Clive Cussler - Wrath of Poseidon

“You’re mumbling, Sam.”

Sam Fargo glanced over at the bottle of 2000 Mouton Rothschild, Pauillac that Remi, his auburn-haired wife, cradled in her arm. The two sat in the back of a sleek black 1936 Packard Twelve 1407 Coupé.

“You know what Rube said,” Remi continued. “If we wanted the man’s help, we needed to bring a nice bottle. And we do want his help.”

Sam eyed the driver, then lowered his voice. “Pretty sure Rube’s definition of nice and yours are two different things.”

The Packard suddenly veered toward the freeway off-ramp at the last second. Sam looked up, realizing they were still miles from their destination. “Something wrong?”

The driver was focused on the rearview mirror, not watching Sam but the road behind them. “Sorry about that. A car’s been following us ever since we left your hotel. It may be nothing, but old habits die hard.”

“Old habits?” asked Remi.

“Let’s just say that Mr. Perlmutter has an unusual set of friends, which has given me a bit of practice over the years when driving them around.”

St. Julien Perlmutter, the soon-to-be recipient of Sam’s beloved bottle of wine, had been recommended by their mutual friend, Rubin Haywood, a CIA agent. Perlmutter was a world authority on maritime history and had an extensive library known to be coveted by the Smithsonian. He often helped other government agencies with sensitive cases. That would, undoubtedly, explain his driver’s cautious nature.

Since caution was a trait Sam also shared, he craned around, squinting against the glare of headlights coming from the surface street they’d just turned onto. If they were being followed, the man’s maneuver had worked—the freeway off-ramp was empty. Relaxing, Sam leaned back in his seat, not too worried. Not only were they in good hands, he doubted anyone knew that he and Remi were in D.C.

With the coast clear, they returned to the freeway, the remainder of their drive uneventful. Twenty minutes later, they turned onto a brick road flanked with massive oaks, the moonlight shining between the branches, casting long shadows on the drive. The car continued past the manor, then stopped in front of the renovated carriage house, which was equally impressive in size.

Once out of the car, the driver said, “Nice to see you again, sir.”

“Good to see you, too, Frank. How old are the kids now?”

“Graduated college. Both. Phyllis and me, we’re empty nesters.”

Sam smiled, saluted, then took the bottle from Remi.

“I swear, Sam, we never go anywhere that you don’t know someone from your days at DARPA.”

“How did you know?”

“The salute,” Remi said, rolling her eyes.

Sam linked her arm through his and the two strolled up the walkway. A weathered brass door knocker in the shape of a ship’s anchor adorned the heavy wood door, which opened wide the moment they set foot on the porch.

To say that the St. Julien Perlmutter cut an imposing figure would be an understatement. His curly gray hair and beard gave his crimson face a distinguished look, reminiscent of Holbein’s iconic portrait of King Henry VIII, but with a longer beard. Perlmutter wore a paisley robe trimmed at the collar, cuffs, and belt with gold brocade, burgundy silk bottoms with matching gold piping at the side seams and the hem, and burgundy loafer slippers with gold crowns embroidered on the top. He stood a couple of inches taller than Sam—six foot four—and weighed nearly four hundred pounds. He carried that weight like a regal redwood, solid and straight. His blue eyes, filled with intelligence and wit, were as welcoming as his words. “Mr. and Mrs. Fargo. I can’t tell you what a pleasure it is to finally meet the both of you.”

“Please, call me Sam.” They shook, Perlmutter’s grip strong and sure. “My wife, Remi.”

“The enchanting Mrs. Fargo.” The older man took her slender fingers in his, kissed the back of her hand, then led her into the house. “I’m honored to make your acquaintance.”

Once inside, Sam handed him the bottle. “And wine. I hope it will complement dinner.”

Perlmutter read the Rothschild label, his brows rising. “An excellent choice. This will pair nicely with the chateaubriand. A classic recipe, one of my favorites.” Waving them in, he led them through a maze of halls to a sitting room stuffed to the gills with books and papers. The far wall was lined with bookshelves filled with models, relics, and books. At one end was a fireplace with a perfectly banked fire and at the opposite a well-appointed bar. In front of the fire was a sofa and two end chairs, a Queen Anne chair and a gentleman’s club chair, all set around a coffee table large enough for appetizers and three champagne flutes. “Please, have a seat while I decant this lovely bottle of wine.”

Sam walked Remi to the Queen Anne chair, then seated himself.

At the bar, Perlmutter lit a candle and set a glass next to it. After removing the cork, he slowly poured a small amount into the glass, sniffed and took some wine into his mouth, savoring the taste. He raised the glass to the light and, looking through the deep ruby liquid, said, “What a full breadth of flavor, rich and ripe with beautiful tannins. And a long finish. After it has time to breathe it will be the perfect accompaniment to dinner. A beautiful choice. My deepest gratitude.”

He slowly poured the remainder of the bottle into a decanter, holding it over the candle, making sure no sediment would pass from the bottle. Then he reached below, opened the wine fridge, brought out a 2008 bottle of Pol Roger Cuvée Sir Winston Churchill brut champagne and joined Sam and Remi at the fire. Settling himself in the sofa he said, “While we wait for the dinner, please let’s talk about the reason you’re here. Rubin mentioned that this all began shortly after the two of you met at the Lighthouse Cafe in Hermosa Beach?” His blue eyes twinkled as he looked over at Sam. “Love at first sight, was it?”

“I’m still trying to deny it. But . . . there’s never been anyone like Remi. She’s had my heart from the beginning.”

“Sam, you could have fooled me.” Remi’s green eyes lit up as she smiled.

Sam cleared his throat. “You see. It wasn’t easy.”

“Hardly a fair assessment.”

“Totally fair assessment.”

“Do I sense differing views?” Perlmutter asked.

Remi laughed. “Let’s just say it wasn’t smooth sailing.”

“Well, it wasn’t typhoon fury.”

“Maybe just a few ten-foot swells.”

“A few?” Sam said. “Understatement of the year.”

Remi gave Perlmutter a sideways glance. “It’s a bit complicated.”

“As love is,” he replied. “But it sounds like you two still enjoy a few waves now and then.” This brought a laugh from Sam and Remi.

The champagne poured, Perlmutter continued. “So . . . a chance meeting at the Lighthouse somehow led to this Mediterranean caper, and the one treasure that the two of you never found?”

“Exactly,” Sam said. “It was the hoard of gold stolen from King Cyrus after he conquered King Croesus in 546 B.C. It kickstarted our love for adventure.”

“And for each other?”

Remi placed her hand over Sam’s. “I’d say it played a small part. And, while we didn’t find the fabled hoard, we did find proof it exists.”

“But that was what . . . ? Ten or more years ago?” Perlmutter’s brows furrowed. “Why now?”

“We’d recently been talking about the treasure and what we might have missed in our search,” Remi began.

“But, more importantly,” Sam continued, “the man who was obsessed with finding the treasure all those years ago was recently released from prison—far earlier than anyone expected. From what Rube has told us, the man’s spent over a decade in confinement consumed with hate and fixated on two things—those who he feels are directly responsible for landing him in prison, and where this treasure might be. I have a feeling that the first obsession might be Remi.”