Icing on the concussion cake.
I baby-crawled out and gazed up at Ray, his lips pressed tight, color back in his cheeks, his eyes glancing from wingtip to wingtip, his feet shuffling on the pedals as his right hand pulled and pushed on the throttles—it almost made me smile. He was in the moment, no fear, no whining, no—
“Get your ass up here and get buckled in!”
I scurried out and into the right seat. “I take it you’re up to this?”
He snorted but kept his attention on each indicator of potential danger, knowing how easily he could capsize us if he made the wrong move.
“You think I’d trust you to get us out of this mess? Ha! Now buckle up.”
I followed orders, called out waves, and kept quiet a couple times when I felt myself about to question his moves—he had the helm, not me.
The wind whipped perpendicular to the waves, from the east, and Ray—massaging the throttles and flaps, crabbing forward to keep us from slamming too hard in the rough water—had us on a course toward the Coast Guard base. He was trying to make the lee of the wind, which the land might provide. There was still heavy water there, too, but it was a sound strategy—
A wave caught the port float, pulling us into the incoming whitecap—the port prop caught the water and tore at the ocean’s surface.
Ray jumped up in the seat and leaned to the starboard side. I did the same, an effort more out of instinct than any practical value—the eight-thousand-pound Beast ignored our collective four-hundred-plus pounds. The float popped free when the wave passed and we dropped back down. Ray maneuvered us back east and added throttle—we slammed down but gained speed.
“We’re surfing!” Ray yelled.
I watched the tachometers and speed indicators. He’d found an equilibrium that had us stable—land was close.
“Don’t get too close to the Coast Guard, Ray—they’ll shoot at us.”
The Beast shimmied and shook and our speed increased steadily. Moments later we lifted off the water—the breeze blew hard over the land and caught us in sudden turbulence. We slammed back down—
The starboard wingtip dropped. I saw a burst of water shoot toward me. Ray jerked back on the wheel with one hand and pressed the throttles forward with the other, then banked hard to the north. We caught the wind just right and the Beast ascended steeply.
“What’s with the goofy smile?” Ray’s voice sounded inside my headset.
“Nice job.”
“Shit, I probably have more hours in this old bird than you do,” he said.
“Given your maniacal tinkering to keep her running, that’s probably right.”
I grinned. Ray’s work was invaluable, and he knew it. I liked to bust his balls anyway.
“Where the hell are we going?” he said. “Key West, I hope.”
“Not yet. Take her back to Ian Fleming. We still have work to do.”
“You have any luck yet? Aside from with—”
“Nanny was kidnapped.”
“What?” He whipped around to face me.
“We have two days to find the treasure, hand it over, and get out of Jamaica, or they say they’ll kill her.”
He was staring at me as if I’d just said the craziest thing he’d ever heard. Which it probably was. Then he lifted his chin.
“So what are we going to do, Buck?”
“Find this damned treasure—or flush the kidnappers out in the process and find Nanny ourselves.”
We flew as low as air traffic control would allow, first up the western mountain range that led to the Cockpit Country, then in a pattern around Albert Town and Accompong. Nanny’s coded clue—to her whereabouts? To the treasure’s whereabouts—went around and around on a loop in my brain.
The answer’s up in the air.
The answer’s up in the air.
What the hell that meant, I had no idea.
Just as we’d done at Isla Vaca, Ray and I searched for circular formations that might resemble the petroglyph from the Blue Mountain crossing. From this altitude it was hard to see much detail, though we’d both spotted several caves, small contiguous ponds, sinkholes, and even adjacent hilltops that had some similarity to the carving.
“How would the people who carved those rocks hundreds of years ago know what any of this looked like from the sky?” Ray said.
A smart question, but those circles and ovals were all I had to go on. We requested and were granted permission to vector toward Oracabessa, where we landed at Ian Fleming International Airport. As Ray shut the Beast down, I placed a couple phone calls and came up with a quick strategy.
“The wheels are turning,” I said when Ray joined me on the tarmac.
He ignored me and tied down the wings, no doubt irritated that I’d done nothing to assist. When the fuel jockey appeared, Ray wasted no time asking them to top off the tanks. He was ready to go home, and he didn’t want anything to delay our departure.
I got it, but I wasn’t going anywhere until Nanny was free.
When he finished we walked inside and waited in the pilot’s lounge for our ride.
“What’s with Johnny Blake?” Ray said.
“What do you mean?”
“He was a flaming asshole out on the water.”
That didn’t sound like Johnny. “How so?”
“Grumpy, yelling at the men—shouted at me when I wanted to get some fresh air. Spent most of the time on his cell phone.”
I remembered him flirting with the girl on the beach. “Talking to women?”
Ray scowled. “I don’t know, he was whispering off in the corner. He looked upset about something.”
“I have no idea. I’ve known him for a couple years—he sold me the letter that led to the Port Royal fiasco.” I smiled. “Cost Dodson a few million by now.”
“Well, he’s a weird dude. Gave me the creeps.”
“Johnny’s looking for a big payout. Who knows, could be living above his means and broke like the rest of us—”
A horn sounded. When I glanced out the window I saw the Land Rover, McGyver waiting beside it, his smile a momentary relief given all that had happened in the past couple days.
“Buck Reilly, what’s up, big boss?”
“Nice to see you, McGyver. Let’s head back to GoldenEye. I’m expecting some visitors at Bizot in an hour or so.”
After we loaded up he offered us Blackwell Rum punches from his cooler, which both Ray and I declined for different reasons. As we entered the gate of the resort I was crushed that I’d left here with Nanny and was returning without her.
Cymanthia greeted us at the front desk and said we could stay in Villa 001 tonight, which only had one bed, and informed us the resort was totally full tomorrow night. Villa 001 was directly adjacent to the Ian Fleming Villa.
Ray claimed the bed and I took the couch in the villa’s living area. While he disappeared to take an outdoor shower under a banyan tree, I sat in the sun and laid out each of the archives, just like I’d done with Nanny a few days ago. I grabbed a notepad and pen and started listing open questions:
Njoni, son of Akim, friend of Morgan, wrote the Port Royal letter for misdirection. Had moved to the Leeward Windward region. Had he brought the treasure there to hide on Morgan’s behalf?
Morgan’s notes indicated they might have dropped “cargo,” which I assumed meant treasure, near Port Antonio and up the Rio Grande. But where did they go from there? The elders in Moore Town had no idea.
Blue Mountain: the reference about the flash at dawn from the peak on Blue Mountain led to wall carvings that might go back as far as the Taino Indians. But what did they represent?
When Morgan returned from London after being arrested for attacking Panama, he had retired as a privateer and officiated over pirate hangings at Port Royal. Why? To get rid of the competition and disgruntled former crew members? Did they know he’d hidden something?
A future meeting had been set for 23 June 1690, but Morgan had died before that date.
> One of the pages that had chicken scratch on it might very well be a map. But what did these symbols mean?
III =III ^III 0
Assuming it referred to the treasure, what fuck did the answer’s up in the air mean?
“What are you doing?” Ray was wearing a red batik print bathrobe that sent an immediate shiver through me—it was the same color and pattern as the one Nanny had worn for our moonlight swim. “You okay?”
I walked Ray through my list of questions and his curiosity quickly overcame his anger from being left in the dark for so long.
“Hello?” A voice rang from up the path leading to the villa.
My heart leapt. I scurried to collect the archives—
“Buck, are you there?”
Chris Blackwell walked around the corner of the villa, hesitated when he saw Ray in the robe, and gave me a long look—no glint in his eye now. I waved him forward and let the archives remain in the pile atop the table. I introduced Chris to Ray, whom I referred to as my friend and expert aviation mechanic from Key West. Ray stared in awe at Chris. Probably accustomed to that reaction, Chris smiled and patted Ray on the shoulder, since he’d been too surprised to grasp Chris’s outstretched hand.
“Awful news about Nanny,” Chris said. “Stanley told me about her captors’ demands.
We held a long glance, but I could read nothing in his expression.
“I’m doing my best,” I said.
He nodded.
“Nanny needs you, Buck. You have to do whatever necessary to find her. And the Jamaican people need you. If that lost wealth falls into the hands of modern-day privateers …”
“Why do the Jamaican people need us to find it?” Ray said.
I turned to face him. “Our agreement is that 90 percent of whatever is found will be used for the Jamaican people—as determined by the people, not the government.”
“Education is the answer, the greatest benefit for the greatest number,” Chris said. “The school systems here are fine, but the geographic diversity makes it too difficult for many to actually get to school, and there’s been a flight off-island of the most educated—”
“Hold on,” Ray said. “I’m confused, what does the missing treasure have to do with education?”
“iPads,” Chris said. “That’s an important part of the answer. Get them into every home and connected to an educational program, something like Kahn Academy, taught in the patois the children and their families will understand. We’d be looking at a huge increase in literacy and opportunity, also a reduction in domestic violence—” Chris swallowed and crossed his arms. “Most important, Nanny’s life depends on your finding that bloody treasure. Her rescue is all that matters now.”
“If there’s a treasure,” I said, “and if we find it in a day and a half. And what about the authorities?”
“There’s a full-on manhunt, including those boats out at Port Royal, but they’ve found nothing.” Chris looked at our pile of papers and notes. “What have you learned at this point?”
After I’d gone over everything I knew or had guessed so far, he shook his head.
“All of this is wonderful, very nice work.” He actually started rocking back and forth on his feet as he spoke. “But you’ve missed something, Buck.”
I crossed my arms. “I’m sure I have, but what are you talking about?”
“Firefly.” He was smiling, and the glint was back in his eyes.
“Noel Coward’s house?” Ray said.
“Quite,” Chris said. “But hundreds of years before that, it was one of Henry Morgan’s prime observation points on the north coast. He, or his lieutenants, spent a lot of time there. The old stone building he had built upon the promontory still exists.”
“Do you know when the building was built?” I said.
Chris nodded. “Not long after Henry returned from Panama.”
Damn! “Why am I only now hearing about this?”
“It’s been picked over dozens of times by professional and amateur archaeologists,” Chris said, “so nobody believes there’s treasure there, but it’s one of the few remaining buildings known to have been erected by Morgan. McGyver’s still here, I’ll ask him to run you over to Port Maria while there’s still light.”
I checked my watch. “If we left now … Colonel Stanley, Professor Keith, and I don’t know who else is coming to meet us at Bizot—”
“I’ll feed them and keep them around until you return,” Chris said.
I turned to Ray. “Firefly it is.”
McGyver made the trip to Firefly at breakneck speed when I told him it closed at 6:00 p.m., twenty minutes from now. Once we turned off the main road, we zigged and zagged our way up through a residential community overrun with foliage until we reached the top. There, a square stone building stood at the back of a broad green lawn that led to a cliff. From here I could tell it overlooked an amazing seascape.
A tall woman in a long dress stepped down from the back patio, waving her arms and pointing to her watch.
“Trouble?” I said.
“No problem, mon.” McGyver got out of the truck and called out, “Nancy!” Then gave her a quick hug, turned back to the Land Rover, and waved us forward.
Ray and I jumped out.
McGyver explained we were on a quick recon mission, would only be a few minutes, and didn’t need to enter the Coward estate, which we saw up the hill to our left. It was an old white two-story house that in the fading light looked as if its better days were well past.
I began a quick walk around the property. There were some large partially exposed boulders poking up from the lawn between the Coward residence and the square stone building.
McGyver was keeping up with me.
“Mr. Blackwell’s mother used to attend parties here with Ian Fleming and Noel Coward,” he said.
“Are there any other structures or facilities here that we should study—Coward’s house is too new—is there anything the same age as that old stone building?”
“You got Coward’s grave over there.” McGyver pointed back toward the water. The top of a white in-ground crypt, the size of a small coffin, rested alone on the edge of the manicured lawn.
“Too new. Any other buried structures or tunnels?”
He put his hands on his hips and thought for a moment.
“Got the concrete pool—all covered over.” He pointed up toward Coward’s residence. “Never saw it be used.”
“I’ve got to leave soon!” Nancy shouted up from the stone building.
My watch showed 6:15. We were pressing our luck.
“Let’s go check out the stone building.”
We jogged down to where Nancy stood by the back patio, tapping her right foot against the concrete floor.
“Do you know how long the pool’s been covered up?” I said.
Nancy shook her head. “Maybe thirty years.”
I wondered whether it could have been longer, and whether there was a pool there at all.
“What’s inside this stone building?” I said.
“A bar,” she said.
“Perfect,” Ray said.
Nancy didn’t smile.
Past the heavy wooden door was a small room with a brick fireplace, and just as Nancy had said, a freestanding bar that looked like it had been built in the 1950s.
“Is this original?” I pointed toward the fireplace, its floor covered with dusty old conch shells.
She nodded.
“Do you know what year the house was built?”
She glanced at McGyver, then shook her head.
I reached in my pocket. “I’m sorry, we’ll be glad to pay for the tour—and we’ll only be another few minutes.”
Her expression softened when she took the money.
“I’ll go check the back room,” Ray said.
The shelves in this one displayed bottles, small figurines, clay pots, tools, and other items I assumed to be antiques.
“Anything in particular you’re loo
king for?” Nancy said.
Ray walked out from the back room and shook his head.
“We’re not really sure,” I said. “But—do you have a piece of paper and a pen?”
She went behind the bar and passed over a yellowed cocktail napkin and a pencil. I took it and sketched out my best recollection of the petroglyphs I’d found at the Blue Mountain crossing. I felt foolish handing it to her, but a long shot was better than no shot.
“Have you ever seen anything like that around here? Maybe a rock formation, or some holes, or even—”
Her eyes opened so wide I stopped midsentence.
“There’s a drawing like this—a carving, really. Nobody’s ever known what it meant. We just assumed it was an old vandal—”
“Where?”
My voice was so loud she jumped.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “the meaning of that series of shapes is urgent. Can you show me the carving? Is it outside?”
She lifted her hand and pointed toward the brick fireplace. All I saw were the conch shells, the red bricks, junk, old candlesticks, a dark wood mantelpiece—
“She’s pointing toward the mantle, Buck,” Ray said.
I stepped closer—we all did.
“There’s an odd series of circles—ovals, really—carved into the wood. They’ve been there forever.” She touched the far left corner of the mantle. The wood was only six inches wide.
Gradually I was able to make out images—dust-filled and faint, but clear indents just the same.
I leaned closer.
“Ray, bring that lamp over here and plug it in!” I pointed toward an old table lamp on top of the bar.
He plugged it into a wall outlet, took off the shade, then handed it to me as I studied the carvings. The scale was smaller, but with the light aimed at them I could see that the shape was exactly the same.
I blew at the thick dust, sneezed, and got simultaneous bless-you’s from McGyver and Nancy.
Ray handed me a fireplace tool with a small broom on the end. After repeated brushing, the dust was clear and the light revealed more than just the oval and circle shapes—a sideways V was carved into the wood on the left side of the ovals. The sideways V, which was jagged but distinct, seemed familiar—
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