Pirate

Nineteen

Charles Avery was just stepping out the door of his Washington, D.C., office when his secretary informed him that he had a call. “Can it wait? I have a dinner meeting scheduled.”

The other half of said meeting was currently sitting on the couch in the lobby just outside. A stunning twenty-something-year-old brunette named Suzette, who glanced up just then, saw him, and gave a flirty wave.

“It’s Mr. Fisk,” his secretary said.

He glanced at Suzette, tempted to blow off Fisk’s call — except he wanted to hear that the Fargos were now lying on the bottom of the ocean floor as fish food. “Send it to my phone,” he said, then strode into his office. He sat at his desk, then picked up. “I’m on my way to dinner. Is this important?”

“I’ve just met with the crew in São Paolo.”

“And?”

It seemed a heartbeat before he answered. “Something that might lead us to the cipher wheel.”

A feeling of elation swept through him. At long last, he thought. He glanced at the Pyrates and Privateers book he kept on his desk. For centuries, his family had been searching to recover what had been stolen from them. So close…

“Where is it?”

“Brazil. Near São Paolo. I’m headed to the airport as we speak.”

Charles was tempted to fly out himself — and he might have if he thought it didn’t show weakness on his part or just how important the wheel was. Fisk knew that it was a family heirloom he wanted to recover. What he didn’t know was what it led to. That was a secret he intended to guard until the right time. “The Fargos? What of them?”

“It appears they either drowned in a storm or went ashore and were bitten by an island snake. Rest assured, the Fargos have been dealt with.”

Finally. He leaned back in his seat, relaxing for the first time all week. He’d gone to great pains to hire out every charter boat once he learned the Fargos were en route to the Port of Santos. Did it really matter now that they were that much closer to finding the cipher wheel? Unless, of course— “How much of this can be traced back to me?”

“Not a thing. The crew has been dealt with. There are no paper trails. Every charter hired was through a shell account. Anyone looking into the Fargos’ deaths won’t find a thing. As of now, there is absolutely nothing that points to you.”

“Good,” Charles said. “Make sure it stays that way.”

“I will.”

He hung up, then sat there for several seconds, staring at the book, telling himself that soon all this money and trouble would pay off in a big way. So close, he thought, as his office door opened.

He looked up, surprised to see his wife, Alexandra, walk in.

Still beautiful, even at fifty, her blond hair cut in a short bob, she flipped the door closed, tossed her purse on the couch, then sat. “Who’s the bimbo in the lobby?”

“A client.”

“Is that what we’re calling them nowadays? Clients? Exactly who is paying for whose service here?”

“What do you want, Alexandra?”

“There seems to be a chunk of money missing out of my household account. I’m wondering what it is I paid for.”

“Nothing you need worry about.”

“Does this have something to do with that map you’ve been chasing after? Because if it does, the money should be coming out of your account, not mine. Wouldn’t you agree?”

She got up from the couch and walked over to the liquor cabinet, examining the labels on the bottles, then reached past them for the brandy she kept for herself. She poured a finger of amber liquid into a crystal glass, swirled it and sipped, then walked over to the desk, running her hand along the spine of Pyrates and Privateers. “For a man who’s busy hiding assets due to our impending divorce, I think you’d be more worried about what you’re spending money on.”

Charles pushed his chair back, rose, then walked over to the liquor cabinet. He refused to let his wife bait him. The money from her account had been used for something entirely different. He needed access to ready cash for some other projects because Fisk was using the other accounts for this hunt. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t play dumb, Charles. You think I haven’t known about this obsession of yours ever since the beginning? One, I’ve hired a forensic accountant. So any money you thought you could hide will be found in short order. I don’t intend to get fleeced in this divorce. Two, if this treasure really does exist and you find it using our money, that makes half of everything mine. Or did you forget we were married in California? Fifty-fifty, darling. Right down the middle.”

She held up her glass in a mock toast.

He poured his own and drank it down, then poured a second shot, before turning toward his wife. “The map would be an inheritance, something you’re not entitled to.”

“Inheritance?” She walked around the desk and opened the book, turning the pages. “If memory serves me correctly, this map or code or whatever it is you’re so keen on recovering was stolen centuries ago by your ancestors from the rightful owners. That is what you told me, isn’t it? Back when we still talked?” She looked up from the book, her blue eyes filled with venom. “Pirates, weren’t they? Your relatives? Apparently the apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree.”

He walked over, closed the book, and pulled it away from her. “It was stolen from my family.”

“Stolen or recovered? After all, wasn’t it your family who stole it to begin with? Or did I miss something in the retelling?”

“Is there some reason you’re here? Or is it just to torment me?”

“I see my skills have improved somewhat. I used to only annoy you.” She finished her glass, then left it on the desk and walked over to the couch and picked up her purse. “Just wondering about the missing money. And when it’s going to be replaced. I have expenses and I’d rather not drag this through court to get them paid.”

“Fine. I’ll have a deposit made in the morning.”

“I appreciate it.” She opened the door and peered out. “Looks like your, uh, client, left. Hope it wasn’t something I said to her on the way in.”

Charles resisted the urge to throw his glass at the door as she walked out. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. Besides, she wasn’t worth the waste of good scotch.

Everything she had was because of him. Once, he had loved her. But now? She was just another woman climbing the social ladder. Everything was about impressing someone else — even that charity she’d recently started.

Like that Fargo woman. It didn’t matter he’d never met her. He knew she was just like his wife. Shallow, petty, and all about the money.

The thought angered him. If anything, it furthered his resolve to make sure he found the treasure. It belonged to him. Not his wife. Or anyone else. To him.

And he’d kill anyone who got in his way recovering it.