The Eye of Heaven

3

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.”

They both froze as a creak reached them from the upper level. Sam cocked his head, listening for any hint of movement, and after a few minutes of continued silence they relaxed — it was probably just the wooden deck changing temperature.

Sam took the mask from her and switched on the NV scope, then pulled the strap over his dive hood. “Hey, whaddaya know? I can see! You ready to go swimming?” he whispered.

“I was born ready, big boy.” She donned her mask and activated the scope and, after a final check of her dive bag, lowered herself into the water. Sam joined her moments later, and soon they were swimming toward Benedict’s yacht using Sam’s GPS waypoint.

Visibility wasn’t as bad as he’d feared, ten feet below the surface, and enough moonlight penetrated to their depth for them to easily see each other. Sam estimated that with the scopes they had a good thirty feet of usable range before everything faded into darkness, which he hoped would be enough for their purposes. Remi glided through the water like a dolphin behind him, and when he looked back he felt a surge of pride in her for agreeing to tackle a difficult task with him, as she had so often, without flinching.

The yacht’s hull loomed ahead, and as they drew closer they could make out the expected nets suspended below it by nylon rope, secured to heavy steel eyelets that had been welded to the vessel’s underside specifically for that purpose. Sam gestured at the nearest, filled with statues, and they passed in front of it to the bow. As they did, the water hummed with a droning vibration — the engines firing up.

Remi looked at Sam. He indicated the closest net, withdrew his XS Scuba titanium dive knife from its leg sheath, and swam to where one of two lines connected to the hull. Remi did the same and moved to the opposite line, taking a moment to peer at the full nets hanging like pendulous fruit from the ship — easily a dozen or more — disappearing into the darkness along the yacht’s length. Sam began sawing at the nylon line. Remi matched his efforts until her side frayed and then snapped, followed almost instantly by Sam’s. They watched as the net filled with artifacts sank slowly back to the bottom. When it was out of sight, they swam to the next in the queue.

Ten minutes later, as they were approaching the second-to-last net, the yacht began moving. Sam looked around and pointed at the anchor chain, which was slackening as the vessel eased forward. Remi shot to the side to avoid becoming entangled in the netting as it moved toward her. Sam did the same. The chain tightened as it pulled free from the bottom, and then the vessel paused directly over the anchor as it rose from the deep.

Remi motioned at the two remaining nets. They swam to the two lines and began cutting, aware that they didn’t have much time before the ship got under way. If they were lucky, they’d be able to free both and get clear by the time the yacht powered forward again.

Sam attacked his line with renewed vigor. The anchor chain clattered as it rolled onto the windlass at the bow, the sound, even underwater, like the firing of a machine gun. The cutting became more difficult as the stern drifted, pushed by the wind above, the giant five-bladed props turning slowly as the transmissions rested at idle.

Sam’s side finally came free, and one side of the nylon net dropped in slow motion; and then, just as Remi was through her side, the huge props began spinning and the yacht lurched forward. Sam cursed silently as he felt the pull of the props dragging him toward them. After a final glance at the remaining net containing a single statue, he kicked with all his might to escape. He’d seen too many photographs of accidents involving propellers to risk a last attempt and he turned his head, searching for Remi, as he dived straight down.

He almost made it. The last net snagged Sam’s tank and for a horrifying moment he was dragged along, all control lost. Facing backward, he found himself staring at a vision crafted from his worst nightmares — the churning of the gleaming, sharp brass propellers only a few yards from where he was trapped.

The surge as the ship gathered momentum pulled him closer and he struggled uselessly to free himself, aware that he had only seconds before the anchor was up and the captain increased speed to where even if Sam got loose, he’d be sucked into the deadly blades. He reached behind him with his dive knife and slashed blindly at the thick nylon net.

To no avail.

In a last desperate bid for survival, he groped for his harness releases and snapped them open as he took a deep breath of compressed air and then pulled his regulator free of his mouth and swam into the deep with all his might.

His left flipper jolted as a prop blade tore through it, and then he was being pushed through the water as though in a jet stream, hurled backward by the prop wash as the yacht accelerated.

After a seeming eternity of being batted around in the wake, Sam broke the surface and gasped in fresh, sweet air, the stern of Benedict’s vessel bright in his night vision monocular. He inhaled another huge lungful and then went back under to look for Remi.

She’d gotten clear sooner than he, and Sam could make out her form gliding into the dark.

Safe.

He dived down to her and took her hand. Remi gave it a squeeze. She turned to him and her eyes widened behind her mask as she saw him without his tank, only the snorkel in his mouth. He gave a thumbs-up, and they both rose to the surface.

“What happened to your rig?” she asked as they floated in the dark.

“The sea gods demanded a sacrifice and it was either the tank or me.”

“Are you all right?”

“Never better. Let’s get back to the boat before dawn breaks,” he said, looking over to where the Bermudez floated peacefully on the ebony swells.

Back on board, Remi removed her gear, and they both stripped off their dive suits. Their intention was to say nothing about their nocturnal adventure until the shipwreck was under guard. Given Benedict’s obvious reach into unknown levels of the Spanish administration, that seemed the most prudent course. No point in tipping him off and eliminating any timing advantage they’d bought themselves.

Sam got a better look at his battered fin, sliced laterally. The prop blade had missed his foot by inches — an unnecessary reminder of how close he’d come. Thankfully, Remi didn’t register it in the dark, and he decided not to share his brush with disaster.

“The statue he got away with looked like the full-height one of Athena,” Remi whispered.

“We’ll notify the authorities, if and when they arrive. I don’t trust anyone on this boat.”

Remi’s eyes widened. “You don’t think one of the team …?”

“I don’t know what to think. I just know that Benedict’s dirty money seems to have bought a lot of indifference to obvious robbery, and I don’t want to take any chances.”

She nodded. “Think we could get another few hours of shut-eye?”

“That’s my hope. We’ll heat up the phones and the radio tomorrow. For now, I’d say mission accomplished, even if he did get away with one relic.”

“Once it’s reported, he’ll be hard-pressed to smuggle it anywhere or sell it.”

“Hopefully, that’s true, but, as you know, some collectors are pretty unscrupulous.”

“But by the time anyone responds to us, he’ll be in international waters. I’d be steaming for the sanctuary of either Morocco or Algeria. It’s only a hundred and something miles. Piece of cake for that vessel.”

“It doesn’t sound like today’s the day he gets his, does it?”

“I wouldn’t bank on it. Now, can I talk you into some serious pillow time?”

Janus Benedict stood on the transom deck, his color high, obviously angry, as the head of the dive team reported that the only thing they had to show for their trouble was one statue. Reginald looked ready to strike the unfortunate man, who was nothing more than the bearer of bad news.

“You idiot. How could you let this happen?” Reginald shouted, his silk Versace shirt shimmering in the sunlight.

Janus held up his hand to silence his brother and spoke in a calm, evenly modulated voice. “Hector isn’t to blame, Reginald. This does no good.”

“What do you mean, he’s not to blame? We just lost millions because he failed to secure the cargo properly!”

Hector shook his head. He held up a piece of thick yellow nylon rope and pointed to diving gear he’d placed at the deck edge. “No, sir. All the lines were still attached to the ties. These ropes were cut. Look at the ends. And that dive rig was caught in the netting. This was no accident.”

Janus nodded as he stared at the nearby coast, glimmering like a mirage on the horizon.

“It was the Fargos. Had to be.”

“I knew I should have shot them when I had the chance.”

Janus spun to face his brother. “Really? That’s your solution? Commit cold-blooded murder in front of a host of witnesses? Have you taken leave of your senses?” he asked through clenched teeth, then shook his head and addressed Hector. “Very well, Hector. Bring the statue up onto the deck and pack it as agreed, and we’ll hand it off at the rendezvous.”

An Algerian commercial fishing boat would be coming alongside within the hour to ferry the statue to safety, leaving the yacht to continue on its way to Majorca. In the highly unlikely event it was stopped and searched, there would be nothing to find. It would be the word of the Fargos against his, and with what he’d paid in bribes to lubricate the Spanish system, he was confident there would be no lasting trouble.

“I still say a bullet between the eyes would have solved a lot of problems,” Reginald muttered as Hector left, relieved to be off the hook for the failed expedition.

“How many times do I have to tell you that taking rash action is a fool’s game? These are high stakes, and you don’t have the luxury of behaving impulsively. We’re playing chess, not rugby. It’s all strategy, not brute force and silly risks.”

“Says the man who just lost millions by being restrained,” Reginald said, and then immediately regretted it when he saw the cold in his elder sibling’s eyes.

“Well, old boy, I make the millions, so they’re mine to lose, aren’t they? I think you might want to reconsider any further insolence. You’re the one who begged to participate in my operations — as I recall, it was you who decided that the life of a playboy had grown tiresome, not I. And you didn’t complain about my approach when that young woman filed the police report in Cannes. You were more than grateful that I’m respected enough to arrange for that sort of unpleasantness to disappear.” Janus paused for a moment and sighed. “Don’t push the limits of my patience, Reginald. If you want to be a part of my business, you’ll do things my way. Impetuous mistakes only bring grief, whether you believe me or not. This was nothing more than one round in a longer fight. I’m confident we’ll see the Fargos again, and, when we do, things will go very differently.”

Reginald gave him a curious look, chastised but unrepentant. “You say that as though it’s fact.”

Janus put a fatherly hand on Reginald’s shoulder and gestured to the breakfast bounty laid out on the circular table near the main salon.

“Patience has its own reward. This isn’t over. You’ll have to trust me on that.” Janus cleared his throat, the subject closed. “The statue of Athena will bring several million from a buyer in Moscow, so at least we’ll cover the fuel and sundries for our little outing, if not much more. So it wasn’t a total loss. And remember this: good things come to those who wait.”

They walked to the table and took seats opposite each other, and a steward practically ran to pour them piping-hot dark roast coffee. Another arrived with glasses of fresh-squeezed orange juice, and a third stood discreetly in the background until both had been attended to before inquiring how they preferred their eggs prepared.

Reginald ordered an omelet and Janus an egg-white scramble, and when his younger brother returned his gaze to him, Janus was staring off into the distance, an expression of tranquillity on his refined features, as though the plan had gone perfectly and he had not a worry in the world. Reginald knew Janus and he knew that look. If he said it wasn’t over, it wasn’t, and Reginald was confident that the meddling Americans would get their just deserts at his brother’s hands — for all his civilized veneer, Janus was as deadly as a cobra, and equally silent.

There would be a tally of all debts, and when that time arrived, the Fargos would pay.

Of that he was certain.