Clive Cussler - Wrath of Poseidon

Remi’s expression turned skeptical. “Have you ever been to a high-ticket fundraiser?”

“Never. But I have done my share of required dinners in D.C.”

“Well, then you know, walking in as a couple will be far less noticeable. Especially when at least one of them speaks Greek.” She smiled, trying to calm the waters. But she couldn’t help herself. “Of course, you’re welcome to take Nikos or Dimitris as your date.”

As much as he didn’t want her anywhere close to that house, she presented an almost indisputable argument on why she was the right choice. A couple would blend into the background far better than a single man. “What do you think, Nikos?”

“I agree, going together may be the best way to get in.”

Sam called Selma back, saying, “Two tickets, please.”

“Under what name?”

He looked at Remi. “I suppose we should pose as husband and wife?”

“Quick courtship?” A spark of amusement lit her green eyes. “Sure.”

“Sam and Remi Fargo,” he said into the phone.

Again, the rapid keyboard clicking, then, “Credit card?”

Sam reached into his pocket and read the numbers to Selma.

“Anything else, Mr. Fargo?”

“You could call me Sam . . .”

“I’ll email you the tickets as soon as they come through.”

“Thank you.”

“Glad to help, Mr. Fargo. Call if you need anything else.”

“How to arrive?” Remi asked as he texted Rube with an update. “We can’t take this boat. They’ll recognize it.”

“I have another cousin,” Nikos said, “who owns a water taxi. We can use that to drive you in.”

“Looks like we have everything we need,” Sam said.

“Except clothes,” Remi replied. “You’ll need a tux. And shoes. The whole nine yards.”

“What about you, Remi?” Dimitris asked.

Thinking back to those strappy shoes and that evening dress hanging in the bungalow closet, Sam said, “Oh, don’t worry about Remi. She doesn’t travel light. She has all her bases covered, packs for every occasion.”

She opened up a website on her phone. “Here you go, Fargo.”

He looked at the price, then whistled. One rental tuxedo was by Versace, the other was Ralph Lauren. Where was Jos. A. Bank? Regardless of which one he picked, he’d have to buy the patent leather shoes, dress shirt, and cuff link and stud set. “At least they throw in the bow tie.”

“That bow tie is awful. We’ll have to buy one,” Remi added. “It’s the little things that can’t be overlooked.”

Sam rolled his eyes skyward. “That’ll put a pretty good dent into the slush fund.”

“Half the battle of getting past the gatekeepers is looking the part.”

—

Two days later, Sam dressed in his rented tux, a Ralph Lauren white double-breasted dinner jacket with a shawl collar, and waited for Remi. When she finally emerged from her room, he stared for several seconds. Her refined elegance, while always there no matter what she wore, shone with a particular brilliance in its simplicity. The hanger certainly hadn’t done the dress justice: an understated, floor-length black gown, with red strap stiletto heels peeking out, and a red envelope purse with a rhinestone clasp. “You look amazing.”

Her smile reminded him of the first night they’d met. “Thank you.”

He held up his bow tie. “I did try.”

“Why is it men can never manage to tie their own bow ties?” With a sigh and a few flips of her wrist, it was perfect. “Time to go, double-oh-seven. We’ve got some super-sleuthing to do.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Sam and Remi rode to the villa in the water taxi, with Nikos at the helm and Dimitris hidden from view. Between them, the only weapon they had was the throwing knife hidden in Remi’s purse.

Before they left, Sam had gone over every eventuality that might come up, including having father and son waiting in the taxi on the other side of the inlet, out of sight of the cliff-top house—just in case anything went wrong. As Nikos motored toward the short pier, Sam repeated the most important direction. “Remember. Three hours.”

Nikos nodded. “If you’re not back, we call your CIA friend.”

—

Sam helped Remi from the boat, then took her arm in his as they crossed the dock toward the two burly doormen stationed at the arched entry beyond the gate. One of them checked his clipboard as Sam handed over paper tickets printed from the email that Selma had sent.

The man said something in Greek, welcoming them, then handed each a small velvet bag from the basket on the table next to him, while the other opened the massive wood door that led into an arched stone tunnel.

“Our chips for the gaming tables,” Remi said as they entered. They walked across a red Turkish carpet that absorbed their footsteps as they passed through the tunnel to the lift that whisked them up to the top level, where the fundraiser was being held.

When the lift door opened, they stepped out onto a tiled patio. Guests mingled around various tables set up between the house and an infinity pool that overlooked the Aegean Sea. Lights strung overhead added to the festive appearance, as did the soft classical Greek music being played by a small ensemble. Uniformed waiters carrying trays of chilled champagne and ouzo approached as Sam and Remi made their way from the elevator to the party.

Sam took two flutes, handing one to Remi as they made the rounds.

She looked over at him, her expression unreadable. “Shall we start with roulette?”

“Roulette it is.”

They paused by each table, playing a game or two, all so Remi could listen in on conversations, while Sam took in the lay of the villa. The ground-floor level of the house was open to the guests, the massive floor-to-ceiling glass doors opened wide so that they could come and go from a lounge that faced the pool and the sea view. The upper levels, with the main living quarters, were dark, and the staircases on either side of the vast patio and pool deck were blocked off with velvet rope barriers guarded by broad-shouldered men wearing earpieces.

No doubt in Sam’s mind that they were carrying guns beneath the jackets of their impeccable suits.

The soft strains of the classical Greek music stopped, and a moment later, a man’s voice sounded. Sam looked around, seeing a large group gathering in front of the pool house. He and Remi wandered up to the edge of the crowd, though neither could see who was speaking.

Several people applauded.

“What’s he saying?” Sam asked Remi.

“He’s talking about the charity and telling everyone to enjoy the night.”

As the applause died, the group parted, revealing the speaker, a man in his early thirties, his dark hair slicked back, his goatee trimmed short.

Remi’s breath caught. “I’ve seen him before.”

“Where?”

“The morning we were kidnapped. I saw him in my telephoto lens standing with some other men . . .”

A passing waiter stopped in front of them, holding a tray of stuffed grape leaves. “ Dolmades ?”

Remi declined. Sam took one, biting into the cold, herbed rice hors d’oeuvre, tasting lemon and fennel.

“Excuse me,” Remi asked the waiter. “Who is the gentleman?”

He glanced in that direction. “Adrian Kyril.”

Sam waited until he left, saying, “No doubt Adrian Kyril Jr. A little young to be the patriarch we were reading about.”

“He has to be behind the theft of my camera from the boat. That’s the only explanation. Especially considering we were kidnapped a few hours later.”

“What were the photos of?”

“Nothing memorable. Birds, landscape. The memory card. I changed it right after I saw them.”