Pirate (9 page)

S
am and Remi sat across from each other in the cabin of their jet, both enjoying the relative solitude of each other's company. Remi was refreshing her memory about the history of Oak Island and the hunt for treasure in the so-called Money Pit while he read the report on Charles Avery that Selma had put together and forwarded.

After a while, Sam sat back, then looked up at Remi. “I thought this guy's name seemed familiar. I remembered reading about him in
Forbes
,” he said. “Made his millions raiding corporations. When he's not buying cash-strapped companies, he fancies himself an expert in maritime salvaging.”

“How is it we've never heard of him beyond that?”

“We don't run in the same circles. And judging from the number of people he's put out of business, I wouldn't want to.”

Remi smiled as Bree wandered in, looking somewhat more refreshed from having had a nap. “Feeling better?” Remi asked her.

“Much.”

Sam nodded at a light dinner laid out on the sideboard. “Help yourself. Selma's made arrangements for you to fly home tomorrow afternoon.”

“Thank you.” She looked over the paperwork Remi had spread all over the table. “Oak Island? You really think that's what Larayne was talking about?”

“It's a logical assumption based on the information given. And the map found in the endpaper certainly resembles the island. Do you know anything about it?”

“The basics. The constant hunt for a seemingly nonexistent treasure after a couple of teenagers dug up some stones and oak logs in the late seventeen hundreds.”

“Seventeen ninety-five,” Remi said. “In fact, starting right around the time
Pyrates and Privateers
hit the market.”

“Coincidence?” Bree asked.

Sam glanced up from what he was reading to answer. “My opinion? Yes. Personally, I've never believed there was any treasure on Oak Island. And the various reports from scientists and engineers who've studied it over the years seem to confirm that.”

Bree picked up one of the printouts on the island. “Then why would Avery's men be headed there? Assuming Charles Avery
is
behind this.”

“Judging from this,” Sam replied, holding up the papers Selma had sent, “I think we can safely assume he is behind it. As for why they'd go there in search of treasure? Not everyone believes the evidence.”

Remi searched through the many photos on her tablet downloaded from the
Pyrates
book. When she found the illustration of
the map hidden behind the endpaper, she held up the screen for Bree to see, then showed her the actual map of Oak Island. “My opinion, which is not based on any scientific background whatsoever, is that they believe this map in the book bears a strong resemblance to Oak Island.” She glanced at Sam. “You have to admit, this particular map
does
look like it.”

“It also looks like a lot of other small islands dotting the Atlantic. It would be nice if they had satellite photos back then.”

Remi wasn't about to be dissuaded. “What about that mysterious cipher stone found in the pit at Oak Island declaring that two million pounds were buried forty feet below?”

“You mean the mysterious stone
supposedly
found in the pit? One that's never been seen—never mind the message on it is thought to have been a hoax.”

Remi knew Sam's dim opinion of any treasure being on Oak Island. “Be that as it may,” she said, “our kidnappers seem to think there's some reason to head in that direction and so we should brush up on the lore of the island. And if that's not enough to pique your curiosity, there are several known shipwrecks in the area. The one we're looking for could very well be there.”

Bree eyed all the papers scattered about on the table, telling Remi, “I'd be glad to help.”

“And we're glad to accept. Aren't we Sam?”

“We are.” He smiled at Bree. “Remi's right. It doesn't matter what she or I believe. If they're heading there, there has to be a reason. And considering what they've recently put us all through—you especially—I'm making a point to find out what that is.”

Of course, by the time they landed in Nova Scotia, they were
no closer to discovering whatever secrets the island held. All they knew for certain was that millions of dollars had been sunk into the Money Pit by numerous groups over the last couple of centuries in the belief that a treasure was buried there. Remi hoped they'd learn something more by actually visiting the island.

The following morning, Bree remained with the crew, insisting that she felt much safer there, while Remi and Sam rented a car and drove the hour from Halifax down to the western shore of Mahone Bay and across the causeway to Oak Island. Selma managed to reserve two spots for them on the tour of the famous Money Pit.

Remi looked over at Sam as they got out of the car. “Do you think this is a good idea with all the tourists?”

He put his arm around her, giving her a reassuring hug. “Those men who came after Bree and Larayne were careful to make sure there were no witnesses. Think about it. If they're here on this tour—something I find unlikely—I seriously doubt they'll do anything with so many others around. Safety in numbers.”

And there were certainly a lot of potential witnesses here. Remi knew the island was popular, but she never expected the number of people on the two-hour walking tour. The weather was perfect, the sky blue and cloudless, a soft breeze rustled the evergreens on the outskirts of the parking lot near the tourist center.

Men, women, and children gathered round as one of the guides, a young man in his twenties, called out to get everyone's attention. Remi and Sam moved to the back of the crowd, Remi searching to see if Avery's men had joined the group of about thirty tourists. “Quite the popular attraction,” she said.

“No kidding. See any familiar faces?”

“No. So what is it we're looking for?”

“That's the question.”

They pretended interest as the guide detailed the island's history, moving them in the southerly direction of the famed pit, the depression in the earth near the sole oak tree. “If history is to be believed,” their guide said, “the two boys who found and first dug into the pit discovered layers of non-indigenous rock as well as oak logs every ten feet. They finally gave up after digging through about thirty feet. And there it remained, untouched, until one of them remembered it early in the nineteenth century.” He stopped to face the crowd. “Neither boy could have foretold the man-hours and the amount of money poured into the aptly named Money Pit in search of whatever secrets it might reveal. Templar treasure? Burial crypt of a long-forgotten high priest?” He took a dramatic pause. “No one knows. But the new owners of Oak Island intend to find out, and we'll let you make up your own mind. So if you'll follow me this way . . .”

He led them inland toward the pit, relating more history as they walked. There seemed to be nothing that stood out beyond the known history: the pit, the rocks with symbols carved on them, the reported tunnels that flooded the pit every time someone dug deep enough.

In fact, it was beginning to look as though they'd wasted two hours. After being led to the outer shore where another cryptic formation of carved rock supposedly pointed to the Money Pit—thereby strengthening the legend—Sam said, “Hear that?”

The loud revving of a motorboat out on the water.

“Over there,” he said. He nodded toward the small island just
east of them, where Remi saw two men motoring toward it in a boat.

“Is it them?” she asked as he lifted his binoculars for a better view.

“Sure looks like it,” he said and handed the glasses to her.

She adjusted the focus and watched as the boat maneuvered into the cove at the south shore of the island. One of the men got out, waded toward the shore with a shovel and a backpack, searching for something on the rocks. She recognized one of the two from the warehouse and their hotel in San Francisco. “Our book robber and one of the faux cops.”

“Clearly, they know something we don't.”

After several minutes, Sam drew Remi from the crowd, not heading toward the pit but toward the outer bank through a stand of trees. He continued watching the men on the other island.

“They found something,” he said. “They're digging behind that boulder.”

“Excuse me,” came a voice from behind them. “You're not supposed to be over here.”

They turned and saw one of the tour guides standing a few feet away, his arms crossed.

“Sorry,” Sam said. “We didn't realize . . .”

“You'll need to rejoin the others.”

She and Sam followed the man back to the group.

Sam caught up with the guide. “That island back there?” he asked. “What's the name of it?”

“That?” he said, glancing behind him. “Frog Island.”

Sam nodded, and Remi asked, “Is it part of the Oak Island mystery?”

“Find me something around here that isn't.”

“Anything specific?”

He glanced over at her and she gave him her most charming smile. “Actually,” he said, “there
were
some claims that at one time there was some sort of connection between Frog Island to Oak Island. An underwater tunnel, though how anyone could have built one without it flooding is beyond me. Probably someone was digging there for treasure and a new rumor started.” He stopped and pointed toward the shoreline. “See that little cove where the boat is? By all accounts, that's where the tunnel was built.”

Remi and Sam watched as the two men on shore waded back to the boat, tossing in their shovels and packs. “Do you think there's any truth to the legends?” she asked.

He laughed. “I certainly hope so. I'd hate to think how many people have spent millions of dollars digging a hole in the same spot looking for something that isn't there.”

“Good point,” she said as he left them to join the group again. Through the trees, she saw the boat speeding away, and she looked over at Sam. “What now?”

“Come back tonight and figure out what they found so interesting on that other island.”

S
am skyped Selma on Remi's tablet when they returned to their hotel.

“Good morning, Mr. Fargo,” she said from her desk. “You'll be pleased to know that Bree is safely on her flight and will be landing in just a few hours.”

“Good,” Sam replied.

Remi took a seat on the sofa next to him, asking, “What fascinating theories have you discovered so far?”

“Lazlo believes the cipher wheel is for a simple substitution code.”

Lazlo's face appeared on the screen behind Selma. “Good show, you two,” he said, his British accent evident. “Miss Marshall informed us of your timely rescue. That must have been frightful.”

“It was,” Sam said. “About the cipher . . . ?”

“Right-o. Actually, what I believe is that you're looking for a
shipwreck off the southern tip of the island, according to the hidden map.” He shuffled through some papers, then held up the photo of the map Professor Hopkins had found behind the endpaper. “I was able to translate part of the text,” he said, “but not all of it. To do that, I need to have the key. Unfortunately, the drawing of the cipher wheel on the map the professor found is merely an illustration of what we're looking for. If I had to guess, an actual instrument. One hopes it wasn't on paper because that supposedly was lost in said shipwreck.”

Remi sighed. “Never easy, is it?”

Sam asked, “Do we have this shipwreck narrowed down?”

“I'm assuming the map of the island is either where it was buried or perhaps even where the ship was wrecked. There is one word that has popped up twice—assuming I have translated it properly.
Serpens
. Being that it's Latin, it could be
snake
,
dragon
, or
serpent
.”

“That narrows it down,” Sam said.

“Quite.” Lazlo turned Selma's tablet so that he was once again in the frame. “One other thing that has popped up is a reference that whatever it is will be found on or near the southern tip of the island.”

Remi and Sam exchanged glances, Remi saying, “That has to be why they were digging there.”

“Who?” Lazlo asked her.

“Avery's men. We spotted them on the island across from Oak Island.” She gave a brief description of what they'd witnessed.

“Ah,” Lazlo said. “It appears they're one step ahead of us in the translation of the ciphers. Let's hope they haven't found the actual cipher wheel. I certainly haven't found any specific
location. But if they're digging there, at least we know we're on the right track.”

Selma poked her head into view. “We'll update you as soon as we know more.”

Remi said, “We have every confidence.”

“In the meantime,” Sam told Selma, “we're going to need a motorboat for this evening. Something small enough to maneuver ourselves.”

“On it,” she said. “Any other equipment?”

“I don't think so,” Sam replied. “We have wetsuits and dive gear. I think that's about it.”

Sam was about to end the call when Remi added, “Don't forget insurance.”

Selma's brows raised slightly. “As hard as you two are on equipment? That goes without saying. Along with detailed plans so we know where to find you in case anything happens.”

Sam gave her a mock look of offense. “I'm shocked you'd have so little confidence in us.”

“Not you, Mr. Fargo. It's the type of people you tend to run into on these ventures of yours. Greed brings out all sorts of evil.”

Two hours before sunrise, Sam and Remi donned their wetsuits, then set out for Frog Island from the Gold River Marina at the north end of Mahone Bay in their seventeen-foot Boston Whaler. It wasn't the fastest of vessels, but it would blend in with any other boats that left before dawn.

Even though the Oak Island guide had made mention of an underwater passage between there and Frog Island, neither Sam nor Remi believed anyone from the seventeenth or eighteenth century had the skills to build something of that nature.

Then again, the attention to Frog Island intrigued Sam for a different reason. In past centuries, the area surrounding Nova Scotia had certainly been frequented by seamen, from French and English warships to pirates. The rumors of buried treasure in the area had always been bandied about—Oak Island happened to be the most popular location.

But Frog Island? Like many of these small islands in the area, it was privately owned. This one boasted a large house on the southeast side, probably a vacation home, and one Sam hoped wasn't occupied at the moment—not that they expected to be there for that long.

He cruised toward the small cove at the southernmost tip of the island. They wanted to see the area where Avery's men had been seen. What they were doing there was anyone's guess, but the way they were digging made Sam wonder if they weren't looking for this cipher wheel that Lazlo had mentioned.

“Look,” Remi said, pointing to the sky. “The aurora borealis.”

Sam glanced up. Through a parting of the clouds, he saw a faint greenish glow that seemed to pulsate. “Too bad it's not a clearer night.”

“A glimpse is better than nothing. Right now, the cloud cover's a good thing. No moon to give us away.”

“Pragmatically said.” He slowed as they approached the cove.

Remi shined a light along the shoreline. “That looks like the area they were poking around,” she said. “I remember that heart-shaped boulder.”

“That's a heart?” he said, eyeing the massive boulder near the water's edge. He let up on the throttle. The boat slowed and bobbed in the surf. “It looks more like a two-humped camelback.”

“No sense of romance, Fargo.”

“What if I said I ordered the aurora borealis just for you?”

“It seems someone lost their line.”

“I thought it was a pretty good line.”

“Not you.
Fishing
line.” She aimed the beam of her flashlight near the base of the boulder.

Sam saw nothing other than rocks and water lapping against them in the growing wake of their boat. “Where?”

“About a foot to the left of the, uh, camel-humped boulder. A bit of moss or something stuck on it.”

There it was, the wisp of moss or seaweed hanging from a nylon line about six inches above the waterline, possibly secured to something on the land behind the boulder. His gaze followed the glint of light on the line before it disappeared into the dark to his left, and the same to the right.

Whatever that line was caught on, it was tight. Their boat moved up and down with the current, but the line remained still.

“Call me paranoid,” he said, maneuvering the boat to one side of the boulder for a better view, careful not to move in too close, “but that has all the markings of a trip wire.”

“Do you really think they wired explosives?”

“They certainly had enough time. An even better question is,
if they wired them because they knew we'd be coming here to investigate?”

“You think they set us up?” Remi aimed the beam near the boulder and a pile of small rocks behind it.

Sam saw the light reflecting off copper wiring disappearing into the midst of the pile.

“We're idiots,” she said. “Of course they did. Otherwise, why make such a big show? That boat engine was the loudest in the bay. Making sure we would hear them and see them. Knowing we'd probably investigate . . .”

“How far does it go?” he asked, his gaze following Remi's light.

She pointed the beam to the left of the cove where a dead fir had fallen into the water, the fishing line barely visible wrapped around a branch of the tree. “I seem to remember them getting out there.”

He turned the boat south, passing the boulder to the right. The fishing line continued on past it, swept across the water onto the shoreline, and was secured to a stump. If anyone tripped that line trying to get to shore . . . “Investigation over. We go back, notify the authorities. Let the experts deal with the explosives.”

“Agreed,” Remi said, shutting off the light.

Sam turned the boat, heading northwest. As he neared the northern tip of Oak Island, he noticed another craft heading right for them.

“Sam . . .”

“I see it.” He turned the boat south at full throttle only to see a second vessel coming toward them from the south side of Oak Island.

He glanced over at the Money Pit's brightly lit visitor center, then back at the approaching boats, trying to decide if they should make a run for it.

The rapid muzzle flash from an automatic weapon changed his mind.

They'd never make it in time. Not against that sort of firepower, and certainly not in a fishing boat.

Remi gripped the side of their craft. “This is where you're supposed to tell me you have a brilliant plan in the works.”

“Sorry.”

“
Not
what I was hoping to hear.”

He glanced back toward the boats, then at Frog Island, realizing they were meant to be herded right toward the cove and the explosives. So be it, he thought, turning the Whaler that direction.

“Remi, get the boat hook,” Sam said as he turned the wheel, aiming the vessel in the direction of the boulder.

“Sam—”

“I'm going to send this boat right through that trip wire.”

“The pressure wave . . .”

If the bomb was in the water with them, the pressure wave would kill them. In this case, he was hoping the bomb was planted out of the water and
behind
the boulder to hide it from view, since the fishing line disappeared there. That way, any explosion was going up, back, and out the sides. A gamble, since there was always the possibility that there were more explosives hidden.

Only one way to find out—not that he was about to voice his concerns to Remi. If they were going to die, better to go fast and
not know it. “You think you can hold your breath until we get to that fallen tree?”

She looked over and nodded.

Sam jammed the handle of the boat hook through the wheel to keep it on course.

“Get ready to jump.”