Clive Cussler: Pirate

She looked over at him. “We’ll see when we’re back at the hotel.”

“Did you notice those gold coins in Pickering’s safe?”

“Odd, isn’t it? That the robber ignored the gold for a book in a box that he hadn’t even seen?”

“A book that’s supposed to be nothing but a reproduction.”

“Definitely odd,” she said as they turned onto Stockton Street by their hotel. “It was almost as if Mr. Pickering was downplaying the stolen book’s value. Which doesn’t make sense. I’d hate to have been shot over a reprint. Which brings me to my next point. What happened to that promised week of no one trying to kill us?”

“You didn’t think I meant today, did you? Tomorrow. The week starts tomorrow.”

“Well, then. Glad that’s cleared up.”

Inside the lobby, they stopped at the concierge desk, where Remi asked the woman working there to mail the book to their home with the other item she’d purchased earlier that morning — a large ceramic rooster from an antique shop — a gift for their researcher, Selma Wondrash, who said she’d always wanted a rooster for her kitchen.

“Insurance?” the woman asked. “Or special packing instructions?”

“No,” Remi said. “It’s just a book. It’ll be fine.”

“Same address as the rooster?”

“The same.”

“I’ll take care of it for you, Mrs. Fargo.”

“Thank you.”

At the door of their suite, Sam swiped the key card in the lock, then took a quick look inside before allowing Remi to enter. “Good to go,” he said, holding the door for her.

She stepped into the room, and on a table in front of the sofa found a plate of sliced green apples, cheese, and a bottle of Billecart-Salmon Brut Rosé champagne on ice. He was pleased to see that someone from Guest Services had noticed they were later than expected and so refilled the ice bucket. The champagne was chilled to perfection, and the gift he’d arranged to have waiting there was next to the two fluted glasses. He handed the small, distinctively blue Tiffany box to Remi.

“And I didn’t get you a thing.”

“You got me a book.”

“A copy, as it turns out.”

He uncorked the champagne. “You’ll make up for it later.”

“Maybe,” she said, untying the ribbon and lifting the lid to find a gold chain with a vintage-looking diamond-studded oval key charm. “The key to your heart?”

“No key needed there.”

“Let’s hope it’s not to my new front door.” She slipped the necklace over her head. “Imagine the cost to replace it every time we had to rekey.”

“With all the security features we have recently added, diamond-studded keys would be the least of our expenses.” In fact, they’d spent a small fortune turning their house into a veritable fortress after it had nearly been destroyed during a massive home invasion. Peace of mind, he thought, handing her a glass. Then, raising his own, he said, “New promise. Starting tomorrow, nothing but rest, relaxation, and a week of no one trying to kill us. Ah, yes… and my undivided attention.”

“I’m holding you to your promise on that last part, Fargo.”

“No one trying to kill us? Or my undivided attention?”

“Both would be nice,” she said, touching her glass to his.

“Indeed.”

Remi was still asleep when Sam awoke the next morning. He quietly rose from the bed and ordered their breakfast from room service. By the time it arrived, Remi emerged from the bedroom, her lithe form wrapped in a cream silk robe, her long auburn hair still damp from the shower. She kissed him, then took a seat at the table.

He poured her coffee and slid it across the table toward her, then resumed reading his paper. “Sleep well?”

“I did,” she said, spooning fresh fruit into a small bowl of Greek yogurt. “Where are we off to today?”

“And spoil the surprise? Not saying.” Sam turned the page of the Chronicle , scanning the articles, when his gaze caught on the headline Robbery Victim Dies from Apparent Heart Attack . “This changes things…”

“What?”

He lowered the paper and looked at her. “The bookseller, Gerald Pickering. He’s dead.”

Charles Avery sat back in his seat, drinking coffee as he turned the page of the San Francisco Chronicle . In his late fifties, his dark hair salted with gray at the temples, he was — in his opinion — fit for a man of his age. Even so, he’d needed a second cup of coffee to get it together this morning, having flown in late last night on his jet from the East Coast to his San Francisco offices.

When he read about the death of the bookseller Gerald Pickering, he smiled. The news wasn’t all that surprising. Not after yesterday’s events.

Of course, all of that meant nothing if his men failed to recover the book and confirm it was the one he’d specifically been searching for.

Good riddance, Pickering, he thought as the head of his security team, Colin Fisk, walked into the room carrying a large, polished wooden box. Finally. “You found it,” Avery said.

“The bookstore, yes. The book, no.”

Avery took a deep breath, containing his anger. “What do you mean no?”

Fisk placed the box onto the table, lifting the lid, revealing a leather-bound volume. “Fake. We went back after the police left. Pickering said he sold it to another collector before my man got there.”

“Did your man explain to him who I was?”

“Yes.”

“And what I’d do to him if he didn’t hand it over?”

“Yes.”

“Did you at least find out who he sold it to?”

“I’m afraid he expired before we were able to obtain that info.”

Avery lowered his coffee cup to the mahogany table, then forced himself to take yet another deep breath as he pinned his stare on Fisk, wondering if it had been a mistake to hire this team Fisk had suggested. They were supposed to be the best — and, in some respects, they were. They followed orders without question, and they’d certainly found Pickering easily enough, even after Avery’s own men had failed to do so. Was it possible that Pickering had guessed Avery’s intentions? Somehow known that the knowledge of the original book’s existence in his shop meant his days were numbered?

For twenty years, Avery had been searching…

How was it that he’d gotten so close only to miss?

He lifted the book from the box, opening it to the first page.

Clearly, it was taken from a first edition, maybe even the one stolen from his family more than two centuries before. How else could someone so accurately reproduce the maps and wording? What this mere copy didn’t have, and what he was sure he’d find in the volume Pickering had been hiding, was the key to deciphering the code on the maps printed within. What good is a map without a way to read the ciphered notations?

“You’re sure you searched the place thoroughly?” Avery asked.

“Positive. We do have one possible lead, though. The names of the two who were listed as a victim and witness in the original police report. I did some checking on them. Apparently they’re treasure hunters.”

“Treasure hunters? Who’s financing their operation? Go after the money and stop them in their tracks.”

“They finance themselves,” Fisk said. “And from what I’ve heard, others who have tried to go after them have failed. The Fargos aren’t your average husband-and-wife hobbyists out searching for a quick buck. They’re self-made multimillionaires who donate their proceeds to charity.”

“Regular Robin Hoods? They should be easy to deal with.”

“Highly trained Robin Hoods.”

Avery reached for his coffee. “They haven’t come up against me yet, have they?”