Clive Cussler - Pirate

Sam looked up from his pages. “Do you recall your notes from the display at the museum on Mortimer’s illegitimate son?”

“I do.”

“And the notes on the onetime-lover-turned-pirate of the king? Hugh Despenser.”

Remi smiled. “And his illegitimate son, Bridgeman.”

“Who could forget Avery’s ancestor?” Sam eyed the paper in front of him. “Wasn’t there something about the king being angry with the Mortimers due to something being stolen by Despenser?”

“That’s got to be it,” Remi said. “Despenser stole one copy of the cipher wheel, which somehow ended up in the bottom of the ocean several hundred years later.”

“Which explains Avery’s obsession with trying to get it back.”

“ Part of his obsession, you mean. I’m sure the other part has to do with finding the treasure for himself.”

“Good point.” He straightened the stack of papers, then returned them to the envelope. “Let’s hope we locate it before he does.”

Selma skyped them early the next morning. She was seated at her office desk. “Wendy and Pete were able to make some headway on enhancing the photos, and Lazlo’s working on deciphering the map as we speak.” She held up the improved copy of the photo, pointing to the side of it that was still too dark to make out clearly. “Not the best lighting, even with the enhancement. And there are a few symbols worn too smooth to read. We’re not quite sure what they are.”

“Bottom line…?” Remi asked.

“Lazlo has enough to work with, but something could be lost in the translation.”

Lazlo leaned into view. “Quite right. But I’m hopeful it’s nothing too drastic. Like sending you to South America when you need to go to North America.”

Sam and Remi looked at each other, then the tablet screen. Sam said, “We’re headed to South America?”

“No,” Lazlo said. “I was merely giving you an example of what could go wrong with a few letters missing. South versus North. That sort of thing.”

“So where are we going?” Remi asked.

“Good question,” he said. “If Miss Crowley’s information is accurate — much is dependent on her research, and it seems that was done as a result of childhood tales, never a—”

“We get it,” Sam said.

“Right-o. Anyway, it looks as though the person you need to contact next is Nigel Ridgewell.”

“Ridgewell?” Sam said. “You’re sure?”

“Quite. He’s the resident expert in Old English. Former professor. We’ll need his help to translate what I’ve deciphered on the map — unless, of course, you want to wait until we find another expert.”

“This should be interesting,” Sam said. “He happens to be the person who stole Madge Crowley’s research.”

Colin Fisk hid his shock when he saw Alexandra Avery standing in the middle of his hotel lobby. He gave her a bland smile as he approached. “Mrs. Avery,” he said. “I had no idea you were in London.”

“I’m sure you didn’t,” she replied, her expression as neutral as his. “I like surprises, though. Don’t you?”

“What are you doing here?”

“I expect the same thing you are. Searching for this mysterious treasure that my husband’s so obsessed with. Any luck so far?”

“We’re making progress.”

“Hmm. And the Fargos? They’re not getting in your way?”

“Not in the least.” The fact she knew about the Fargos bothered him, although he told himself he shouldn’t be surprised. During the time he’d been employed by Charles Avery, he’d come to realize that the man’s wife wasn’t quite the inept socialite that Charles had made her out to be. “Does Mr. Avery know you’re here?”

She laughed. “Hardly. The last thing I need is to have him looking over my shoulder. Actually, I’ve come to head you off. Include me in the hunt or expect that the funds my husband is using to finance your venture will suddenly disappear.” She smiled sweetly. “I’m sure he mentioned that all his assets are frozen?”

“He did.”

“He may have neglected to inform you that my forensic accountant has a very good lead on this income that Charles seems to be tapping into to pay your salary. Especially since it’s coming from my hidden account. And technically , since I’m funding this venture, I’m willing to overlook it for now. That is, if you’re willing to overlook my being here.” Again, that sweet smile.

Fisk held out his hand. “Welcome to the party.”

She shook hands with him. “So glad you could see it my way. So… what’s next on your agenda?”

“Why don’t we discuss this over a drink,” he said. The interruption would give him time to gather his thoughts, because the last thing he needed or wanted was a socialite like Alexandra Avery underfoot.

“Lead the way.”

“Exactly where are you staying?” he asked once they were seated at a table.

“Well, here, of course. But only for one night. Tomorrow we’re off to King’s Lynn.”

Fisk stared in shock.

“That is where you’re headed next?”

“How did you know?”

This time, her smile wasn’t so innocent. “I pay good money to stay informed, Mr. Fisk. Something I learned from my husband.” She reached out, gave his hand a pat. “No need to trouble yourself with such trivial details about where I get my information. I vote we compare plans. Maybe we’ll find that we can actually be of use to each other.”

An interesting thought. Maybe there was a way to capitalize on her presence. Ivan and Jak weren’t exactly the sharpest pair. Another set of eyes on them might be what he needed to finally get ahead of the Fargos.

The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. Alexandra Avery was far more intelligent than Charles had ever given her credit for. Clearly, she was tapping into her husband’s computer or phone. Or maybe she had his office bugged. How else would she have known about their plans? And while that worried him, there were ways to keep her in line. Besides, it wasn’t like he had to keep Charles in the loop about her actions. At least not now.

This could actually work…

The following afternoon, Sam and Remi left their car at the car park, then walked to the town center along Purfleet Quay, to meet with Nigel Ridgewell at the information center where he worked. That was located in the Custom House, a stone building with a steep-pitched tile roof with dormers, crowned by a wooden bell tower.

Several tourists gathered outside the building, some of them snapping photos of the river. At the head of the group, a lanky, brown-haired man in his late thirties looked up, saw them, and asked, “Here for the tour? You can still buy tickets inside.”

Sam said, “We’re looking for Nigel Ridgewell.”

“I’m Nigel.” He said something to the group, then walked toward them. “You must be the Fargos.”

Sam eyed the people waiting in front of the tourist center. “Maybe I got the time wrong. I was under the impression you asked us to meet here.”

“Sorry about that. I was supposed to have the rest of the afternoon off, but one of the other guides called in. Any chance we can meet later this evening?”

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Sam said. “What time?”

“Maybe around six? That’ll give me a short break after my last tour before we meet up. Of course, you’re welcome to come along. Or save yourself five pounds, pick up a map inside, and use that for your own tour.”

“Thanks,” Sam said. “Maybe we’ll take a look around.”

Nigel returned to his tour group. “If you’ll follow me, we’ll get started.” He led them around the corner, saying, “King’s Lynn, one of the most important seaports in the Middle Ages, used to be known as Bishop’s Lynn…”