Pirate (11 page)

“And what is it we're searching for?”

“If the map is legit, a shipwreck off the southern tip of the island.”

“Even if we spent years searching, the odds would still be astronomical that we'd find the cipher wheel.”

“If,”
Selma said, “we were actually
looking
for the wheel itself. I'm hoping for the next-best thing. Identify the ship.”

Remi's brows went up. “Am I missing something here?”

Even Sam was stumped. “How does that help us?”

“Lazlo thinks the stolen cipher wheel was a copy and that the ship's captain scuttled his vessel to keep the wheel from being captured. Which means the original cipher wheel's still out there. Narrow down where and when that ship was made, we might be able to identify its owner through manifests. We find its owner—”

“—We find the original cipher wheel,” Sam said. “Send us what you have.”

“It should be waiting in your in-box. Along with travel information that I'll be passing on to your flight crew for the trip to Brazil.”

He dropped the phone into the cradle, got out of bed, and joined Remi in the other room. “That sounds promising.”

“Is that an apology?” she asked, walking toward him.

“I can't apologize for wanting to keep you safe.”

“You're wrong about Bree. She's not sitting there with Charles Avery on speed dial, relating our every move.”

Something was going on. He just didn't know what—not that he was about to ruin the moment with his suspicions. “I apologize for making it seem I didn't believe in you. That was never the case.”

She draped her arms over his shoulders. “Apology accepted.”

“Off to Brazil, then?” he asked.

“I love Brazil this time of year.”

S
am and Remi flew in to Miami first, where they picked up the supplies that Selma had requisitioned for them, as well as clothing more suited to tropical weather. After spending the night, they flew to São Paolo, Brazil, landing around seven that evening.

The following morning, Sam left to meet with government officials for the necessary permits to search around Snake Island. Remi remained behind at the hotel, using her tablet to skype with Selma about the boat and crew Selma had found for them at the Port of Santos.

“All considering,” Selma said, “they appear very capable.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“There must be something going on. Maybe because it's a weekend. Every charter is booked. But their references checked out. And it was,
literally
, the last vessel available in that area that
had the minimum requirements you requested and could accommodate an overnight stay on the water.”

Remi, seated at the desk with her tablet propped up on its stand, smiled at the screen, knowing that Selma had done her best. She went over her equipment list one more time, among the items a portable side-scan sonar system, metal detectors, underwater camera and lights. “It looks like you've sent everything we need.”

“Then I'll send word that you'll be contacting the boat owner this evening or tomorrow. I'm assuming you both looked over the papers Lazlo sent last night?”

Remi had them on the table. “We did. The coordinates of the two known wrecks off the southern tip and their documentation.” Or, as Sam put it, a “crapshoot.” While the mysterious map may have been hidden for the last couple of centuries behind the endpaper of the
Pyrates and Privateers
book, the two documented wrecks had been found and looted long ago. Based on the few artifacts recently discovered, the first wreck was most likely of Spanish origin. Selma was certain that they were looking for a ship with English ties. That was the main reason Sam decided they should be searching the second wreck in the shallower waters at the very southern tip of Snake Island. Very little had been documented beyond its location—at the end of a rockslide at the island's tip. “Lazlo's certain of the translation to the key on the map?”

“He feels confident that the words
sea
and
serpent
are in the mix.”

“Too bad it couldn't have been something like
sea
and
dolphins
. I'd much prefer that to
pit vipers
.”

“It does, however, strengthen Bree's suggestion of Snake Island as a possible location. I was looking over the map again this morning and it's . . .” Selma lifted the transparency she made, holding it over the map of Snake Island. “Well, it's definitely a stretch. But who am I to say that it is or isn't the right location? That's something that you and Mr. Fargo will have to determine once you get out there.”

“How is Bree?” Remi asked, glad that Sam wasn't there. She knew in her heart that Bree would never betray them, but she also understood Sam's position and was still hurt that he was angry over the matter.

“She seems fine,” Selma replied. “At the moment, she's helping Lazlo research the illustration of the cipher wheel next to the map. She seems fairly knowledgeable about that period of history.”

“Glad to hear it. Did Sam talk to you about her?”

“Just to find out how she's getting on.”

“Nothing else?”

Selma paused a second. “Is there something I should know, Mrs. Fargo?”

“No. But do me a favor. Keep an eye on her, would you? Sam . . . worries about her.”

“I'll do that.”

They ended the connection. Remi had never known Sam to throw an accusation out if there wasn't something to base it on—not that he had actually
accused
Bree, merely pointed out the possibility after that RCMP captain had suggested it. And even though she was almost certain that her friend wasn't conspiring with the enemy, now that the seed was planted, she couldn't
shake the thought that there were a few too many near-fatal coincidences.

If she was wrong about Bree, it put both her and Sam in danger. Not about to take a chance, she picked up her cell phone and called Selma back. “Are you somewhere you can talk in private?”

“In my office, yes. Let me close the door.” A moment later, Selma was back. “Is something wrong?”

“It's about Bree.” Remi explained Sam's concern. “Personally, I don't think it can be true, but Sam's right. There are just too many things that can't be explained away. If he's wrong, I don't want Bree to be hurt. But if he's right . . .”

“I understand, Mrs. Fargo. She hasn't acted unusual, but I'll certainly keep an eye on her.”

Having informed Selma about Sam's concerns lifted a weight from Remi's shoulders and she was able to concentrate on preparations for the next leg of their journey. By the time Sam called to say he was heading back to the hotel with the proper permits in hand, she had the entire trip mapped out.

Sam walked into their hotel room about an hour later, handing her a bouquet of bright sunflowers. “Apparently it's good luck to start a trip with yellow flowers.”

“Is it?”

“Today it is. It was that or purple iris. It's all I could find for the girl who has everything including a husband who comes up with some not-too-brilliant plans every now and then.”

She took the flowers, laid them on the table, then put her arms around Sam. “You're always brilliant.”

“Then I'm forgiven?”

She kissed him, then leaned back and studied his face. “Would
this be the right time to mention that I passed on your concerns about Bree to Selma?”

“Are you saying I'm right?”

“I'm saying your concerns are valid enough to let her know—which is not the same as making everyone think we were dead.”

“So that makes me
almost
right?” His brown eyes sparkled.

“Don't push it, Fargo.”

Remi hired a car to take them to the Port of Santos to meet with the captain and the crew of the
Golfinho
. They stepped out of the hotel at dawn, the sky a mixture of vermillion red brushed across bright turquoise.

Red sky at morning, sailors take warning.

The old adage popped into her head even though she'd double- and triple-checked the weather. Light showers were predicted for later the next evening, surely nothing to be concerned about.

Their vehicle was waiting out in front, their dark-haired driver, tall and reed-thin, leaned against the front fender—like most youth, absorbed in whatever was on his phone screen. He saw them approaching and hurriedly shoved his phone in his pocket. “Mr. and Mrs. Fargo?”

“We are,” Remi said, figuring he was perhaps eighteen or nineteen. “You must be António Alves?”

His smile broadened. “Thank you for hiring me. You are my first big fare. I won't disappoint you,” he said in a thick accent, carefully pronouncing each word.

Sam, tipping the bellman who had wheeled their gear out on a cart, looked up at that statement. “I was under the impression that you were an experienced driver.”

“A good driver, yes,” he said as he took the gear from the luggage cart and loaded it into his trunk. “I make this drive all the time, even if
you
are my first fare to Santos. My cousin, who is concierge, will vouch for me.”

Which explained the recommendation, Remi thought.

António opened the door for her. “Please. Get in and buckle up for safety.”

Sam wasn't convinced at the young man's professed driving skills. “You're sure about the drive to the coast?”

António nodded. “I used to work on my uncle's fishing boat to earn money for school. Now that I am at university, it's easier to work in town. But no classes today, so you're in luck!”

Remi said, “Your cousin
did
mention that we would need you to stand by—overnight, even—to give us a ride back?”

“Yes. I practice my English on the way and I study while you dive. A win-win, right?”

Remi liked him and his enthusiasm. “Definitely.”

Even Sam seemed to warm to him, asking, “So what're you studying?”

“This is only my first year, so there is everything. Math and history and science and politics. One day I hope to be a doctor. But that is a long time from now.” And for the remainder of the winding mountain drive, in between pointing out scenic areas of interest, he talked about his school, his seven brothers and sisters, his uncle the fisherman, and his cousin the concierge, who
was also putting himself through school because, unlike the rest of their family, he did not inherit a fondness for boating. And before Remi knew it, they'd arrived at the port.

António unloaded their gear that filled his trunk. “Where is it you're diving?” he asked.

“Out by the southern end of Snake Island.”

His smile faded. “Keep watch. My uncle tells of pirates. What sort of boat have you hired?”

“That,” Sam said, “is a good question. The
Golfinho
, is all we know.”

António seemed to perk up at the name. “Captain Delgado. My uncle speaks highly of him.”

“Good to hear,” Sam replied. “So how do we get in touch with you when we're back in port?”

He pointed into town. “My uncle's house is not that far. I can see the docks from there. It is good it is a weekend and I can stay overnight. When I see the
Golfinho
return tomorrow night, I will come.” He looked up at the sky and, though there wasn't a cloud in sight, said, “Let us hope it is before the storm rolls in.”

Captain Delgado seemed to be the polar opposite of António. In his mid-forties, he was short, stocky, with permanent frown lines across his brow. He and two of his men had been waiting there, watching for them, only approaching after António drove off. “Fargo?”

“Sam and Remi,” Sam replied. “So where's this vessel of yours?”

“Right there,” Delgado said, pointing toward the end of the closest dock.

Remi was pleased to see a fairly new catamaran research vessel. “That should do nicely.” But he continued past the gleaming forty-eight-foot boat, not stopping until they reached a dilapidated forty-two-foot fishing charter, its faded green hull having seen better days probably decades ago. “That's the . . .
Golfinho
?”

The man grinned, his teeth yellowed from tobacco. “A bit rusty around the edges, but very seaworthy.”

Sam eyed the vessel. “You're sure about that?”

“A good boat. Fast. Pirates, they leave us alone. No money, right?” He laughed.

Remi and Sam laughed with him, but with less enthusiasm. Remi, recalling António's warning, asked, “Are there many pirates around here?”

“Some. But we have guns. We protect you.” He nodded to his men to gather the Fargo gear. “If you are ready, we load up your things and get started. We want to be on our way back tomorrow before the rain starts.”