She swam toward the boat and held up the bag. The young man grasped it, but Remi held tight, saying, “Nuno, I pray that your family is safe. And that you will do what is right by them.”
And then she let go.
Sam’s heart thundered in his chest as he watched his wife treading water, far too close to the gunman and the barrel of that revolver.
Nuno opened the bag, peered inside, then dropped it into the bottom of the Zodiac. He looked at the gun, then Remi. “I am sorry.” He pointed and fired.
Remi jerked in the water, then turned toward Sam, her face pale, eyes wide, as she reached out. Her hand grasped his, and he pulled her toward him.
A second shot shattered the air, and Sam wrapped his arms around her, adrenaline racing through his veins. He turned, placing himself between Remi and the gunman. But a third shot never came. The Zodiac engine revved as it sped away, leaving the two of them there in the water.
“Remi?”
“I’m fine.”
He looked into her eyes, unable to believe. “How? I saw—”
“He fired into the water. It scared me.”
“Why?”
“I think he hopes they’ll believe we’re dead. What if—”
Sam kissed her hard, then let her go, as they both started slipping below the surface. He looked out toward the Golfinho, the growing whitecaps making it difficult to see clearly. If they were lucky, the same was true for anyone on the Golfinho looking out toward them. The Zodiac was halfway to it, and he hoped that Nuno was convincing in his part. If he wasn’t . . . At least they’d have some warning—should anyone want to return to finish them off, they’d have to do it in the Zodiac.
Now their best bet for survival was to stay near the rocks, where the Golfinho couldn’t navigate.
After what seemed like an eternity, the Zodiac arrived back at the Golfinho. Sam and Remi watched as the anchor on the boat was raised. Someone leaned over the side, pointing an assault rifle. Sam and Remi dove from sight as the Zodiac was peppered with gunfire.
The Golfinho motored away. Sam reached out and grasped Remi’s hand.
“On the bright side,” she said, calling out over the roar of the wind and the roiling ocean, “we’re alive.”
“There is that.” What they didn’t need was the extra weight of their near-empty air tanks sapping their energy as they treaded water. They removed and dropped them. Sam turned, taking in their situation. They’d drifted quite a ways from their dive location, the island looming close, and the waves crashing against the treacherous rocks. The strong current continued its relentless pull, and they swam farther out, away from the danger.
Sam glanced up at the sky, the dark clouds threatening imminent rain. “Looks like we have two choices. Try to make it to the mainland or wait it out here.”
“In the water?”
“Or on the island,” he called out. “Sharks or pit vipers?”
She took in the island, her gaze sweeping across the rocky shoreline. “What if I don’t like either choice?”
“Sorry, Remi,” he said. “Unless you can think of Plan B?”
“Wait for Selma to send help?”
The whitecaps grew higher and the wind picked up as the storm neared. All too soon, the first few raindrops fell. Trying to swim to the mainland in this would be near impossible even for the best of swimmers. And that was assuming they didn’t get caught in a crosscurrent and get pulled out to deeper waters.
“The island,” he said. Better to stay put. Wait for help. And hope the snakes didn’t like the rain.
Remi nodded, undoubtedly realizing that was their safest course of action. They’d have to find a safe, rock-free place to get to shore—and together started swimming north parallel to the island, staying on the west side. Unfortunately, it was against the current, and after several minutes Sam realized they hadn’t gone far.
They needed to reassess.
Remi treaded water next to him. “Sam . . .”
“Give me a minute,” he said.
“Look!” She pointed south.
He turned, worried that the Golfinho was back, searching for them. “What?”
“There. Plan B.”
He saw nothing but gray, choppy water.
“About two o’clock. I think that might be the Zodiac.”
And there it was. A bit of red popping up over the swells, then dropping down again. If it wasn’t the Zodiac, it was something bright. At this point, they had nothing to lose. “Let’s go.”
The upside was that they were moving with the current and not against it—the downside was that so was the object they were swimming toward. Eventually they made headway.
Definitely the Zodiac, but partially submerged. As they neared, he realized the stern with the outboard motor was beneath the surface. The bow was all that was left holding it above water.
More a life preserver than a boat, it wasn’t going to get them home, but the bright red surface would certainly show up better than their black wetsuits if a search party happened to come for them.
Unfortunately, as they grabbed onto the front end, it didn’t look as though it was going to stay above the water. Too much weight and not enough air left, the transom and stern were completely submerged. “Stay here,” Sam said. “I’m going to check it out.”
Remi nodded, holding on to the bow. Sam adjusted his mask, took his flashlight from his belt, and dropped below the surface. It was extremely hard to sink an inflatable boat. Delgado’s men must have missed a few air tubes when they shot it up. A sickening feeling that young Nuno had met his fate in this boat swept through him as he loosened the motor’s clamps, detaching it from the transom and letting it drop.
That, he hoped, would buy them more time, and he rose to the surface and joined Remi. “Let’s hope it holds air long enough. Lot of bullet holes.”
She said nothing for several seconds, then, “He saved our lives.”
“Temporarily.”
A crack of thunder in the distance brought them to attention, and Sam hoped that if lightning struck anywhere nearby, it would hit the island, not the water.
As the rain pelted down, dusk turned into dark. They clung to what was left of the Zodiac, the wind tossing them about. And just as it occurred to him that the tiger sharks they’d seen earlier were nocturnal hunters, Remi said, “I’ve been thinking . . .”
He looked over at his wife, grateful she was alert and calm. “About what?”
“That vacation you promised me.”
“Oh?”
“We should hold off for a bit. Don’t you think?”
It was moments like this that his love for Remi magnified. Here they were, clinging to a sinking raft, and she found the absurdity in all of it. “Good idea. Let’s say . . . day after tomorrow.”
“Not tomorrow?”
“We should at least wait until we get back to the mainland. Figure out where we’re going next.”
She smiled at him, and he grasped her hand a moment, thinking about how they’d ended up in this predicament. There was only one way their whereabouts could have been revealed. Bree.
Now was not the time to bring up the obvious betrayal by his wife’s friend. They needed to concentrate on surviving. But she must have read his mind because her next words were, “I’m sorry.”
“Never, Remi. We’re in this together, you and I. Always.”
He wasn’t sure, it was too dark to tell, but her smile this time looked pained. When she gave her heart, she gave all of it. It broke his to see her hurt, but there was nothing he could do or say to change their circumstances.
Except survive.
For the next several hours, that’s what they concentrated on. The Zodiac was losing what was left of its buoyancy, and he feared they were being pulled out to sea, far from the island and where anyone might look f
or them.
They both were exhausted and hungry. The strangest thought came to Sam as he closed his eyes to rest a moment, the crazy idea of seeing a desert mirage on the water. A light nearing them as though they were drifting closer to shore. He blinked, then realized there really was a light and it was getting closer.
Eighteen
Remi . . .”
“I see it.”
A boat heading toward Snake Island.
If it continued in that direction, it would miss them. They’d drifted too far.
Sam and Remi called out, waved their arms, but their voices were lost in the wind.
They watched for several minutes when suddenly the vessel turned away from the island, a beam of light sweeping the choppy waters as it moved toward them.
They shouted and waved again until their voices were hoarse. After what seemed to take forever, the most beautiful, ancient, rusty, hulking shrimper Sam had ever seen chugged toward them, its spotlight bouncing over the waves, then blinding them.
Sam and Remi waved as the boat pulled alongside and someone threw over a couple of life preservers on a rope. Sam reached out, caught the first one, slipped it over Remi, making sure she was safely assisted on board, before he grasped the offered hand.
António, their angel in disguise.
“Thank you,” Sam said.
The young man smiled. “Not me. My uncle.” He nodded toward the helm. “Come inside. Out of the rain.”
He drew them into the cabin where his uncle, a grizzled man with salt-and-pepper hair, stood at the helm. He said something in Portuguese to another man, slightly younger, who took his place as he walked back toward Sam and Remi.
“This,” António said, “is my uncle, Henrique Salazar.”
Sam shook hands with the man. “We can’t thank you enough.”
Henrique reached over and gave António a playful push, saying something in Portuguese.
António grinned as he gave Remi and Sam blankets. “My uncle, he says that if he did not come out here, I would lose my first big fare. And then he would have to support me. His son already eats too much!”
Remi was about to hug António until she realized she was still dripping wet. “We owe you our lives.”
“How’d you know to come looking for us?” Sam asked. “And so close to the island? We weren’t due back until tomorrow.”
“The men I saw leave on the Golfinho with you this morning, I do not know them. I do not see Captain Delgado. So I tell my uncle, who tells me that the captain would never have taken you out with a storm coming in. He suspects—is that how you say it?—something is wrong. As for finding you out here, he fishes these waters. The current, he tells me, the word is shifts? When we reach Snake Island, he knows this. And here we are.”
They reached port early the next morning, both Sam and Remi sleeping soundly in their bunks on the ship. They waited for the police at Henrique’s home, a two-bedroom bungalow overlooking the Atlantic. What remained of their gear and their personal items were found by the police on board the abandoned Golfinho and returned to them later that afternoon. Even though it was quite late in the evening when they were finished, António insisted on driving them back to the hotel in São Paolo.
“You and your uncle saved our lives,” Sam said. “It’s something we won’t ever be able to repay. But we know where your uncle lives, and we’ll be sending something to the both of you for your kindness.”
They’d discussed what to do the night before. A scholarship would be set up for António to cover his university costs as well as his medical school. And his uncle would have a new boat, along with tuition for his cousin.
Remi hugged him. “You’ll be hearing from us. We won’t forget you, António.”
Sam and Remi sat at the table in their hotel room in companionable silence. He knew they needed to discuss what had happened—especially the possibility of a leak in their camp—but for the moment Sam was content to ignore the subject.
Remi glanced up, saw him looking at her, and gave him a smile tinged with grief. “It’s Bree, isn’t it?” she said.
“I can’t imagine how else anyone knew where we were. Unless Avery’s men suddenly came to the same conclusion as we did, coincidentally knew which boat we’d hired, kidnapped the crew, let us find the shipwreck for them, then tried to kill us.”
“I still have a hard time believing she’d do this. I trusted her. I—” She took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh of frustration. “I suppose we should check in with Selma and plan our next course of action.”
Sam looked at his watch. Selma was probably up and about by now. “Definitely.”
“What should we tell her?”
He took out his phone and opened the text messaging. “To call when she has the utmost privacy. She’s smart. She’s going to know what this is about.”
Remi leaned her head back against her seat, closing her eyes. “Oh, Sam . . .”
“We’ll get to the bottom of it.”
“I suppose we’ll have to go to the police.”
“Not without conclusive proof.” He sent the text.
Selma called about five minutes later.
“We have you on speakerphone,” Sam told her. “Remi’s here with me.”
“Good morning,” Selma said. “I assume you’re calling about what happened yesterday.”
“You’re alone?”
“Secured in my office. Bree and Lazlo are having breakfast upstairs as we speak.”
“Good,” Sam said. “Then you’re aware of our concerns.”
“Very much so. I’m mystified, Mr. Fargo. I haven’t seen her talking to anyone. And she seems genuinely concerned.”
Sam felt Remi’s gaze on him. There was no other way their whereabouts could have been known unless Selma or Lazlo had let the information out—something both he and Remi knew was not a possibility. And unless someone had bugged their newly renovated, high-security, near-impregnable, hack-proof house, it had to be Bree. “One possible way,” he said, “some disinformation that will prove where the leak is coming from.” He dared a glance at Remi to see how she was taking this.
Remi kept her gaze on Sam’s phone, placed in the middle of the table. “I think it’s the best way.”
“Unless you have a better idea,” Sam told Selma.
“Let me get back to you on that. Once Lazlo has a chance to thoroughly study the photos of the artifacts you recovered from the shipwreck, he and I can come up with something plausible. I’ll give you a call as soon as I know anything.”
“We’ll wait to hear from you.”
After a long day of fact-checking on their own—finding little that helped—Sam and Remi broke for an early dinner at Esquina Mocoto, known for its northeastern Brazilian food. Instead of a main meal, they split several tapas—their favorite, the dadinhos de tapioca, fried cheese squares—and the torresmo, crackling bacon, along with roasted vegetables, and the recommended pairing of artisan beers instead of wine.
They were walking out of the restaurant when Selma called back.
“We have an update on the items you found at the shipwreck,” she said. “Lazlo’s here with me.”
After she put Lazlo on the phone, Sam said, “I’ll call back as soon as we return to the hotel. We’re not in the greatest of locations to talk.”
“Just as well,” Lazlo said. “This is, I believe, what you Americans call a good news, bad news sort of thing.”
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.”