Clive Cussler - Pirate

Remi was about to hug António until she realized she was still dripping wet. “We owe you our lives.”

“How’d you know to come looking for us?” Sam asked. “And so close to the island? We weren’t due back until tomorrow.”

“The men I saw leave on the Golfinho with you this morning, I do not know them. I do not see Captain Delgado. So I tell my uncle, who tells me that the captain would never have taken you out with a storm coming in. He suspects — is that how you say it? — something is wrong. As for finding you out here, he fishes these waters. The current, he tells me, the word is shifts ? When we reach Snake Island, he knows this. And here we are.”

They reached port early the next morning, both Sam and Remi sleeping soundly in their bunks on the ship. They waited for the police at Henrique’s home, a two-bedroom bungalow overlooking the Atlantic. What remained of their gear and their personal items were found by the police on board the abandoned Golfinho and returned to them later that afternoon. Even though it was quite late in the evening when they were finished, António insisted on driving them back to the hotel in São Paolo.

“You and your uncle saved our lives,” Sam said. “It’s something we won’t ever be able to repay. But we know where your uncle lives, and we’ll be sending something to the both of you for your kindness.”

They’d discussed what to do the night before. A scholarship would be set up for António to cover his university costs as well as his medical school. And his uncle would have a new boat, along with tuition for his cousin.

Remi hugged him. “You’ll be hearing from us. We won’t forget you, António.”

Sam and Remi sat at the table in their hotel room in companionable silence. He knew they needed to discuss what had happened — especially the possibility of a leak in their camp — but for the moment Sam was content to ignore the subject.

Remi glanced up, saw him looking at her, and gave him a smile tinged with grief. “It’s Bree, isn’t it?” she said.

“I can’t imagine how else anyone knew where we were. Unless Avery’s men suddenly came to the same conclusion as we did, coincidentally knew which boat we’d hired, kidnapped the crew, let us find the shipwreck for them, then tried to kill us.”

“I still have a hard time believing she’d do this. I trusted her. I—” She took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh of frustration. “I suppose we should check in with Selma and plan our next course of action.”

Sam looked at his watch. Selma was probably up and about by now. “Definitely.”

“What should we tell her?”

He took out his phone and opened the text messaging. “To call when she has the utmost privacy. She’s smart. She’s going to know what this is about.”

Remi leaned her head back against her seat, closing her eyes. “Oh, Sam…”

“We’ll get to the bottom of it.”

“I suppose we’ll have to go to the police.”

“Not without conclusive proof.” He sent the text.

Selma called about five minutes later.

“We have you on speakerphone,” Sam told her. “Remi’s here with me.”

“Good morning,” Selma said. “I assume you’re calling about what happened yesterday.”

“You’re alone?”

“Secured in my office. Bree and Lazlo are having breakfast upstairs as we speak.”

“Good,” Sam said. “Then you’re aware of our concerns.”

“Very much so. I’m mystified, Mr. Fargo. I haven’t seen her talking to anyone. And she seems genuinely concerned.”

Sam felt Remi’s gaze on him. There was no other way their whereabouts could have been known unless Selma or Lazlo had let the information out — something both he and Remi knew was not a possibility. And unless someone had bugged their newly renovated, high-security, near-impregnable, hack-proof house, it had to be Bree. “One possible way,” he said, “some dis information that will prove where the leak is coming from.” He dared a glance at Remi to see how she was taking this.

Remi kept her gaze on Sam’s phone, placed in the middle of the table. “I think it’s the best way.”

“Unless you have a better idea,” Sam told Selma.

“Let me get back to you on that. Once Lazlo has a chance to thoroughly study the photos of the artifacts you recovered from the shipwreck, he and I can come up with something plausible. I’ll give you a call as soon as I know anything.”

“We’ll wait to hear from you.”

After a long day of fact-checking on their own — finding little that helped — Sam and Remi broke for an early dinner at Esquina Mocoto, known for its northeastern Brazilian food. Instead of a main meal, they split several tapas — their favorite, the dadinhos de tapioca , fried cheese squares — and the torresmo , crackling bacon, along with roasted vegetables, and the recommended pairing of artisan beers instead of wine.

They were walking out of the restaurant when Selma called back.

“We have an update on the items you found at the shipwreck,” she said. “Lazlo’s here with me.”

After she put Lazlo on the phone, Sam said, “I’ll call back as soon as we return to the hotel. We’re not in the greatest of locations to talk.”

“Just as well,” Lazlo said. “This is, I believe, what you Americans call a good news, bad news sort of thing.”

Charles 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.”