Clive Cussler - Wrath of Poseidon

“As far as we knew, she only spoke English. The man with her translated everything. Even so, we took precautions.”

“Precautions? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“We spoke in Italian around her and the other prisoner.”

Adrian took a deep breath, then blew it out slowly, telling himself he was getting worked up over something that was out of his control. This, though . . . He watched Sam Fargo moving about his office. The multiscreen surveillance showed him stepping out into the hallway, pretending to be asleep, while his fool guards walked with the woman. The fact that they fell for such a ruse sent his blood pressure rising again—and he was actually grateful when someone knocked on the door. “Come in.”

One of his men entered. “Sorry to disturb you. You wanted to know as soon as your parents got here. They’re downstairs.”

Adrian tensed.

“Don’t worry,” he said, seeing Adrian’s reaction. “They missed the disturbance.”

“I’ll be right down.” The moment the door closed behind him, Adrian hit play, this time paying particular attention as Fargo went through his desk.

Ilya leaned closer. “What’s he looking at?”

Adrian pulled open the file drawer, approximating which folder he’d removed. Not that it mattered. All of these folders belonged to the olive orchards. When his gaze lit on the profit and loss statements, he hesitated. “Why would Fargo be looking into our olive oil business?”

“Crime of opportunity?”

“Maybe . . .” He returned his gaze to the monitor as Fargo looked up suddenly, replaced the folder, and quickly left the office. On another screen, the redhead was busy distracting his guards, allowing Fargo to slip out, then pretend to be sleeping on the floor in the hall.

Having seen enough, Adrian shoved his chair back. “Do whatever it takes to find those two.”

“Of course.” Ilya shut off the monitor. Adrian was halfway out the door when he added, “Good luck.”

“I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.” But even Adrian didn’t believe the lie.

He found his parents holding court near the roulette table. His mother, her brown hair in an elaborate French twist, wore a sapphire-blue gown. She offered a small smile as he approached. His father, he noted, refused to meet his gaze.

“Adrian,” his mother said, turning her cheek to him. “A lovely party. I’m assuming you’ve received the letter from our attorney?”

“I haven’t yet had the opportunity to read it,” he said as they walked toward the edge of the patio, away from the other guests. Knowing what it probably contained, he hadn’t dared.

She sighed as she turned to her husband. “Darling. Can you get me a glass of champagne?”

He looked relieved to be given the errand.

The moment he left, she rounded on Adrian. “What on earth were you thinking?”

“About what?”

“This business on the Mirage .”

“Perhaps this isn’t the best place to discuss the matter.”

She smiled at a passing waiter, ignoring the offer of an appetizer. The moment he was out of earshot she said, “You’re putting the entire family name at risk. I won’t allow that to happen.”

“It’s not what you think.”

“Then what is it?”

“An investment opportunity.”

“Let’s hope it’s a good one. As of today your name has been removed from the board.”

“Mother, please—”

“I love you, Adrian. But I’m not about to lose everything because of your carelessness. If your father were healthier, he’d be the one telling you this.”

“Not likely.”

“I’m not without heart,” she continued. “I’ve deposited one hundred thousand euros in your account.”

It was everything he could do to maintain his composure as he processed her words. “That wouldn’t last me a month.”

“Then I suggest you make adjustments and spend it wisely.” She started to walk off, stopped, turning back to him. “Since it seems you couldn’t be troubled to read the letter my attorney sent you, I’ll paraphrase. Should I or your father meet an untimely death, the bulk of our fortune will go to charity—well, except for the trust we’ve set up for Phoebe’s child. Whether or not she sticks around is anyone’s guess.”

“What child?”

“Perhaps you should ask her about that.” She sighed, then gave a patronizing smile. “A shame. I had such high hopes for you.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Did you find anything worthwhile?” Nikos asked Sam once they were safe, back at his cousin’s home.

“I did. Problem is, I’m just not sure how it’ll help us.”

The three waited.

“The Kyrils have been exporting low-grade olive oil as extra virgin.”

“That’s it?” Remi said. “We jumped off a cliff for that?”

Dimitris sank back in his chair. “What good will that do?”

“Nothing, yet,” Sam replied. “I did notice a couple of names figuring heavy in the books. Hydra Containers and Heibert Lines. When we get back I’ll email what I remember to Selma and see if she can find anything. In the meantime, maybe something will come to me in the middle of the night.”

Unfortunately, nothing did. The four sat around the table the next morning, drinking strong Greek coffee over the remains of their breakfast, while discussing what to do with the information that Sam had found. “The Kyrils,” Sam said, “have been duping the public for a hefty profit. In a business where reputation is everything, theirs could be ruined in an instant, should it get out.”

“How do you know this?” Nikos asked.

“I saw the doctored accounting books in Adrian’s office. Even if they’re importing olives from somewhere else, based on their harvest and their first press last year, they couldn’t possibly export the amount of extra virgin oil that they’ve listed.”

Remi gave a frustrated sigh. “But we knew they were crooked. There’s got to be something more that we’re overlooking. And what about that envelope that Adrian received?”

“That, I don’t know.”

“Still,” Nikos said, “Sam is right. Maybe they can explain away the kidnapping by blaming it on pirates—”

“For now,” Sam said, thinking about Ilya’s presence on the boat and at the party. Unfortunately, it was Remi’s and Dimitris’s word against the Kyrils’.

“For now,” Nikos echoed. “But their reputation is everything—their name synonymous with quality olive oil. They wouldn’t want that to get out. So why not turn that against them? Maybe we can use this olive oil business to show the police that the Kyrils aren’t the Olympus gods everyone believes them to be.” He gave Sam an expectant look. “You have proof, I assume? You took pictures with your phone?”

“Unfortunately, there wasn’t time.” Even if there had been, his phone wasn’t waterproof.

“Back to square one,” Remi said.

“Maybe not. Let me email everything to Selma. Who knows what that might turn up?”

“How does inferior olive oil, my stolen camera, and our kidnapping all connect?” Remi asked.

“Considering Adrian must think you saw him that morning, I’d say the theft of your camera is more than likely connected. Any idea what the missing photos were of?”

She stared into her coffee cup a moment, then looked up at him. “I was trying to get a shot of the birds. Something startled them and they all took off . . .”

“Something Kyril and his men were doing?” he asked.

“After, I remember thinking they probably set the birds to flight. But if so, it definitely wasn’t anything obvious the moment I saw them.” She gave a slight shrug. “As I mentioned last night, they were just standing there. I’ve even thought about what was on the memory card that was lost—there’s not a shot on it that would explain why they came after us.”