Clive Cussler - Pirate

He clenched his glass in his hand. “Work out? Are you telling me you failed to get the documents?”

“About that… Turns out, the Fargos may have survived after all.”

Anger surged through him. “What the— How is it those two keep slipping through your fingers?”

“I told you, they aren’t your average couple. Sam Fargo has extensive training at DARPA and possibly even the CIA. The wife was a Boston College graduate…” Avery heard him shuffling papers as he checked his notes. “… with a master’s in anthropology and history with a focus on ancient trade routes.”

“Which explains her interest in treasure. What it doesn’t explain is how she escaped.”

“Unless you factor in that she’s extremely intelligent — and an expert marksman.”

“And what? Somebody handed her a gun on board the Golfinho ? I don’t want to hear excuses for your failures. I pay you for confirmed results.”

“Mistakes were made. They’re being addressed.”

“I was under the impression that the crew you hired to take over the Golfinho was more than capable of dealing with a couple of spoiled jet-setters who keep sticking their noses where they don’t belong.”

“As mentioned, they’ve been dealt with. In the meantime, we have a lead on the Fargos. My men were able to follow them from the car rental to Kingston. Unfortunately, the Fargos managed to evade them. But they won’t for long.”

“I thought you said that these men were capable of getting the job done.”

“They are.”

“Then how is it that these two meddlesome socialites have managed to elude them thus far? To me, that sounds as though your men are anything but capable.”

“I warned you the Fargos were resourceful.”

Charles slammed his glass to the desk, whiskey sloshing over the rim. “You told me that you could handle this. That your men could handle this.”

“They can. And they will.”

“They better. I want those documents and then the Fargos eliminated. Period. If you can’t trust them to get the job done, then handle it yourself. I want results, not incompetence.”

“Understood. We do have a plan. I’ll call you once the details are firmed up.”

Charles dropped the phone into the cradle, grabbed his glass, then took a long drink.

“I take it,” Winton said, “the news isn’t good?”

“How about you concentrate on keeping my wife from getting her hands on my fortune. I’ll worry about my extracurricular activities.”

“As long as you’re aware that any money you’re moving toward those activities might be discovered.”

“I’m well aware of the risks.”

Winton nodded, then stood. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll see myself out.”

He left, and Charles poured himself another drink, his eye moving to the scratch pad. The Fargo name glared up at him. He ripped it from the pad, crumpled it, then tossed it to the ground. At the moment, he wasn’t sure what angered him more — the Fargos inserting themselves into his business or his wife trying to steal his fortune.

Death was too good for all of them.

Which made him wonder, did he really want Alexandra dead?

Actually, he did. She might be the mother of his children, but neither of them had anything to do with him. They were definitely their mother’s spawn. What he needed to do was make sure his wife was dealt with in the most expedient manner possible. The question was, how? How to make it look like her death had nothing to do with him?

First things first, he thought. Deal with the Fargos. An hour later, Fisk called him back.

“I have good news…”

Sam and Remi rose early the next morning and drove to the archives, making sure they were there the moment the doors opened for business. Sam left Remi at the front entrance, deciding he wanted to take a quick look around before following her in.

She entered the building, checked the directory, and found the Records Department, noting a flurry of activity in the halls as employees hurried about, clearly too busy to take notice of her. A woman in bright yellow, wearing a turquoise scarf tied around her dark hair, dropped a thick stack of manila folders on the counter, then started to walk away.

“Excuse me,” Remi said. “Do you work in Records?”

The woman looked up. “Yes. Have you not been helped?”

Remi smiled at her. “Not yet.”

“My apologies. The unexpected storm damage caught us by surprise. Alarms going off all night, water getting in. As you can guess, we’re all quite busy. But what can I do for you?”

“We were hoping to have a look at some old shipping manifests.”

“We?”

“My husband. When he gets here.”

She reached below the counter and pulled out a form. “Researchers, are you?”

“Yes.”

“If you can fill out the information, I’ll get to you as soon as possible.”

“Thank you.”

By the time Remi filled out the form, Sam had joined her.

“Looks clear out there,” he said. “How’s it going in here?”

“Slow. Storm damage apparently.”

“At least the air conditioner works. All that rainwater from last night is turning the island into a sauna.”

When the woman returned, she looked over the paper. “Shipping manifests, you say?”

“Yes,” Remi said. “I don’t suppose you know if anyone else has been here asking about this particular time period?”

“No. You’re the first,” she said, then led them to the archives, pointing out the row where they’d need to start their search. “Everything’s by year. I’d say it shouldn’t be too difficult to locate, but sometimes things get misfiled.”

“Thanks,” Remi said, hoping that wasn’t the case. There were hundreds of volumes, which meant if something was misfiled, it would be difficult to find.

Sam moved to the far end of the row, Remi started at the beginning, and they worked their way toward each other. Eventually they met in the middle, Sam saying, “Come here often?”

“It’s a good thing that’s not the pickup line you used when we first met at the Lighthouse.”

“I thought that was the line I’d used.”

“Glad I didn’t hear or we might not have had a second date.” She maneuvered around him. “I’m having no luck.”

He returned his attention to the shelves. “What’re the chances the one book we need—”

“Exactly what I was thinking.”

“I’ll go over what you covered. You go over my half.”

But the results were the same.

Sam started on the next row, even if the years were way off. Remi looked over the volumes they’d already checked, pulling them from the shelf and looking inside just to make sure the bindings hadn’t been mismarked.

“Nothing,” Sam said. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

“Definitely.” She returned a book to the shelf and pulled out another. Although she’d gone through several centuries, none matched up to the time period in question. About an hour into their search, a thought wormed its way into Remi’s head. “Sam… Why aren’t Avery’s minions here, looking?”

“Waiting for us to find the information so they can steal it again.”

“What if—”

She stopped when the clerk who had first helped them entered, pushing a cart before her. The woman looked up, surprised to see them. “Still at it?” she asked.

“It’s not here,” Remi said.

“That’s hard to believe. What year?”

“Sixteen ninety-four through sixteen ninety-six.”

The woman walked up to the same shelves they’d searched. “I hope the volumes weren’t misfiled…” After a few moments, she straightened. “Wait. I noticed a stack of books on the research table. I assumed someone was in the midst of a project, so left them alone. Maybe it’s there.”