“Oh goodness, Nicholas, they’re gorgeous, but what are they for?”
“Our anniversary. One month we’ve slain dragons together, maybe a bit longer, but close enough.”
Their anniversary. But it was more than that, lots more. It had been nearly one month today he’d come to her apartment after they’d survived a hair-raising adventure, and she’d leaped on him. Imagine, she’d only known him for a total of six months, since January, when he’d first come over from London. The Koh-i-Noor was January, and now here we are in July, partners in every sense, sitting on a veranda on a sunny Italian cliff. In six months her life had changed irrevocably. Well, his had as well. He’d uprooted himself from Scotland Yard in England to move to America, joined the FBI, and was now a firecracker agent, and the two of them were leading the Covert Eyes team. And her life had expanded and blossomed—
“Where are you, Mike?”
She gave him a manic grin. “Just thinking, remembering. So much has happened, actually to all of us, in the last six months. And somehow, against the odds, we’re here and we’re friends.” She took the flowers and her hand lingered on his. “Thank you for the flowers. Let’s go dancing in Rome, my ankle’s almost one hundred percent. Some place to waltz. Do you waltz, Nicholas?”
“Yes, my father said every gentleman had to waltz and do it gracefully, as if he’d emerged from the womb dancing to Strauss.”
“Come on, mates, enough with the mush,” Grant said as he walked in with a tray of grilled vegetables. “Chow’s ready. Nice flowers.”
Kitsune took the flowers, set them in a vase. “You did good, boyo, very good. Grant, pay heed. Nicholas bought these for their anniversary. Here we’ve been married for three months, and all I get is lobster and grilled aubergine?”
Grant laughed. “Oh, trust me, I know, and I won’t forget.” He moved close, lightly touched his fingers to her cheek. “You’ve given me the most bonkers three months of my life. I’m looking forward to years of the same.”
She swatted him with a towel, then leaned up and kissed his mouth. “You’re lucky I’m mad for you.”
They brought everything to the veranda, even the flowers, set precisely in the middle of the table. The veranda was heavenly scented, the stucco warm and inviting, the trellis covered in lush green vines dotted with jasmine, the small lemon orchard above and to the side making the whole hill smell like sunshine. A light breeze blew off the sea. It was a glorious moment in time, Mike thought, a moment to remember and treasure. Bonkers, she thought, an excellent word. All their lives were amazing and, yes, bonkers.
In between bites, Kitsune said, “The mystery, Nicholas? Tell us what puzzle your mother is solving, then I want to know Mike’s favorite spot you’ve visited during your vacation.”
Nicholas speared a grilled carrot. “Mum said Mrs. Able, the owner of the Cock and the Crow, a local inn in Farrow-on-Gray, found a dead man in his room, shot through the head, the room ransacked. The room was rented to a man from London for one night, a stranger. But it was no stranger Mrs. Able found. The dead man was a local solicitor, good reputation, solid family. And on his forehead, in his own blood, was a cross with a small blood dot on each side of the crossbar, and a huge blood X on his chest. Mrs. Able came to see my mum immediately and it was my mum who called the local constabulary. She’s investigating along with Inspector Crabbe, a dour old curmudgeon who adores her and treats her like the queen.”
“So what happened? Did your mother figure it out yet?”
“It’s only been a few days. She said she’d keep me posted and to give Mike a big kiss and remind her of her promise and to text me any ideas.”
“Promise?” An eyebrow went up as Kitsune dipped lobster into hot butter.
“Unwritten and unspoken, but clear enough,” Mike said. “I’m to keep him safe and in perfect health. Or else. Now, onward. My favorite spot so far? I really liked Santorini. Well, of course, there’s Crete.”
Nicholas tugged on her ponytail. “Admit it, Mike, you’re getting antsy, you want some action, maybe fly back to England and help my mum solve this murder mystery. All this wallowing in the sunshine and floating in the Mediterranean is getting to you.”
Was she getting antsy? She thought of exploring Rome and said, “Nah, not yet.” She waved her hands around her. “Capri is spectacular. We did the Blue Grotto this morning, what a cool spot. And it’s beautiful here. If this was my view every day, maybe I wouldn’t ever want to leave.”
Kitsune said, “Ah, but duty always calls, doesn’t it? A lovely balance we all have, I say. After wallowing for a while, I’m contacted when there’s something to, ah, liberate, Blue Mountain tells Grant there’s someone for him to protect, and for you two, there’s always someone naughty to discipline. And speaking of stopping bad guys—you’re gaining quite a reputation. Saving the president again, and the Queen and prime minister? I hear you were knighted, Nicholas, and Mike is now a dame. Impressive. My advice? Wallow while you have the chance. There’s always something lurking in the shadows, just out of sight, waiting to grab you by the throat.”
Grant said, “What’s lurking for me is heading up a team to protect a man in Malaysia. Should be pretty straightforward. I ship out tonight.”
Nicholas said, “So Blue Mountain has forgiven you for getting yourself kidnapped, and you’re back in the saddle. Glad to hear it.”
“They even gave me enough downtime to do pretty substantial upgrades to our security here. My boss, name’s Wesley Fentriss, said to make it solid so I’d never be taken from here again, or he’d shoot me. The man I’m going to protect is Jean-Pierre Broussard. You’ve heard of him, yes?”
Nicholas raised a brow. “The Frenchman who founded Galactus Space Industries?”
“That’s the chap. Turns out he’s just as interested in treasure hunting as in space exploration, and has his megayacht somewhere near Malaysia. Apparently, his treasure hunting is so lucrative he needs major security, so Blue Mountain has been rotating teams in and out for the past month. I’ve been assigned to head the next team. As I said, I fly out tonight.”
Nicholas asked, “Is Broussard searching for anything in particular, do you know?”
“No clue, but it must be something special. We don’t normally provide generic guard duties, but there are pirates in that area, so he’s concerned what treasure he finds could be stolen. It should be interesting. I’ve heard the yacht is four hundred feet long, one of the most state-of-the-art in the world. I saw a photo—it looks like a floating spaceship.”
Mike said, “What about you, Kitsune?”
The breeze was tousling Kitsune’s black hair around her face. Her eyes were lighter and bluer than the sky. She looked relaxed and happy. Amazing, Mike thought, to think this elegant Madonna could turn into a tiger in an instant, a very deadly tiger. She said, “Actually, like Grant, I’m about to leave on an assignment as well. No, forget it, I’m not about to tell you what I’m going to do or where I’m going to be. Actually, I have to be completely off the grid for the next two weeks. I don’t like it, but no choice.”
Grant took her hand in his. “I’m not particularly thrilled about that last part.”
Nicholas knew if anyone could take care of herself, it was Kitsune. She was wily as her namesake, a fox. He asked, “How about one small hint, Kitsune?”
Her grin was cocky. “You mentioned Rembrandt, didn’t you?”
“Which one?” Mike asked, sitting forward. “Where?”
Kitsune threw back her head and laughed. “No more. Now, if you two would like, since we’re both leaving, you could postpone Rome and stay here. Finish convalescing, Mike, and wallow in the lovely water in the cove right below us. You and Nicholas could keep celebrating your anniversary.”
Nicholas finished the last bite of his lobster. “That’s very kind, but we’re expected at the Hassler in Rome this evening. I can’t wait to show Mike around.”
Grant said, “What do you want to see, Mike?”
“Everything. Full-
on tourist mode for me—the Pantheon, the Colosseum, the Vatican, you name it, I’m game. Oh, Grant, I noticed your fitness tracker. I’ve been thinking it wouldn’t be a bad idea to get one, especially considering how lazy I’ve been. I need to ramp up my exercise again, and I love accountability. What do you think of it?”
“I’m with you, I like accountability, too. This baby measures all sorts of information, from steps to weight to heartbeat. This new version costs less than a hundred dollars and even tells you the time and where you are on the planet.”
He took it off and handed it to her. She said, “I want one in blue. Hey, Nicholas, do you think we could find me one in Rome? I could get you one in macho black like Grant’s for our anniversary, instead of flowers. What do you think? Hey, what are you doing?”
Nicholas said, without looking up, “Checking out where we can find a fitness tracker like Grant’s in Rome. Ah, here we go. Now, Mike, we need to leave. I want to get to Rome before sundown.”
At the door, Kitsune hugged Mike and whispered against her ear, “Don’t worry, it’s not a Rembrandt, it’s something far more exciting, more esoteric, if you will. Ah, can’t you see me flirting in Russian? You can stay in touch with Grant, and I’ll be back here in two weeks. I hope.”
Mike called out as she climbed aboard behind Nicholas on their rented motorcycle, “Grant, be careful with all those pirates in Malaysia.”
CHAPTER FIVE
T-MINUS 110 HOURS
The Flor de la Mar or Flor do Mar (Flower of the Sea) was a Portuguese carrack of 400 tons that sailed the seas during the early 1500s. This ship was carrying a great amount of treasure when it sank somewhere off the coast of Sumatra, possibly at the northern end of the Strait of Malacca, during its voyage back to Portugal. . . . Whilst some have claimed that the ship has been found, these have not been supported with irrefutable evidence. Thus, the wreck of the Flor de la Mar, along with the treasure it was transporting, is still considered to be lost.
—Ancient-origins.net
The Griffon
Strait of Malacca
Off the Coast of Sumatra
Jean-Pierre Broussard stood at his desk holding the fragile piece of paper that had brought him here, a portion of a letter from the captain of the Flor de la Mar, Afonso de Albuquerque, to his son, detailing the doomed voyage. It was dated two weeks after the captain was rescued from these very waters back in 1511.
Jean-Pierre knew that nearly all of the four hundred crew aboard the ship had died, but Albuquerque had gotten away and, miracle of miracles, now a portion of the letter was in Jean-Pierre’s keeping. He held the creased paper carefully, so worn and fragile it now was. It wasn’t an officially known letter, but one Jean-Pierre had discovered, translated, and kept to himself, knowing what it could mean to him, to Emilie. Surely the fates could not be so unjust as to give him the letter and not lead him to the ship.
As always when he read the words, he felt a leap of hope.
As sorry as I am to see the Flor de la Mar lost, I will be forever happy to have left behind the accursed black stone, which is clearly not of this world. It was bad luck from the start.
The black stone Albuquerque spoke of was the Heaven Stone—more commonly called the Holy Grail—he knew it to his soul. Why had Albuquerque considered the stone bad luck? Why hadn’t he realized what immense good fortune he’d found or been given? If only he’d understood what he had, he never would have been so cavalier about leaving it behind when he managed to escape from his sinking ship.
Soon, soon, he would find it. He had to find it. Time was running out for Emilie. He closed his eyes a moment in prayer, a daily ritual, and he saw Emilie three years ago, at eighteen, just after she’d been diagnosed. And it was for Emilie, beautiful, innocent Emilie, the daughter of his heart. No one was more worthy than she. He would have freely given everything he owned if it would help her, but nothing could help, no drug, no medicine, no operation. Only the Holy Grail. And it was on that day he knew he had to find the Grail, it was simply the most important thing in his life, now or ever. He had to find it, bring it to her, and she would be well. There was no more worthy an individual than his precious daughter. Then he saw her as she’d been a month ago, lying on her back in bed, her beautiful black hair spread around her head on the white pillowcase, her nurse sitting beside her. Her legs were now too weak for her to walk, and she had little strength left in her arms. It wouldn’t be much longer, the doctor had told him, and lowered his head in sympathy. Jean-Pierre had held Emilie close, kissed her temple. “Mon petit chou, I am still looking for your gift from God and I swear to you I will find it and it will cure you. You must be strong. You will live, you will be healthy, I swear it to you.”
Three years since he’d begun his search, three long years he’d prayed, he’d studied, followed any and every lead he heard about or read about in ancient texts, stories, legends, he didn’t care. Many times he’d despaired because she’d gotten progressively weaker, but then, somehow—he believed it a miracle, truth be told—the letter had come to him. Yes, he knew it was meant to come to him, for Emilie.
The past nine days had filled him with hope. Exciting days, frustrating, and then he’d had to deal with the fallout from the failed satellite launch. He’d said over and over to the reporters who incessantly emailed him—These things happen. We regret the failure tremendously, and will endeavor not to let it happen again.
Let the press clamor. Jean-Pierre could care less about the satellites his company launched or, in this case, failed to launch into space. No, what he was about to find was the Holy Grail itself, the ultimate reward to those worthy and deserving—the granting of one’s greatest desire and everlasting life. For Emilie.
And he’d finally found the Flor de la Mar, no question in his mind. He’d seen in the silty quiet of the water’s depth the skeleton, spars and metal scattered on the ocean floor. Ah, but there were significant pieces still intact. A five-by-ten chunk of the hull had been their first recovery. Upon examination, they were able to see the repairs to the hull made after the ship’s maiden voyage, when it began to leak. The round marks from the wooden repair pegs had been almost perfectly preserved in the salty deep waters.
For nine days, they’d been diving to the wreck. They’d split into two teams—divers and those running the submersible, as the wreckage was in two areas—one half on the reef, 656 feet under the water, the other deeper by nearly 300 feet, down into a dark, unmapped trench.
The ship herself was in tatters, clearly broken apart by the waves that had sunk her centuries ago. A loss, but nothing to discourage him, because the cargo was scattered across a football field’s length of terrain. So far, they’d flagged hundreds of crates buried in the silt.
The cargo. Or should he say, the lost treasure from the heavens.
He wasn’t at all surprised the ship had gone down. The fact was they’d overloaded her with treasure and she wouldn’t withstand a ferocious storm. She had been repaired many times, this old warhorse of a ship, and was not up to the challenge. Her sinking was no fault of the Heaven Stone. The weight of the crates alone was beyond her capabilities, not to mention crew, supplies, and, of course, the stone. He wondered why Albuquerque had decided to use her to transport the treasure he’d taken from the King of Siam after his conquest of Malacca. Where was his brain? Broussard asked himself again. How had the Grail come to be among the treasures of Siam? He didn’t know why, doubted he would ever know, nor did he really care. He only wanted to find it, find it before Emilie suffocated to death.
A bright young voice called out from the doorway, “You were reading that ancient letter again, weren’t you, Jean-Pierre? You have memorized it.”
Jean-Pierre looked up to see Devi, beautiful Devi, with her charmingly accented French, her glorious black hair braided halfway down her back, her perfect young body. So eager she was, and how she pleased him, her brightness, her curiosity. She distracted him when he despaired, and to be fair, he found her incredible
in bed. To his surprise she wasn’t at all venal. She was kindhearted, amazing in his experience for one so young and beautiful, and a bigger surprise, she’d been presented to him quite unexpectedly, like a lovely steak on a plate, by a wealthy businessman in Kuala Lumpur. The world saw her as his current mistress, and that was true enough. But unlike others before her, she was interested in him and in his search, always eager to listen to his stories about the Holy Grail. But, of course, he’d never told her about Emilie. No one knew about Emilie. He’d always protected her identity, kept her away from the rapacious, ever-insatiable media, to spare her the pain of being called illegitimate.
Devi stood in the suite doorway, wearing a lacy white coverup, and beneath it he knew there was a bikini that would make a man’s guts twist. He found it amazing his crew never leered at her, never made jokes about his latest mistress behind their hands. Fact was they liked her. He saw she was looking down at the linen packet in his hands.
“Devi, yes, I have memorized it. I’ve told you, the very existence of this letter gives me new hope when I would fall into depression. It makes me hold to my belief.” He’d shown it to her, of course, and she’d read it.
She crossed the room to where he stood, lightly laid her hand on his shoulder. “I have spoken to the men. They are convinced something—they don’t know what—is down there, waiting to be retrieved. They all want it to be the Holy Grail. They want to present it to you. They are as excited as you are. Tell me, Jean-Pierre, if—no—when you have the Grail in your possession, what will you do with it? Carry it on your shoulders to show the world? Become the emperor of the planet forever? What?”
He looked into her beautiful face, so vital with health and youth. Jean-Pierre was twice her age, wealthy, a man who knew he was handsome and well-made and charming. And notoriously fickle with his women. Still, Devi had been with him for more than six months, a record, both of them knew.
He kissed her gently, then eased the linen-wrapped letter into his battered leather logbook. “No, I do not wish to be an emperor or carry it on my shoulders and prance about the world and show off my prize.” What to say? “It is something private, something very special to me.”
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