Clive Cussler - Pirate

“Done,” Remi said, then placed the phone in the center console. “I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised that we weren’t here first?”

Sam slowed as he entered a turn. “I’m tired of being one step behind these guys.”

“Let’s hope the museum sees these crooks for who they are, or at least asks for ID before they let anyone in for a personal look at the artifacts.”

“I’d like to think the British Museum has some security protocols in place. Just the same, maybe give them a call. Let them know we’ll be heading out their way in the morning.”

The following morning, Remi called the contact at the British Museum to view the historical artifacts on loan by Grace Herbert-Miller and her cousin. A young woman with barely a trace of a British accent informed her that Miss Walsh was not expected in until the reception that weekend.

Remi asked who else might help. Apparently there was no one there with the power to give them an early view of the display or to look at the storeroom where the remaining items were kept. Everything was scheduled for the grand opening, and, unless they had a ticket for the event, they’d have to wait until the following week.

“Great,” Remi said, sliding her phone across the tabletop in frustration. “That was a dead end.”

“Maybe Selma can work some magic,” Sam suggested. “Or Lazlo. He’s got to have contacts left here.”

“We can only hope.” She glanced at her watch, subtracted the eight-hour time difference. Remi emailed the details to Selma. “So now we wait.”

Sam grabbed their coats. “Or we take a walk and do a little recon of the museum. See what we’re up against.”

“I like your way of thinking, Mr. Fargo.”

The museum was slightly over a half mile from their hotel, and, within the hour, they were milling about, moving from one display to another. They wandered into the gallery and stood near the Rosetta stone, an artifact that had always intrigued Remi. “Wouldn’t it be nice if the key to our cipher wheel was right here?”

Sam, watching for signs of Avery’s men, drew his gaze from the crowds and eyed the massive stone. “Where’s the challenge in that?”

“Asks the man who doesn’t have to do the deciphering.” She looked around.

“Different gallery entirely.” She waved her map. “This room is Egyptian sculpture.”

He took her arm, leading her away from the Rosetta stone. “The drawback, if his men were seriously injured in that accident, is that Avery would just send someone else.”

“Good point. At least we know what those guys look like.”

“Does that map of yours tell you where this special event is going to be held?”

“No. But I expect we can find a helpful docent to point us in the right direction.”

They did. A gray-haired woman who told them the display was currently housed in Room 3. “Once you enter the Great Court,” she added, “you’ll cross through it and see the entrance to your right.”

They thanked her, then walked through the vast atrium, its glass-and-steel-checkered ceiling giving the area a brightly lit space-age appearance. Eventually they found the room in question.

Blocked off, with a guard present.

He, however, had little information to add or was unwilling to discuss it.

Sam and Remi stared at the closed-off area.

“Ideas?” Remi asked.

“Not a one.” He looked at his watch. “If we’re lucky, Selma’s found out something by now.”

Sam retrieved their raincoats from the coat check. Outside, they found a quiet spot to call Selma. Sam held up his phone so that he and Remi could hear. “Tell me you have some good news?” he asked her.

“Sorry, Mr. Fargo. This is a highly anticipated event, with a waiting list. And unless you can convince the organizers that you’re more important than some of the various celebrities on said list, I don’t think you’re getting in.”

“Lazlo? Surely he still has contacts here.”

“Academia isn’t the sort of profession that is able to break through the ranks of royals. Neither is simply being a multimillionaire. I do, however, have some good news.”

“And that would be…?”

“That academia is good for researching the coat of arms. How much do you know about heraldry?”

Remi replied, “Enough to know it’ll put you to sleep slogging through the archaic language.”

“Exactly,” Selma said. “According to Lazlo, it appears your farmer’s wife and her cousin up in Nottingham aren’t related to just any illegitimate son of a minor land baron. It would be a minor land baron who appears to be the illegitimate son of Edmund Mortimer, Second Lord Mortimer.”

“And Mortimer’s significance would be…?” Sam asked.

“The father of Roger de Mortimer, Third Lord Mortimer, who happened to have an affair with Queen Isabella. Undoubtedly one of the reasons he was executed by her son, Edward III.”

“Got it. Any connection to this cipher wheel business?”

“Hard to say. Still working on it, as well as the rest of the coat of arms. It’s like a foreign language. Everything means something.”

“You know where to find us.” He disconnected.

“What now?” Remi asked.

“I say we find a decent pub, have lunch, and figure out our next plan of action.”

They started down the street and hadn’t gone more than a half a block when a Rolls-Royce pulled up alongside them. The rear passenger window rolled down, revealing a man with dark hair salted with gray at the temples. He smiled at them, though his dark eyes looked anything but friendly, Remi thought.

“You must be the Fargos.”

Sam took Remi’s hand, pulled her back, then stepped between her and the car. “Let me guess. Charles Avery?”

“Sorry to disappoint. Colin Fisk. It seems you and my employer are after the same little bauble. The original cipher wheel.”

“Not sure what you’re talking about.”

“By the way, my men survived their car accident yesterday.”

“Don’t recall asking,” Sam said.

“I take it you weren’t able to get tickets to the festivities tonight at the museum?”

Sam gave a casual shrug. “There’ll be other displays and other events.”

“A shame. As I will be there.”

Remi, curious, asked, “And how was it you managed to get tickets?”

“Connections. It’s all about who you know. It’s a not-to-be-missed event. Unless your name is Fargo. I understand you’re on the blacklist. Enjoy your stay in London. You’re at the Savoy, correct?”

“And where is it you’re staying?”

“Somewhere else.” He gave a cold smile again, then rolled up his window as the car took off.

Remi moved to Sam’s side, watching until the car was out of sight. “That was a bit unsettling,” she said.

“I’m sure that was the purpose.”

“How do you think he found out where we were staying? We’re not registered under our names.”

“Picked out the various five-star hotels and made a lucky guess?”

“Maybe we should have stayed someplace a little less refined.” She linked her arm through his. “Now, what were you saying about lunch and a battle plan? I have a feeling we’re going to need it.”

They found a nearby pub and ordered fish-and-chips with mushy peas and a pint of Guinness each. Sam carried the beer to a table, where they could keep their backs to the wall and watch the windows and entrance — just in case.

He handed Remi a pint.

She took a sip of the dark, room-temperature brew, then leaned back in her seat, thinking about their encounter. “How is it,” she asked, “that Fisk, of all people, managed to get tickets and we couldn’t?”