Pirate (17 page)

C
harles Avery's attorney, Winton Page, sat across from him, sliding documents over for his review, as the man detailed the figures on each. The hour was late, but Charles had been tied up all day and this was the first opportunity they'd had to meet. He wanted this divorce over and done with. “What's the bottom line?”

“Bottom line,” Winton said. “You're better off paying your wife what she wants. It'll be cheaper in the long run.”

“I'll be damned if I give her a penny of anything she's asking for. I built this empire from the ground up. All she did was spend the money I made.”

“And she bore two of your children.”

“Who followed in her footsteps. Spoiled, predatory brats.”

“Which is what wills are for. Your wife is the more immediate problem.”

Problem was right. If there was some way he could do away
with her and not bring any attention to himself, he would have done it by now. That was certainly an option down the line. For now, her nosing around his banking was the more pressing threat. “What about this forensic accountant she says she hired?”

“It's one of those ‘It depends' answers. If your wife somehow gained access to records you weren't aware of, the possibility exists they might discover some of your hidden assets. In other words, it's a gamble.”

One he was willing to make. He'd been careful over the years, and while he knew Alexandra was aware he'd been hiding assets, she didn't know the half of it. In fact, she might not have even been aware of any recent activity had it not been for the Fargos' untimely arrival in the middle of his search for the map. Their interference had caused him to make several rash decisions that led to a sudden shortage of liquid assets—hence the need to dig into his wife's accounts.

He glanced at the clock, wondering why it was that Fisk had failed to call with an update on their Jamaica search. The information that was supposed to lead to the cipher wheel. He should have heard something by now, and so as Winton droned on about the legalities of what he was doing, his gaze kept turning to the phone.

Finally, it lit up. He grabbed the receiver, his secretary saying, “Your wife—”

The office door burst open. “—is here,” Alexandra said. “I don't know why she bothers with the announcements. As if I need permission to walk into a building in which I'm half owner.”

“Half owner, my—”

“Tsk, tsk, dear. You know what the doctor said about your
blood pressure.” She opened her purse, pulled out an envelope, then tossed the handbag on the couch. “Winton,” she said, walking up to him. “So good to see you diligently on the job. You did get the subpoena for the accounting records?”

“What subpoena?”

“Oh, silly me. This one.” She waved the envelope at him, then handed it over. “Of course, this is just a copy. I'm sure the process server will turn over the original. I'm just trying to be a good sport by giving you a heads-up.”

He opened it, then slid it across the desk toward Charles, who merely glanced at the document, not wanting to give Alexandra the satisfaction of seeing him lose his temper. “Is this becoming a nightly ritual of yours? Coming to my office to goad me? Or is your social calendar suddenly empty?”

“On the contrary, it's actually fuller than ever, now that news of the divorce is out.” She put both hands on the desk and leaned in toward him, her smile icy. “Had I realized how much you hindered my social standing, I might have filed much earlier.”

“A shame you didn't.”

She looked down at the papers on his desk, and he immediately turned them over so that she couldn't read them. Instead, her gaze landed on the yellow scratch pad covered with notes, phone numbers, and figures from various phone calls he'd taken throughout the day. She reached over, turning it her direction. “Fargo?” she said, reading the name circled and underlined on the pad. “A new business acquisition in North Dakota? Something I should let my lawyer know about?”

He pulled the pad away from her and turned it upside down as well. “You've served your subpoena, now go.”

“Oh, I wasn't here to serve that. It's not
legal
if I do it. I just wanted to let you know that my lawyer's asked for the accounts to be frozen. In case you're wondering why your ATM card suddenly stops working.” This time, her smile positively dripped acid. She patted the notepad he still held, then turned and walked to the couch to retrieve her purse. “Do take care, Charles. Winton, always so good to see you.”

Charles, his teeth clenched, waited until the door shut after her. “Do you
see
what I've had to put up with all these years?”

“She's only trying to goad you on.”

“Well, it's working.” He got up, poured himself a drink, finally relaxing enough to think about what she said. “Can she do that? Freeze my money?”

“We'll find out come morning when the banks open. But assuming her attorney could convince a judge you've been hiding assets, then yes she can. If I had to guess, this forensic accountant of hers suggested it. Trying to force your hand to see where your money is moving from.”

Charles carried his glass and the bottle of whiskey to his desk, then sat. “She wants to start a war? I'm willing to dig in for as long as it takes.”

“Or you could pay her what she's asking and end it.”

“No.” Charles took a swig of his drink. It would be a cold day in hell before he allowed that, he thought.

His phone rang. It was Fisk. Finally.

“I have an update from Jamaica,” Fisk said. “You may not like what you hear, but, I assure you, it'll work out.”

He clenched his glass in his hand. “Work out? Are you telling me you failed to get the documents?”

“About that . . . Turns out, the Fargos may have survived after all.”

Anger surged through him. “What the— How is it those two keep slipping through your fingers?”

“I told you, they aren't your average couple. Sam Fargo has extensive training at DARPA and possibly even the CIA. The wife was a Boston College graduate . . .” Avery heard him shuffling papers as he checked his notes. “. . . with a master's in anthropology and history with a focus on ancient trade routes.”

“Which explains her interest in treasure. What it doesn't explain is
how
she escaped.”

“Unless you factor in that she's extremely intelligent—and an expert marksman.”

“And what? Somebody handed her a gun on board the
Golfinho
? I don't want to hear excuses for your failures. I pay you for confirmed results.”

“Mistakes were made. They're being addressed.”

“I was under the impression that the crew you hired to take over the
Golfinho
was more than capable of dealing with a couple of spoiled jet-setters who keep sticking their noses where they don't belong.”

“As mentioned, they've been dealt with. In the meantime, we have a lead on the Fargos. My men were able to follow them from the car rental to Kingston. Unfortunately, the Fargos managed to evade them. But they won't for long.”

“I thought you said that these men were capable of getting the job done.”

“They are.”

“Then how is it that these two meddlesome socialites have
managed to elude them thus far? To me, that sounds as though your men are anything
but
capable.”

“I warned you the Fargos were resourceful.”

Charles slammed his glass to the desk, whiskey sloshing over the rim. “You
told
me that you could handle this. That your men could handle this.”

“They can. And they will.”

“They better. I want those documents and then the Fargos eliminated. Period. If you can't trust them to get the job done, then handle it yourself. I want results, not incompetence.”

“Understood. We do have a plan. I'll call you once the details are firmed up.”

Charles dropped the phone into the cradle, grabbed his glass, then took a long drink.

“I take it,” Winton said, “the news isn't good?”

“How about you concentrate on keeping my wife from getting her hands on my fortune. I'll worry about my extracurricular activities.”

“As long as you're aware that any money you're moving toward those activities might be discovered.”

“I'm well aware of the risks.”

Winton nodded, then stood. “If there's nothing else, I'll see myself out.”

He left, and Charles poured himself another drink, his eye moving to the scratch pad. The Fargo name glared up at him. He ripped it from the pad, crumpled it, then tossed it to the ground. At the moment, he wasn't sure what angered him more—the Fargos inserting themselves into his business or his wife trying to steal his fortune.

Death was too good for all of them.

Which made him wonder, did he really want Alexandra dead?

Actually, he did. She might be the mother of his children, but neither of them had anything to do with him. They were definitely their mother's spawn. What he needed to do was make sure his wife was dealt with in the most expedient manner possible. The question was, how? How to make it look like her death had nothing to do with him?

First things first, he thought. Deal with the Fargos. An hour later, Fisk called him back.

“I have good news . . .”

S
am and Remi rose early the next morning and drove to the archives, making sure they were there the moment the doors opened for business. Sam left Remi at the front entrance, deciding he wanted to take a quick look around before following her in.

She entered the building, checked the directory, and found the Records Department, noting a flurry of activity in the halls as employees hurried about, clearly too busy to take notice of her. A woman in bright yellow, wearing a turquoise scarf tied around her dark hair, dropped a thick stack of manila folders on the counter, then started to walk away.

“Excuse me,” Remi said. “Do you work in Records?”

The woman looked up. “Yes. Have you not been helped?”

Remi smiled at her. “Not yet.”

“My apologies. The unexpected storm damage caught us by
surprise. Alarms going off all night, water getting in. As you can guess, we're all quite busy. But what can I do for you?”

“We were hoping to have a look at some old shipping manifests.”

“We?”

“My husband. When he gets here.”

She reached below the counter and pulled out a form. “Researchers, are you?”

“Yes.”

“If you can fill out the information, I'll get to you as soon as possible.”

“Thank you.”

By the time Remi filled out the form, Sam had joined her.

“Looks clear out there,” he said. “How's it going in here?”

“Slow. Storm damage apparently.”

“At least the air conditioner works. All that rainwater from last night is turning the island into a sauna.”

When the woman returned, she looked over the paper. “Shipping manifests, you say?”

“Yes,” Remi said. “I don't suppose you know if anyone else has been here asking about this particular time period?”

“No. You're the first,” she said, then led them to the archives, pointing out the row where they'd need to start their search. “Everything's by year. I'd say it shouldn't be too difficult to locate, but sometimes things get misfiled.”

“Thanks,” Remi said, hoping that wasn't the case. There were hundreds of volumes, which meant if something was misfiled, it would be difficult to find.

Sam moved to the far end of the row, Remi started at the
beginning, and they worked their way toward each other. Eventually they met in the middle, Sam saying, “Come here often?”

“It's a good thing that's not the pickup line you used when we first met at the Lighthouse.”

“I thought that
was
the line I'd used.”

“Glad I didn't hear or we might not have had a second date.” She maneuvered around him. “I'm having no luck.”

He returned his attention to the shelves. “What're the chances the one book we need—”

“Exactly what I was thinking.”

“I'll go over what you covered. You go over my half.”

But the results were the same.

Sam started on the next row, even if the years were way off. Remi looked over the volumes they'd already checked, pulling them from the shelf and looking inside just to make sure the bindings hadn't been mismarked.

“Nothing,” Sam said. “Makes you wonder, doesn't it?”

“Definitely.” She returned a book to the shelf and pulled out another. Although she'd gone through several centuries, none matched up to the time period in question. About an hour into their search, a thought wormed its way into Remi's head. “Sam . . . Why aren't Avery's minions here, looking?”

“Waiting for us to find the information so they can steal it again.”

“What if—”

She stopped when the clerk who had first helped them entered, pushing a cart before her. The woman looked up, surprised to see them. “Still at it?” she asked.

“It's not here,” Remi said.

“That's hard to believe. What year?”

“Sixteen ninety-four through sixteen ninety-six.”

The woman walked up to the same shelves they'd searched. “I hope the volumes weren't misfiled . . .” After a few moments, she straightened. “Wait. I noticed a stack of books on the research table. I assumed someone was in the midst of a project, so left them alone. Maybe it's there.”

She pointed them in that direction. Sure enough, there were several volumes on the table. One was sitting well away from the others.

Sam walked over, examined the cover, then the spine. “This looks like the one.”

“Finally.” Remi moved to his side, watching as he turned the pages, not daring to voice her concern as to why
this
particular book happened to be singled out. But after a few moments, he found the records in question.

“There was an inquest.”

“For what?”

“Claims that the
Mirabel
was stolen in June 1696.”

“Good. Then that should tell us who the owner was.”

“If we can wade through the testimony.” He slid the book her way.

The flowery script was hard to read. “Makes you appreciate modern type.”

“Look at this,” Sam said, pointing to a paragraph lower on the page. “Testimony from a crew member who claims that he was captured in Madagascar and taken aboard the
Fancy
by Captain Henry Bridgeman, arriving first in Jamaica, before setting sail for New Providence . . . On arriving at Nassau, they
claimed to be interlopers pursued by the East India Company and were allowed into port.”

“Interlopers?”

“If I remember my history,” Sam said, “that would be
unlicensed slavers
. It was a way of getting past the slave monopoly held by the East India Company.”

“Bridgeman was a slaver.”

“As well as a pirate.”

“So he's the owner that we're looking for?”

“No,” he said, scanning the page. “Bridgeman turned the
Fancy
over to Governor Trott as part of a bribe for safe harbor. Trott denied all knowledge of the ship and Bridgeman, but this crew member claims that part of its cargo was stolen before Trott could lay claim to it—and the thief fled in the
Mirabel
just before it sank off Snake Island.” He paused as he read further. “This is interesting . . .”

“What is?”

“Bridgeman was being pursued by the Royal Navy . . . Commander . . .” He turned the page. “Gone,” he said after a moment.

“Commander Gone? Or
gone
as in
not there
?” she asked, leaning in for a closer look. “This
is
the right book, isn't it?”

“Several pages are missing.”

He ran his finger down the center. Jagged edges were all that was left where the pages had once been.

Remi looked at Sam, that seed of suspicion growing. “Didn't she say something about alarms going off last night?”

“Undoubtedly it had
nothing
to do with the storm.”

“All this time wasted.”

“Let's take it up front. See if anyone remembers anything about this book or who might have come to look at it.”

When they arrived at the office, the counter clerk looked up from her paperwork. “Something wrong?”

Sam slid the book toward her. “It's the book, all right. Except the pages we need are missing.”

“Missing?” She eyed the volume. “I don't understand.”

“Someone tore them out.”

“Why would anyone do that?” she asked. “They can photocopy them.”

“You're sure no one came in and asked for this particular volume?”

“Not in the recent past,” she said as her phone started ringing. “A historian came looking over the manifests for inclusion in the museum at the King's Royal Naval Dockyard, but that was years ago. One moment, please.” She answered her phone. “Archives . . . Of course.” Then to Sam and Remi, “Is there anything else? I have to take this call.”

“No. Thanks again.”

They left, Sam pushing open the front door. He stopped suddenly, and Remi nearly ran into the back of him.

“Company,” he said, nodding toward the parking lot. She looked out, saw the white SUV and, near it, one of the men from the warehouse. He was looking at the screen of his phone as he walked with a noticeable limp toward the driver's door.

Sam pulled Remi to one side of the lobby, out of sight.

“Now what?” she asked.

“Let's see if there's another exit.” There was, at the side of the building. Sam opened the door. “Looks clear.”

They headed the opposite direction of the parking lot, rounded the corner, and came face-to-face with Jak Stanislav, the man who robbed the bookstore. He stood with his hands in the pockets of his leather coat, a leering smile on his face.

Sam stopped short, positioning himself between Jak and Remi. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Fancy,” Jak said. He pulled a gun from his right pocket and pointed it at Sam. “How about we do an about-face and return to the car, where my friends are waiting.”

“Or not,” Sam said.

“Hands up or I'll kill you right here.”

Sam slowly raised his hands, then punched his right hand at Jak's face and his left at the gun, knocking it upward. In a flash, he took the gun, slammed Jak into the building, then shoved the barrel of the gun into Jak's head.

Remi barely had time to react when she felt the sharp barrel of a weapon against her back. She looked behind her. A towering man glared down at her, saying, “Call your husband off.”

They'd brought in reinforcements.

“Sam . . .”

Sam turned, saw the man holding a gun on Remi. He lowered the weapon, handing it back to Jak, then put his hands up over his head.

Jak sneered at him. “Thought you might see it my way. And, word to the wise—Ivan's trigger happy.”

A moment later, the white SUV pulled up, parking at the curb next to them. Jak nodded toward the vehicle. “Get in.”

The odds had risen, but Sam refused to move.

Ivan said, “I have no problem shooting you right here in
public. Beginning with your wife.” He aimed his weapon at Remi, stepping in close. “Backseat, Fargo. Now.”

“All the way over,” Jak said, and Sam slid to the far side. He pointed his gun at Remi. “Now you. Middle seat.”

She climbed in. Jak climbed in next to her, shoving the gun into her side. “Buckle up.”

She pulled her seat belt around her, Sam doing the same, saying, “Worried your insurance rates will go up if anything happens to us?”

The new guy climbed into the front passenger seat and looked back at them. “What insurance?”

“Where are you taking us?” Sam asked.

“A little ride.”

Remi slid her hand toward Sam, felt his fingers entwine hers.

The road forked up ahead, and the driver headed left, clearly a less traveled route. Soon the steep road was one switchback turn after another, and the driver slowed to a crawl, navigating the wide SUV up the narrow road.

Jak craned his neck. “Good enough,” he said. “Stop here.”

The silent driver pulled into a narrow turnout at the side of the road. He got out, opened Sam's door, and motioned with his gun for Sam and Remi to get out.

Remi waited for Sam to exit, then slid over, swinging her feet out. The heat of the jungle enveloped her the moment she stepped her foot on the ground. Lush green foliage dripped with moisture from last night's rain, the humidity too thick to allow it to evaporate. Instead, it all seemed to drip down, running together, forming a rivulet that ran across the road, then on down the hillside.

Jak pointed with his gun. “On the side of the road, both of you.”

“Look,” Sam said. “If you're going to kill us, at least let me kiss my wife good-bye.”

“Hurry up.”

Sam stepped in close to Remi, reaching beneath his fishing vest. “Guess that vacation will have to wait.”

She tried to laugh.

Sam pivoted. With a quick, two-handed aim, he shot the driver in the middle of his forehead.