke down in tears.

Remi waved at Sam to vacate his seat. Sliding out, she walked over to Bree, put her arms around the girl, then drew her from the table. “Maybe you’d like to wash up, then lie down for a bit? A good nap might be just the thing. There’s plenty of time to go over this later.”

Bree nodded. “Yes. I’d like that.”

Remi walked the young woman to their sleeping quarters at the back of the plane, then returned a few minutes later. “Poor thing,” she said to Sam. “I feel horrible about what happened.”

“She has a right to be upset. Imagine losing your uncle, then being kidnapped like that.”

“She’s safe now and that’s what counts.” Remi lifted her glass, about to take a sip, then stopped, eyeing Sam. “So when did you say this week of rest and relaxation was going to start?”

“Remi, why ruin a perfectly good moment? It’s not every day we get to sip twenty-five-year-old scotch while parked on a tarmac in North Carolina.”

“Not trying to ruin it at all.” She sipped her drink, enjoying the moment. It was one of the things she loved about Sam. Being able to laugh in the face of adversity. “Just wondering if I should block out more time on my calendar.”

“Day after tomorrow, then.”

“ Not tomorrow?” she asked.

“We have a lot to do before we even get to Oak Island. Never mind that once we get there — assuming Bree understood her cousin’s intoxicated ramblings — there’s bound to be two or three angry mobsters who want to use us for target practice.”

“We did get trip insurance, didn’t we?”

“I knew there was something I forgot,” he said, snapping his fingers.

“What do you think about this Charles Avery character?”

He eyed his glass of scotch, swirling the liquid, thinking about everything they’d been through these last few days. Clearly, the man was dangerous, with no regard for human life. Of course, one had to look at all the facts, not just make opinions based on a few events. “Timing is everything, isn’t it?”

“My thoughts exactly. He suddenly finds out he’s not going to be able to acquire this book and then the robbery and kidnapping occur?”

Sam drained his glass, then reached for a pad of paper and a pen at the side of the table. “I’ll add his name to Selma’s research list. It might be a good time to find out not only who this Charles Avery is but what’s his interest in the map book.”

Charles Avery examined the list of assets of his newest possible acquisition. Salvaging ran in his blood, and when he couldn’t be involved in the stealing of rare and valuable treasures, he whetted his appetite by searching for companies on the brink of bankruptcy. He’d buy them for a pittance, rip them apart, parcel out the remains, and make a tidy profit. Granted, there were a lot of casualties in the form of jobless employees when he finished, but collateral damage was the price one paid to succeed, he thought, turning the page, as his CFO sat across the desk from him waiting for his input.

The numbers satisfied him and he closed the folder. “Has anyone else shown an interest?”

“Not yet, sir.”

His CFO, Martin Edwards, had been with his company since its inception. When it came to finances, Charles trusted him implicitly. “Your recommendation?”

“Considering the basis—” Edwards stopped as Colin Fisk walked into the room.

“My apologies for the interruption,” Fisk said, his tone sounding anything but sorry, “but I have news that can’t wait.”

Charles eyed him, trying to determine if the news was good or bad. The man’s face was a blank slate, he thought, turning to Edwards and saying, “The figures speak for themselves. Unless there’s something I’m not seeing?”

“No, sir. My opinion is, we should proceed.”

“Do so. Now, if you’ll excuse us, apparently I have some pressing business that needs dealing with.”

Edwards gathered his papers, then left.

Charles waited until the door had closed behind him before addressing Fisk. “Is it done?”

“We have the book and the key. On the way here as we speak.”

He leaned back in his chair, relieved, and very much pleased with the outcome. “And the Fargos? They believed the story?”

“Not exactly. They followed my men to the warehouse.”

“Tell me they were dealt with.”

“They escaped. But then, so did two of my men, so all was not lost.”

Charles gripped the arms of his chair, wanting to lash out, break something. These Fargos had already cost him considerable time and money. “I want these treasure-hunting socialites dealt with.”

“At the moment, they’re no more trouble than a thorn in our side.”

“Thorns have a way of becoming infected. If they so much as appear on the fringes of any of my operations, kill them.”

“I have a plan in the works.”

“What sort of plan?”

“Involving the two women. Pickering’s niece and daughter. Let’s just say they’ve been very useful up to this point. If things proceed as expected, we should hear good news within the next day or so.”

Sam and Remi sat across from each other in the cabin of their jet, both enjoying the relative solitude of each other’s company. Remi was refreshing her memory about the history of Oak Island and the hunt for treasure in the so-called Money Pit while he read the report on Charles Avery that Selma had put together and forwarded.

After a while, Sam sat back, then looked up at Remi. “I thought this guy’s name seemed familiar. I remembered reading about him in Forbes ,” he said. “Made his millions raiding corporations. When he’s not buying cash-strapped companies, he fancies himself an expert in maritime salvaging.”

“How is it we’ve never heard of him beyond that?”

“We don’t run in the same circles. And judging from the number of people he’s put out of business, I wouldn’t want to.”

Remi smiled as Bree wandered in, looking somewhat more refreshed from having had a nap. “Feeling better?” Remi asked her.

“Much.”

Sam nodded at a light dinner laid out on the sideboard. “Help yourself. Selma’s made arrangements for you to fly home tomorrow afternoon.”

“Thank you.” She looked over the paperwork Remi had spread all over the table. “Oak Island? You really think that’s what Larayne was talking about?”

“It’s a logical assumption based on the information given. And the map found in the endpaper certainly resembles the island. Do you know anything about it?”

“The basics. The constant hunt for a seemingly nonexistent treasure after a couple of teenagers dug up some stones and oak logs in the late seventeen hundreds.”

“Seventeen ninety-five,” Remi said. “In fact, starting right around the time Pyrates and Privateers hit the market.”

“Coincidence?” Bree asked.

Sam glanced up from what he was reading to answer. “My opinion? Yes. Personally, I’ve never believed there was any treasure on Oak Island. And the various reports from scientists and engineers who’ve studied it over the years seem to confirm that.”