“Belongs to Jesh,” Carly said, then turned and looked out at the water as her shoulders slumped, remembering everything that happened. “Never mind.”
“Think your employer will be happy enough with that?” Sara asked.
“She’s got ten of them.”
“Well, I need that one.”
He handed it to Sara.
“Let’s step outside,” she said.
The four of them went onto the deck where the rain had stopped, though the wind continued to gust.
“Give me your hand,” Sara told Guillaume. “Don’t move.”
He stood still as Sara lifted his arm so that it was level with his shoulder. She pulled his elbow straight and slid the astrolabe ring around his index finger.
The golden disc dangled from Guillaume’s hand and danced in the wind.
“Hold it still, Carly,” Sara said.
The actress held the bottom of the discs between two fingers. Sara twisted it around so that she could approximate their location. She wasn’t an astrologist, but knew the night sky was very different now than it had been three hundred years ago.
But Isabella, or Roche, more accurately, probably hadn’t planned for that.
Jesus, Sara thought. The clue’s faulty.
She looked up as the storm clouds thinned, revealing the sprawling star scape beyond. This was some “Where’s Waldo” shit. A thousand shining stars up there, none of them clustered noticeably closer together.
“Isabella I can understand,” Sara said. “But how does Roche not know stars rotate?”
“He knew,” Guillaume said.
“Then, what?” Sara asked. “He never wanted anyone to win?” Given what she knew of Roche, that did make the most sense. Though it was just as easy to believe someone like him would want the challenge. This game was tough, sure, but she believed it was built to be played.
Sara paced the deck while Guillaume continued to impersonate a statue. The astrolabe dangled off his finger, locked into place by Carly’s clamped hand.
“Think, dammit,” Sara growled. She was back in Mrs. Zimmer’s class, taunted by riddles she couldn’t solve.
When using the astrolabe at night, stars are observed by aligning the pinholes on the revolving ruler in order to see the star through both ends of it. That gives altitude on the degree scale, and the angle is then compared to star charts and tables in order to find latitude.
“We’re not in the Northern Hemisphere, are we?” Sara said. “So Roche wasn’t using Polaris to gauge his location. So what’s he talking about?”
“Are we sure he’s speaking of the stars?” Jean-Philippe asked.
“I’m not sure of anything,” Sara said. “Follow the path of the plate to the glaring twins, who watch the sky to see the sign.”
Carly looked like she was desperate to say something, but stayed appropriately shy, considering their guests.
“The plate,” Guillaume said. “What if he’s not talking about this damn thing?” He jiggled the astrolabe and then put his arm down. “But instead the plating of a ship’s hull...”
“Telling us we gotta sail,” Sara said. “Okay, but where to? And we still need to watch the sky? For what? Stars? If it ain’t that then what is it? Clouds?”
“His island,” Carly said and everyone looked. “Jesh, uh, my boyfriend, was looking for an island. He and his friends were searching all the local clusters.”
“It wouldn’t be a local cluster, would it?” Sara said, to which Carly flapped her palms against her hips, wondering why she should bother contributing at all. Sara picked up on her frustration and said, “I just mean... Isabella spoke of total isolation, feeling as if the rest of the world had been a dream and that the only reality was the small strip of land Roche kept her prisoner on.”
“Some small patch of land, then,” Carly said. “How many can there be?”
“Hundreds,” Guillaume said.
Jean Philippe was smiling. A shit-eating grin that couldn’t be contained. You had to work hard at wearing a face that smug. “The twins,” he said. “I know what Roche speaks of.”
“Enlighten us then,” Guillaume said.
“Better just to show you.” Jean Philippe headed back to the helm.
“The sky,” Sara said. “What if it’s clouds that mark the spot?”
“There are more clouds than islands,” Carly said.
“Yeah, but that makes a certain kind of sense to me now that we’re in the eye of this riddle.”
“You are earning your pay, Sara,” Guillaume said.
“One of my first times on the ocean, the fishing vessel I was aboard picked up a distress signal. To this day, it’s the creepiest thing I ever heard... a garbled voice saying ‘help, help, it’s eating the sky’ over and over. Thing was, we were in this desolate part of the Atlantic our captain called the ‘Vacant Corridor’ on account of there being nothing around for hundreds of miles.”
“What was on the radio?” Guillaume asked.
“Young guy’s sailboat sprung a leak in a storm, and he managed to get to this small patch of land in the middle of nowhere. Should’ve seen this place, barely the size of a house. But he had his radio, and he just kept begging for help.”
“Wait, what was ‘eating the sky’ then?” Carly asked.
“Gonna get to that if ya’ll let me finish,” Sara said. “This was a summer day and the sky was clear. Our captain said that was good for our missing person. Had everyone take turns on the telescopes, watching the skies. An island can be spotted from a far off distance because clouds tend to form right over them. Land heats up quicker than the sea, right? So the air begins to swirl up above it, making a localized low-pressure area that sucks up moisture from the sea. You spot cumulus clouds in the distance there’s a safe bet you’ve got a landmass beneath it.”
“You didn’t answer my question, though,” Carly said.
“We found the guy and he was so dehydrated he thought the cloud looked like Pac Man.”
Carly laughed out loud and kept laughing. It was contagious and spread to Guillaume.
“You get a prize,” he said.
Sara allowed herself a prideful smile. “Holy shit, Isabella,” she said, never closer to her.
“Welcome to the team,” Guillaume said.
“Still need to know where to look,” Sara said. “Think your man in there really knows what’s up?”
“He is so arrogant because he is so often right,” Guillaume said. “This is the first time in my life I have been happy to admit that.”
“So he definitely knows how to drive this boat?” Sara looked to Carly for that answer and Carly nodded. “Good,” she said. “We’re going to go pass out for a minute.”
Guillaume smiled. “Have a good night.” He followed them back inside.
They went through the helm and toward the bunks. Carly leaned in on Sara once they were safely out of earshot. “Are we really going after it? Instead of going back to Madagascar?”
“Don’t you want to?”
Carly shook her head and then rolled her neck around. Her shoulders were wider than most women. It gave her a sense of power she didn’t seem to comprehend. Like she could land a punch with all the force of a sledgehammer. “Not really,” she said. “I’d like to go home.”
“We’re close,” Sara said. “Don’t you think we’re entitled to a little taste of what put us in this mess?”
“Did you forget about the fucking dinosaur that’s chasing us?”
It was Sara’s turn to shake her head. “I just think if we find this treasure, we’re set for life. Money, yes, but also respect and recognition. Can you even put a price on that?”
“You know just what to say to me,” Carly said, reaching out and touching two fingers to Sara’s collarbone. “Okay.”
Sara thought it was time to hone this girl into the killer she’d proven herself to be. There was an alliance with Guillaume and Jean-Philippe now, but tomorrow was another story.
“I
don’t think I can do it without you, Carly.”
“That’s funny,” Carly agreed. “Because neither can I.”
Thirty-Three
Mr. Reeves sat at a folding table at the back of the empty airport hangar. He pressed a can of Brisk to his forehead where the cold first stung, then refreshed. He dragged it around his sweat-laden face as the door across the way opened and Mr. Davis entered.
“You had to set up all the way back there?” Mr. Davis’s voice was all echoes. Acoustics in here were like standing in the belly of a cave and screaming “Fuck.”
“Need to get my daily steps in,” Mr. Reeves said. “This way I gotta walk half a mile each time I need to take a piss.”
“Steps is for soccer moms,” Mr. Davis told him. “And I wouldn’t get too comfortable.”
“Who’s comfortable?”
“Not me,” Mr. Davis said as he neared. “And we’re moving out.” He dropped a folder on the table and Mr. Reeves twisted it around in order to read it.
“Distress call?”
“Not exactly a mayday, but close enough. Chopper went down near those coordinates last night.”
“Not surprised,” Mr. Reeves said. “Storm was bad.”
“Storm didn’t do it.”
“Our man couldn’t have done it either.”
“Sure about that?”
Mr. Reeves didn’t know. He just didn’t want to leave this hangar on another bullshit errand. Their hot tips had been colder than a brass bra. But could he say for certain their man hadn’t blasted that bird out of the sky? Maxamed Abir Kaahin was a career professional. Resourceful. Would he waste the equipment? Yes, if it was some private military corporation on his ass then he certainly would.
“I’ll take your silence as a no,” Mr. Davis said. “Which means we’re going out there.”
“Shit,” Mr. Reeves said.
“I know,” Mr. Davis agreed. “But our man’s been too quiet. He’s not on this island. And those fireworks are the only lead we got.”
Mr. Reeves popped the Brisk and swallowed the iced tea in three gulps. “Those assholes in Algeria had him dead to rights.”
“We’re not going to make the same mistake.”
“We’re not,” Mr. Reeves said and crushed the can, hurling it into the wide-open hangar. “Know why? We’re killing his ass on sight.”
“Langley wants him.”
“Langley can suck my dick,” Mr. Reeves said. “I was in Marshall’s wedding. Had to tell his wife what happened. And Langley thinks the plan’s the plan?”
“They’re sweeping it under the rug because we’ve got interests here.”
“Langley’s got interests. I don’t.”
“Another thing that worries me,” Mr. Davis said. “A few of those online assholes are starting to piece it together. A few of them know exactly what happened in Algeria.”
“Hooray for citizen fucking journalism,” Mr. Reeves said. “Call our boys in Silicon Valley and have them shut it all down. Ban every last account if they need to.”
“Hard to keep things buttoned up anymore.”
“Things would be easier if we brought back the gulag and filled it with those assholes.”
“Just so I’m clear,” Mr. Davis said. “You think we shoot him dead? ‘Sorry, boss, guy was a cornered animal.’ Like that?”
“That’s what I’m saying,” Mr. Reeves said. “Blow his brains out, get out of his country. Be home in time for bacon.”
Mr. Reeves watched Mr. Davis carefully, saw reluctant agreement turning over in his eyes. Only rub was that they’d have to do most of the wetwork themselves. Couldn’t afford to use hired help because hired help talked. And this was better. A little trip down memory lane. A time before cubicle life. A chance to remember where they came from. He savored those memories, thinking they’d travel light just as they had. Easier to control the narrative that way.
Mr. Reeves stood. Thought about crossing the hangar space now in order to get the day’s steps in one shot.
“I think we can be ready to leave before lunch,” Mr. Davis said.
Mr. Reeves only nodded, choosing to leave his Brisk off the day’s calorie count. “Let’s hurry up and find him.”
Thirty-Four
“You trust them?”
Carly and Sara were two girls at a sleepover. Carly sat Indian-style wearing an overgrown UC Santa Cruz Banana Slugs shirt.
“I don’t trust them at all,” Sara said, her back against the wall, fingers rubbing the carpet. Each time she closed her eyes she saw that terrible fish launching out of the water like a missile, catching the helicopter between its mouth and wrestling it down to hell.
“That thing,” Carly said, watching Sara turn the golden plate over in her hands.
“This thing,” Sara repeated before flinging it to her feet, “is a waste of time. I really thought it was the answer.” She imagined Mrs. Zimmer somewhere making that tsking sound as yet another riddle slipped past Sara.
“You did have it,” Carly said. “That cloud shit was one hell of a pull.”
Carly’s sincerity made Sara smile. “Thanks.”
“Jesh talked about treasure,” Carly said. “Not this treasure, specifically, not to me at least. But he used to imagine all these little caches scattered around the world. I figured it was just some fantasy he had. Never thought more about it because, like, who really believes in buried treasure in this day and age?”
“Men,” Sara said and turned away. She listened to the sound of crinkling paper as Carly pulled a few loose sheets from a small backpack and handed them over.
The map was marked up, slashes through the island clusters they’d already checked. It was hard to know how off-base they’d been, given Sara didn’t know where Jean-Philippe was bringing them, but most of the places Jesh had searched looked closer to Madagascar.
The other sheet of paper was a hand-written note, this one in English. She scanned the signature and the author’s name was familiar.
Martine Vernier.
Isabella, the pirate’s whore, told me how to find the island. Information I keep in my head. We leave in four days.
Tell your men to be ready the morning of the seventh. I will not wait one moment more than necessary.
As for Isabella, your men they may have their way with her, should they require the incentive. My gift to them... in addition to their cut of loot, of course. She is soiled from where I sit. Once I return, I shall buy myself an actual princess.
Your former partner,
Martine Vernier
“He didn’t care,” Sara said.
Sara told Carly the whole of Isabella’s story and it bothered the actress just as much. All too relatable, no matter your walk of life.
“I need to say something, okay?” Carly said. “I haven’t known you more than a few hours, but the second you showed up, my luck changed.”
“We’ve made a good team so far.”
“Back home, people are as nice as your last project. Rather than suffer death by one thousand cuts or, death by thirteen straight VOD releases, I high-tailed it out of town because foreign investors were still eager to work with me. And my name makes foreign markets pay attention. For now. It’s a career adjustment, but nothing stays the same, right? I was beginning to think my best life was over, and then here you come with promises of treasure on the tip of your tongue and all I can think is it’s not over yet.”
“My gig back home ain’t all that sympathetic to my needs, either,” Sara said. “And it’s super discouraging to hear that this shit can happen to Carly Grayson.”
“You think we should trust them?”
“You just asked that.”
“Did I? Shit, I don’t know, Sara. I’m trying to keep it together.”
“We’re not trusting anyone else,” Sara said. She pointed to her temple. “But they want what’s in here so we’re safer than Roche’s treasure at the moment. They won’t try anything until we’re Land Ho.”
“You mean that
’s when they’ll kill us.”
“I don’t think they’ll make that much trouble for themselves, though I’m not sure they’ll be cutting us checks.”
“I’ll write you one,” Carly said. “We get out of this, I’ll give you a grant for whatever research you’re doing.”
“We’d better survive, then.”
“Will we?”
“You were doing just fine without me. Two months in their capture? I was ready to lose my brain after two minutes. And the way you took that pirate down? You’re a badass bitch, Carly Grayson.”
Carly reflected on those props. Her features brightened.
Sara got up with a loud pop of her knees. She shuffled over to the bed and sat down. The bed creaked. She dropped onto it. “I think we should try to sleep for a few hours.”
“You go ahead,” Carly said. “I can’t.”
“Carly—”
“I can’t. When I close my eyes, I see things I’d rather not think about.”
“You want to talk?”
“Oh, where to start? My daughter probably thinks I’m dead. Jean-Philippe wouldn’t let me use any of their equipment to communicate because he said it would compromise the operation.”
“How’s that?”
She mimicked his French accent. “If a movie star turns up on the radio screaming mayday, your president will have the entire Navy out here. You think we want to explain what we’re looking for?”
“Everything serves the hunt,” Sara said.
“Yeah,” Carly sighed. “He told me he’d give me the phone the second we open Roche’s vault. ‘When we’re rich beyond our wildest dreams.’”
“God,” Sara said. “We’re in this up to our necks so why doesn’t it feel real?”
“I just want her to know I’m alive. That I’m okay.”
“Not much longer now.”
“These guys aren’t any better than producers. Men like Jesh promise the world and then under deliver by half. For you, they’ll cut a check. For me, they’ll fly me home first class. Whatever they need to say in order to get us on their side.”
“I buy it,” Sara said. “It ain’t charity, but cutting us loose with a little money is still the easiest way to make people shut up.”
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