Clive Cussler - The Eye of Heaven

“I’ll give them that,” Percy said. “This one in particular is noteworthy because of what was being transported by the longship.”

“I see. What was being transported …” Janus echoed.

“Yes. It appears that it was a hoard of pre-Columbian knickknacks. Pots, statues, that sort of rot.”

Janus sat up straighter, and his heart rate increased by twenty beats per minute. “You did say pre-Columbian, didn’t you, old boy?”

“The very thing.”

“Ah, then I understand what the fuss is all about. That’s certainly a feather in their caps. I’d imagine it will cause quite a stir in academic circles.”

“Quite.”

“Brilliant work, as usual, my good man. And if I know the Fargos, this will be only the first step. They have keen minds and move quickly. They’re sure to use their newfound knowledge to their best advantage, and, if there’s a treasure to be found, they’ll be relentless. I think it’s time to step up surveillance of them. But more sophisticated than the last idiot you sent. I want no more incidents that could tip them off.” Percy had filled Janus in on the botched photography outside the Fargos’ La Jolla home and was livid over the sloppiness.

“Of course. I’ve already taken steps in that regard. This time, with more, er, subtle approaches.”

“I want to be kept abreast of every move they make, is that clear?”

“Crystal. It shall be done. I’ll report on anything that seems pertinent.”

“Where are they at this moment?”

“On their plane. According to the flight plan the pilot filed this morning, headed back to San Diego.”

“Very well. Do whatever you need to do. Spare no resources. My instinct is that watching and waiting should turn up some very interesting results. They don’t stay stationary for long, and when they move, I want to be two steps ahead of them.”

Janus hung up and stared at the phone, then set it back on the table and resumed his appreciation of his fine Cuban smoke. The horizon had faded to purple and crimson, the sun’s final shimmering on the sea replaced by the lights of other estates owned by the privileged and powerful, stretching all the way to Cannes. He took another sip of the liquid gold and sighed contentedly. Whatever the Fargos had planned, he intended to foil. After their interference with his last project, it was personal. For all Janus’s aplomb, that had been a slap to his face, an insult every bit as painful as a blow.

That would not stand.

One of the French doors swung open and Reginald stepped through before closing it softly behind him.

“There you are. You missed the sunset,” Janus said as his brother took the seat on the opposite side of the table.

“I’ve seen plenty of them. What’s that you’re knocking back?”

“Bit of vintage port.”

“Any good?”

“Not bad. You might not like it, though.”

“Probably not. Don’t see how you choke down that sweet stuff. Like molasses to me.” Reginald depressed the button on a discreetly located intercom on the table and called out, “Simon, be a good lad and fetch me a Glenfiddich on the rocks, would you?”

After a few moments of silence, a stately voice emanated from the tinny speaker. “Of course, sir. Very good. Your usual measure?”

“Perhaps a finger or so more. It’s been a frightful day.”

“It will be there shortly, sir.”

Reginald stared out at the darkening water and then removed a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket and lit one. He blew a gray cloud at the overhang and tapped his fingers impatiently. A houseboy emerged bearing a silver tray with a single tumbler of Scotch, three-quarters full, with two small cubes of ice floating in the caramel distillation. Reginald downed a third in one swallow as the servant disappeared back inside.

“Ah. At least the Scottish are good at something,” he observed.

“I see you’re in another of your good moods,” Janus said.

“Never better. So what’s on the agenda for tonight? Raping and pillaging?”

“Hardly. I have reservations for five at the Carlton at seven. With the von Schiffs.”

Reginald groaned. “Not them. Anything but that.”

“Behave, Reginald. It’s business. You’ll put on a brave face.”

“The son’s an ass. Takes after his old man. And the missus is a positive gargoyle.”

“Perhaps. But they’re very profitable acquaintances to know.”

Reginald polished off the rest of his drink and held it aloft. “Best to have a few more of these, then.”

“I think not, old chap. Don’t want you to make a scene.”

Reginald’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “I’m a big boy, Janus.”

“Yes. Well then, do behave like one, won’t you? I can’t have you showing up to dinner inebriated, which is where this is going. If you want to pursue your date with a bottle, do so after dinner, not before.”

“Bloody hell.”

“That’s the spirit. Go and find a proper jacket, and have Simon bring the car around. Dinner bell rings in a few minutes,” Janus said, dismissing Reginald, already on to something else.

Reginald’s sneer was lost on him. The younger man rose, stubbed out his cigarette with a curt stab, and stalked into the house.

Janus smoothed his glossy graying hair and finished the last of his port and then stood, taking care to also smooth his slacks and adjust his cravat. It wouldn’t do to appear rumpled to the von Schiffs. The Germans were very judgmental about the little things, and, as he knew, the difference between success and failure often came down to careful presentation.

Reginald was right, though, about the Germans’ son being an idiot.

But enduring a couple of hours with the imbecile would pay handsome dividends, so he’d do so with a smile.

The predatory smile of a raptor.

The overnight trip back to San Diego was mercifully smooth, and when the G650 touched down with a puff of smoke from its tires, Remi turned to Sam and gave him a tired look.

“Home at last,” she said.

“Hopefully, for a while. Unless you’ve scheduled something in the dizzy whirlwind of our social calendar and not told me about it.”

“The only thing I’ve got scheduled is some serious spa time and an appointment with a masseuse to treat my frostbite.”

“That wasn’t frost that bit you.”

“Don’t get fresh with me. I still haven’t forgiven you for volunteering us.”

“Nor should you. I’m hoping some spoiling you rotten might alleviate the worst of the sting.”

“That and more notoriety when they break news of the longship.”

“Maybe you’ll get your own reality show.”

“What camera crew would be stupid enough to take that duty?”

“Good point.”

Kendra was waiting with the Cadillac, Zoltán occupying most of the backseat. He caught sight of Remi and let loose a delighted bark as his tail beat the seat back like a spirited metronome. Remi’s heart soared when she saw his chocolate eyes trailing her.

“Who’s my big, brave boy?” she called, arms outstretched. He vaulted out and ran to Remi and then waited, trembling, as she knelt and hugged him.

Sam waved him away. “No, no, spend the time with her, not me. I just buy your food. No need to make a fuss on my account.”

Remi rolled her eyes. “You’re jealous!”

“I am not. Okay, maybe a little bit. He’s got better hair than me. There. I said it.”

“He’s a Hungarian charmer. I’ve always been a pushover for those.”

“Serves me right for being born in California.”

“Don’t worry. Surfer boys are my other vice.”

Kendra filled them in on the research as they wove their way through the early-morning traffic to La Jolla. “We’ve compiled an entire dossier on possible items of interest that involve anything that hints at contact with Europeans, pre-Columbus,” she began, “but it’s a fuzzy target. So much of their history is oral traditions that were garbled, or changed by the Spanish. So there’s no telling what’s invention or what’s true. I’m afraid it’s going to be good old-fashioned midnight-oil burning to make sense out of any of it. And believe me, there’s a mountain of data.”