Spartan Gold (7 page)

“What was that, Ted?”

“I said, thanks for rescuing me.”

“I bet that hurt to say,” Remi replied.

“You have no idea. But I mean it. Thanks. Both of you.” He drained the last of his brandy, then held out the snifter for more. Remi obliged.

“So what happened?” Sam asked.

“I was dead asleep and I woke up to someone pounding on my door. I asked who it was through the door and he said, ‘Stan Johnston, from down the road.’ He said Cindy—his wife—was sick and their phone wasn’t working.”

“Is there a Stan Johnston?” Sam asked.

“Of course there’s a Stan Johnston. The next farmhouse to the north.”

This meant something, Sam knew. Judging from the attacker’s accent it seemed reasonable to assume he wasn’t a local, which meant he’d planned out his raid of Ted’s house, going as far as finding out the names of his neighbors for use in his ploy.

During his time at DARPA Sam had had enough interaction with case officers from the CIA’s Clandestine Service to know how they thought and how they worked. Everything Frobisher’s attacker had done screamed “professional.” But a professional for whom? And to what end?

“So you opened the door . . .” Remi prompted Frobisher.

“So I opened the door and he rushes in, pushes me to the floor, and shoves that gun in my face. He starts asking questions, shouting at me—”

“About?”

“Some shard of glass. It was nothing, the punt from a wine bottle. He wanted to know where it was, so I told him. He tied up my hands with some kind of tape, then went into the shop, rummaged around—broke God knows what in the process—then came back with the piece and started asking where I’d found it.”

“Where did you find it?”

“I don’t remember exactly. I really don’t. It was on the Pocomoke, somewhere south of Snow Hill. I was fishing and—”

“You fish?” Sam asked, surprised. “Since when?”

“Since forever, you idiot. What, you think I just sit around the shop all day fondling plates and doodads? As I was saying . . . I was fishing and I snagged something. It was a boot, an old leather boot. The shard was inside it.”

“You still have the boot?”

“What am I, a garbage man? No, I threw it back. It was an old rotted boot, Sam.”

Sam raised his hands, palms out, in a calming gesture. “Okay, okay. Go on. He started shouting questions at you and . . .”

“Then the phone rang.”

“That was me.”

“He asked if I was expecting anyone and I said yes, thinking he would leave. He didn’t. He dragged me to the car and drove me out to that place, whatever it was. That’s it. The rest you know.”

“He had it on him,” Sam muttered. “I should’ve searched him.”

“How many times do I have to say this, Sam? The piece was nothing. There was no label, no writing—just some kind of weird symbol.”

“What kind of symbol?”

“I don’t remember. There’s a picture on my website. I posted it, thinking someone might know what it was.”

“Remi, do you mind?” Sam asked.

She was already up, retrieving their laptop, which she set on the coffee table and powered up. Thirty seconds later she said. “Here, is this it, Ted?” She turned the laptop for him to see.

He squinted at the screen, then nodded. “Yep, that’s it. See, it’s nothing.”

Sam scooted closer to Remi and looked at the picture. As described, it looked like the concave bottom, or punt, of a green wine bottle. In the center of the punt was the symbol. Remi zoomed in until they could make it out:

Sam said, “That doesn’t look even remotely familiar. You?”

“No,” Remi replied. “And this doesn’t mean anything to you, Ted?”

“No, I already told you.”

“No strange phone calls or e-mails about it? No one showed any curiosity?”

Frobisher groaned. “No, no, and no. When can I go home? I’m tired.”

Sam said, “Ted, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“What? Why?”

“He knows where you live—”

“Ah, he was just some nut. Probably high on something. It’s just a piece of wine bottle, for God’s sake, and he has it. It’s over.”

I doubt it,
Sam thought. And neither did he think the man was a nut or a druggie. For whatever reason, someone felt this punt, this odd piece of green glass, was very important. Important enough to kill for.

Forty-five miles away, Grigoriy Arkhipov lay unmoving beneath the low-hanging branches of a tree, his face covered in mud, eyes tracking the movements of the Somerset County sheriff’s deputy as the tow-truck driver finished hooking up the Lucerne. In some primitive part of his brain Arkhipov wanted to move, to
act
, but he quashed the urge and concentrated on remaining still. It would have been so easy—not to mention satisfying—to take the deputy and the tow-truck driver by surprise, dispatch them, then take one of their vehicles and disappear into the night, but he knew that would cause him more trouble than the pleasure was worth. A murdered police officer would bring down a manhunt, including roadblocks, random stops, and even perhaps the FBI, none of which would help him on his mission.

He’d been awoken from the blow to his head by the glare of white light and the nearby warbling of sirens and had opened his eyes to find himself staring into a pair of headlights. He’d stayed still, certain he’d see figures running toward him, but when no one came he slowly rolled onto his belly and started crawling away, behind the boilers and into the trees where he now lay.

Don’t move,
he commanded himself. He would stay here, stay invisible, and wait for them to leave. The rental car had been secured with a false driver’s license and a sanitized credit card, neither of which would lead the police anywhere. The rain had turned the junkyard into a morass, so there were no signs of a struggle to pique the police’s curiosity. At this point all they had was an abandoned car and what they would likely decide was a prank OnStar call from some teenagers.

Now, that had been a clever trick, Arkhipov thought, as was their ambush of him. Humiliating, yes, but the professional in Arkhipov appreciated the ingenuity of the thing. The sheer nerve of it. His foot throbbed with pain, but he didn’t dare check it until he was alone. The mud had absorbed part of the stone’s impact, but his two smallest toes were probably broken. Painful but not debilitating. He’d experienced much worse. In the Spetsnaz, a broken bone rarely even warranted medical treatment. And Afghanistan . . . the mujahideen were savage fighters who liked nothing better than to kill up close and personal, face-to-face and knife-to-knife, and he had the scars to remind him. Pain, Grigoriy Arkhipov knew, was a simple matter, a thing of the mind and nothing more.

So who were they, he wondered, these mysterious rescuers? Not your average good Samaritans, that much was certain. Their actions showed skill and courage. And resourcefulness. Friends of Frobisher’s, the man had said. It had been a fleeting slip of the tongue that Arkhipov was only too happy to exploit. It would be enough. He would find them—hopefully before he had to report this incident to his employer.

Clearly they had close ties with the antique dealer. Why would they risk their lives otherwise? So, two plus two equals four. If Frobisher didn’t want to cooperate and tell him where he’d found the shard, perhaps this other man and woman would be more accommodating.

And if not, well, he would simply settle the score and move on. Ingenious as they’d been in their ambush of him, he felt it only fair he find an equally novel way of repaying them.

W
hat do you think the chances are Ted will stay away?” Remi asked, giving the outboard motor’s starter cord a tug.

Sam climbed into the skiff’s bow and pushed off the dock with his leg. “I think I got through to him, but with Ted you never know. That shop is his life.”

After questioning Frobisher for another half hour the night before and satisfying themselves they’d gotten the whole story, Sam had ordered a cot from the reception desk and put Ted, who was by then more than a little tipsy from three servings of brandy, to bed.

The next morning after breakfast they’d convinced him to take a vacation, then made some calls and found a beach house on Fen-wick Island that belonged to a friend of a friend of a friend. It was unlikely anyone would trace Frobisher to there. Whether Ted would stay there, they didn’t know, but short of tying him up it was the best they could do.

The question for them was whether to get any further involved. Par for his personality and his solidly Libertarian ideals, Ted had dismissed their suggestion that he get the authorities involved. He had little love or use for the government and asserted the police would simply take a report and file it away, which Sam and Remi tended to agree with. They doubted Ted’s abductor had left enough of a trail to follow.

While they mulled it all over, Sam had decided they’d continue with their original plan of identifying the mini sub trapped in the inlet, then return to their search for Patty Cannon’s treasure.

Remi got the engine started, then brought the skiff about and pointed the nose downriver, the engine puttering softly in the cool morning air.

“What a difference a day can make,” she said, staring up at the sky.

“Amen,” Sam replied.

The previous night’s rain had stopped just before dawn, giving way to a bright blue sky dotted with cotton-puff clouds. Along the river-banks, birds chirped and flitted from branch to branch. The surface of the water, cloaked in a thin mist, was flat save a ripple here and there as a fish popped to the surface to catch an unwary fly or water bug.

“Say,” Remi said, “have I already mentioned how proud I am of you?”

“For what? Finding us those croissants this morning?”

“No, you dummy. For last night. You were downright heroic.”

“Yes, you mentioned it. Thanks. Don’t forget, though, I had some fantastic help. Couldn’t have done it without you.”

Remi shrugged and smiled at the compliment. “You looked rather sexy, you know, all covered with mud and carrying that rebar around. Very cavemanish.”

“Ugh-ugh.”

Remi laughed.

“Sorry about your sweater, by the way.”

Her cashmere turtleneck hadn’t survived the previous night’s adventure, having taken on the distinct and irreversible odor of wet goat.

“It’s just a sweater. It’s replaceable—which isn’t true of everything,” Remi said with an affectionate smile.

“Don’t I know it,” Sam said.

“I assume you’ve taken steps to make sure it doesn’t happen again?” Hadeon Bondaruk asked.

Arkhipov clenched the phone tighter against his ear until his knuckles turned white. “Yes. Three of my best men are here now. I’m guessing they have an hour’s head start on us.”

“What are their names?” Bondaruk asked.

As Arkhipov had predicted, finding the identities of Frobisher’s rescuers had been a relatively easy task.

After the deputy and the tow-truck driver had left, Arkhipov had half jogged, half limped up the road to the nearest farmhouse, where he found an old Chevy truck parked behind the barn with the keys in it. He drove back to Frobisher’s shop and parked the truck behind the garage, then went inside and turned the house upside down, finding what he needed in ten minutes. Frobisher had only a few dozen names in his Rolodex, half of them businesses, the other half personal, and of these only eight were couples. A quick Google search gave him what he needed.

From Frobisher’s house to the Princess Anne Greyhound station was a short five-minute drive. The truck he parked on a side street and the license plates he stuffed into a nearby trash can under some coffee grounds and a bucket of KFC chicken bones.

Twenty minutes later he’d recovered his backpack from the rental locker and was checked in to a nearby Motel 6 under a different driver’s license and credit card.