Clive Cussler - Wrath of Poseidon

“Well, it certainly seems to this time.”

He grinned, trying to cheer her. “Maybe it was the murder of crows. Revenge for missing the award-winning shot.”

After making a police report—the officer commenting on how rare theft was on the island—the two motored out to the shipwreck. Remi tried to put the stolen camera from her mind.

Dimitris, however, didn’t seem too concerned. “It’ll turn up. You heard the officer. I assure you, he was telling the truth. Crime out here is almost unheard of. Maybe in tourist season, and even then it’s almost unheard of.”

“I’ll replace the lens. I’m so sorry. I should never have left the bag out in the open.”

“You worry too much. Enjoy the sun.”

They were nearly to the site when Remi heard her sat phone ringing in her backpack. She recognized the number. “Hello . . . !”

“Remi? It’s Sam. I wanted to make sure you arrived safely. And are in good hands.”

“The best,” she said as she glanced at her dive watch and saw it was after ten in the morning—which meant it was after midnight, his time. “Late night, I see.”

“Trying to occupy my time as I pine away.”

She laughed. “Sorry. I still can’t picture you as the pining type.”

Dimitris cut the motor, then glanced at her, mouthing, “Ready.”

She nodded, then to Sam, said, “While I’d love to stay and chat, this call’s actually being forwarded to my sat phone. A bit pricey on a translator’s budget.”

“I’ll let you go, then. Happy mapping. May the treasure gods be smiling down upon you.”

Her phone beeped as he ended the call. She slipped it into her backpack, smiling. The truth was that she’d thought about him, a lot. And she was still thinking about him as she and Dimitris prepared to make their first pass over the remains of the shipwreck, using a side-scan sonar. As soon as they let out the cable for the equipment, Dimitris switched the boat to autopilot. It kept the boat at a speed between three and four knots and was set up with a program that would establish survey lanes of about five hundred feet wide and two miles long, all while recording the data for later processing.

According to Dimitris, trying to triangulate anything on the seafloor was a challenge. One day an artifact might be exposed, the next it was covered in sediment from shifting currents, storms, and even earthquakes, the latter being plentiful in the area. The sonar images would give them a good head start before the archeologists started the actual diving to search for and photograph any artifacts.

Dimitris monitored the screen, pointing out various anomalies that appeared. “See all the amphorae?” The long, terra-cotta jars were scattered across the seafloor, some half buried in silt, most looking intact. “I have a friend who can look at them and tell you exactly from where they originated based on their shape and size or the stamp on some. We’ll send him a photo of one of these and he’ll know.”

Remi was about to comment on how clear some of the images actually were when she heard an approaching vessel. Looking up, she saw two men sitting in a sleek, black speedboat, motoring toward them. “Friends of yours?”

He shook his head. “No.”

Something about the way the broad-shouldered passenger braced himself while watching them bothered Remi. “I don’t like the looks of that.”

“Definitely not.”

As Dimitris reached for the throttle, the man stood. He aimed a semiautomatic weapon at them as their boat slowed alongside the Asteri . “Don’t move,” he shouted in Greek. “You,” he said to Dimitris. “Shut off the boat.”

Remi froze, watching the gunman. Her father, a hobbyist competitive marksman, had introduced her to the sport at an early age, and along with it, gun safety. Which was why she immediately noticed the gunman rested his finger alongside the trigger guard, not on the actual trigger. That, and his stance, suggested military training, or at the very least someone who was well versed in firearms. That meant she and Dimitris were not likely to talk their way out of this.

She eyed the distance to her tote on the seat, then held up her hands as Dimitris turned off the engine. The speedboat kept pace alongside as the Asteri came to a stop . As the vessel slowed, the sonar dropped to the bottom of the sea, dragging like an anchor. Remi pretended to stumble against the seat as the boat bobbed in the water. “Sorry,” she said in English, gripping the seat back to balance herself. “I’m still trying to get my sea legs.”

The driver of the speedboat aimed his gun at them, while the other man holstered his weapon, and boarded the Asteri.

Knowing she had just a few seconds, Remi leaned down, pulled the sat phone from the front pocket of her backpack, then pressed the last call received. Sam was half a world away, probably asleep by now.

The kidnapper reached out, grabbed her by the arm, knocking the phone into her bag. Hoping he wasn’t going to kill her right there and then, she dug in her heels. “Can someone tell me what’s going on?”

Whether or not the kidnappers understood English, she didn’t know, nor did she care. The boat driver spoke in rapid-fire Greek, too fast for Remi to catch most of what he was saying, other than the name “Fayez,” and “hurry.”

Dimitris, standing stock-still, his arms raised, translated. “He wants us to get on their boat.”

“Do they want money?” she asked, wincing as Fayez dug his fingers into her arm. Glancing up at the sky, Remi wished it really was dark and said, “Where’s the North Star when you need it?”

With a loss of patience, she was forced to board the speedboat behind Dimitris and his reply was covered by the sound of the motor’s roar as the vessel surged forward. They barely made it to the seats on the port side. Fayez, sitting across from them, rested his gun on his thigh as they sped off toward open sea.

CHAPTER TEN

Sam awoke the next morning to the sound of Blake unlocking the front door to his real estate office, then turning on the overhead lights. “Wakey, wakey!”

“Wakey, wakey? What am I, five?” Sam covered his eyes against the glare of the fluorescents. “You’re early.”

“Apparently not as early as you,” he said, dropping a fast-food bag on his desk. He gave a pointed look at Sam’s feet propped up on an empty, overturned trash can, and shook his head. “When I said you could use the office, I thought it was going to be an occasional thing.”

“So did I.” Sam stretched, his shoulder muscles tight from the hours spent sleeping in the chair. “Maybe renting a room over a garage where budding rock stars live wasn’t the wisest move. I figured I’d come in, get some work done.”

“You and your project,” he said, nodding at the paperwork Sam had spread across the desk, “both need a new apartment. And my office isn’t it.”

“I’m looking. I swear.”

“Not fast enough.” Blake pulled two breakfast sandwiches from the bag and tossed one to him. “Any chance you’re going to get all of that together in time for your investor meeting?”

“That’s my goal,” he said as the scent of fried egg and bacon wafted up. “When that day comes, I’ll pay you back.”

“Should you get rich, remember that I not only found your investors, I gave you office space and fed you so you could keep working on—I’m never going to remember the name of that thing .”

“An argon laser scanner.”

“Right. The fancy metal detector.”

That thing , as Blake called it, was—if all turned out well—going to be Sam’s future. Originally, his intent was that it could possibly be used for mining operations, but as he worked on it the possibilities expanded, including archeological purposes. Some days he looked at the plans and felt he would never be ready—not that he was about to let that stop him.