Clive Cussler - Pirate

She leaned back in his chair, looking around the office, certain she was missing something…

Her gaze strayed to the notepad. He’d ripped off the top sheet, but she recalled the town Fargo written across it and she entered that in the search bar, wondering what his interest in North Dakota was.

But it wasn’t the state that popped up in his Internet search history.

Fargo Group, Sam Fargo, Remi Fargo.

What the…?

A little more digging and she realized his fascination with this couple.

They were treasure hunters.

She glanced at the map book just as her phone started ringing. Kipp, of course. “You’re never going to believe this,” she said. “I know what he’s after.”

“You need to get out of there. He’s on his way up.”

The digital copy of the manifest was exactly what Selma had been hoping for and she got to work researching the fleet of ships that had set sail from Jamaica right after Sam and Remi emailed the pages they’d found in Port Royal. She called them back the next morning with what she’d learned.

“Good news, I hope,” Sam said.

“Mostly,” Selma replied. “I was able to link the vessel that sank off Snake Island to the theft of cargo from Captain Bridgeman during his time in Jamaica. More important, connecting that name to the sunken ship fills in a lot of the blanks. Especially now that we know the cipher wheel sank with it.”

“How so?” Sam asked.

“Bridgeman was an alias for the pirate Henry Every.”

“Every?” Remi asked. “Is it coincidental that Every and Avery sound similar?”

“No,” Selma said. “It may have started off as a misspelling, but they’re used interchangeably throughout most of the documentation I’ve located about Every’s history. Henry Every, or Avery, is none other than Captain Henry Bridgeman. Started off as a slaver, then apparently turned pirate. Not much difference between the two, in my opinion.”

“So what happened to him?” Sam asked.

“Disappeared. Last seen in the Bahamas, supposedly set sail for England, to live and die in obscurity. He was very much a wanted man at that point. The interesting thing is that until you found those missing pages, there were no official records showing that Bridgeman or the Fancy had ever sailed into Jamaica. Clearly, that’s part of what Avery was trying to hide from you.”

“What else was he trying to hide?”

“Two things. One, this wasn’t the first time Every attacked the Mirabel . Two, the identity of the English investors who had an interest in the Mirabel .”

“Investors. As in, more than one owner?”

“There could still be one owner. But multiple investors could mean that the ship was under the control of others. What we do know from the testimony of this crew member is that this item — we’re assuming it was the cipher wheel — was taken during Every’s first contact with the Mirabel off the coast of Spain a few years before. He specifically sought out this ship, which could mean that he knew the wheel was there. He also spared the ship, and the lives of the captain and crew, instead of scuttling it or bringing it into his fleet of pirate ships.”

“He wanted out of there fast,” Sam said. “The second contact was in Jamaica?”

“The Mirabel followed him there. According to the testimony, something of extreme value was stolen from Every in Jamaica. The Mirabel fled, we assume with the cipher wheel. He pursued in the Fancy to Snake Island. The rest, as you know, is history. Once the Mirabel sank, the wheel was lost to him — which may be why he suddenly gave up piracy.”

“If,” Sam said, “there’s no record of his being seen after that point, is it possible that he captured the Mirabel but went down with the ship when it struck the rocks?”

“A logical assumption,” Selma replied. “Except for the map detailing where to find the cipher wheel off Snake Island. It seems to me that Every made sure to document where the wheel was located in case he was ever able to get back to recover it. Unfortunately for him, his Bridgeman alias had been discovered by this time, and the Royal Navy had joined in with the East India Company in their pursuit of him. Probably prevented him from getting back to Snake Island. Some historians show him returning to England and dying a pauper, forced to live in obscurity without access to his treasure. Lazlo believes he returned to England and spent what was left of his treasure in search of the original cipher wheel.”

“We’re sure,” Remi said, “that he never recovered the original wheel? Or that it even exists?”

“Definitely,” Selma replied. “One, Charles Avery wouldn’t be after it if he had — and he seems to know his family history. Two, Lazlo’s research confirms that the original exists. Every-Bridgeman either died or was captured before he could go after it. Unfortunately, he failed to record where it was or who was in possession — assuming he had this knowledge to begin with. Either way, Charles Avery has the shipping manifest information. He’s no doubt hot on the trail.”

Sam reached over, spreading out their copy of the digitized transcripts they’d gathered from the maritime museum, looking them over. There were just a few pages of the court testimony they’d read in the Kingston Archives. “So, right now, we’re still looking at who he originally stole the cipher wheel from?”

“We have it narrowed down, we think, to a couple of the Mirabel investors. Both happen to be in England, which makes it convenient. So that’s where you’re headed next.”

Sam looked at Remi. “What do you say to a trip to the British Isles?”

“I love Great Britain this time of year.”

Late the next afternoon, they touched down at the London City Airport, and the next morning they were up early. Selma had given them two names and addresses. One was for a Grace Herbert, just outside of Bristol, the other for Harry McGregor, farther north near Nottingham. Unfortunately, Selma couldn’t narrow the odds any further, and so Sam flipped a coin while they waited for their car at the valet stand. “Heads, Herbert. Tails, McGregor,” he called as he caught the coin and covered it with his hand.

“Heads,” Remi said. “I have a good feeling about Bristol.”

“If we don’t find what we’re looking for there, it’s a long drive up to Nottingham.”

“Call it women’s intuition. Heads, Bristol.”

Sam peeked at the coin. Tails. He pocketed it, then smiled at Remi. “Why leave something to chance. I trust your intuition.”

“Tails, was it?”

“It was.” When the car arrived, Sam looked at Remi. “You drive, and I’ll navigate?”

“Ha! And trust that you’ll pay attention to the map?”

“Have I ever gotten us lost?”

“There was that time in—”

“Never mind.” He tipped the valet, then took the keys. Eventually they left London behind, the houses growing fewer, farms beginning to dot the landscape. A light mist came down, and Sam switched on the windshield wipers. It stayed that way for the next two hours.

Remi sighed at the green, rolling hills. “Beautiful out here.”

“If you like the damp.”

She glanced over at him. “You’d prefer the hot humidity of Jamaica over this?”

“I was thinking more of the warm breezes of La Jolla.”

“All in good time.” She eyed the directions on her phone. “About ten miles farther. Right turn at the next intersection.”

They continued down a two-lane paved road that wound through pastures and farmland. Eventually they found the dirt road that led to the Herbert farmhouse and saw it in the distance. White smoke swirled up from the chimney of a large cottage with several outbuildings behind it. Geese honked as they drove up to the house, and the chickens scattered, then returned to pecking the ground, looking for grubs.