Clive Cussler - Pirate

Remi gave him a tired smile. “It was a good run. Getting that close to possibly solving the mystery of King John and his treasure.”

“It was. But, on the bright side, our schedule’s wide open. So where do you want to go on vacation?”

“I thought you had that all planned out?”

“I did, sort of. Where did we leave off?”

“Carmel.”

One of the investigators poked his head out of the tunnel entrance. The ivy had been pulled back and tied with a cord, giving them easy access. The investigator looked over, calling out to the two officers standing guard. They walked over, conversing quietly.

Remi leaned her head against Sam’s shoulder, watching them. “Nice shooting down there, by the way.”

“Likewise.”

One of the officers walked over, taking out his notebook. “About your pistols…”

“We have visitor permits for them,” Sam said. Handguns were prohibited in Great Britain. They’d confiscate theirs in a heartbeat, and Sam liked his Smith & Wesson. “They should be on file in London.”

“Very good, sir. I’ll pass on the information.” He walked back to inform the investigator.

Sam waited until he was out of earshot, telling Remi, “Remind me to call Rube as soon as we get out of here.” If anyone could pull strings to make permits magically appear in the files, Rube Hayward could.

Alexandra, finished with her statement, returned to the wall, sitting on the other side of Sam.

He looked over at her, curious. “You turned on Fisk. Why?”

She gave a cynical laugh as she reached up, touching the small bandage on her forehead that one of the paramedics had put there. “I never wanted anyone hurt. Ever. I only wanted to find this treasure to get back at Charles. And then…” She glanced at Remi. “I knew that once Fisk got what he wanted, they were going to kill me like I was nothing. And dump my body down there.” Her eyes teared up, and she brushed them with the back of her hand. “He was going to do the same to you. I just felt I had to take a stand. I wanted my two kids to know I finally did something right.” She gave a ragged sigh. “It doesn’t matter. Charles might not have the treasure, but he’ll get away with trying to kill us like he does everything else.”

“That,” Sam said, “we can probably do something about.”

“How?”

“Trust me,” he replied, thinking about the security reports Archer had been forwarding to him on Charles Avery. “I’ve got an entire team gathering evidence on him as we speak.”

“If you do find it — the treasure — do me a favor and send me a picture? I’d like to forward it to Charles.”

“Doesn’t seem likely now,” Sam said. “The map’s completely deciphered, and this was our best hope. We seem to be at a dead end.”

“Or a better location,” Remi added.

Eventually they were all escorted to the police station, where formal statements were made. Hours later, they were released, and by the time that Sam and Remi got back to their hotel room, they fell into bed, exhausted, not even bothering with dinner.

“We did it!”

The excitement in Lazlo’s voice was enough to bring Sam fully awake.

“Did what?” Remi asked.

“Finished the cipher.” Lazlo announced. “In the castle rock. Beyond the den of the wolf’s head. The fourth chamber. Above death. Below death. With the last meal.”

Sam and Remi looked at each other, then turned back to the tablet and Lazlo’s beaming face. “Great,” Sam said. “Exactly what does it mean?”

“The location of the treasure,” Lazlo replied. “Except that first part.”

“First part?”

“We’re fairly sure it’s telling us it’s not at Robin Hood’s lair.”

“Would have been nice to know yesterday,” Sam said.

“So,” Remi said, “eliminating the Robin Hood connection, where does that leave us?”

“As vague as it is,” Selma replied, “we believe it means Newark Castle.”

“Newark Castle?” Remi glanced at Sam, then back at the tablet. “Why there?”

“The talk of death, chambers , and the last meal , it’s got to be talking about where King John died.”

“Sorry,” Sam said to Remi. “Looks like that vacation’s going to have to wait.”

The next day, Sam, Remi, and Nigel drove out to Newark under a dark sky that threatened more rain. They parked in the lot across the River Trent, the wind gusting as they walked across the bridge toward the imposing fortress. From this side, the castle appeared whole, but when they passed through to the other side, it was apparent that little remained of the once-impressive structure beyond the near-intact curtain wall along the riverbank, the gatehouse, a large hexagonal tower at the northwest corner, and a lower tower at the southwest end where King John was said to have died.

“Not much left,” Sam said as they looked around at the park-like grounds in what had at one time been the castle keep.

The wind whistled through the crumbling ruins, whipping at Remi’s hair. She nodded toward the lower, southeast tower. “My money’s where King John died. The riddle’s clearly talking about his death.”

“Isn’t that a little obvious?” Sam asked.

“Hide in plain sight. Why not?”

Sam picked up a few pamphlets so that they’d look more like visiting tourists instead of burglars who planned to sneak into the parts of the castle closed to the public. “As many times as this place has been occupied and remodeled since King John’s death, where would they hide it?”

“The point of our visit, isn’t it?” Remi asked.

He pulled out his phone and accessed the text with the ciphered riddle that Selma had sent.

The fourth chamber. Above death. Below death. With the last meal.

Remi tapped the screen. “ Chamber is another word for room . That could be the room where he died.”

“The last meal could mean a dining hall .”

“Which is long gone.”

“The tour’s starting,” Nigel said, pointing to the small crowd near the south tower.

They followed the others into the tower, climbing up the stone steps, as the guide gave a running commentary on the originations of the castle. “In 1646, after the civil war, Parliament ordered the castle destroyed. Had an outbreak of plague in Newark town not halted the destruction, there’d be nothing left.”

As they filed down the hall into one of the rooms, a gust of wind swept through the castle ruins, sounding much like a person moaning. “Ghost!” someone said, followed by soft laughter from several in the crowd.

“Actually,” the guide told them, “the castle is said to be haunted by those murdered here over the centuries. In fact, this room is where King John died, some say poisoned by his enemies. And there’s the dungeons far below where hundreds of poor souls were tortured and left to die, starved, their bodies eaten by armies of rats until they were nothing but a pile of bones.”

Sam pulled Nigel and Remi back as the group moved on. Nigel stood guard in the hall while Sam and Remi examined the room where King John breathed his last, looking for any hidden doors, loose floorboards, or passages. After twenty minutes, they found nothing encouraging.

“Looks like old King John took the secret of his treasure with him,” said Sam.

“We still have several chambers in the main part of the castle to search,” Remi countered.

They hurried out and caught the group as the guide finished another lecture on the castle kitchen. Then he led them down a narrow circular staircase, quoting his spiel about the castle being haunted by the ghosts of those who died here. They passed the level containing the castle sewer and the root cellar. Next, he lectured the group about the gruesome torture of political prisoners as he stopped at an opening in the floor with a ladder that led straight down into the dismal dungeons.