Amelie frowned as she folded her arms. “I wonder . . . .”
“What?” Peter asked.
She tilted her head while asking, “How did Mr. Purdue know to look under the water? What told him that there was a shipwreck right under us at this very moment?”
Peter shrugged, “Kismet.”
4
Lost and Found
Solar Eclipse Imminent: 36%
Upon the orange-painted waters of the horizon a vessel appeared, black in its silhouette. It looked unremarkable at first, but as it came nearer, the crew noticed that it was a large trawler, close to the size of Purdue’s yacht. Though matching it in speed and size, it was lacking in the esthetic prowess of Purdue’s as yet unnamed yacht. It slowed down at about a nautical mile from the yacht, and remained at that distance.
“What do you think that’s all about? Fishing, maybe?” the mechanic asked Peter.
Peter didn’t answer, as he was looking through the binoculars and having difficulty focusing at first. Meanwhile, the skipper was agreeing with the mechanic that it looked like a fishing boat.
“It’s rather huge for something like a fishing boat, sir,” Peter reported, straining his eyes. “Maybe a tug boat? Maybe for towing services . . . .” He looked at the skipper with a worried look. “Oh shit! What if it’s a salvaging company coming for Mr. Purdue’s wreck?”
“That would present a problem,” the skipper, Captain Solis, remarked. “Let me see if I can get them on the com.”
Amelie came out on deck to see what the discussion was about. The ominous shape drifted at a distance, instilling an unsettling peace on her senses. In the background, she could hear Captain Solis ask the boat to identify itself, but after continuous attempts the vessel neglected to make contact.
“I hope Mr. Purdue surfaces soon,” the captain said evenly. “I would like to put some distance between us and them, just for good measure. Nobody needs bad luck on the sea.”
Amelie and the other crew lady exchanged glances. “If they say us women are the cause of bad luck I will harpoon them, I swear,” she muttered, evoking a hearty laugh from the stewardess.
“If only it were simple superstition that drove me to feel this uncomfortable, ladies, I would have been content with that. But . . . I don’t know . . . something about their sudden appearance just seems off, don’t you think?” Solis replied.
“I agree, sir,” Peter said. “But I hope our assumptions are misdirected, nonetheless.”
“Me too,” the stewardess agreed softly, looking equally distrustful of the new developments. “They’re just sitting there, doing nothing significant.”
A vociferous rush of water startled the women and had Peter jumping in his tracks, too. The welling disturbance yielded a rush of white bubbles and foam as Purdue and Jeff broke the surface, leaving the crew relieved by the friendly din. They hastened to assist the two men onto the deck and Captain Solis came immediately to inform Purdue of the unknown vessel a small distance away.
Purdue took Peter’s binoculars and had a look, but could see little more than any of the others had been able to. “I cannot ascertain the insignia on the flag, can you?” he asked Jeff, giving him the binoculars. Jeff pulled a face as he concentrated, but finally just shook his head. “Nope. I don’t see any discernable identification markers anywhere on the boat,” he told Purdue, “but the sun sits behind it, so it’s probably just a matter of light marring our view.”
Amelie and Peter waited for orders from Purdue, but all he was interested in was making a call to Edinburgh. “Sam!” he cried happily on his satellite phone. “Have I got a golden story for you, old cock! I just discovered something paramount and I think you should come out and cover it. What say you?”
“Sam?” Amelie asked the skipper.
“Sam Cleave, the world famous investigative reporter,” Captain Solis filled her in. “A close friend of Mr. Purdue’s.”
“Ah,” she nodded. “Think I saw him on some earlier excursion footage.”
“That’s him, yes,” the mechanic chimed in. “You do know, of course, what that means, right?”
They did not. Both Amelie and Captain Solis waited for an explanation. The mechanic smiled, “Whenever Sam Cleave gets involved . . . well, the man doesn’t cover small fry stuff, you know? He doesn’t exactly fly out to do exposés on petty crap like the Royals or incidents like assassinations, see. When Sam Cleave gets invited, you know it’s going to be big. That’s when you know something huge is happening.” He grinned excitedly, like a corny publicist at a press conference. Tanned skin made his big teeth look even whiter than they were as he whispered, “If Mr. Purdue calls in Sam Cleave, it means he found something down there. And I’m not talking a new coral reef or some interesting seismic readings, geddit?”
“That’s right, Mr. Henderson,” Purdue said suddenly behind the mechanic, dropping a heavy hand on the man’s shoulder and relishing his awkward reaction. “It is definitely bigger than a coral reef and tremors. I’m not sure, but from this initial recon mission Jeff and I gathered there lies a plethora of historical treasures that down.”
“Like paintings and old documents?” Captain Solis asked.
“A lot of that too, yes,” Purdue shrugged whimsically, “but what is really interesting is that there is a lot of this too.” Between his fingers, a pale yellow gleam blinded the skipper as Purdue rolled the doubloon along the digits on his slim hand.
Sweat trickled from Captain Solis’ brow as his wide gaze revealed his astonishment at what he saw. In disbelief, he shook his head slowly, then looked up at Purdue and asked, “There’s treasure down there? Spanish doubloons?”
“Just like in a pirate film, my friend,” Purdue said, winking. “Now, Mr. Cleave will arrive tomorrow morning by helicopter. Thank God the man is resilient and adventurous. Not many reporters enjoy being lowered on a ladder from a hovering aircraft.”
“You’re sending a helicopter to deliver him?” Peter chuckled. Purdue nodded. “Man, I love how money makes any problem go away.” He was amused, and impressed, by the nonchalant manner in which Purdue summoned people with the smallest amount of trouble, no matter how stubborn they might be.
Amelie cornered Jeff to find out more about the discovery and to get a second opinion on the alien vessel that watched from afar without any obligation to identify itself. Jeff was busy dissembling his diving gear, seated flat on his ass on the upper deck.
“I am so curious,” she started carefully.
“About?” he asked without looking up.
“What was it like down there?”
He looked up at her with the last of the dying sunrays compelling his one eye to close. “Why don’t you come down with us tomorrow, then?”
“Ha!” she roared coyly. “Me? I’m no diver, believe me.”
“It’s not rocket science, Amelie.” He smiled cordially. “Although I’d suggest you first try out the shallows closer to the rock folds of the shore, rather than popping your cherry with a specialized wreck dive.”
“Um, no thanks on all of those,” she answered, crossing her arms in the way she did when she felt vulnerable.
“Come on,” he teased, “don’t you have a lust for adventure?”
She shrugged, looking a bit sheepish as she admitted, “It’s not that I don’t have a sense of adventure, Jeffrey. It’s just,” she hesitated, but his kind eyes prompted her to come out with her terrible inadequacy, “I can’t swim.”
“What?” he gasped, still trying to soften the blow of his obvious surprise. “How is it that you work as a marine chef and spend days at a time on the open sea when you know you can’t swim? Jesus, woman, what if the raft capsizes or you end up overboard?”
“Relax,” she giggled. “I don’t intend to. Besides, why do you think I only work on luxury vessels and cruise liners? I have no intention of working on rafts.”
His amusement had shrunk into pure concern as he unscrewed the valves and set his pony bottle aside with his mask.
“You realize you’re playing a very dangerous game, right?” he reminded her. “I’m serious, Miss Amelie. What if an emergency hits this yacht and you have to swim to survive?”
It had never dawned on her that the matter was so absolute, and Amelie suddenly felt immensely irresponsible and quite the fool in front of the attractive diver who served as the on-board medic. How did she think, really, that she would manage if anything went south on any of the many cruises she served on? Biting her bottom lip, she looked away from him and allowed her eyes free passage along the contours of the cockpit’s top line. “I suppose I’m just an optimist, Jeffrey. Maybe I was banking on expert crews and unsinkable vessels.”
He rose to his feet and slammed the lid of his trunk to get it shut over the spilling contents. Then he looked at Amelie with compassion. “No vessel is unsinkable. No crew, expert as they may be, can cheat the sea. Ever.”
Purdue overheard his words as he came toward them. “True words, Jeffrey. Utterly true. Nothing in this world is certain.”
“Says the genius scientist.” Amelie smiled, but Purdue was dead serious.
“Now, if a genius scientist is of the mind that nothing is above destruction or calamity, my dear, what does that tell you?” he asked gently. “Believe me, I am long out of my years of perceived superiority over the concealed future of my endeavors. Even on this exquisite piece of marine machinery, freshly tested against nothing short of the powers of God Himself, I know for a fact that, at any time, anything unexpected may happen that would cause it to falter or sink.” He fluttered his eyebrows and casually walked to the nook to sit down and scrutinize the coin. “Could I have one of those amazing smoothies of yours, Amelie, please?” he requested. “That green one with the mint leaf on top?”
She had to smile at his total indifference to his new, healthier diet. “Of course, Mr. Purdue,” she replied, and went to the galley to prepare his spinach and kale concoction.”
“Look at this, will you, Peter?” he summoned the crewman. “Didn’t you say that you knew a guide in Seville who told you some tale about an officially undocumented battle that took place around here in the eighteenth century?”
Peter nodded, “That’s right, Mr. Purdue. But you have to ask Hannah about that. It’s her brother who told me that story. She knows a bit more than me.” He called out for the stewardess, who had been cleaning up. The stick-thin Hannah hastened to Purdue, who invited her to sit down.
“The stories your brother always told you,” Purdue started asking, but Hannah already looked like a shadow was swallowing her up. “What’s wrong?”
She had her palms flat on the table and she was tapping her fingers in frustration as soon as he’d begun to talk about the stories. Hannah sighed, “It’s just, well, it’s just that I am so sick of the same old legends and conspiracy theories, Mr. Purdue.”
The billionaire smiled. “I understand. I do, really. But if I may just impose on you once more to relay your force-fed wisdom, please. After this I will never mention the legends to you again.” Something in what she’d said suddenly struck him as peculiar. Purdue shifted closer to the table and folded his hands together on the surface eagerly. “And what did you mean by ‘conspiracy theories’?”
5
For Wasting or Wanting
Sam left the safe warmth of his bed at three in the morning, abandoning his beloved ginger cat, Bruichladdich, to the neighbors.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered as he laboriously lifted the giant feline into his arms before opening his apartment door to leave. As was the custom, wet Edinburgh was being blessed by the clouds. “Remind me again why I let Purdue do this to me,” Sam begged his cat as they stole to Mr. Umney’s, the next-door neighbor. “Oh yes, obscene funds for copious amounts of single malt and sleeping in late. Now I recall.” Bruichladdich was not amused. The night-morning was frigid and wet, even in the wing of his master’s coat cover.
After apologizing profusely for the hour of imposition, Sam was on his way to Wrichtishousis, Purdue’s historic mansion overlooking the Old Town. There he would meet with Purdue’s assistant, who would present him with the necessary indemnity documents to peruse while flying to Spain in the billionaire’s private jet. From the airstrip off the Málaga-Costa del Sol airport, Sam was to join Purdue’s pilot in chartering one of the local helicopters to fly the investigative journalist to the coordinates provided.
It sounded like a banal feat, but it proved to be a bit more time-consuming. During the flight from Edinburgh, the weather over France had taken a nasty turn, forcing Purdue’s jet crew to adhere to an unfortunate forced layover of eight hours. Only the next day, at pre-dawn hours, they were cleared to fly to the belly of Spain. By the time he met up with his contact, Sam was exhausted by the twenty-sixth hour of travel, slouching on a lounge chair in the courtesy lobby of one of the larger airlines.
His assigned helicopter pilot, Stephen, excused himself and went to the offices of the airport three floors up. Being a man much like Purdue, he did not accept that there was no earlier admission for them to leave, the news only given to him upon Sam’s arrival. It was hardly a few miles to the off-coast coordinates given by his employer, so he did not see the point in delaying Mr. Cleave’s trip even longer.
“Hurry up,” Sam cried as the pilot made for the lifts. “I don’t want to spend the entire day here. They don’t have any porn on the flight!”
Stephen hastened to get out of Sam’s vicinity as astonished stares fell on them both from first class passengers in the waiting area. The impish journalist swallowed his laughter as the poor pilot madly fingered the button inside the lift to disappear before Sam embarrassed him even more. Shaking his head, the pilot scowled at the chuckling frame of Sam Cleave as the silver sheets of the lift doors met in front of his face.
One floor up, the lift halted for two professionally-dressed women. Neither made eye contact with Stephen upon entering. In fact, they ignored his polite nod completely. The pilot thought nothing of it; he was used to the rude conduct of most snobs and affluent racketeers, the likes of which he constantly had the displeasure of escorting on David Purdue’s errand engagements. The woman on the left stretched out a slender hand, adorned by an absurd burden of golden rings and overdone manicure. She pressed the button harshly, and the circle marked 6 lit up under her fingertip.
It was part of his profession, not only to exceed at piloting some of the most sophisticated aircrafts in the world, but to practice proper etiquette, even when treated like shit by lesser minds. That last part was, in fact, the verbatim advice Purdue had given him three days into his employ.
Standing with their backs to him, the two women looked practically identical. Yet could see in the reflection of the mirrors that their faces proved them of different ages and features. Their clothing struck Stephen as peculiar as well. At first he’d thought that they wore some sort of uniform, but as the elevator ascended and the two women engaged in casual conversation, two things peaked his interest.
First, they spoke Italian. Not that it was impossible, but it was unexpected and irregular for a small airport on the edge of Spain. Had they conversed in Portuguese or French, it would not have seemed so out of place. Or maybe Stephen was just accustomed to predictability in a lifestyle where every border and airport had become the same after a while. But the other thing was that their attire was made of tweed, tapered to fit them snugly. Pencil skirts covered stockings and black court shoes, while their snug blazers sported darts and pronounced cuffs. Both sets were red in color. It was an odd choice of fabric to wear in Spain’s high temperatures, especially with stockings. He realized that their hairstyles were similar too.
One was a redhead and the other brunette, and both women wore a distinct hairstyle akin to the old Hollywood Noir chic—or Victory Roll—from the 1940’s. Stephen knew what the hairstyle was called because it was bestowed the name by World War II’s pilots. The tubular folds of satin smoothness were named for the fighter plane maneuvers e
xecuted back then. Still, seeing such an obscure and outdated look naturally prompted the man to stare.
“What is so interesting?” the older lady asked, lifting her chin and glaring at Stephen in the mirror. He guessed her to be in her late forties, although her red hair gave her a few years off what was probably printed on her passport.
Stephen jolted slightly at the sudden address, but the softer eyes of the brunette lightened the blow of the redhead’s sneer. “Oh, I was not staring, Madam,” he responded, composing himself to stand his ground. “It is just refreshing to hear someone speaking Italian for a change.”
“Do you speak Italian, sir?” the dark haired lady asked amicably.
“Regrettably, no,” he chuckled coyly. “I just like the language.”
“Your accent is also not from here,” the redhead remarked. “Scottish?”
Stephen could not take his eyes off her perfectly plastered ruby lips, but he also could not allow the ladies to discover his fascination. Professionalism was key, and Stephen was very good at it. “Scottish?”
“Aye, Madam.” He smiled as the doors to his floor opened. “If you’d excuse me.”
But the redhead alpha female elegantly blocked his way, placing a gently forceful palm on his chest to negate his path while the other woman pressed the button at the bottom to close the doors to the third floor. “I said, excuse me, ladies,” he reiterated. To no avail.
The elevator hummed from beneath their feet, pushing them up toward the sixth floor. Stephen did not know that the airport business section had this many floors, but it had changed somewhat since he had last attended a seminar on runway safety here several years before. Alarmed at the strange hijacking, Stephen decided to play it cool.
The Inca Prophecy Page 3