Clive Cussler: Wrath of Poseidon

The bartender asked her what she wanted to drink.

She picked up a wine list. “You don’t have any red wines from Spain, do you?” she said.

“Sorry. It’s California or bust.”

Her smile faded. “It would’ve made the perfect toast.”

“Remi!” one of her friends shouted from behind her. “We have wine!”

She glanced at the table, saw her friend holding up a bottle of chardonnay, then returned the menu to the bartender. “Thanks anyway.”

He nodded, and moved on to the next customer.

“Earth to Fargo. You realize the game’s on?” Blake, seeing the direction of Sam’s gaze, clapped him on the back. “Don’t even try. The women at that table are blue-blooded East Coasters. Way out of your league. It’ll take them about ten seconds to size you up, figure out you’re a California boy with a four-wheel Jeep, determine your credit limit, then spit you out. All the Fargo luck in the world won’t help you there. Heck. Their shoes cost more than you make in a week.”

“And you would know this how?”

“I used to date the blonde. Olivia Brady. It didn’t last, and I’d just closed a multimillion-dollar real estate deal.”

“Ever think it’s you , not the money?” Sam gave him a cocky grin.

“Word of advice, Fargo. You might want to avoid mentioning where you work—and it will come up. Trust me on this.”

“Noted,” Sam said. He moved to the end of the bar, picking up the wine menu, scanning the list of California reds, seeing the host of usuals from Napa, all with price tags to match and out of his new lifestyle. He skipped past them and saw a reasonably priced California Spanish wine from the northern San Joaquin Valley. He got the bartender’s attention. “I’ll take a bottle of the Bokisch Tempranillo and four glasses. Can you send it to the table where the redheaded woman is sitting?”

CHAPTER THREE

Sam watched as the waitress brought over the wine and glasses, setting them on the table.

“I think there’s some mistake,” the blond woman said. “We didn’t order any wine.” She pointed to the bottle of chardonnay.

“From the gentleman at the bar.”

All four women looked in Sam’s direction. One gave a cool smile, then shook her head. “Thank him for us, but we can’t accept.”

Sam, seeing the waitress reach for the bottle, walked over, saying, “I’m actually on my way out, but I heard you were celebrating. Four of you, four glasses, and a bottle of Spanish Tempranillo. Enjoy.”

He started to turn away when the redhead caught his gaze, her green eyes alight with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. “You were at the beach today.”

The other women looked at him with renewed interest, the blonde saying, “You’re the one who saved that surfer. The hero.”

“Hero, no. Right place, right time? Yes.”

The brunette looked at her watch. “Speaking of time, we’re late.” She drained her wineglass, then pushed her chair back. The other two rose with her. She looked at her friend, who hadn’t moved. “Are you coming, Remi?”

Remi tapped the stem of her nearly full wineglass. “I’ll meet you there as soon as I finish this.”

The three hurried out, leaving them alone.

“Dinner reservations,” she explained, then nodded at one of the empty chairs. “You’re welcome to join me.”

“I don’t want to keep you from your friends.”

“I can miss the appetizers.” She lifted the bottle. “I’ve never heard of this winery.”

“The bartender assures me it’s very good.”

“And how do I know it’s not spiked and you’re some stalker?”

“I’ll take the first sip.” He poured a small amount into two glasses, sliding one across to her, then held his aloft. “To whatever it is you’re celebrating.”

They touched rims. She waited for him to drink first, then followed suit. “That is good . . . Black cherry, dark chocolate . . . and a hint of cranberry.” She picked up the bottle. “Tempranillo grown in California. I see a wine tasting trip in my future.”

“What about your friends? Are you sure you don’t want to . . . ?”

“They’ve probably already forgotten about me. And leave such lovely wine?”

He set his glass on the table and held out his hand. “Sam Fargo.”

She took it in hers, shaking with a firm grip. “Remi Longstreet.”

“Nice to meet you, Remi.” He refilled their glasses. “So, what’s worth celebrating with a Spanish varietal?”

“You have to promise not to tell.”

“Cross my heart.”

Her smile lit up her entire face. “I’ve been looking into rumors that a Spanish galleon sank off Abalone Cove. This morning, I actually found a reference to the ship in the Rare Books and Special Collections Reading Room at Long Beach State. It’s all of two sentences, but considering it took me almost six months just to find that much, I’m ecstatic.”

“That definitely deserves a toast,” Sam said, lifting his glass once more. “So, what’s next? Exploratory diving to find it?”

“Eventually. But that’s only part of it. I’m leaving for Greece in two weeks. Fourni, to be exact.”

“You should have your pick of shipwrecks. What are there, about fifty surrounding the islands?”

“You’re familiar with the area?”

“Read about it, but never been. Underwater archeology’s always fascinated me. The lure of being the first person to find something that’s been buried for centuries . . .” He smiled. “Is that your job? Archeologist?”

“I wish. I’m a translator for an international shipping company. Sadly, it’s not the glamorous globe-trotting job I was hoping for. I sit in a cubicle in Long Beach most of the day, wearing a headset.”

“Which language?”

“Whichever one they need. I’m fluent in several, passable in a few more. How about you?”

Recalling Blake’s warning, he kept it vague. “Past job, design engineer. Current job, retail.”

“Doing what, exactly?”

So much for glossing over the truth. “Would you believe grocery store shelf stocker?”

“That’s quite the change in careers.”

The truth was a bit complicated. Sam, a Caltech engineering graduate, had been recruited by DARPA, the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, to design technology for the Department of Defense. After seven fruitful years, he’d put in his notice, and moved back to California to pursue what had been up until recently a lifelong dream. “It is, but I wanted the freedom to work on a project. An argon laser scanner.”

Her brows went up, then furrowed slightly. “Which does . . . what?”

“If it ever gets past the paper stage, it’ll identify mixed metals and alloys at a distance. Gold, silver, platinum, you name it.”

“For real?”

“Not yet, but that’s what I’m hoping. My friend,” he said, nodding at the bar, where Blake was still camped out in front of the TV, “set up a meeting with a group of investors in a few weeks. If all goes as planned, they’ll be funding the project, and I can actually take it from paper to reality. For now, the grocery job keeps a roof over my head and gives me time to work on the project.”

“And yet,” she said, tapping her glass with her perfectly manicured nails, “you’re buying bottles of wine for complete strangers? Not exactly budget friendly.”

“So I eat a lot of peanut butter sandwiches for the next week? High in protein and very affordable.”

She laughed. The next several hours passed in a blur as they talked about anything and everything, most of it nautical. Before Sam knew it, the bartender was crying out, “Last call!”

Remi looked up, her expression mirroring how Sam felt. The night was too short. She’d been discussing her upcoming research trip.