“I know. Isn’t he magnificent? He's like a Latin lover fantasy come to life.” Gemini kissed Joseph again. “I’m off. While Miguel recuperates, I can get some work done.”
Atlas laughed. “What could you possibly have to do? Practice your runway walk? Post tips for applying mascara?”
Joseph felt Gemini's grip on his shoulder tighten to the point of pain. “What I do is more work than you could possibly imagine.”
In hopes of avoiding another confrontation, Atlas lifted both hands in surrender, the cigarette like a small white flag.
Gemini turned and stalked out.
“I have some thoughts.” Joseph paged through the file.
“I’m listening,” Atlas replied.
“I think you should hire him,” Joseph advised.
“I was joking, Joseph. That was for Gemini's benefit.”
“I’m aware of that, but think about it. This man, Miguel Ramirez, was one of Dario Sava's men.” Joseph ran his finger down the papers. The infamous black market broker was well known to both men.
“Your point?” Atlas countered.
“He's been vetted. For the right price, he would be a loyal and capable employee. Sava dealt with betrayal or incompetence swiftly.” Joseph withdrew his pipe and a bag of tobacco from his breast pocket and filled the bowl as he spoke. “This family has always operated in the gray, but where your uncle was a diplomat, you are a warrior.” He patted down the leaves and struck a wooden match. Atlas inflated at the compliment. “This man, Miguel Ramirez, could prove to be quite an asset. No reason not to take advantage of Gemini's flight of fancy. She has plans for him; why not make some of your own?”
Joseph puffed on his pipe, absently tapping the closed file.
Atlas sat back and brushed the velvet upholstery of the armrest, watching the fabric's color change with the back and forth motion. “And what if he is not… amenable to these plans?”
Joseph countered, “Read the file, Atlas. The man is an urchin, an enforcer. He was living on the streets before coming to work for Sava. You think you can’t convince him to come live in the lap of luxury with a beautiful woman in his bed?” Joseph folded his glasses and replaced them in his breast pocket, pushed back his chair, and stood, patting his employer on the shoulder with fatherly affection as he left. “I’m sure you’ve successfully negotiated deals with far less to offer.”
Joseph stopped at the room's entrance and looked back. Alone at the table, Atlas placed one finger on top of the closed file and slid the papers in front of him. Pleased, Joseph continued walking. Miguel Ramirez was about to experience an abrupt change in circumstance.
Joseph Nabeel ate up the lawn in long strides. Golf carts were scattered throughout the March estate, but Joseph chose to walk the kilometer or so to his quaint guest house, just as he had for the past twenty-two years. He idly wondered if he would still be living here when he would require such a conveyance.
He depressed the latch on the unlocked door and entered the lavish guest cottage that had been his home for two decades. After following his ingrained routine—hanging his trench coat on the coat rack, flipping through the stack of mail his housekeeper had left on the small pillar table by the door, and pouring himself a small measure of sherry—he surveyed the surroundings. His outward calm belying the excitement bursting from within.
Joseph Nabeel was a man reborn.
In the name of his many endeavors, he had foregone marriage and family, had led a solitary life. Instead of friends, he had staff. Instead of children, he had Gemini March. He had grown tired. Tired of a search that never seemed to yield rewards. Taking his drink, he made his way to his study. At the doorway, he stared at the ancient map that lay on the weathered desk.
Crossing the room, he opened the top drawer, withdrew a pair of loose, white cotton gloves, put them on, and took a seat. His hands and eyes moved reverently over the drawings and landmarks depicted on the centuries-old parchment. Time had altered the shoreline and terrain of Mallorca, but Joseph had spent a lifetime studying everything from sea currents to volcanic activity. The landscape had a familiarity to him that no one else possessed, as if the eyes and thoughts, even the very souls, of his ancestors lived within him.
Over the centuries, many men had attempted to find the place indicated on this map. The piece of parchment itself now spread before him was worth over a million euros. After studying every nuance of the page for nearly a year, Joseph believed he had discovered the error the cartographer—or, more likely, a lowly sailor—had made.
In 1478, the caravel ship had made a rushed departure from Algiers, the Moorish king desperate to escape with his prize before King Ferdinand's Spanish crusaders arrived. They had sailed through the night in a violent storm. Joseph was convinced that the ship had been blown off course. What was marked on the map as Ibiza—actually Yebisah, the Arabic name from when the Moors controlled the island through the thirteenth century—was actually a jutting tip of the Spanish coastline. Thus, the point where the ship ran aground in Mallorca had been miscalculated by over thirty kilometers.
Joseph relished the image of infidels and claimless treasure seekers scouring the caves near Palma when, by his estimation, the location was just east of Banyalbufar in the honeycomb of caves carved into the limestone cliffs.
Despite his revelation with the map, his search had yielded nothing. The Panther's Eye remained undiscovered.
As a small boy, Joseph had been hypnotized by the story. Each year, during Ramadan, after they had broken the fast and prayed, one of the village elders would gather the children and share the lore. The others had whispered and giggled, but Joseph had been snared.
He knew even then that the story was meant for him, that Panther's Eye was to be his.
He had worked two jobs to pay for his schooling at the University of Cairo. Then he had received an offer of employment that was both profitable and prophetic: March Mining. Ulysses March had just started his business when Joseph came to his side. Joseph's work had included the immoral and even the criminal, but he was well-appreciated and better compensated. More importantly, he had ample time to explore the arcane caves and underground passages of Mallorca in search of his prize.
And that's what he had done for more than two decades. He had found breadcrumbs through the years; he had even discovered a stash of Moorish coins and silver from another ship and another time. He had been on the brink of abandoning the hunt. Joseph was not a religious man, but two nights ago, he had knelt and prayed to whatever god would listen. He had begged for a sign. And like a dying man resuscitated, he was brought back to life. He withdrew the photograph from his suit pocket and placed it on the desk. The moment he beheld the golden eyes of the man, he knew. It was his sign. This man had panther's eyes.
When a soft knock came at the door, Joseph stood to assist his man with the tray. After the servant had poured the mint tea into the handleless decorative cup, Joseph dismissed him and set the food aside. He walked to the window cradling the small teacup in one hand, the photo of Miguel Ramirez in the other. A smile touched his lips.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Miramar, Mallorca
December 3
C
am stood in the open doorway as Atlas March sat behind his desk, one hand spread on the surface, attempting the knife trick and paying no heed to the mahogany he was marring. Cam knocked.
Atlas summoned him in without looking up. “Come.”
Adopting the persona of Miguel Ramirez, Cam walked five steps into the room and remained standing. He knew better than to do anything beyond what was instructed.
“Damn this thing,” Atlas groused. “How do they get the knife going so fast?” He looked up then and scanned Cam from head to toe. “I’ll bet you can do it,” Atlas challenged.
“I used to do it on a plank of wood on the street in my village for coins,” Cam responded.
Atlas tossed the knife end over end, and Cam caught it by the blade. He grabbed a magazine—a foreign i
ssue of Vogue with Gemini March on the cover in a massive ball gown—from the coffee table in a small seating area and tossed it on the desk. Then he placed his left hand flat on the cover and began slowly moving the tip of the knife from one gap between his fingers to the next in a familiar rhythm. It didn’t escape his notice that each jab of the blade created a tiny stab in the image beneath his hand. After completing the pattern twice, he sped up, the hand wielding the knife moving like lightning. He finished with a final plunge into the magazine, leaving the knife protruding from the center of Gemini March's head, and calmly turned his attention to his one-man audience.
“You’ve killed my cousin,” Atlas smirked.
“Apologies, señor. I thought it was better than damaging the wood.”
Atlas scoffed. “There are a thousand magazines and a thousand desks.”
Cam nodded, still standing.
“Take a seat, Miguel.” Atlas gestured to the two green leather chairs that faced the desk. Cam sat. “Tell me about your work for Dario Sava.”
Cam shrugged. “I did what I was told.”
“And what was that, exactly?” Atlas pressed.
The lack of reply answered the question.
“I see.” Atlas nodded. “And you were given responsibilities? I mean more than just cleaning up messes.”
“Yes.”
“One of Mallorca's most successful industries is copper mining. I own the largest mining operation in the region. March Mining is global, but the headquarters is here in Palma. I also own the shipping company that handles exports.”
That got Cam's attention.
Atlas continued, “I had urged my uncle Ulysses to purchase a shipping company when I ran the Colombia mining operation, but he felt it was unnecessary. I disagreed. Now, I make the decisions. It was a substantial initial investment, but it's already paying off.”
Atlas pulled the knife from the magazine and set it to the side. “I have a position for you—security to start. If you prove yourself, we can take it from there. There is some job mobility, but not just yet. I don’t know what sort of, eh hem, pay scale you’ve had in the past, but I think you’ll find the salary competitive. Certainly, the benefits, you know, health insurance and no constant threat of death, will be enticing.”
Cam's lips twitched in a calculated move.
“When I’m confident where your loyalties lie, there will be opportunities.”
“I am loyal to the man who signs the checks,” Cam replied dryly.
Atlas nodded, satisfied. “My cousin brought you here for a reunion. Apparently, you made quite an impression. I’m sure I can put her impulsiveness to good use, and I can assure you none of the rats scrambling to the top of the trash heap in your former career can offer you the same.”
Cam leaned in slightly, the only indication of his interest, but Atlas noticed.
“Tomorrow, I’ll take you on a tour of the mines. I can show you the operation and explain your duties. I can assure you it's an enticing offer for a man with your…” He scanned Cam from auburn head to booted toe. “Abilities.”
Cam shifted. Something was tainting the air between them. A trap? A setup? He didn’t know what it was, but he smelled it.
Atlas picked up the knife and ran his finger along the blade. “You want to know why you.”
Cam nodded once.
“Well, that is an easy question to answer, but not for me. Gemini gets what she wants, and she wants you. Why? I can only speculate,” he drawled.
“Sí. Yes, sir.”
“She has a proposition of her own for you,” Atlas continued. “Take the morning to explore our island. Palma is within walking distance, but you’re free to take a Vespa or a car. The beaches are beautiful, but unfortunately, it's the wrong time of year for sunning.”
When Cam's eyes widened, Atlas continued.
“You may leave if you like, Mr. Ramirez. But I promise you, you’ll not find an offer as lucrative or appealing. I assure you, it's in your best interest to remain with us for the time being.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Palma, Mallorca
December 3
D
ecember was the off-season on Mallorca with good reason. Despite the unseasonably warm 72 degrees, the air was thick, and low clouds moved across the sky, intent on blocking the sun. A few hardy souls were out to read in peace or jog or play with their children; there would be no sunbathing today.
Cam wandered along the path above the water. Cliffside terraces were dotted with chaise longues and closed orange beach umbrellas. Charming stucco buildings sat cradled in lush foliage. Waves lapped the shore in a hypnotic rhythm. This island was idyllic. It was also torture.
He worked his way down a series of wide stone stairs and found himself alone on the small swath of nut-colored beach. His trainers left deep divots in the damp sand, and a clammy breeze ruffled his dark hair.
He sank onto an abandoned beach chair and stared out at the calm water. The cloud cover had darkened the small waves to an eerie green. Forty yards out, a swimmer wearing a black wetsuit and a pink bathing cap with a snorkel and diving mask attached stroked across the bay. He dropped his gaze to his sneaker-clad feet, hands dangling between his legs, and contemplated his next moves.
Cam drew a circle in the sand between his feet and stifled a laugh. If thirty-six hours ago, someone had told him he’d be transported to an island paradise and forced to resist the advances of a supermodel…Cam scolded himself. His cover identity, Miguel Ramirez, would already be wearing a condom; he would look at this opportunity—every aspect—as a windfall.
Gemini March was undeniably beautiful. He had pulled out all the stops to seduce her when they had met a year earlier. He had been in a nightclub on the neighboring island of Ibiza, hot on the trail of a weapons trafficker who was planning to sell a handheld Javelin to an East African insurgent leader. Dressed in all black, in a suit with no tie, Miguel Ramirez looked exactly like what he was, an ominous underworld figure.
Gemini had entered the club, and every head had turned. Her blonde ponytail was restrained in a thick jeweled cuff. Dressed in a blood-red slip of silk, shimmering spike-heeled gladiator sandals that wound up to her knees, and a stark ruby choker, she looked like a slave girl fantasy come to life. Miguel Ramirez sat in the back corner of the VIP section, nursed a rum and coke, and watched the coterie of men try, and fail, to make headway. God, she was spectacular: red lips, red nails, that red jeweled band around her neck. Yet Miguel had simply spun his glass, watched, waited. Finally, she rose to her full height—Cam estimated 6’2” in the stilettos—and pranced over to him.
“Who are you waiting for?” she demanded.
“You,” he replied.
“You’re right about that.” She shot him a sultry smile.
“Good.” He stared up at her.
“Well?” She placed a hand on her hip, the action hiking her red dress to indecent heights.
“Take off your shoes.” Miguel met her blue gaze and didn’t miss the quick breath she had drawn at spying his golden eyes.
“What?”
“You heard me,” he said.
After a moment's hesitation in this little battle of wills, Gemini placed a jeweled toe on the chair between his legs and began unbuckling the shoes. Then she switched feet and repeated the action, finally standing barefoot and dangling the sandals from her fingers before tossing them into the corner. Miguel then stood, took her hand, and led her to the floor for the first dance of the evening.
The erotic memory produced nothing but frustration in his tired body, and Cam shook his head in annoyance. He had gone to the mat, rather the mattress, for his job in the past, but now… He wasn’t fully immersed in this world. He was in a dangerous limbo between Cam Canto and Miguel Ramirez, and it was a gray area that could get him killed.
He scanned the horizon, searching for what? A sign? An explanation? Nothing to see but the intrepid swimmer.
Her shriek pulled him from his thoughts, a
nd he saw she was thrashing and bobbing in the bay. Without thought or hesitation, Cam stripped down to his boxer briefs and raced into the water. As he swam effortlessly toward the woman in distress, he saw the issue. A fever of stingrays was circling the woman as she held onto one leg and tried to swim away.
He switched to breaststroke to create less disturbance in the water and skirted the magnificent beasts, popping up in front of the woman and eliciting another scream. She jerked out with her good leg, nailing him in the upper thigh with her heel. She had missed his most vulnerable region but still managed to deliver a painful blow. Cam shook off the cramping pain and focused on getting her away from the stingrays before she agitated them further.
“Hold onto my back,” he ordered.
She complied without protest, and Cam quickly stroked them back to shore.
Stingrays rarely stung humans, but it happened, and the toxin could be deadly if not treated immediately. With two graceful dolphin kicks, Cam propelled them into the surf, spun the woman around in his arms like a bride, and rose from the foam.
“You’re a seal,” she murmured, her head resting against his chest.
“What did you say?” Cam nearly stumbled at the comment.
“You swim like a seal.” She hissed at the pain.
Ah, a seal, not a SEAL.
Once on land, Cam held the woman in his arms and bounded up the series of steps. Recalling the fish market he had passed on his walk to the shore, he raced back and located the deep outdoor sink attached to the back of the shop. After plugging the drain with the rubber stopper and filling the basin, he plunged her injured leg into the hot water. Her cry of pain was stifled as she vomited down his bare chest. Cam wiped her mouth with his thumb.
“The hot water breaks up the toxin and slows the spread, but we still need to get you to a hospital.”
Buried Beneath Page 7