Clive Cussler: The Eye of Heaven

“How? How could they have known?”

“Obviously, they came prepared …”

“Which raises the questions, who are they and who leaked the info?”

“Anyone who knows about the wreck could have given them the coordinates. That’s a pretty long list of Spanish officials.”

“I suppose so. And as to who these pirates are …?” Remi asked.

“There’s only one way to find out.”

She shook her head. “You’re not thinking—”

“The best defense is a good offense.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to notify the authorities?”

“You mean the same ones that might have tipped these guys off? What do you want to bet that goes nowhere?”

Remi sighed. “I suppose this has been way too calm for your tastes so far. I should have known better.”

“Come on. Let’s go take a look at how the other half lives.”

“We are the other half.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes, Sam. I’m all too afraid I do.”

They approached the interlopers’ yacht at fifteen feet of depth, and Sam punched in a waypoint on his dive GPS when they were directly below it. With another glance back at the shipwreck’s position, he pointed up at the stern, and Remi signaled that she was ready. Together, they ascended to the dive ladder that hung below the swim step and Sam hauled himself up, followed closely by Remi.

“Let’s leave our gear here. We’ll look just like any of the other divers. If we’re spotted, just wave.”

“I don’t know, Sam. I might be a little curvier than the average technical diver.”

“Which is only one of the many reasons I love you.”

“At least I can cross off the worry about you running away with another diver.”

“Running sounds exhausting, especially in flippers.”

Remi swatted him.

After a furtive scan of the empty lower-deck area near the transom, they mounted the stairs to it. The yacht had four stories above the hull. A soft swirling of jazz music drifted down from the second-story deck.

“Sounds like the party’s up there,” Remi whispered.

Sam nodded. “Question is whether we want to join in.”

“Prudence would dictate caution.”

“So we crash it?”

She gave him a knowing look. “If I said no, would that stop you?”

“Good point. Let’s sneak up and see who we’re dealing with.”

“Sneak? Wearing a wet suit? On a mega-yacht?”

“I didn’t say the plan couldn’t use some fine-tuning,” Sam admitted.

She smirked. “Lead on, O great hunter.”

He hoisted himself onto the second-level deck and found himself facing three extremely tanned young beauties wearing little more than smiles, lying on chaise longues around a hot tub. One of them glanced up and fixed Sam with a frank gaze, then lowered her sunglasses slowly to get a better look.

Four considerably older men sat gathered around a large teak table filled with epicurean fare and champagne, their cigar smoke pungent on the balmy breeze. A fifth, and younger, man stood at the portside railing, watching the Bermudez with binoculars. Sam regarded the seated group, and one of the men rose — an imposing figure, wearing a brightly colored Robert Graham shirt, ivory Armani silk-and-linen pants, and Prada loafers. Sam smiled and locked eyes with him. The man’s face registered shock for a few seconds, but quickly settled into a practiced grin, as genteel as the cream panama hat cocked rakishly on his head.

“Sam and Remi Fargo. What a pleasant surprise. How good of you to drop in,” he said, his upper-crust British accent unmistakable.

Sam sensed Remi behind him. Without turning to her, he approached the table with an equally friendly smile on his face and reached out to lift one of the champagne bottles from the sweating silver buckets. He studied the label for a second and then dropped the bottle back into the ice.

“Well, if it isn’t Janus Benedict. Still drinking Billecart-Salmon 1996, I see,” Sam said.

“I see no reason to change horses, having already backed a winner. If I might ask, to what do we owe the pleasure of your company?”

“We were over on that other ship, saw yours, and were wondering if you had any Grey Poupon.”

“Ah, the infamous Fargo humor asserts itself. Well met,” Janus replied, his tone steeped in an elegant civility that perfectly complemented his graying pencil-thin mustache.

The other three seated men eyed the Fargos with guarded amusement, enjoying the interlude — it was obvious to everyone at the table that Janus and the Fargos were old adversaries.

The younger man approached Janus and murmured in his ear, “Janus. What are you doing? Throw them off … now. Or better yet—”

Janus silenced him with a curt gesture. He moved him away and spoke into his ear. “Reginald, stop,” he hissed. “Stop right now. One should always keep one’s enemies close, the better to understand their mind.”

“It’s insanity.” Reginald reached toward the rear of his waist, where a pistol was concealed by his loose shirt.

“Reginald, you may be my brother, but you escalate this on my boat and there’ll be hell to pay. Think. Just for a second. Bring a weapon into the equation and we’re out of options. So stop it, now, and go back to studying your navel while the adults play.” Janus pulled away and returned his attention to the new arrivals. “Please. I insist. Some champagne. And, Remi, may I say that you look as ravishing as ever …”

Remi had removed her dive hood and unzipped her wet suit. “Ever the silver-tongued devil, aren’t you, Janus?”

“I’d have to be made of stone to be oblivious to your beauty, dear lady,” Janus said, then took his seat and snapped his fingers. A steward in white slacks and a matching short-sleeved shirt with black epaulets materialized from inside the upstairs salon.

“Bring two more chairs for my guests, as well as some proper glasses. And be quick about it,” Janus ordered.

“Yes, sir.”

Like rabbits from a hat, two more stewards appeared bearing chairs and champagne flutes. Remi and Sam took seats at the table. The shorter of the servants poured them both glasses of champagne, which sparkled like effervescent gold in the bright sun.

Janus indicated his entourage with an open palm. “Allow me to introduce everyone. Pasqual, Andrew, Sergei, meet Sam and Remi Fargo — some would argue the most successful treasure hunters on the planet. Oh, and the gentleman over there, admiring your fine vessel, is my younger brother, Reginald.”

The men nodded at the Fargos.

Sam shook his head. “Hardly treasure hunters, Janus. We’re merely possessed with insatiable curiosity and find ourselves in the right place at auspicious times.”

“Yes, quite — you certainly have Lady Luck perched firmly on your shoulders. But fortune favors the bold, it’s said.” Janus raised his glass in a toast. “To fair weather and smooth sailing.”

Remi raised her glass to meet his, and Sam just smiled.

“What brings you to the Spanish coast, Janus? Not really your stomping ground, is it?” Sam asked.

“All work and no play, dear boy.” Janus’s eyes skimmed over the three reclining nubiles by the tub. “Doctor’s orders. Take in the salt air, enjoy the sun. None of us can be sure how much more time we have.” He paused. “And you?”

“We must have the same doctor. He gave us almost identical instructions,” Remi interjected.

“Yes, well. Great minds and all.”

Sam leaned forward. “I couldn’t help but notice that you have quite a dive shop on this boat.”

Janus didn’t blink and merely offered a wan smile. “Some of my guests are real enthusiasts. One of the prices of entertaining. I had it outfitted so they’d have everything they could wish for.”