Clive Cussler - Spartan Gold
Remi nodded. “One aboard the 34, and one aboard Ilsa.”
“And the third? Did you find that one? As Manfred had the harder of the two missions, I gave him two bottles.”
“We found a shard near his sub’s resting place. We’re not sure how it got out of the sub.”
Müller waved his hand. “The vagaries of war.”
“Just out of curiosity,” Sam said, “can you tell us about your mission? What were you and Boehm trying to accomplish?”
Müller frowned, thinking. After a few moments he said, “I suppose it doesn’t really matter now. . . . It was an absurd task, really, concocted by the Führer himself. Manfred was supposed to sail up Chesapeake Bay and attack the navy base at Norfolk. At the same time, I was to attack the ammunition depot in Charleston, but Ilsa had a problem with her screw, so we were delayed. Before we could repair it, we were recalled to Bremerhaven. You know the rest, about the Lothringen and all that.”
“You’d stopped at Rum Cay for refitting? What kind?”
“Bigger batteries to increase the boats’ ranges. Another idiotic plan. Both Manfred and I knew the missions were suicide.”
“Then why did you volunteer?”
Müller shrugged. “Duty. Indiscretion of youth. Neither of us were fond of Hitler or the Party, but it was still our country. We wanted to do what we could.”
“We were hoping you might tell us more about the bottles,” Remi said. “Where they came from.”
“Why?”
“We’re collectors. As it turns out, they were very old and very rare.”
Müller chuckled. “I never knew. Well, I might have guessed they were important somehow. My brother Karl gave them to me before we shipped out from Bremerhaven. He told me he found them here, actually—he was in the army and was part of the occupation force.”
“Where exactly did he find them?”
“Let me think. . . .” Müller scratched his head. “My memory isn’t quite what it used to be. It was a castle . . . no, not a castle. A fort.” He sighed in frustration, then his eyes lit up. “It was one of the islands in the bay. . . . Do you remember that book by Dumas—The Count of Monte Cristo?”
Both Sam and Remi had read it. In an instant they knew what Müller was talking about. “Île d’If?”
“Yes! That’s it. He found them in the Château d’If.”
CHAPTER 29
CHÂTEAU D’IF, FRANCE
Despite their love for Marseille, the Fargos had never managed to squeeze the Frioul Archipelago and Château d’If into their itinerary, an oversight they planned to correct that night with their own private tour. They doubted the château’s staff would let them explore every nook and cranny of the island. Though neither of them knew exactly what they’d be looking for, or whether they’d recognize it if it appeared, the expedition seemed the next logical step in the journey.
From Müller’s apartment they took a taxi to the Malmousque, a waterfront district overlooking the Friouls, and found a quiet café. They settled under the umbrella on the patio and ordered a pair of double espressos.
A mile offshore they could see Château d’If, a faded ocher-colored lump of rock fronted by sloping cliffs, vertical ramparts, and stone arches.
While the island itself covered just over seven acres, the château itself was a smaller square, a hundred feet to a side, made up of a three-story main building flanked on three sides by cylindrical turrets topped with crenellated cannon slots.
At the behest of King François I, Château d’If began its life in the 1520s as a fortress to defend the city against attacks from the sea, a purpose that was short-lived as it was converted into a prison for France’s political and religious enemies. Much like San Fran cisco’s Alcatraz, Château d’If’s location and its deadly offshore currents gave it a reputation as escape proof, a claim that was shattered, at least fictionally, by Alexandre Dumas’s Count of Monte Cristo, in which the character Edmond Dantès, after fourteen years of imprisonment, managed to escape d’If.
Sam read from the brochure he’d picked up at the Vieux Port tourist office: “ ‘Blacker than the sea, blacker than the sky, rose like a phantom the giant of granite, whose projecting crags seemed like arms extended to seize their prey.’ That’s how Dantès described it.”
“Doesn’t seem so bad from here.”
“Try being stuck in the dungeon for a dozen years.”
“Good point. What else?”
“The prison operated by a strict class structure. Rich inmates could buy their way into private cells on the upper floors, with windows and a fireplace. As for the poor, they got the basement dungeons and the oubliettes—which are . . .”
“It’s derivative of oublier—‘to forget.’ They were essentially trap doored pits in the floor of a dungeon.” Remi’s French was also better than Sam’s. “You go in and you’re forgotten—left to rot.”
The phone trilled and Sam answered it. It was Selma: “Mr. Fargo, I have something for you.”
“Go ahead,” Sam said. He put the phone on speaker so Remi could hear.
“We’ve deciphered the first two lines of symbols on the bottle, but that’s it,” Selma began. “The other lines are going to take some time. I think we’re missing a key of some kind. Anyway, the lines spell out a riddle:
“Folly of Capetian, Sébastien’s revelation;
A city under cannon;
From the third realm of the forgotten a sign that eternal
Sheol will fail.
“We’re working on solving it—”
“Done,” Sam proclaimed. “It’s talking about Château d’If.”
“Pardon me?”
He recounted their meeting with Wolfgang Müller. “The fortress is where his brother found the bottles. I already had the answer; from there it was just a matter of working backward. ‘Capetian’ refers to the dynastic line King François I came from; he had the fortress built. ‘Sébastien’ is the first name of Vauban, the engineer who had to tell the government the fort was all but useless. For whatever reason, the architects had built it with the heaviest fortifications and gun embattlements facing not the open sea, and potential invaders, but the city—‘a city under cannon.’ ”
“Impressive, Mr. Fargo.”
“It’s in the brochure. As for the second line, I don’t know.”
“I think I do,” Remi said. “In Hebrew, ‘Sheol’ means abode of the dead, or underworld. The opposite—eternal Sheol—is everlasting life. Remember the cicada from the bottle . . . ?”
Sam was nodding. “From Napoleon’s crest: resurrection and immortality. And the other part . . . ‘the third realm of the forgotten’?”
“It’s the French version of a dungeon: oubliette. To forget. Unless we’re wrong, somewhere in the basement of the château is a cicada waiting to be found. But why a riddle at all?” Remi wondered. “Why not simply, ‘go here, find this’?”
“That’s where it gets really interesting,” Selma replied. “From what I’ve been able to translate so far, Laurent’s book is part diary, part decryption key. He makes it pretty clear the bottles themselves aren’t the real prize. He called them ‘arrows on a map.’ ”
“Arrows to what?” Remi asked. “And for whom to follow?”
“He doesn’t say. We’ll know more when I finish the translation.”
Sam said, “Well, it seems clear Laurent was doing this on Napoleon’s orders, and if they went to this much trouble to hide the bottles, whatever’s at the end of the map has to be something spectacular.”
“Which might explain why Bondaruk has no problem with murder,” Remi replied.
They chatted for a few more minutes, then hung up.
“Uh-oh,” Remi said out of the side of her mouth and pointing with her eyes. “Look who’s here.”
Sam turned around. Kholkov was walking across the patio toward them, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket. Sam and Remi tensed, ready to move.
“Relax, do you think I’d be stupid enough to shoot you both in broad daylight?” Kholkov asked, stopping before them. He pulled his hands from his pockets and held them up. “Unarmed.”
“I see you escaped your little fender bender,” Remi said.
Kholkov pulled out a chair and sat down.
Sam said dryly, “Please, join us.”
“You could have easily bumped us off the edge,” Kholkov said. “Why didn’t you?”
“It occurred to us, believe me. If not for your trigger-happy friend, who knows?”
“I apologize for that. He overreacted.”
“I don’t suppose you’d care to explain how you’ve been tracking us,” Remi said.
Kholkov smiled; there was none of it in his eyes. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to tell me why you’ve come here.”
“You suppose correctly,” Remi replied.
“Whatever you’re selling, we’re not buying,” Sam said. “Your colleague kidnapped, tortured, and was seconds away from killing a friend of ours, and you’ve tried to kill us twice. Tell us why you’re here.”
“My employer is proposing a truce. A partnership.”
Remi laughed softly. “Let me guess: We help you find whatever you’re after and you’ll kill us for it later rather than sooner.”
“Not at all. We join forces and split the proceeds, eighty-twenty.”
“We don’t even know what we’re after,” Sam said.
“Something of great value—both historically and monetarily.”
“And which of those interests Bondaruk most?” Remi asked.
“That’s his business.”
Sam and Remi had no illusions. Her prediction of Bondaruk’s and Kholkov’s plans for them was dead-on. Whatever Bondaruk’s true motives and whatever the prize, there was no way they were going to let it fall into the Ukrainian’s hands.
Kholkov added, “Let’s just say the items involve a family legacy. He’s simply trying to finish what was begun a long time ago. If you were to help bring that about, he’d be properly grateful.”
“No deal,” Sam said.
Remi added, “And you pass along a message for us: Nuts.”
“You should reconsider,” Kholkov said. “Have a look around.”
Sam and Remi did so. Standing on the far side of the patio were three of Kholkov’s men—all familiar faces from the Rum Cay cave.
“The gang’s all here,” Sam said.
“No, they’re not. I have more. Wherever you go, we’ll be there. One way or another, we’ll get what we want. What you need to decide is whether you wish to live through this.”
“We’ll manage,” Remi said.
Kholkov shrugged. “Your choice. I don’t suppose you’re stupid enough to have brought the codebook along with you, are you?”
“No,” Sam replied. “And we’re not stupid enough to have left it at the hotel, either, but you’re welcome to have a look around.”
“We already did. I assume it’s already in Mrs. Wondrash’s hands.”
“Either that or it’s in a safe-deposit box,” Remi said.
“No, I don’t think so. I think you have your people trying to decode it right now. Perhaps we’ll pay them a visit. I’ve heard San Diego is beautiful this time of year.”
“Good luck with that,” Sam said lightly, fighting to keep his face impassive.
“You’re talking about your security system?” Kholkov waved his hand dismissively. “That won’t be any trouble.”
“Clearly you’re not familiar with my résumé,” Sam said.
Kholkov hesitated. “Ah, yes, an engineer. Tinkered with the alarm system, have you?”
Remi added, “And even if you get past that, who knows what you’ll find once you’re inside? You said it yourself: We’re not stupid.”
Kholkov’s brows furrowed, a flicker of uncertainty, but it was gone in a second. “We’ll see. Last chance, Mr. and Mrs. Fargo. After this, the gloves come off.”
“You have our answer,” Sam replied.
CHAPTER 30
CHÂTEAU D’IF
A drizzle had begun to fall shortly before they left the hotel and now, as midnight approached, it had given way to a steady rain that pattered through the trees and gurgled down the rain gutters. The streets glistened under the hazy yellow glow of the streetlights. Here and there late-night pedestrians hurried down the sidewalks under umbrellas or folded newspaper or waited in clusters beneath bus shelters.
In the alley across from their hotel, Sam and Remi stood in the shadows and watched the lobby doors.
Down the block a gray Citroën Xsara sat at the curb, a pair of figures just visible in the dimmed interior. Earlier from the window of their hotel room Remi had gotten a look at the driver’s face: he’d been with Kholkov at the Malmousque café. Whether there were more watchers around they couldn’t tell, but they knew it was best to assume so.
After parting company with Kholkov at the café earlier that afternoon, they’d roamed the Malmousque, shopping and taking in the sights for a few hours. They saw neither Kholkov nor his men until they started back to the hotel, when two men on motorcycles fell in behind their taxi.
Despite their nonplussed reaction to Kholkov’s threats, Sam and Remi had taken them seriously. Fearing their room was bugged, they found a quiet corner in the mostly deserted hotel bar and called Rube Haywood on the Iridium; he wasn’t at CIA headquarters in Langley, but they reached him at home.
Sam put him on speakerphone and quickly explained the situation and their worries.
Rube said, “I know a guy in Long Beach—used to work for the Diplomatic Security Service. He runs his own shop now. Want me to have him send a couple guys to the house?”
“We’d be grateful.”
“Give me ten minutes.” He called back in five: “Done. They’ll be there in two hours. Tell Selma they’ll have IDs—Kozal Security Group. They’ll ask for Mrs. French.”
“Got it.”
“Don’t you think it’s time to call it a day?” Rube asked. “You’ve seen how far these guys will go. Nothing’s worth this.”
“We don’t even know what it is,” Remi said.
“You get my point. I’m worried about you two.”
“We appreciate that, Rube, but we’re going to see this through.”
Haywood sighed. “At least let me help you.”
“What did you have in mind?” asked Sam.
“I’ve taken a second look at Kholkov. A few years ago he was in Chechnya; we think he was playing middleman for a black-market AK-47 dealer. Wouldn’t take much to get his name slipped onto the Terrorist Watch List. A couple calls and I could put him on the radar of the DCPJ,” he said, referring to the Direction Centrale Police Judiciaire, or Central Directorate Judicial Police, France’s version of the FBI. “There’s nothing they could arrest him on, but they might be able to detain him and his buddies for a while.”
