Clive Cussler: Wrath of Poseidon

“Sorry,” Perlmutter said when they finished telling their story. “I seem to have gotten something in my eye.” He blinked a couple of times. “What an extraordinary tale. And then you married?”

“We did,” Remi said. “Though it was a bit of a compromise. My mother, firmly entrenched in Boston society, wanted at least a year and a half to plan.”

“Whereas I,” Sam said, “wanted to get married the next day.”

Remi smiled at him. “We were married six months to the day after we met.”

“That’s astounding,” Perlmutter said, stroking the head of his dachshund, Fritz, who rested comfortably on his ample lap. “What about the Poseidon’s Trident treasure? Neither of you ever went back to look for it?”

“Not officially,” Sam said. “Although we did go back to visit our friends a few times over the years.”

“They haven’t given up the search,” Remi added. “Which is what has us worried.”

“I can well understand. And both of you are certain the coins you found at the bottom of that cave were counterfeit?”

“Positive.” Sam set his glass of port on the table. “We have to assume the gold was emptied from the amphorae before they ever made it into the cave. If that’s the case, then we think it was still on the pirate ship that carried it there.”

Remi nodded. “Selma, of course, has continued to research it over the years. Surprisingly, it was the rocks found with the counterfeit coins that actually brought us here. She arranged to have some of them sent out to historians, museum curators, geologists, basically anyone who might be able to give us insight. A throw-the-spaghetti-at-the-wall-and-see-what-sticks sort of a thing.”

“Apparently something stuck?”

“Definitely. First, the rocks found among the broken amphorae in the cave weren’t indigenous to Megalos Anthropofas, they were from Samos. More importantly, it was suggested that it might be ballast from the pirate ship. This offered one interesting possibility—” Remi glanced at Sam, then back at Perlmutter. “Someone switched out their ship’s ballast for the gold before they ever brought it to the islet.”

“You’re saying Pactyes double-crossed the pirates?”

“Or, he was in league with some of the pirates. Either way, someone double-crossed someone.”

“It’s the only thing that makes sense,” Sam said. “A layer of counterfeit coins over the top of the rock found in the one intact jar? I’ll bet the other jars were exactly like that before they broke.”

Remi nodded. “There’s a reference from Herodotus about King Cyrus sending an army after Pactyes to bring him back. I expect the pirates wouldn’t have been too thrilled to find out Cyrus was after them.”

“A good point,” Perlmutter said. “It’s highly unlikely the pirate ship would have survived if Cyrus’s navy attacked. They would have rammed the vessel, sinking it.”

“Exactly what we thought,” Remi replied. “Unfortunately, Selma wasn’t able to find any specific references about Samian pirate ships going down in that area around that time period. Which is what brings us to you.”

“I do love a good challenge. Samian pirates. Archaic period?”

“Five forty-six to be exact.”

Perlmutter lowered his port glass to the table, scooped up his dog, then rose from his chair with surprising quickness for so large a man. “I have a vague recollection of a Samian naval ship that went down around that time. Some skirmish with the Persians. It might very well fit the bill.”

“We’re fairly certain,” Sam said, “it was a pirate ship. Samian pirates.”

“Back then, it was often the same thing. It merely depended on who was financing the operation, and what they were paying the Samians for.” He set Fritz on the carpet at his feet, then began searching his bookshelves. “I’d hazard a guess that might be why your researcher failed to find anything . . . Give me a moment . . . I believe the particular volume I need is in a different room. I’ll be right back.”

Perlmutter returned just a few minutes later with a thin leather book and a pair of white gloves, which he set on a desk. “This,” he said, putting on the gloves, “is a very rare volume of the history of the Mediterranean, transcribed by the Benedictine monks in the thirteenth century from the original, which, sadly, is no longer in existence. I was fortunate enough to acquire it at auction a number of years ago.” He sat down and opened the book, turning the yellowed pages with care as he scanned the spidery, flowing script. Suddenly he smiled. “Here it is . . . Just as I remembered. A report of a naval vessel going down in that very area.”

He finished translating the Latin passage, closed the book, then stood, walking over to the map on the wall, studying it a moment. “Ancient trade routes often brought ships along this route,” he said, tracing his finger along the map from Turkey, past Samos to Fourni. “If I were the one looking, this is where I’d start.”

CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

Twenty-four hours later, Sam and Remi boarded their private jet, then set their course for Samos. Sam had sent a message to Dimitris and his father, Nikos, letting them know of the new information Perlmutter had given them. Nikos had immediately contacted the Greek Ephorate of Underwater Antiquities in Athens, which lent the Fourni team the necessary equipment to do preliminary searches, scanning, recording, and measuring with techniques called photogrammetry and photo-mosaicing. In essence, once the wreck was found, they’d be taking pictures with underwater cameras and strobes, creating a 3-D model of the site.

Everything from this point worked in slow motion. Should they find the wreck, a documenting of this magnitude could take five to ten years to process, and millions of dollars. As far as Sam and Remi were concerned, the cost to supplement the Greek Ephorate on behalf of the Fourni crew was worth it.

Returning cultural treasures to the rightful countries was the reason for the Fargo Foundation’s existence—of course, had anyone bothered to ask Sam or Remi, they’d be the first to admit that they’d gladly have paid double that amount just to be involved in the recovery.

Their luggage unloaded from their jet, they hired a taxi to drive them into Pythagorio. Dimitris, Zoe, and two dark-haired boys were waiting for them at the port when they arrived. After warm hugs, Remi turned to the boys, seven-year-old identical twins with curly brown hair and large brown eyes. They’d both grown several inches since their last visit. “How do you tell them apart?”

“Tassos,” Dimitris said, placing his hand on the shoulder of the boy on the right, “always has his nose in a book. And he’s an inch taller.” He ruffled the other boy’s head. “You’ll have to ask Manos about the time he threw some fish in the bathtub to try out his new speargun.”

Zoe laughed as she took the hands of each boy. “One thing they have in common is they both inherited their father’s love of the sea.”

Little Manos nodded. “Especially when we get to go out with Uncle Valerios. It’s the fastest boat anywhere!”

Nikos’s cousin, Valerios, had been the one who’d lent Sam the cigarette boat that he’d used to rescue Remi and Dimitris all those years ago. Sam had never quite gotten over the guilt of blowing it up when he rammed it into Kyril’s yacht. Replacing it with a brand-new cigarette boat was one of the first things he and Remi did after they sold their argon laser scanner. “You’ve been on that, have you?” Sam asked.

Zoe stopped, looking at both boys, then at Dimitris. “You better not be on that boat. That thing’s way too powerful and you’re way too young.”

Dimitris gave a sheepish smile, then nodded toward the port. “We better hurry if we want to catch the ferry. These two have school in the morning.”