Banking to the right again, I dropped us toward the boats below. The newer boat, people crowded into the bow, spun around and accelerated away from the derelict. The shooter in the boat’s cockpit aimed and fired twice more. We were well out of range, and the bouncing of the overloaded boat meant he wouldn’t have been able to hit the Hopper even if we were right on top of them.
Having a healthy aversion to flying hunks of lead, I circled just out of range as we got closer and closer to the abandoned boat. Then I reduced throttle and changed course, wanting a closer look at the derelict.
“Same as the one I just towed,” Mac said. “Cuban for sure. Looks like the same old car engine for power. Someone’s making these.”
I really don’t like being shot at, and I wanted to know who it was shooting at me now. “Let’s take one more pass and go after the other boat,” I said, easing the wheel over in a lazy circle.
Dropping the Hopper to three hundred feet above the water, I flew toward the abandoned boat, reducing power further as Mac stared out through the windshield.
“You want to drop me and I’ll run it back to the Coast Guard?” he asked. “They’re paying salvage on them.”
“Got a tool box behind you,” I replied. “Seas are calm enough. I can land and get you close. Then I’ll do a high-altitude recon on the other boat and see where they’re going. I’ll swing back before I head up-island, and make sure you’re okay.”
Setting up an approach that would bring us to a stop near the abandoned boat, I double-checked that the wheels were up and locked, then lowered the flaps. When the pontoons came in contact with the water, the drag quickly slowed us. Once the pontoons settled down in the water, I turned and let the wind and small waves move us toward the abandoned boat.
Mac unbuckled and reached into the tool box, taking out a pair of wire cutters and two screwdrivers. “Thanks man,” he said, holding up the tools. “I’ll return these.”
“Bring some beer with you,” I said. “Sounds like it’s gonna be a good story. You’ll have to swim from here.”
I extended my hand and Mac grasped it. Removing the headset and hanging it on the hook, he opened the door, forcing it against the propwash.
He stepped down onto the pontoon, then turned around and tossed his phone to me. “Not much use out there.”
“Not much use anywhere,” I agreed.
Stepping carefully toward the aft end of the pontoon, Mac closed the door, and used the pontoon strut to help lower himself into the water. I let the Hopper idle steadily forward until I was sure he was clear of the pontoon, then swung the nose into the wind, advancing the throttle once more.
In moments, we were back in the air. Charity unbuckled her seat belt and climbed into the right-hand seat. “What was that all about?”
“Not sure,” I replied. “Human traffickers would be my guess.”
“Is this the kind of thing you do all the time, when you’re not on a mission with Deuce?”
“Not lately,” I replied, with a sideways grin.
The droning of the engine was the only sound as I steered Island Hopper in the direction the boat had gone. Finding it wasn’t hard. I kept the bird above two thousand feet and far out over the ocean, slowly following the boat until it turned toward Stock Island on the east side of Key West. I continued to circle, watching as it turned into a marina I knew, then I made one more pass and turned west to check on Mac.
The derelict boat was moving under its own power toward the old shrimp docks and the Coast Guard station, so I contacted Key West tower for landing instructions. They vectored us further west, in the direction of Fort Jefferson, to join the landing pattern.
Charity’s voice finally came over my headset. “Did Stockwell say anything to you about what’s going to happen to my boat?”
“Your boat? No, it never came up. Why?”
“I want to keep it,” she replied.
I did remember that Stockwell had told me it was an antique sailing yacht. “What’s she like?”
“Her name’s Wind Dancer,” Charity replied, an almost wistful look on her face. She went on to tell me all about her boat, how it looked, how it handled, and how it made her feel. Obviously, it would be hard for her to part with it—something I completely understood.
“I can buy it,” she said, at last. “At least, I think I can. That is, if everything is going away, like you said.”
“Even Travis’s job is going away,” I said. “Look, you know all the electronic gadgets that Chyrel worked with? The computers, bugs, trackers, hidden cameras, and stuff? Travis gave it all to Deuce. Just up and handed it all over, said it was never listed as government property. Probably a hundred-grand worth of equipment. I wouldn’t be surprised if the same is true for your boat.”
“Is there any way you could find out?” she asked. “Without raising any suspicions?”
“Maybe. But I know someone who can find out for sure. It just depends on how much you trust her.”
“Chyrel?”
I nodded.
She thought about it a moment. “Yeah, I trust her,” she finally said.
“I’ll contact her,” I said. “We have a back-channel way, kinda like that sat-phone I gave you.”
The sound of a radial engine is very distinctive and I had no doubt that if there were any pilots on the island and they heard it, they’d be searching the sky for us. I hoped our little extracurricular excursion hadn’t caused us to miss Buck Reilly.
As we came in on final approach, I saw the twin-engine Grumman on the tarmac, just outside the Landmark Aviation building, where Key West Seaplane Adventures has an office. Someone was on a ladder by the Widgeon’s port engine. With luck, it might be the man we came to see. That’d sure save us the time of having to find him.
Once on the ground, I changed frequencies and got taxi instructions. Seeing an open spot just two down from the Widgeon, I steered toward it. I shut down the engine, and while I went through the post-flight check list Charity climbed out to chock the wheels.
Glancing over, I recognized the guy on the ladder by his signature brightly colored tropical shirt. Ray Floyd, the chief mechanic, had worked on the Hopper a time or two. A second man came out of the plane. He was as tall as me, and looked fit and capable, with scruffy hair over his ears. Together, they started toward us.
Charity moved slightly away from the Hopper, facing the approaching men, as I climbed out. She was still acting wary.
“Nice Beaver,” the man who’d been inside the Widgeon said, as they approached. He said something to Ray, which I didn’t hear, and handed him some sort of drawing from a sketch pad. Ray took the drawing and turned away toward the building, waving to me.
“Thanks,” I replied. “Is that your Widgeon?”
“Sure is,” the man said, looking back at his plane. “Her name’s Betty, she’s a nineteen-forty-six G-44.”
Taking a step toward him, I extended my hand. “Then you’re Buck Reilly?”
He hesitated just a second, caught off-guard. Then he shook my hand and said, “Depends on who’s asking.”
“Jesse McDermitt,” I said. “And this is my friend Gabby. We actually flew down here from Marathon to see you.”
“See me about what?” Reilly asked, his eyes shifting from me to Charity.
“I understand that you’re an archaeologist, an expert on South American antiquities.”
“Was,” he corrected me. “Now I run Last Resort Charter and Salvage.”
Cutting straight to the chase, I said, “I was hoping you might be able to identify something for me. Is there someplace we can go? Someplace private?”
“I’ve got a meeting in an hour, McDermitt.”
Reaching into my pocket, I took out the little emerald Amy Huggins had left in my care and unwrapped it from the handkerchief. “It’ll probably only take you a second,” I said.
When his eyes fell on the bright green stone, he quickly looked around and swept his hand toward his flying boat. “Care to
step into my office?”
We followed Reilly toward his plane and he motioned us to climb in the starboard door. Even with all the windows and doors open, it was hot and cramped inside. In back were two sets of well-worn seats facing one another. Charity climbed in first and I followed, taking the aft seat next to her.
When Reilly climbed in, he sat down facing me, his eyes boring holes in mine. “Who are you and what do you want with me?”
“Whoa, Reilly,” I said, leaning forward a bit. “I’ve told you who we are and why we came to see you. I live up-island and a friend said you might be able to identify where the emerald came from.”
“Ray already told me who you were. What friend?”
“Rusty Thurman,” I replied. “Owns the Rusty Anchor up in Marathon.”
“I know Rusty. How are you connected to him?”
“He and I served together in the Marines,” I replied. “I’m his daughter’s godfather.”
“Got any ID?”
Slowly, I used my left hand and fished my wallet out. Opening it, I held it up for him to see my driver’s license.
“I’ve heard of you,” Reilly said, “Rusty’s a good man, he doesn’t blab, and I trust him,” Leaning forward slightly, he extended his hand. “May I?”
I handed him the wadded-up handkerchief.
He unwrapped it carefully, then picked up the emerald, turning it in his fingers. “Where’d you get this?”
“I’m not really at liberty to say. Any idea where it might have originated?”
Reilly reached into the backpack he’d been carrying out on the tarmac. From a side pocket, he removed a small magnifying glass and studied the green rock. “Very few inclusions,” he muttered to himself. “The color and hue are right.”
When he glanced up at me, I arched an eyebrow in question.
“About eleven or twelve carats,” he replied to my unasked question. “I can sell it quickly for you for about eight thousand dollars.”
“It’s not for sale,” I replied. “At least not right now, and definitely not for eight grand. What could I get for it, if you took your time?”
“It’s Aztec,” Reilly said, handing back the stone, “and so hot it burns my fingers.”
“Stolen?” Charity asked. “From whom?”
“Probably stolen and restolen a dozen times,” Reilly said. “It’s part of a treasure trove of emeralds that once belonged to Hernan Cortes. Before that, it was part of the Aztec ruler Montezuma’s empirical collection.”
“So, this dates back to what?” I asked. “The 1500s?”
Reilly looked from me to Charity, hesitated, and then pulled a waterproof pouch out of his backpack. From that he removed a fat folder, which he fanned through at an angle so I couldn’t see what was inside. He stopped about a third of the way through, then laid the folder on his lap.
“I just happen to have files on Montezuma and Cortes.”
“So, you actually know about this particular emerald?” I asked.
“It was mined by slaves long before then, in what is now Ecuador. Aztec raids extended all the way into South America at one time. If I were to guess, it was probably mined in the thirteenth or early fourteenth century.”
“You can tell all that, just by looking at it?” Charity asked.
“Its origins are obvious,” Reilly said. “The inclusions, color, and hue are clearly indicative of emeralds mined in Ecuador. As to the specific stone, I’ve studied the lost treasure of Cortes for years. I know every rock, coin, ingot, and bar that was recorded on the manifest. That’s one of them. No doubt in my mind.”
“Lost treasure?” I asked.
“First contact with Europeans, 1519,” Reilly began, sounding like a college professor, though he didn’t look to be more than thirty years old. “Just twenty-seven years after Columbus. The Aztec ruler at the time was Montezuma. Cortes landed with an armada of ships, and legend has it that, as a peace offering, Montezuma gave Cortes a huge emerald that was said to have mystical powers that could divine truth. It came to be known as Isabella’s Emerald. Along with this giant emerald, he supposedly gave Cortes two chests of smaller, though still quite large, raw emeralds as a gift to King Charles the Fifth of Spain.”
“Cortes accepted it, or so the legend goes. Most likely he just took it. We found a document in the General Archive of the Indies in Seville, Spain that said upon his return, Cortes offered the giant stone to Queen Isabella in the hope that she could convince Charles to fund further conquests in the new world. He really wanted to be appointed the governor of New Spain. The Spanish coffers were nearly empty after wars with England and France, so Charles was forced to decline. Instead, Cortes gave the emerald to his bride, in exchange for a dowry that would fund his next expedition.”
Reilly flipped a page in his folder, which was thick with plastic archival sleeves, and he ran his finger down some text while he read. Then he looked up.
“Some two-hundred-and-forty years later, in 1757, Cortes’s descendants were extremely wealthy, having conquered most of Central and South America. They’d milked the land and its people dry of anything valuable by then, but they wanted more land grants from Spain. King Ferdinand the Sixth sent a courier to Cartagena to negotiate a price. He carried the signet ring of Cortes as identification. Once the deal was struck, he was to escort a treasure back to Spain, the likes of which would boggle the mind. The treasure included the mystical Isabella’s Emerald, said to be over nine hundred carats—the same one that was given to Cortes by Montezuma himself. The deal also included two chests full of cut and polished emeralds, plus gold and jade death masks of the Aztec Emperors, several mysterious crystal skulls, gold idols, and various instruments of human sacrifice. This was to be a gift to Ferdinand, in exchange for the land grants.” He paused. “Unfortunately, the ship and its treasures were lost at sea.”
“And this?” I said, holding up the green stone. “You think it was one of the smaller emeralds in one of those chests?”
“Absolutely no doubt in my mind, whatsoever. It’s one of the lost Cortes emeralds.”
“So, how was this stone found?” I asked, enthralled by the story of ancient treasure. Rusty had told me the man had a reputation as a world-renowned archeologist and treasure hunter, and Buck Reilly didn’t disappoint.
“The ship went down in the Bermuda Triangle,” Reilly continued. “Another ship’s captain noted the sinking in his log, saying that the treasure ship was ablaze and sank, giving the distance in time and speed from the last land they’d seen. Nobody knows what caused the fire.”
“When was the treasure recovered?” Charity asked.
“In 1992, descendants of Cortes approached Doctor Victor Benilous, a well-known archaeologist and the president of an organization called Archaeological Discovery Ventures. They wanted him to locate the shipwreck. Believe it or not, Benilous brought in psychics to help locate the wreck. Two of them, working independently, gave ADV locations that were nearly on top of each other. Using sonar, they found five wrecks in that location, one being the treasure ship they were after. Fast forward a couple of years, and part of the treasure disappeared from a display at the Museo Nacional de Antropología in Mexico City. Specifically, one of the small chests of emeralds. The one that held that one. It wasn’t the first time the anthropology museum had been robbed.”
Reilly snapped his folder of archives closed and watched my eyes.
“Let me get this straight,” I said. “That rock was dug up by Montezuma’s slaves over five hundred years ago, taken from the Aztecs by the Spaniards, lost at sea, recovered, and was stolen again from this Benilous guy?”
“Word is that the missing chest of emeralds has been bought and sold, or stolen, several times in the last fifteen years. All through the black market, of course, since the stones are pretty easily identifiable. Hence, the lowball price to sell it for you.”
“The black market, huh?” I said, looking over at Charity. “That’s how you’d turn it fast? What if you went slo
wer and found just the right buyer?”
“Twelve thousand, easy,” Reilly said. “But I’m neither in the market, nor do I like the idea of being a go-between.”
“What would the whole chest be worth?”
Reilly leaned forward. “You know where the rest are?”
“No, but I think I might know where to look.”
He sat back in his seat and scratched at an eyebrow with one finger. “If the chest were available, and it was whole.… There were supposed to be over five hundred emeralds that size in it, I would consider acting as a go-between for ten percent and could turn them into a cool million in less than a week. Two mil, if I sold them one at a time over a period of maybe a year. They’re too recognizable to dump on the market individually all at once.”
“I’ll definitely keep that in mind,” I said, folding the stone back into the handkerchief and putting it in my pocket.
“Well, if I can be of any help, let me know,” Reilly said, climbing out through the open door, and offering Charity a hand. “But only on the down-low and in person. I’m not exactly popular in the antiquities community these days.”
Leaving Buck and his Widgeon, Charity and I started back toward the Hopper. “Are you hungry?” I asked.
“Famished,” she replied, “but I don’t know about going into town. Keeping a low profile has gotten to be a habit.”
“There’s a restaurant here,” I said. “It’s passable food and way overpriced, but within walking distance. Or I can call a friend who drives a taxi, and we can go a few blocks to Blue Heaven. This time of day, there won’t be but a handful of hungover tourists there for lunch.”
She stopped under the starboard wing and looked back toward Reilly’s plane.
“What was your first impression of him?” she asked, watching Reilly walking into the Landmark Aviation building.
“A little sketchy, but forthright,” I replied. “Something seems to be going on in his life, some big change.”
“Yeah, I got that, too. But he gave off an honest vibe.”
“Lunch?”
“Okay, but not the overpriced place. And just to be on the safe side, call me Gabby Fleming.”
Rising Storm: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 11) Page 7