Spartan Gold (14 page)

“Beautiful landing, Mr. Lindbergh,” Remi said, unbuckling her seat belt.

“I like to think all my landings are beautiful.”

“Of course they are, dear. Except for that time in Peru . . .”

“Never mind.”

Remi climbed out onto the beach and Sam handed down their backpacks and the duffel bags containing their camping gear. Sam’s satellite phone trilled and he answered.

“Mr. Fargo, it’s Selma.”

“Good timing. We just touched down. Hold on.” Sam called Remi over and put the phone on speaker. “First things first: You’re buttoned up?”

After learning the pedigrees of Bondaruk, Arkhipov, and Kholkov from Rube, Sam had ordered Selma, Pete, and Wendy to move into the Goldfish Point house and set the alarm system, which Sam had long ago tweaked to satisfy his engineer’s mind; the system, he knew, would give a CIA black-bag team a run for its money. And, as luck would have it, the San Diego Commissioner of Police and Sam’s thrice-weekly judo partner lived a half mile from them. Squad cars were on quick-response alert for their neighborhood.

“Safe and sound,” Selma replied.

“How goes the battle?”

“We’re getting there. Should have some interesting reading for you when you get home. First, some good news: I figured out what the bug is on the bottom of the bottle. It’s from Napoleon’s family coat of arms. On the right side of the coat is what looks like a bee. Though there’s some debate about this among historians, most believe it isn’t a bee at all, but a golden cicada—or at least that’s what it was in the beginning. The symbol was first discovered in 1653 in the tomb of Childeric I, the first king of the Merovingian dynasty. It represents immortality and resurrection.”

“Immortality and resurrection,” Remi repeated. “A tad conceited—but then again we are talking about Napoleon.”

“Let me get this straight,” Sam said. “Napoleon’s signature icon is a grasshopper?”

“Close, but not exactly,” Selma said. “Different branch of the family tree. The cicada is more closely related to leafhoppers and spittlebugs.”

Sam laughed. “Ah, yes, the royal spittlebug.”

“Between the cicada and Henri Archambault’s mark, there’s no doubt the bottle’s from the Lost Cellar.”

“Good work,” Sam said. “What else?”

“I also finished dissecting the translation of Manfred Boehm’s diary. There’s a line in there about ‘the Goat’s Head’ . . . ?”

“I remember,” Remi replied. Both she and Sam had assumed it had been a Rum Cay tavern Boehm and his shipmates had visited.

“Well, I massaged the translation a bit, using both High and Low German, and I think the Goat’s Head is a landmark of some kind—maybe a navigation aid. Problem is, I did some digging and I couldn’t find anything about a Goat’s Head related to Rum Cay—or any of the other islands, for that matter.”

“We’ll keep our eyes peeled,” Sam replied. “If you’re right, it’s likely a rock formation of some kind.”

“Agreed. And last, I owe you guys an apology.”

“For?”

“An error.”

“Say it isn’t so.”

Selma rarely made mistakes and those that she did were almost always minor. Even so, she was a strict taskmaster—more so with herself than anyone else.

“I was slightly off in translating the abstract from the German naval archives. Wolfgang Müller wasn’t the captain of the
Lothringen
. He was a passenger, just like Boehm. Another sub captain, in fact. He was assigned to the midget sub
UM-77
.”

“So Boehm and Müller and their subs are aboard the
Lothringen
, which sails across the Atlantic, puts in at Rum Cay for resupply and refit—”

“That’s the word the sailor—Froch—used in his blog, correct?”

“Correct. Refit.”

“Then a week later, Boehm’s boat, the
UM-34
ends up in the Pocomoke River and the
Lothringen
is sunk. Which begs the question, where is Müller’s sub, the
UM-77
?”

“According to the German archives, it’s listed as lost. According to U.S. Navy archives, they found nothing aboard the
Lothringen
when it was captured.”

Remi replied, “Which means the
UM-77
probably went down on its own mission—something similar to Boehm’s mission, I’m betting.”

“I agree,” Sam said, “but there’s also a third possibility.”

“Which is?”

“She’s still here. It’s the word ‘refit’ that got my attention. The
Lothringen
was what, one hundred fifty feet long?”

“About that,” Selma replied.

“To refit a ship that big would have taken a fair-sized facility—something big enough that it would have been discovered by now. I’m beginning to think the refitting they mentioned was for the
UM-34
and the
UM-77
, and if we’re right about their mission being top secret, they sure as hell weren’t going to do that in the open—not with U.S. Navy PBY spotter planes flying out of Puerto Rico.”

“Which means . . . ?” Remi asked.

“Which means we may have some spelunking in our future,” Sam replied.

They finished unloading the Bonanza, then staked her tie-downs deep into the sand and started looking for a campsite. Nightfall was only a few hours away. They’d get a fresh start in the morning.

“We’ve got a competitor,” Remi said, pointing down the beach.

Sam shaded his eyes with his palm and squinted. “Well, that’s not something you see every day.”

A quarter mile away, nestled against the tree line along the cove’s northern arm, was what looked for all the world like a Hollywood version of a tiki hut, complete with a thatched conical roof and plank walls. Hanging between the hut’s two front posts was a hammock; in it was a figure, one foot dangling over the edge, rocking the hammock back and forth. Without looking up the figure raised a hand in greeting and called, “Ahoy.”

Sam and Remi walked the remaining distance. In front of the hut was a fire pit surrounded by wave-worn logs for seating. “Welcome,” the man said.

He looked distinguished if not a bit weathered, with white hair, a well-trimmed goatee, and twinkling blue eyes.

“Don’t mean to intrude,” Sam said.

“Nonsense. Wanderers are always welcome, and you two certainly look the part. Have a seat.”

Sam and Remi dropped their gear in the sand and found seats on a log. Sam introduced themselves to their host, who simply said, “Happy to have you. In fact, I’m going to turn the estate over to you. Time to move on.”

“Don’t go on our account,” Remi said.

“Nothing of the sort, dear lady. I’ve got a previous engagement in Port Henry. Won’t be back for a couple days.”

With that the man disappeared into the trees and emerged a few seconds later pushing a Vespa scooter. “There’s a fishing pole, lures, pots, pans, and all that inside,” he said. “Make yourselves at home. There’s a trapdoor wine cellar. You’re welcome to try a bottle.”

Sam, strangely certain he could trust this stranger, said, “You haven’t heard any legends about a secret base around here, have you?”

“A Nazi submarine base, yes?”

“That’s the one.”

The man put the scooter up onto its kickstand. He went inside the hut and came back out carrying what looked like a tray-sized square of sheet metal. He handed it to Sam.

“To carry our dinner?” Sam asked.

“That’s a hydroplane, son. From a pretty small sub, too, by the looks of it.”

“Where did you find this?”

“Liberty Rock, on the north side near Port Boyd.”

“Sounds like the place to start looking.”

“I found that in a lagoon. My guess is it washed out of an underground river. Here on the east side of the island they all flow south to north. Problem is, they’re not strong enough to push anything heavier than that plane.”

“No offense,” Remi said, “but if you knew what this belonged to, why haven’t you looked for it yourself?”

The man smiled. “I’ve done my fair share of exploring. I figured sooner or later someone would come along asking the right questions. And here you are.” The man walked toward his scooter, then stopped and turned back. “You know, if I’d been a German sailor back then looking for a place to hide out, I would’ve loved to have stumbled across a sea cave.”

“Me, too,” Sam said.

“As luck would have it, Rum Cay is full of them. Dozens along this shore alone, most unexplored—most connected to underground rivers.”

“Thanks. By the way, ever heard of anything called the Goat’s Head?”

The man scratched his chin. “Can’t say I have. Well, I’m off. Good hunting.”

The man puttered off on the scooter and disappeared.

Sam and Remi were silent for a few moments, then Sam said, “I’ll be damned.”

“What?”

“We didn’t even think to get his name.”

“I don’t think we need it,” Remi said, pointing at the hut.

Beside the door was a wooden plaque. In hand-painted red letters it said, CASA DE CUSSLER.

I
could get used to this,” Sam said, staring into the fire.

“I’ll second that,” Remi replied.

They’d decided to accept their host’s invitation to spend the night at the hut. As the sun dipped toward the horizon Sam strolled the beach and gathered burnable driftwood while Remi used their host’s collapsible bamboo fishing rod to snag a trio of snapper from the surf. By the time night fell they were lying against a log before a crackling campfire, their stomachs full of braised and sea-salted fish. The night was clear and black, with diamond-speck stars filling the sky. Aside from the
swoosh-hiss
of the surf and the occasional rustling of palm fronds, all was quiet.

Their host hadn’t been joking about the wine cellar, which, though barely larger than a closet, sported two dozen bottles. They’d chosen a Jordan Chardonnay to complement Remi’s catch.

They sat and sipped and watched the stars until finally Remi said, “You think they’ll find us?”

“Who, Arkhipov and Kholkov? Not likely.”

For the airline tickets, the hotel, and the rental car they’d used a credit card attached to a twice-removed Fargo Foundation expense account. While Sam had no doubt Bondaruk’s hatchet men had the resources to eventually unravel the financial trail, it wouldn’t happen, he hoped, before they were gone.

“Unless,” he added, “they already have a lead that points them here.”

“There’s a cheery notion. Sam, I’ve been thinking about Ted. That Russian—Arkhipov—he was going to kill him, wasn’t he?”

“I suspect so.”

“Over wine. What kind of man would do that? If Rube’s right, Bondaruk’s filthy rich. What he’d gain from selling the Lost Cellar would be pocket change. Why is he willing to kill for it?”

“Remi, for him murder comes naturally. It’s not a last resort; it’s a ready option.”

“I suppose.”

“But you’re not convinced.”

“It just doesn’t add up. Is Bondaruk a wine collector? A Napo leonophile, maybe?”

“I don’t know. We’ll check.”

She shook her head, frustrated. After a few moments of silence, she asked, “So where do we start?”

“We have to make some assumptions,” Sam replied. “First, that Selma’s right about the Goat’s Head being a landmark; and second, that Boehm and his team would have chosen the most uninhabited part of the island to set up shop. This coastline certainly fits the bill. At first light, we pile our gear into the dinghy—”

“Not the plane?”

“Don’t think so. Boehm’s vantage point would have been from the surface. From the air a goat’s head could look like a duck’s foot, or a donkey’s ear, or nothing at all.”

“Good point. Erosion’s going to be a problem. Sixty years of weather could change a lot.”

“True.”

The Bahamian Archipelago was a spelunking and cave-diving paradise, Sam knew, and there were four general types of cave systems: blue holes, which came in both the open ocean and inshore variety and were essentially great tubes plunging hundreds of feet into the ocean or an island’s rock strata; fracture-guided caves, which followed the natural fissures in the bedrock; solutional caves, which formed over time by rainwater mixing with minerals in the soil to dissolve the underlying limestone or calcium carbonate bedrock; and finally, garden-variety sea caves, formed along cliffs by thousands of years of pounding surf. While these systems rarely went any deeper than a hundred feet, they were also usually spacious and offered sheltered underwater entrances—precisely what one might look for when scouting for a spot to hide a mini submarine.

“You missed one,” Remi said. “An assumption, I mean.”

“Which is?”

“That all this isn’t just a goose chase—or to be exact, a wild Molch hunt.”