They both froze as a creak reached them from the upper level. Sam cocked his head, listening for any hint of movement, and after a few minutes of continued silence they relaxed—it was probably just the wooden deck changing temperature.
Sam took the mask from her and switched on the NV scope, then pulled the strap over his dive hood. “Hey, whaddaya know? I can see! You ready to go swimming?” he whispered.
“I was born ready, big boy.” She donned her mask and activated the scope and, after a final check of her dive bag, lowered herself into the water. Sam joined her moments later, and soon they were swimming toward Benedict’s yacht using Sam’s GPS waypoint.
Visibility wasn’t as bad as he’d feared, ten feet below the surface, and enough moonlight penetrated to their depth for them to easily see each other. Sam estimated that with the scopes they had a good thirty feet of usable range before everything faded into darkness, which he hoped would be enough for their purposes. Remi glided through the water like a dolphin behind him, and when he looked back he felt a surge of pride in her for agreeing to tackle a difficult task with him, as she had so often, without flinching.
The yacht’s hull loomed ahead, and as they drew closer they could make out the expected nets suspended below it by nylon rope, secured to heavy steel eyelets that had been welded to the vessel’s underside specifically for that purpose. Sam gestured at the nearest, filled with statues, and they passed in front of it to the bow. As they did, the water hummed with a droning vibration—the engines firing up.
Remi looked at Sam. He indicated the closest net, withdrew his XS Scuba titanium dive knife from its leg sheath, and swam to where one of two lines connected to the hull. Remi did the same and moved to the opposite line, taking a moment to peer at the full nets hanging like pendulous fruit from the ship—easily a dozen or more—disappearing into the darkness along the yacht’s length. Sam began sawing at the nylon line. Remi matched his efforts until her side frayed and then snapped, followed almost instantly by Sam’s. They watched as the net filled with artifacts sank slowly back to the bottom. When it was out of sight, they swam to the next in the queue.
Ten minutes later, as they were approaching the second-to-last net, the yacht began moving. Sam looked around and pointed at the anchor chain, which was slackening as the vessel eased forward. Remi shot to the side to avoid becoming entangled in the netting as it moved toward her. Sam did the same. The chain tightened as it pulled free from the bottom, and then the vessel paused directly over the anchor as it rose from the deep.
Remi motioned at the two remaining nets. They swam to the two lines and began cutting, aware that they didn’t have much time before the ship got under way. If they were lucky, they’d be able to free both and get clear by the time the yacht powered forward again.
Sam attacked his line with renewed vigor. The anchor chain clattered as it rolled onto the windlass at the bow, the sound, even underwater, like the firing of a machine gun. The cutting became more difficult as the stern drifted, pushed by the wind above, the giant five-bladed props turning slowly as the transmissions rested at idle.
Sam’s side finally came free, and one side of the nylon net dropped in slow motion; and then, just as Remi was through her side, the huge props began spinning and the yacht lurched forward. Sam cursed silently as he felt the pull of the props dragging him toward them. After a final glance at the remaining net containing a single statue, he kicked with all his might to escape. He’d seen too many photographs of accidents involving propellers to risk a last attempt and he turned his head, searching for Remi, as he dived straight down.
He almost made it. The last net snagged Sam’s tank and for a horrifying moment he was dragged along, all control lost. Facing backward, he found himself staring at a vision crafted from his worst nightmares—the churning of the gleaming, sharp brass propellers only a few yards from where he was trapped.
The surge as the ship gathered momentum pulled him closer and he struggled uselessly to free himself, aware that he had only seconds before the anchor was up and the captain increased speed to where even if Sam got loose, he’d be sucked into the deadly blades. He reached behind him with his dive knife and slashed blindly at the thick nylon net.
To no avail.
In a last desperate bid for survival, he groped for his harness releases and snapped them open as he took a deep breath of compressed air and then pulled his regulator free of his mouth and swam into the deep with all his might.
His left flipper jolted as a prop blade tore through it, and then he was being pushed through the water as though in a jet stream, hurled backward by the prop wash as the yacht accelerated.
After a seeming eternity of being batted around in the wake, Sam broke the surface and gasped in fresh, sweet air, the stern of Benedict’s vessel bright in his night vision monocular. He inhaled another huge lungful and then went back under to look for Remi.
She’d gotten clear sooner than he, and Sam could make out her form gliding into the dark.
Safe.
He dived down to her and took her hand. Remi gave it a squeeze. She turned to him and her eyes widened behind her mask as she saw him without his tank, only the snorkel in his mouth. He gave a thumbs-up, and they both rose to the surface.
“What happened to your rig?” she asked as they floated in the dark.
“The sea gods demanded a sacrifice and it was either the tank or me.”
“Are you all right?”
“Never better. Let’s get back to the boat before dawn breaks,” he said, looking over to where the Bermudez floated peacefully on the ebony swells.
Back on board, Remi removed her gear, and they both stripped off their dive suits. Their intention was to say nothing about their nocturnal adventure until the shipwreck was under guard. Given Benedict’s obvious reach into unknown levels of the Spanish administration, that seemed the most prudent course. No point in tipping him off and eliminating any timing advantage they’d bought themselves.
Sam got a better look at his battered fin, sliced laterally. The prop blade had missed his foot by inches—an unnecessary reminder of how close he’d come. Thankfully, Remi didn’t register it in the dark, and he decided not to share his brush with disaster.
“The statue he got away with looked like the full-height one of Athena,” Remi whispered.
“We’ll notify the authorities, if and when they arrive. I don’t trust anyone on this boat.”
Remi’s eyes widened. “You don’t think one of the team . . . ?”
“I don’t know what to think. I just know that Benedict’s dirty money seems to have bought a lot of indifference to obvious robbery, and I don’t want to take any chances.”
She nodded. “Think we could get another few hours of shut-eye?”
“That’s my hope. We’ll heat up the phones and the radio tomorrow. For now, I’d say mission accomplished, even if he did get away with one relic.”
“Once it’s reported, he’ll be hard-pressed to smuggle it anywhere or sell it.”
“Hopefully, that’s true, but, as you know, some collectors are pretty unscrupulous.”
“But by the time anyone responds to us, he’ll be in international waters. I’d be steaming for the sanctuary of either Morocco or Algeria. It’s only a hundred and something miles. Piece of cake for that vessel.”
“It doesn’t sound like today’s the day he gets his, does it?”
“I wouldn’t bank on it. Now, can I talk you into some serious pillow time?”
Janus Benedict stood on the transom deck, his color high, obviously angry, as the head of the dive team reported that the only thing they had to show for their trouble was one statue. Reginald looked ready to strike the unfortunate man, who was nothing more than the bearer of bad news.
“You idiot. How could you let this happen?” Reginald shouted, his silk Versace shirt shimmering in the sunlight.
Janus held up his hand to silence his brother and spoke in a calm, evenly modulated voice. “H
ector isn’t to blame, Reginald. This does no good.”
“What do you mean, he’s not to blame? We just lost millions because he failed to secure the cargo properly!”
Hector shook his head. He held up a piece of thick yellow nylon rope and pointed to diving gear he’d placed at the deck edge. “No, sir. All the lines were still attached to the ties. These ropes were cut. Look at the ends. And that dive rig was caught in the netting. This was no accident.”
Janus nodded as he stared at the nearby coast, glimmering like a mirage on the horizon.
“It was the Fargos. Had to be.”
“I knew I should have shot them when I had the chance.”
Janus spun to face his brother. “Really? That’s your solution? Commit cold-blooded murder in front of a host of witnesses? Have you taken leave of your senses?” he asked through clenched teeth, then shook his head and addressed Hector. “Very well, Hector. Bring the statue up onto the deck and pack it as agreed, and we’ll hand it off at the rendezvous.”
An Algerian commercial fishing boat would be coming alongside within the hour to ferry the statue to safety, leaving the yacht to continue on its way to Majorca. In the highly unlikely event it was stopped and searched, there would be nothing to find. It would be the word of the Fargos against his, and with what he’d paid in bribes to lubricate the Spanish system, he was confident there would be no lasting trouble.
“I still say a bullet between the eyes would have solved a lot of problems,” Reginald muttered as Hector left, relieved to be off the hook for the failed expedition.
“How many times do I have to tell you that taking rash action is a fool’s game? These are high stakes, and you don’t have the luxury of behaving impulsively. We’re playing chess, not rugby. It’s all strategy, not brute force and silly risks.”
“Says the man who just lost millions by being restrained,” Reginald said, and then immediately regretted it when he saw the cold in his elder sibling’s eyes.
“Well, old boy, I make the millions, so they’re mine to lose, aren’t they? I think you might want to reconsider any further insolence. You’re the one who begged to participate in my operations—as I recall, it was you who decided that the life of a playboy had grown tiresome, not I. And you didn’t complain about my approach when that young woman filed the police report in Cannes. You were more than grateful that I’m respected enough to arrange for that sort of unpleasantness to disappear.” Janus paused for a moment and sighed. “Don’t push the limits of my patience, Reginald. If you want to be a part of my business, you’ll do things my way. Impetuous mistakes only bring grief, whether you believe me or not. This was nothing more than one round in a longer fight. I’m confident we’ll see the Fargos again, and, when we do, things will go very differently.”
Reginald gave him a curious look, chastised but unrepentant. “You say that as though it’s fact.”
Janus put a fatherly hand on Reginald’s shoulder and gestured to the breakfast bounty laid out on the circular table near the main salon.
“Patience has its own reward. This isn’t over. You’ll have to trust me on that.” Janus cleared his throat, the subject closed. “The statue of Athena will bring several million from a buyer in Moscow, so at least we’ll cover the fuel and sundries for our little outing, if not much more. So it wasn’t a total loss. And remember this: good things come to those who wait.”
They walked to the table and took seats opposite each other, and a steward practically ran to pour them piping-hot dark roast coffee. Another arrived with glasses of fresh-squeezed orange juice, and a third stood discreetly in the background until both had been attended to before inquiring how they preferred their eggs prepared.
Reginald ordered an omelet and Janus an egg-white scramble, and when his younger brother returned his gaze to him, Janus was staring off into the distance, an expression of tranquillity on his refined features, as though the plan had gone perfectly and he had not a worry in the world. Reginald knew Janus and he knew that look. If he said it wasn’t over, it wasn’t, and Reginald was confident that the meddling Americans would get their just deserts at his brother’s hands—for all his civilized veneer, Janus was as deadly as a cobra, and equally silent.
There would be a tally of all debts, and when that time arrived, the Fargos would pay.
Of that he was certain.
As morning drifted lazily by, Dominic failed to get any response from his contacts, and Remi decided to take matters into her own hands. She activated one of the satellite phones and called a familiar number. Selma Wondrash answered on the fourth ring.
“Selma? It’s Remi. Sorry to call so late.”
“There you are! I haven’t heard from you for almost a week. I get worried when you two go dark on me.”
“We were busy with the dive.”
“How did it go?”
“We’re finished, but there’s a wrinkle.”
“Isn’t there always? What can I do to help?”
“What kind of contacts do you have with the Spanish Navy?”
Selma thought about it, processing furiously. “Spanish Navy . . . let me dig around some. If I don’t have an in, I can probably find someone who knows the right people. What did you have in mind?”
Remi explained her thinking and Selma grunted assent. “I understand. Let me get on this. It’s one in the morning here, but I’m still up, so might as well make use of myself.”
“I was afraid I’d woken you.”
Selma hesitated. “No, I’ve been somewhat of a night owl lately. Insomnia. Comes and goes.”
“I hate that. You should take something for it—you sleep little enough as it is . . .”
“If it lasts much longer, I will. But for now, it’s a good thing I was up. I’ll call you back once I have something to report. Is there anything else?”
“Have the Gulfstream fueled and ready for takeoff for tomorrow evening. That’ll give us the twenty-four hours we need from our last dive. File a flight plan for San Diego. We’re coming home.”
“That’s wonderful. Consider it done.”
Sam had purchased a Gulfstream G650 business jet with an effective range of over seventy-five hundred miles from a bank that had repossessed it from an investment group that had fallen on lean times. Since acquiring it, their ability to move around the globe had increased markedly. The extravagance was unlike him, but as the accountants had pointed out, there was never a U-Haul following the hearse at a funeral—you couldn’t take it with you. The sale of the company and the ongoing royalties from Sam’s latest inventions ensured that they would always have far greater financial resources than they could spend in ten lifetimes.
Remi hung up and leaned in to Sam, who was standing on the aft deck, gazing at the blue expanse of the Mediterranean distrustfully as though Benedict’s yacht would reappear at any instant.
“Selma’s putting on the full-court press. Knowing her, she’ll have the Seventh Fleet here by lunchtime.”
Sam put an arm around her and kissed the top of her head. “Have I told you lately how lucky I am to have you?”
She turned to face him, stood on her tiptoes, and rewarded him with a long kiss. “I’m glad you’re finally realizing it. Does this mean my spa time and hedonistic pampering start soon?”
“The moment we arrive home.”
They took in the calm sea, a few recreational craft puttering in the distance near the island, and Remi touched her lucky scarab necklace. “All things considered, this could have been a lot worse. At least we didn’t have to take on a small army of guerrillas armed only with a spade and a flintlock.”
“Ah, the good old days. You’re right, of course, I just wish I’d gotten to that last statue in time. Thirty more seconds and we’d have had it clear.”
“I know, but you can’t win them all, and I’d say that we did pretty well for a last-minute improvisation.”
Dominic approached them from the pilothouse, a dejected expression on his handsome face, the dust
ing of a five o’clock shadow and the red bandanna covering his hair lending him the air of a pirate. “Still nothing. I’m afraid we won’t be hearing anything until Monday, but at least the yacht has left the area, no?”
“But it might come back—and the wreck still needs guarding. We’ve put some things in motion on our end. It’s a long shot, but you never know,” Sam said.
Dominic’s eyes narrowed as he smiled his infectious Castilian grin. “That would be wonderful. Everything’s closed down at the university, so I’m getting nowhere.”
Half an hour later, Remi’s satellite phone trilled and she had a murmured discussion with Selma before disconnecting. “The cavalry’s coming over the hill,” she said.
Sam nodded. “How long?”
“Two hours. They’re going to send a boat from Cartagena, but it’ll take some time to get it under way.”
Sam and Remi had returned to the main deck when they heard the distant roar of large engines from the west. Remi scanned the water and pointed at a gray shape bearing down on their position. A two-hundred-foot Serviola-class naval patrol vessel approached from the harbor at Cartagena, and as it drew near she could make out its name: Atalaya.
They both stood and watched as it anchored nearby. They were soon joined by Dominic.
“I’d say that should keep any treasure hunters away until a proper recovery of the wreck’s cargo can be mounted,” Sam said. He filled Dominic in on the predawn raid on Benedict’s boat and handed him a slip of paper with coordinates scribbled on it. “The nets are at this waypoint. The yacht’s divers were kind enough to retrieve them from the wreck, so it should be child’s play to raise them from the bottom.” He took another look at the warship and nodded. “With our early-morning dive, we won’t be able to fly until tomorrow. Any chance we could impose one more night?”
“A pleasure—and I’ll take you to the mainland myself.”
The next morning they packed their belongings, including the night vision dive gear to return to Sam’s source. Dominic shared a farewell luncheon with Sam and Remi. The crew had had a very successful fishing expedition that morning. Enjoying a last glass of the excellent local Albarino white wine, Sam said, “We appreciate all the hospitality, Dominic. But looking at the time, we need to get ashore. Can we catch that ride you promised us?”
The Eye of Heaven Page 4