Clive Cussler - Wrath of Poseidon

“Hold on,” Sam said. He put the call on speaker. “Go ahead. Remi’s here with me.”

“Working under the assumption that this story is a fictional retelling of something that really happened, it seems there are a few threads that may actually reference historical events. If the cave entrance was destroyed as depicted in the book, it was obviously an earthquake. Unfortunately, that doesn’t narrow down the time period, since the area is and has always been rife with seismic activity.”

“So we can strike any historical earthquakes as a reference?” Sam replied.

“Exactly. The next best clue is that the boys want to speak directly to Poseidon. With that reference, we can rule out anytime after Christianity firmly took hold in the area—which makes it more than likely the third century A.D. or earlier. The boys’ names were somewhat common in ancient Greece, which is no help. One name from the story stands out, primarily because it isn’t Greek. Pactyes. The spelling varies, but the name is prominent in Lydian history, especially around 546 B.C.”

“Lydian?” Sam asked.

“Turkey,” Remi whispered, “before it was Turkey.”

“How do you remember this stuff?” he whispered back.

She shrugged as Selma continued, saying, “King Cyrus conquered Lydia, invaded Sardis, the capital, and entrusted the Sardis treasury to a Lydian named Pactyes, who was supposed to take the gold back to Persia. Instead, he hired mercenaries to steal it. In short, if this Pactyes mentioned in your children’s book is the Lydian Pactyes, then it’s no wonder someone’s bent on killing over the whole thing.”

“Why’s that?” Sam asked.

Remi’s brows went up as she turned toward him. “Surely you’ve heard the term ‘rich as Croesus’?”

“Exactly,” Selma replied. “King Croesus was reported as being one of the wealthiest monarchs in history. And, while Pactyes was eventually captured somewhere in the Greek islands by King Cyrus’s army, there’s no record that the stolen Sardis treasury was ever recovered.”

“So, is there a Poseidon’s Trident?” Sam asked her.

“Unfortunately, there are very few written records that describe Poseidon’s Trident as being anything other than a spear wielded by the god himself. Since the book suggests otherwise, I thought it might be prudent to find an expert who could possibly guide you on ancient children’s fables.”

“Are you saying you found someone?”

“The closest I could get was the classical literature expert from the University of the Aegean, Professor Pallas Alexandris. If you can get to Samos, the professor is willing to meet you. I’ve cc’d you on the email. There should be a response waiting.”

“I’ll take it from there. Thanks, Selma.” He checked his email, finding that the professor had forwarded the ferry schedule for their convenience. After emailing back that he would head over that afternoon, he looked at Remi. “I don’t suppose there’s any use in suggesting you stay here while I head to Samos?”

“You can always suggest. I just don’t know how much good it’ll do.”

“We’d better head to the port and pick up our ferry tickets.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

Minerva Heibert Kyril let herself into Adrian’s office, then took a seat at his desk, leaning back with a tired sigh.

As much as she didn’t like having to see her son locked up like some common criminal, what choice did she have? It had taken her decades to rebuild what had once been a thriving family business.

Her gaze strayed to a painting on the wall of a World War I plane. The Hawk of Macedonia , flown by Kurt Heibert, one of her granduncles. She’d found the work of art gathering dust in a basement after inheriting the crumbling Heibert estate from her father. It was her other uncle, Admiral Erich Heibert, however, whom she had been interested in, primarily because her own father had been obsessed when he’d learned about the admiral’s history—even naming her Minerva after the now-defunct shipping line the man had been involved with.

Her granduncle’s criminal enterprise, run under the name Bruno von Till, was not something that Minerva had ever publicly discussed. Certainly not with her husband, and definitely not with Adrian, who had clearly inherited the Heibert propensity for crime.

Poor Adrian. The Kyril men, while handsome, were not known for their intelligence.

She leaned back in her chair, wondering if she’d kept a tighter rein on the boy, would they have avoided this whole sordid mess? Her husband, the senior Adrian Kyril, had always been perfectly content to sit back and let her handle the more important matters of their business. The only reason she had married him was for the capital she’d needed to rebuild the Heibert empire. Adrian Sr.—as the public face of the olive oil business and the charities they headed up, loved by all who met him—had never delved too deeply into her affairs, for which she was grateful. He did, however, want children, which was how Adrian Jr. came to be.

And now she was left to clean up the mess their son had made.

Again.

She tapped her fingers on the desktop, eyeing the empty spot where Adrian’s computer had been, as well as the empty file drawer to her left—all of it taken by the police in their search of the premises.

A soft knock at the door alerted her to Ilya’s arrival. “Come in.”

Adrian’s friend and security adviser entered the room, closing the door behind him. “My apologies for being tardy.”

She waved her hand at him. “I’ve only just arrived myself. Sit.”

He pulled a chair to the desk.

“I’m glad,” she said, once he was seated, “that the police didn’t destroy the property in their search.”

Ilya gave a slight nod.

“What I don’t understand,” she continued, “is how this started?”

“Your son was looking for Poseidon’s Trident.”

She was certain she’d misunderstood. When she asked Ilya to repeat himself, she was stunned. “Explain.”

“It may be one of the greatest treasure finds in Greek history. Adrian hoped that by locating it, his financial difficulties would be solved.”

Another of Adrian’s faults. He had no concept of what a budget was. Giving him this home was a last-ditch effort to help him put his life in order. All he had to do was pay for the upkeep and the property taxes, something he should have easily been able to do on the salary he earned sitting on the board of their olive oil empire. Sadly, he couldn’t even manage that. Chasing after this Poseidon’s Trident, when he was near bankruptcy, was one more example of his lack of common sense. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

“It seemed like a harmless diversion—one that would keep him out of the business. Who knew he’d decide to kill the man who was helping him?”

“Do you think they’ll be able to prove murder?”

“I doubt they’ll be able to prove anything there. I saw nothing, and Fayez would never talk. It could very well have been an accident. That he slipped.”

“Except the kidnapping,” she said. “That sort of negates that it was all innocent.” She tapped her fingers on the desktop again. “I pay you good money to keep him out of trouble. I don’t understand how things have gotten so out of hand.”

“Things were going fine, until Sam Fargo happened.”

“Exactly who is this Sam Fargo I keep hearing about?”

“I’ve made a few inquiries, but there isn’t much known.”

“Surely you’ve found something?” she asked.

“Other than he works in a California grocery store as a shelf stocker, no. I do have this, though.” He took out his phone and showed her a surveillance video from their olive oil processing facility.