Clive Cussler - Pirate

Sam decided that their overnight trip to the Inn at Spanish Bay and dinner at Roy’s on the Monterey Peninsula would have to wait for another day. He contacted his flight crew and had them fly back to San Francisco from the airport in Monterey. Remi was too worried over not being able to get in touch with Bree. That, along with this morning’s events, had put a damper on Sam’s plans for the week. Within a few hours, they were at cruising altitude aboard their G650, relaxing to the soothing allegretto of Beethoven’s Seventh. Remi had received a text from Selma that the book arrived this morning in “fairly good shape,” and other than some minor damage to the inside cover, possibly from being jostled during shipping, there was nothing that stood out. No keys or anything else packed with it.

Even with Selma’s text, Remi seemed restless. Sam saw her check her phone, then return it to the table, a look of frustration on her face, no doubt hoping to hear from her friend. He wished he could ease her worry. He didn’t know Bree Marshall well, but Remi had worked quite closely with her these last few weeks and had grown fond of the young woman.

When they arrived at the San Diego Airport, they drove straight to Bree’s apartment in La Jolla. She lived on the second story in a complex about two miles inland. Palm trees lined the parking lot, the offshore breeze rustling the fronds above them. Sam and Remi climbed the stairs, Remi ringing the doorbell, waiting a few seconds, then trying again. When no one answered, Sam knocked sharply. The door behind them opened, and a blond-haired woman poked her head out. “No one’s home.”

“Any chance you know how to reach Bree?” Remi asked.

“You are…?”

“Remi Fargo. My husband, Sam. We work—”

“That Foundation. I’ve heard her mention her job there,” she said, opening the door wider, eyeing both of them. “Just wanted to make sure you weren’t some random strangers. She took off suddenly.”

“When?” Remi asked.

“Late last night. I was just getting home, and she was running down the stairs, saying something about her uncle. Going to see him, I think.”

Sam pulled out his wallet, took a business card from it, and handed it to her. “If you hear from her, ask her to give us a call? It’s very important.”

“Of course. Sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”

In the car, Sam glanced over at his wife. “She’s probably already in San Francisco.”

“I’m sure you’re right. I just hate to think how awful this must be for her.”

“She has our number. She’ll call. In the meantime, let’s go home, check in with Selma, and take a look at this book Mr. Pickering wrapped up for you.”

They lived just a few miles away in the hills of La Jolla’s Goldfish Point, overlooking the ocean. The moment they stepped inside from the garage, their massive German shepherd, Zoltán, bounded down the hallway toward them, his nails clicking on the tumbled-marble tile floor as he skidded to a stop in front of Remi and Sam.

Remi kneeled down, scratching him behind his ears as he pressed himself closer to her. She’d acquired the dog in Hungary when they were searching for Attila the Hun’s tomb, and the two had bonded so well, she brought Zoltán home. There was one slight drawback. Zoltán knew only Hungarian commands. Fortunately, their researcher Selma, a former Hungarian citizen — still retaining a slight accent — set about teaching the dog English commands to go along with the Hungarian. Zoltán was, Selma liked to say, the only Eastern European bilingual dog in the neighborhood.

“Good boy,” Remi told the dog. “Let’s get you a treat.”

Treat was one of the first English words he picked up, and his tail thumped on hearing it. Remi gave him one last scratch, then walked toward the kitchen, the dog heeling by her side. He sat in front of the cupboard where the dog biscuits were kept, his eyes solely on Remi.

Selma walked into the kitchen a moment later, dressed in black yoga pants and her usual tie-dyed shirt, this one teal blue and hot pink. Her close-cropped brown hair seemed spikier than usual, and the reading glasses she usually wore on a chain around her neck had been replaced with wide-framed sunglasses.

“Mr. and Mrs. Fargo. Welcome home.”

And here Sam had thought he’d convinced her that they were on a first-name basis. “Back to formalities?” he asked. “What happened to calling us Sam and Remi?”

“I tried it, Mr. Fargo. But I work for you. This makes me happy.”

“Then it makes us happy,” Remi said.

Selma eyed Remi, who was feeding a second biscuit to Zoltán. “You’re going to make that dog fat, Mrs. Fargo.”

“He’s as fit as ever.”

“Only because I walk him twice as far when you’re home feeding him all those treats. Someone has to look after that poor dog’s health.” Selma opened the cupboard near the hallway and pulled out the leash. Zoltán heard the jingle and rushed over, almost too excited to sit as she leaned down and hooked the leash to his collar. “We’ll be at the beach if anyone’s looking for us.”

“The book?” Remi asked Selma. “You didn’t notice anything unusual?”

“Not right off. But Lazlo was impressed,” she said, referring to Lazlo Kemp. They’d taken him on to help Selma with some of the research, during the time he needed to recuperate from an injury that occurred while they were searching for Quetzalcoatl’s tomb in Mexico. Both were surprised when the man had become smitten with Selma, whose husband, a test pilot, had died over a decade ago. What they weren’t sure about was exactly how Selma felt about Lazlo and so they were content to simply let the relationship run its course. Assuming it had a course to run.

Remi returned the dog biscuit box to the cupboard, asking Selma, “And what was Lazlo’s take on it?”

“That he didn’t know enough about the book to say what, if anything, was worth killing over. It’s not his specialty. But he’s arranged for you to meet with Ian Hopkins so that he can see the book. According to Lazlo, he’s the nearest expert on the subject available on such a short notice. Unfortunately, Hopkins is in Phoenix, Arizona. Retired professor.”

“No worries,” Remi said. “I love Arizona in the autumn.” She turned toward Sam. “This isn’t going to interrupt your plans too much, is it?”

“The beauty of my plans is their flexibility.”

“You don’t have any, do you?”

“Playing it by ear, Remi. So where is this mysterious book?” he asked Selma.

“Locked in your safe.”

“I’ll go have a look.”

“Bring it up,” Remi said. “We can look at it together.”

He retrieved the book, still in its FedEx box. He wasn’t sure why Selma bothered locking it up except, perhaps, because it was connected to the robbery and then the death of Mr. Pickering, the bookseller.

When he returned with the package, Remi was looking out the window — apparently at Selma as she and Zoltán walked down the drive. “Now that she’s in the sun, I do believe her hair matches her shirt. Pink and blue streaks.”

He glanced out the window and saw Remi was right. A very subtle highlighting that hadn’t been there before. “Not like the old Selma to fuss over her appearance. You think—?”

“Lazlo?” Remi finished.

They watched her until she and the dog disappeared from sight. Returning his attention to the book, he slipped it from the FedEx box onto the kitchen table, then unwrapped the brown paper, exposing the leather cover with the gold-tooled title. He could see why Remi had been drawn to it. “This is quite the find.”

She opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle of sparkling water. “They went to a lot of trouble to make it look like an antique. They’re printed in China to keep the cost down.”