The Eye of Heaven Page 3

  Remi nodded agreement. “Good plan.”

  They eased the heavy stainless steel ladder from the platform into the water and, instead of dropping into the sea, carefully lowered themselves until they were fully immersed. Sam gave Remi the okay and she reciprocated, signaling that she was ready.

  They gradually descended to sixty feet, moving as they had discussed on a rough course for the wreck. At forty yards away, Sam signaled to Remi to stay put and then swam away, farther into the darkening depths. Ten minutes went by, and just as she was beginning to worry, Sam reappeared, checking his dive timer. He pointed toward the surface.

  When they made it to the surface, he spat his regulator out, the big white yacht only fifty feet away.

  “Busted. Two of the divers were inside the hull, and the other two were outside. I could see their work lights,” he reported. “And then five more came out of the wreck. Hauling statuary. So the four we saw were only a small part of the gang. Could be ten or more inside.”

  “How? How could they have known?”

  “Obviously, they came prepared . . .”

  “Which raises the questions, who are they and who leaked the info?”

  “Anyone who knows about the wreck could have given them the coordinates. That’s a pretty long list of Spanish officials.”

  “I suppose so. And as to who these pirates are . . . ?” Remi asked.

  “There’s only one way to find out.”

  She shook her head. “You’re not thinking—”

  “The best defense is a good offense.”

  “Wouldn’t it be better to notify the authorities?”

  “You mean the same ones that might have tipped these guys off? What do you want to bet that goes nowhere?”

  Remi sighed. “I suppose this has been way too calm for your tastes so far. I should have known better.”

  “Come on. Let’s go take a look at how the other half lives.”

  “We are the other half.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Yes, Sam. I’m all too afraid I do.”

  They approached the interlopers’ yacht at fifteen feet of depth, and Sam punched in a waypoint on his dive GPS when they were directly below it. With another glance back at the shipwreck’s position, he pointed up at the stern, and Remi signaled that she was ready. Together, they ascended to the dive ladder that hung below the swim step and Sam hauled himself up, followed closely by Remi.

  “Let’s leave our gear here. We’ll look just like any of the other divers. If we’re spotted, just wave.”

  “I don’t know, Sam. I might be a little curvier than the average technical diver.”

  “Which is only one of the many reasons I love you.”

  “At least I can cross off the worry about you running away with another diver.”

  “Running sounds exhausting, especially in flippers.”

  Remi swatted him.

  After a furtive scan of the empty lower-deck area near the transom, they mounted the stairs to it. The yacht had four stories above the hull. A soft swirling of jazz music drifted down from the second-story deck.

  “Sounds like the party’s up there,” Remi whispered.

  Sam nodded. “Question is whether we want to join in.”

  “Prudence would dictate caution.”

  “So we crash it?”

  She gave him a knowing look. “If I said no, would that stop you?”

  “Good point. Let’s sneak up and see who we’re dealing with.”

  “Sneak? Wearing a wet suit? On a mega-yacht?”

  “I didn’t say the plan couldn’t use some fine-tuning,” Sam admitted.

  She smirked. “Lead on, O great hunter.”

  He hoisted himself onto the second-level deck and found himself facing three extremely tanned young beauties wearing little more than smiles, lying on chaise longues around a hot tub. One of them glanced up and fixed Sam with a frank gaze, then lowered her sunglasses slowly to get a better look.

  Four considerably older men sat gathered around a large teak table filled with epicurean fare and champagne, their cigar smoke pungent on the balmy breeze. A fifth, and younger, man stood at the portside railing, watching the Bermudez with binoculars. Sam regarded the seated group, and one of the men rose—an imposing figure, wearing a brightly colored Robert Graham shirt, ivory Armani silk-and-linen pants, and Prada loafers. Sam smiled and locked eyes with him. The man’s face registered shock for a few seconds, but quickly settled into a practiced grin, as genteel as the cream panama hat cocked rakishly on his head.

  “Sam and Remi Fargo. What a pleasant surprise. How good of you to drop in,” he said, his upper-crust British accent unmistakable.

  Sam sensed Remi behind him. Without turning to her, he approached the table with an equally friendly smile on his face and reached out to lift one of the champagne bottles from the sweating silver buckets. He studied the label for a second and then dropped the bottle back into the ice.

  “Well, if it isn’t Janus Benedict. Still drinking Billecart-Salmon 1996, I see,” Sam said.

  “I see no reason to change horses, having already backed a winner. If I might ask, to what do we owe the pleasure of your company?”

  “We were over on that other ship, saw yours, and were wondering if you had any Grey Poupon.”

  “Ah, the infamous Fargo humor asserts itself. Well met,” Janus replied, his tone steeped in an elegant civility that perfectly complemented his graying pencil-thin mustache.

  The other three seated men eyed the Fargos with guarded amusement, enjoying the interlude—it was obvious to everyone at the table that Janus and the Fargos were old adversaries.

  The younger man approached Janus and murmured in his ear, “Janus. What are you doing? Throw them off . . . now. Or better yet—”

  Janus silenced him with a curt gesture. He moved him away and spoke into his ear. “Reginald, stop,” he hissed. “Stop right now. One should always keep one’s enemies close, the better to understand their mind.”

  “It’s insanity.” Reginald reached toward the rear of his waist, where a pistol was concealed by his loose shirt.

  “Reginald, you may be my brother, but you escalate this on my boat and there’ll be hell to pay. Think. Just for a second. Bring a weapon into the equation and we’re out of options. So stop it, now, and go back to studying your navel while the adults play.” Janus pulled away and returned his attention to the new arrivals. “Please. I insist. Some champagne. And, Remi, may I say that you look as ravishing as ever . . .”

  Remi had removed her dive hood and unzipped her wet suit. “Ever the silver-tongued devil, aren’t you, Janus?”

  “I’d have to be made of stone to be oblivious to your beauty, dear lady,” Janus said, then took his seat and snapped his fingers. A steward in white slacks and a matching short-sleeved shirt with black epaulets materialized from inside the upstairs salon.

  “Bring two more chairs for my guests, as well as some proper glasses. And be quick about it,” Janus ordered.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Like rabbits from a hat, two more stewards appeared bearing chairs and champagne flutes. Remi and Sam took seats at the table. The shorter of the servants poured them both glasses of champagne, which sparkled like effervescent gold in the bright sun.

  Janus indicated his entourage with an open palm. “Allow me to introduce everyone. Pasqual, Andrew, Sergei, meet Sam and Remi Fargo—some would argue the most successful treasure hunters on the planet. Oh, and the gentleman over there, admiring your fine vessel, is my younger brother, Reginald.”

  The men nodded at the Fargos.

  Sam shook his head. “Hardly treasure hunters, Janus. We’re merely possessed with insatiable curiosity and find ourselves in the right place at auspicious times.”

  “Yes, quite—you certainly have Lady Luck perched firmly on your shoulders. But fortune favors the bold, it’s said.” Janus raised his glass in a toast. “To fair weather and smooth sailing.”

 
Remi raised her glass to meet his, and Sam just smiled.

  “What brings you to the Spanish coast, Janus? Not really your stomping ground, is it?” Sam asked.

  “All work and no play, dear boy.” Janus’s eyes skimmed over the three reclining nubiles by the tub. “Doctor’s orders. Take in the salt air, enjoy the sun. None of us can be sure how much more time we have.” He paused. “And you?”

  “We must have the same doctor. He gave us almost identical instructions,” Remi interjected.

  “Yes, well. Great minds and all.”

  Sam leaned forward. “I couldn’t help but notice that you have quite a dive shop on this boat.”

  Janus didn’t blink and merely offered a wan smile. “Some of my guests are real enthusiasts. One of the prices of entertaining. I had it outfitted so they’d have everything they could wish for.”

  “Judging by the empty tank holders, I presume we missed them.”

  “Did you? It’s so hard to keep track of everyone on a yacht this size. But it doesn’t surprise me to hear that they went for a dive. That’s one of their passions, after all. Rather keen on it, actually.”

  “What is she? Forty meters?” Remi asked.

  “Oh my, no. Rather more like fifty-something. I forget exactly. It’s only one in my stable, don’t you know. A bit of a sod to maintain and not inexpensive, but why do we strive if not to enjoy our little luxuries?”

  They spent another twenty minutes bantering, circling gladiators in a verbal arena, probing each other for any hint of vulnerability, but Janus was too smooth to slip up. Even though Sam and Remi knew his game, and Janus knew that they knew, there wasn’t much to be done about it aboard his yacht. When Sam grew tired of the exchange, they excused themselves, thanked Janus for his hospitality, and returned to the dive platform.

  “Leaves a taste like spoiled food, doesn’t he?” Sam commented as they donned their gear.

  “Like rotten shark meat.” Remi pulled on her hood. “He’s very smooth, though, isn’t he? Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.”

  “He’s always been that way. Remember the last time?”

  Sam and Remi had run across Benedict once before, on an expedition to locate a lost Spanish galleon off the Normandy coast—a search that had ultimately proved successful, but not before they’d had to contend with suspicious equipment failures they’d believed had been engineered by Janus’s henchmen. His name came up routinely in certain circles in connection with stolen artifacts, as well as his primary business: arms-dealing to a who’s who of African despots and cartel-affiliated shell companies. His connections and financial clout were such that he’d never been prosecuted for so much as a parking ticket. His network of banks, insurance firms, and real estate development companies secured his position as a legitimate fixture on the United Kingdom’s social scene. He’d been invited to more palaces than most career diplomats and swam in the treacherous waters of power with the natural ease of a barracuda.

  “We have to notify the university and the government, Sam. We can’t let him get away with this. You and I both know the wreck will be picked clean by the time he’s done with it,” Remi whispered.

  “Yes, I know. But my fear is that he’s obviously been able to buy off at least some of the higher functionaries, so by the time they do arrive to secure the cache the Spanish people will be the poorer for it.”

  Remi adjusted her dive vest and turned to face Sam. “I know that tone. What are you thinking of doing?”

  “We’ll still go through the proper channels, but it may take a little unconventional thinking to guarantee he doesn’t make off with anything first.”

  “And you’re just the guy to think big . . . and outside the box,” she said, raising one eyebrow.

  “I’d like to believe I’m more than just a pretty face to you.”

  “Well, you do give a good back rub.”

  “Subtle hint there?” Sam asked, peering over the edge of the platform at the water below.

  “And you catch on quick. I like that.”

  She splashed into the sea, and Sam waited until her head bobbed on the surface nearby before joining her, his mind churning over possible ways to thwart Janus on the open ocean, vastly outnumbered by his crew.

  Dominic paced in the pilothouse as Sam and Remi waited with crossed arms for a response from the Spanish Department of Antiquities on what course of action they intended to take in order to protect the shipwreck from looting. In frustration, Sam glanced at the Anonimo Professionale CNS dive watch Remi had given him for his birthday. They’d insisted on radioing in the threat when nobody had answered their phones—not completely unexpected on a Friday before a holiday weekend.

  Dominic cut short his walk to nowhere and turned to face them. “My friends, we’ve done everything we can. I’ll notify you when I hear something.”

  “Isn’t there anyone else we can get in touch with? The police? The Coast Guard?” Remi demanded.

  “I’ll notify everyone and anyone, but there’s a limit to how many of these agencies will react. Remember that while this is extremely important to us, to the rest of the world it’s low on the priority list. Our best bet is to wait for someone from the university or the government to respond.”

  “By which time, they could have made off with most, or all, of the relics,” Sam said.

  Dominic shrugged. “I understand your frustration. I share it. Which is why I’ll wait to hear and keep calling whoever I can think of.”

  Sam touched Remi’s arm and they exchanged a look. Sam nodded and let out a sigh. “I suppose we have to work within the system. If nobody cares to respond, we can’t make them. And we certainly can’t sink Benedict’s boat, much as I’d like to.”

  Remi gave him a dark glare. “Sam . . .”

  “I said I wouldn’t. Don’t worry.” Sam looked at Dominic. “You will come get us if there’s any word?”

  “Of course. The moment I hear something.”

  Sam led the way back on deck, where the crew’s barbeque celebration had gradually increased in volume as the day wore on. Raucous laughter greeted them, along with shouts of mock outrage as the never-ending card game continued. The surface of the water around the Bermudez rippled with golden flashes as the sun slid beneath the horizon. Twilight would soon overtake them, and both Sam and Remi knew that their chances of any action being taken by the authorities were receding with the sun’s waning glow.

  Back in their stateroom, Remi sat down on the bed and eyed Sam, who had moved to the nearest porthole, from which he was watching Janus’s yacht.

  “You know nobody’s going to respond until Monday at the earliest,” she said.

  “That’s unfortunately true. Whether it’s because Benedict paid them off to be unavailable or because it’s Friday in Spain.” Sam paused. “I think I know how they’re going to make off with the statuary without risking being boarded and arrested, even though it’s a long shot. They’re not going to load anything on board.”

  “Then how are they going to steal it?”

  “Ah. With a little sleight of hand, and using Mother Nature to hide their tracks.”

  “It’s a little late in the day for riddles, Sam.”

  “If I were them, I’d wait until it got dark. How long do you think it would take to empty the hold?”

  “Just to extract the statues, if you didn’t care about damaging the wreck? At least all day. But you might lose a few pieces,” Remi said.

  “Right. Their biggest problem will be raising it all from the bottom. They can’t do that without being obvious. So my hunch is they’ll wait until dark and use the ship’s cranes.”

  Remi frowned. “I thought you said they weren’t going to load it.”

  “Not into the boat.”

  She stared at him, puzzlement written across her face, and then smiled. “You’re a sneaky one, aren’t you?”

  “If you want to catch a thief, you have to think like one,” Sam said. “They could be done in six to seven hours if they
move fast, which you have to believe they will. The work lights will more than compensate for the lack of daylight. I say they’ll pull an all-nighter and be ready to steam out of here at dawn, if not before. That’s my prediction.”

  “But we’re going to throw a wrench in that,” Remi said.

  “You bet. I specialize in wrench tossing. It was my minor in college.”

  “I thought it was beer drinking.”

  “You have to have priorities. And they aren’t mutually exclusive.”

  “What time do you see the party beginning on our end?”

  “I’d say around four in the morning. Better to be early than too late.”

  “Want to fill me in on how we’re going to stop them?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  The moon grinned crookedly from between scattered clouds, its cool radiance shimmering across the wrinkled sea as Sam and Remi descended to the dive platform. The rest of the archaeology team had long since retired and were slumbering the untroubled sleep of the inebriated. Remi opened one of the watertight lockers and removed two bulky dive masks with night vision monoculars attached—courtesy of Sam’s contacts in the Defense Department. They’d used them to great effect inside the hull of the wreck, where the scope would amplify even the dimmest traces of light and illuminate the entire area.

  “I hope this works,” Remi whispered as they checked each other’s gear.

  “It’s our best shot. But, hey, what do I know?”

  She patted the top of his head. “You’re good on the equipment.”

  “You, too.” He stepped away. “The night vision scopes are state-of-the-art. Worst case, we use one of the flashlights if we need a small light source. If we’re careful and limit the beam to the hull, nobody will see it.”

  She eyed the gentle swells. “Did I ever tell you how romantic it is to dive into the cold sea in the dead of night?”

  “I was hoping you’d be a pushover for that.”

  “You know me like the beating of your own heart.”