The Eye of Heaven

by Clive Cussler

  The Cameron’s high bow crushed through the surface ice with ease and slowed to a stop twenty-five yards from the Viking longship’s stern. Sam and Remi could make out the captain and his mate in the towering pilothouse, and then a tall man in his forties emerged from the superstructure and moved to the bow, almost three stories above them. He waved and called out.

  “Ahoy there! You must be the Fargos.”

  “Dr. Jennings, I presume. I recognize the voice,” Sam answered, returning the wave.

  “And that’s the Viking ship. Goodness. She looks like she was just built.”

  “It’s remarkable. We left much of the hull with ice on it to preserve it.”

  “I can’t tell you how excited we are about this. It’s an honor to meet you both.”

  “Likewise, Dr. Jennings,” Remi said.

  “Please, it’s Matthew. It’s a bit chilly to stand on pointless formality,” he said, his breath issuing fog with every word.

  The archaeology team on the Cameron wasted no time. After testing the ice to ensure that it was stable enough to walk on, they began carting tools and sections of temporary buildings to the area by Sam and Remi’s tent. It took the better part of the morning and much of the afternoon to erect five structures: a portable field kitchen, a bathroom-and-shower facility, two barracks, and an equipment room with a communications center. The eight-man building crew worked with quiet efficiency as Sam and Remi luxuriated in a stateroom, enjoying their first hot shower in over a week, followed by a massive meal of seafood washed down with beer and white wine, compliments of the Canadian government.

  Sam met with the archaeologists after lunch and spoke to a packed house. After a report of their progress to date on excavation and news of their incredible discovery of pre-Columbian artifacts, a spirited discussion ensued.

  Jennings cleared his throat and said, “We know that there was contact between the Viking settlements in Greenland and the one discovered on southern Baffin Island, in the Tanfield Valley. So it’s obvious that there was a trade route of some kind, even if irregular. But we’ve never seen any hard evidence of Vikings journeying farther south. There’s been speculation about trips to the Canadian mainland for logging, but nothing conclusive ever surfaced.”

  “We’ll need to get the ship carbon-dated, of course,” another scientist pointed out, “but it looks like it’s a later type—a dragon ship with a sail.”

  Jennings put his pencil down on the desk. “Which would narrow it to anywhere from A.D. 900 to 1300. That’s consistent with the saga of Leif Eriksson, which has him journeying westward around A.D. 1000, after hearing about the New World from Bjarni Herjólfsson, when he sailed the Newfoundland coast after being blown off course in A.D. 986. The point being, this new evidence clearly proves that there were others who ventured south as well as west.”

  Remi turned over their notes and the record of their observations, having already entered them into their computer. She and Sam took turns fielding questions from the group. When the gathering broke up, everyone descended to the ice, and the scientists got their first close look at the Viking craft. The team looked like children in a candy store, and the sense of excitement was palpable for the men and women who would spend weeks, if not longer, preparing the boat for transport to Montreal.

  The sky darkened as the afternoon passed, and an ominous line of angry clouds moved in from the ocean as the team secured a huge tarp over the Viking vessel to protect it from the elements. Even in late spring, a major storm in the Arctic Circle was nothing to take lightly, and the crew hurried to batten down the little camp and harden it against whatever nature threw at it.

  As the procession of gray storm clouds approached, the Cameron reversed into the center of the fjord, where it dropped anchor in the deepest portion and waited. Soon after, the wind picked up, and within a half hour a gale was driving sheets of freezing rain through the glacial canyon. Lightning crackled overhead, the baritone boom of thunder shaking the big ship with each explosive volley.

  The surrounding mountains shielded them from the worst of it. Sam and Remi could only imagine what the crew of the Viking boat had endured, and gave silent thanks in the wee hours of the morning that they’d been spared the experience of an Arctic storm while in their tent.

  They awoke to a fresh blanket of white. Four hours later, the expedition team was waving farewell to Sam and Remi as the Cameron steamed slowly toward the gap. Remi inched closer to Sam as the sheer rock walls moved past them and, once the ship was well into the narrow channel, they returned to their stateroom, their part in the discovery now consigned to the history books.

  The captain intercepted them on the way inside and shook both their hands with brisk enthusiasm. “We’ll have you back in Clyde River by tomorrow morning. Anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable, let me know.”

  “I’m still trying to get used to the concept of warm water and hot food,” Remi quipped.

  “Well, we have plenty of both, and I believe Jennings left a few bottles of excellent wine in case you need something to quench your thirst during lunch and dinner. Again, don’t hesitate to ask if you need anything.”

  “When will you return for the team?” Sam asked.

  “Hard to say. It may be a larger ship that picks them up—something that can accommodate the entire longship. Our readings show that gap as being ninety-seven feet at the narrowest point, so we should be able to get one of our bigger boats in—with a little luck and some lubrication on either side of the hull.”

  “Thanks for the hospitality. It’s good to be off the ice,” Remi said.

  The captain nodded. “I have no doubt. Whenever you like, come up to the bridge and I’ll give you a tour. Hopefully, the seas will have calmed down and it will be a smooth ride back to civilization . . . if you can call Clyde River that.”

  They shook hands again, and then they were alone. In their stateroom, Remi checked the indicator on the satellite phone, noting it was recharged, and handed it to Sam before plopping down on the bed.

  “Give Kendra a call and check on Selma. See about having Rick meet us at the airport. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve spent about as much time as I ever want to on Baffin Island, even if it was in such charming company as yours.”

  “You know you’re going to be bored out of your mind after an adventure like this. How are you going to occupy your time now that you don’t have to chip ice all day long?” Sam teased.

  “I’d say we both have plenty to do now that we know for a fact that Vikings had contact with pre-Columbian America. I’m thinking that we should take a hard look at the lore and see if there’s anything that points us in a promising direction. They were there, and the artifacts we found represent a significant treasure for those civilizations. There had to be a reason the Vikings were loaded down with goods from what’s now Mexico.”

  Sam nodded. “Great minds think alike. Now that we know—”

  “We can get a jump on everyone. And if there’s somewhere this thread leads, get there first.”

  “Now, that’s the girl I married.”

  “Then fly that girl out of here on the first plane you can find.”

  Sam took the hint. He swung the heavy door closed behind him and made his way to the bridge so he’d have a clear line of sight for the phone to function. Remi had been unflagging and tireless in her efforts, and it wasn’t lost on him that he’d need to make it up to her in spades.

  After all, a deal was a deal.

  ANTIBES, SOUTH OF FRANCE

  The sunset deepened to a soft gold hue over the Tuscan-inspired waterfront villa. A lofty shoal of cloud streaks hung like colored smoke, all vivid orange and red, a dazzling kaleidoscope reflected off the Mediterranean as the sun sank slowly until it was nothing more than a glowing ember in the sea. The view from the house was as magnificent as they came, which was the reason Janus Benedict had purchased it almost twenty years before, adding to the grounds a tennis court and pool that would have been the en
vy of most hotels in the area.

  Out on the veranda, Janus sat watching the celestial light show, his raw silk navy blazer unbuttoned as a concession to informality as he sipped a 1923 Fonseca Port. He’d purchased it from a store in Lisbon on one of his wine-hunting forays into the region. The ruby liquid had turned amber from age, and the passage of years had imbued it with secondary flavors that more than justified the exorbitant price the seller had demanded.

  A micro cell phone chirped from the circular glass table next to him. Janus set his Romeo y Julieta Short Churchill cigar in a crystal ashtray and reached over to answer it.

  “Benedict,” he said.

  “Sir, we have more news on the Canadian find.”

  “Yes, Percy. Do tell.”

  “Everyone’s being tight-lipped about it, but I persuaded one of the assistant professors that his financial woes might be temporary if he could give us something usable,” Percy said, his words clipped, delivered with the precision of a laser. Percy was Janus’s go-to man for skullduggery and had performed admirably for decades.

  “I’d like to think my generosity knows few bounds.”

  “Quite. Anyway, it appears your Fargos have done it again. A most remarkable discovery on Baffin Island. Apparently, it’s a Viking longship, the likes of which has never been seen.”

  “Interesting, but hardly earth-shattering. And more important, of little use to me. There’s not much market for Norse antiquities.”

  “Nor should there be, I’d think. Beastly stuff. Axes and pelts and the like.”

  Janus could tell from Percy’s inflection that there was more, but he didn’t rush the man. He’d get to whatever it was when he was ready. “But it does tend to highlight the incredible success this cavalier couple have in turning up unusual finds.”

  “I’ll give them that,” Percy said. “This one in particular is noteworthy because of what was being transported by the longship.”

  “I see. What was being transported . . .” Janus echoed.

  “Yes. It appears that it was a hoard of pre-Columbian knickknacks. Pots, statues, that sort of rot.”

  Janus sat up straighter, and his heart rate increased by twenty beats per minute. “You did say pre-Columbian, didn’t you, old boy?”

  “The very thing.”

  “Ah, then I understand what the fuss is all about. That’s certainly a feather in their caps. I’d imagine it will cause quite a stir in academic circles.”

  “Quite.”

  “Brilliant work, as usual, my good man. And if I know the Fargos, this will be only the first step. They have keen minds and move quickly. They’re sure to use their newfound knowledge to their best advantage, and, if there’s a treasure to be found, they’ll be relentless. I think it’s time to step up surveillance of them. But more sophisticated than the last idiot you sent. I want no more incidents that could tip them off.” Percy had filled Janus in on the botched photography outside the Fargos’ La Jolla home and was livid over the sloppiness.

  “Of course. I’ve already taken steps in that regard. This time, with more, er, subtle approaches.”

  “I want to be kept abreast of every move they make, is that clear?”

  “Crystal. It shall be done. I’ll report on anything that seems pertinent.”

  “Where are they at this moment?”

  “On their plane. According to the flight plan the pilot filed this morning, headed back to San Diego.”

  “Very well. Do whatever you need to do. Spare no resources. My instinct is that watching and waiting should turn up some very interesting results. They don’t stay stationary for long, and when they move, I want to be two steps ahead of them.”

  Janus hung up and stared at the phone, then set it back on the table and resumed his appreciation of his fine Cuban smoke. The horizon had faded to purple and crimson, the sun’s final shimmering on the sea replaced by the lights of other estates owned by the privileged and powerful, stretching all the way to Cannes. He took another sip of the liquid gold and sighed contentedly. Whatever the Fargos had planned, he intended to foil. After their interference with his last project, it was personal. For all Janus’s aplomb, that had been a slap to his face, an insult every bit as painful as a blow.

  That would not stand.

  One of the French doors swung open and Reginald stepped through before closing it softly behind him.

  “There you are. You missed the sunset,” Janus said as his brother took the seat on the opposite side of the table.

  “I’ve seen plenty of them. What’s that you’re knocking back?”

  “Bit of vintage port.”

  “Any good?”

  “Not bad. You might not like it, though.”

  “Probably not. Don’t see how you choke down that sweet stuff. Like molasses to me.” Reginald depressed the button on a discreetly located intercom on the table and called out, “Simon, be a good lad and fetch me a Glenfiddich on the rocks, would you?”

  After a few moments of silence, a stately voice emanated from the tinny speaker. “Of course, sir. Very good. Your usual measure?”

  “Perhaps a finger or so more. It’s been a frightful day.”

  “It will be there shortly, sir.”

  Reginald stared out at the darkening water and then removed a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket and lit one. He blew a gray cloud at the overhang and tapped his fingers impatiently. A houseboy emerged bearing a silver tray with a single tumbler of Scotch, three-quarters full, with two small cubes of ice floating in the caramel distillation. Reginald downed a third in one swallow as the servant disappeared back inside.

  “Ah. At least the Scottish are good at something,” he observed.

  “I see you’re in another of your good moods,” Janus said.

  “Never better. So what’s on the agenda for tonight? Raping and pillaging?”

  “Hardly. I have reservations for five at the Carlton at seven. With the von Schiffs.”

  Reginald groaned. “Not them. Anything but that.”

  “Behave, Reginald. It’s business. You’ll put on a brave face.”

  “The son’s an ass. Takes after his old man. And the missus is a positive gargoyle.”

  “Perhaps. But they’re very profitable acquaintances to know.”

  Reginald polished off the rest of his drink and held it aloft. “Best to have a few more of these, then.”

  “I think not, old chap. Don’t want you to make a scene.”

  Reginald’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “I’m a big boy, Janus.”

  “Yes. Well then, do behave like one, won’t you? I can’t have you showing up to dinner inebriated, which is where this is going. If you want to pursue your date with a bottle, do so after dinner, not before.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  “That’s the spirit. Go and find a proper jacket, and have Simon bring the car around. Dinner bell rings in a few minutes,” Janus said, dismissing Reginald, already on to something else.

  Reginald’s sneer was lost on him. The younger man rose, stubbed out his cigarette with a curt stab, and stalked into the house.

  Janus smoothed his glossy graying hair and finished the last of his port and then stood, taking care to also smooth his slacks and adjust his cravat. It wouldn’t do to appear rumpled to the von Schiffs. The Germans were very judgmental about the little things, and, as he knew, the difference between success and failure often came down to careful presentation.

  Reginald was right, though, about the Germans’ son being an idiot.

  But enduring a couple of hours with the imbecile would pay handsome dividends, so he’d do so with a smile.

  The predatory smile of a raptor.

  The overnight trip back to San Diego was mercifully smooth, and when the G650 touched down with a puff of smoke from its tires, Remi turned to Sam and gave him a tired look.

  “Home at last,” she said.

  “Hopefully, for a while. Unless you’ve scheduled something in the dizzy whirlwind of our social calen
dar and not told me about it.”

  “The only thing I’ve got scheduled is some serious spa time and an appointment with a masseuse to treat my frostbite.”

  “That wasn’t frost that bit you.”

  “Don’t get fresh with me. I still haven’t forgiven you for volunteering us.”

  “Nor should you. I’m hoping some spoiling you rotten might alleviate the worst of the sting.”

  “That and more notoriety when they break news of the longship.”

  “Maybe you’ll get your own reality show.”

  “What camera crew would be stupid enough to take that duty?”

  “Good point.”

  Kendra was waiting with the Cadillac, Zoltán occupying most of the backseat. He caught sight of Remi and let loose a delighted bark as his tail beat the seat back like a spirited metronome. Remi’s heart soared when she saw his chocolate eyes trailing her.

  “Who’s my big, brave boy?” she called, arms outstretched. He vaulted out and ran to Remi and then waited, trembling, as she knelt and hugged him.

  Sam waved him away. “No, no, spend the time with her, not me. I just buy your food. No need to make a fuss on my account.”

  Remi rolled her eyes. “You’re jealous!”

  “I am not. Okay, maybe a little bit. He’s got better hair than me. There. I said it.”

  “He’s a Hungarian charmer. I’ve always been a pushover for those.”

  “Serves me right for being born in California.”

  “Don’t worry. Surfer boys are my other vice.”