The Eye of Heaven

2

When Sam and Remi returned to the main deck, they glanced up at the second level, where the crew sat around a card table dotted with beer bottles, laughing and tossing money into the pot as they studied their hands, smoke curling skyward from hand-rolled cigarettes. The expedition was over and now it was time to relax, a pursuit at which the Spanish excelled.

Remi watched with amusement as one of the men accused the head of the dive team of cheating. The target’s predictable response to the gibe was one of outrage and offended pride, which was suitably soothed with a round of toasts celebrating his integrity. She turned to Sam, but he’d moved to the stern, where he was staring at the horizon. A light breeze from the south tousled his hair and his white linen shirt. Remi joined him, and together they watched as four divers from the visiting yacht donned their wet suits and equipment and then dropped into the water.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“That maybe we’ve been compromised?” Remi asked.

“Actually, I was more leaning toward it being a nice afternoon for a relaxing dive.”

“I can’t go very deep. Still need a lot more surface time.”

“I don’t think you’ll need to. I just want to have a look around and make sure that our suspicions aren’t correct.”

“Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you.”

“Exactly. So what do you think?”

“That it’s time to go back and put on our bathing suits? You’re going to owe me some serious spa sessions for this after doing the last dive.”

“You know I’d have gone with you if I could have. The decompression tables don’t lie.”

“Which means you have limited dive time, too, Mr. Cousteau,” she warned, concern flittering across her face.

“Yes, ma’am. Whatever you say, ma’am.”

“Now, that’s a little more like it.”

Five minutes later, they were ready, the crew still absorbed in its revelry, unaware of Sam and Remi’s approach to the dive platform.

“Visibility still about sixty feet?” Sam asked as he put his mask in place.

“About that. Maybe a little better.”

“Then we shouldn’t need a lot of bottom time. Just a fun, recreational dive.”

“Near the wreck, of course.”

“Seems like the natural place, doesn’t it?”

“What about being spotted?”

“We’ll dive on a trajectory that’ll place the Bermudez’s hull above us as much as possible,” Sam explained. “Besides, if I’m right, they won’t be looking up. You know how it is when you’re wreck-diving. Tunnel vision.”

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.