Текст книги "Spartan Gold"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

Соавторы: Clive Cussler
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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

CHAPTER 4

After dessert, a tiramisu so good it left them temporarily speechless, they walked back to the B&B, grabbed the BMW’s keys from the room, and set off for Princess Anne, heading northwest up Highway 12 to the outskirts of Salisbury before turning southwest onto Highway 13. The evening’s earlier clear skies had given way to low rain clouds and a fine, steady mist fell on the BMW’s windshield.

Remi frowned. “It feels like you’re going too fast.” She enjoyed the BMW, but not the latent race-car-driver urge it brought out in her husband.

“Dead on the speed limit. Don’t worry, Remi. Have I ever crashed?”

“Well, there was that time in Mumbai—”

“Oh, no. If you’ll recall, the tires were almost bald and we were being chased by a very angry man in a very big dump truck. Plus, I didn’t crash. I just got . . . sidetracked.”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

“An accurate description, I’d say.”

“Okay, then, there was the time in Scotland. . . .”

“Okay, that was my fault.”

“Don’t feel bad, Sam. That peat bog did jump right in front of us out of nowhere.”

“Very funny.”

“You got us out of it, though, and that’s what counts.”

And he did. Using a short coil of rope, the car jack, a stump and a branch for leverage, and some well-applied basic physics.

They drove in silence, watching the darkened countryside slide by until finally the lights of Princess Anne appeared a half mile down the road. Named after the daughter of King George II, the town—or hamlet, as many locals demanded it be called—boasted a population of 2,200 souls, not counting the students who called University of Maryland Eastern Shore their home. During their first trip here years ago, Sam and Remi had agreed if not for the cars on the streets and the electric lighting, it would take little effort to imagine you’d been transported back to Maryland’s prerevolutionary days, so quaint were parts of the hamlet of Princess Anne.

Sam took Highway 13 into the middle of town, then turned east onto Mount Vernon Road, which he followed for a mile before turning north onto East Ridge Road. They were now on the outskirts of Princess Anne. Frobisher’s shop, whose second floor served as his apartment, was set a quarter mile back from the road down a long driveway bordered by maple trees.

As Sam reached the turn-in, a black Buick Lucerne sedan pulled out of the driveway and passed them, heading south to Mount Vernon Road. As the BMW’s lights washed over the passing car’s windshield, Sam caught a glimpse of Ted Frobisher sitting in the passenger seat.

“That was him,” Remi said.

“Yeah, I know,” Sam muttered distantly.

“What is it?”

“Don’t know . . . Something about his face didn’t seem right.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“He looked . . . scared.”

“Ted Frobisher always looks scared. Or annoyed. Those are his only two expressions, you know that.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Sam muttered, swinging the BMW into a precise Y-turn, backing into the driveway, then heading after the Lucerne.

“Oh, boy,” Remi said, “here we go.”

“Just humor me. Probably nothing.”

“Fine. But if they pull into an IHOP, promise me you’ll turn around and leave the poor man alone.”

“Deal.”

The Lucerne did not pull into an IHOP, nor did it stay on the main road for very long, turning south onto Black Road after only a few miles. The streetlights had long since disappeared, leaving Sam and Remi driving in pitch blackness. The earlier drizzle had turned to a steady rain and the BMW’s windshield wipers beat out a rhythmic squeaking thump.

“How’s your night vision?” Sam asked her.

“Good . . . why?”

In response, Sam turned off the BMW’s headlights and accelerated, closing the distance to the Lucerne’s taillights.

Remi looked at her husband, her eyes narrowed. “You’re really worried, aren’t you?”

He nodded, jaw clenched. “Just a feeling. Hope I’m wrong.”

“Me, too. You’re scaring me a little, Sam.”

He reached over and gave her thigh a squeeze. “Now, have I ever gotten us into trouble—”

“Well, there was the time—”

“—without getting us back out again?”

“No.”

“Do we have a signal?” he asked.

Remi pulled out her cell phone and checked the reception. “Nothing.”

“Damn. We still have that map?”

Remi rummaged through the glove compartment, found the map, and opened it. After thirty seconds she said, “Sam, there’s nothing out here. No houses, no farms—nothing for miles.”

“Curiouser and curiouser.”

Ahead, the Lucerne’s brake lights flashed once, then again, then turned right and disappeared behind some trees. Sam pulled up to the turn and slowed just in time to see the Lucerne’s taillights turn again, this time left into a driveway about a hundred yards down the road. He turned off the engine and rolled down the passenger window. Through the trees they could see the Lucerne’s headlights go out, followed by the sound of a car door opening then closing, followed ten seconds later by another.

Then a voice: “Hey . . . don’t!”

Frobisher’s voice. Clearly agitated.

“Well, that settles it,” Sam said.

“Yep,” Remi said. “What do you want to do?”

“You drive to the nearest house or wherever you can get reception and call the police. I’m going to—”

“Oh, no, you’re not, Sam.”

“Remi, please—”

“I said no, Sam.”

Sam groaned. “Remi—”

“We’re wasting time.”

Sam knew his wife well enough to recognize the tone in her voice and the set of her mouth. She’d planted her feet and that was that.

“Okay,” he said, “but no stupid chances, okay?”

“That goes for you, too.”

He grinned at her and winked. “Am I anything but the epitome of caution?” Then: “Don’t answer that.”

“In for a penny—” Remi started.

“In for trouble,” Sam finished.

CHAPTER 5

Headlights still off, Sam slowly steered the BMW up the road, trying to avoid potholes, until they were within fifty yards of the driveway, then shut off the engine.

Sam said, “Will you please wait in the car?”

Remi frowned at him. “Hi, it seems we haven’t met.” She stuck out her hand for him to shake. “I’m Remi Fargo.”

Sam sighed. “Point taken.”

They had a brief strategy/what-if/worse-case-scenario talk, then Sam gave her his sport coat and they climbed out.

They stepped off the road into the drainage ditch, which was shielded by high grass on either side. It ran up to the driveway, where it was funneled into a culvert.

Hunched over, pausing every few steps to listen, they followed the ditch to the driveway, then climbed up the bank and began picking their way through the trees. After twenty feet the trees began to thin out and they found themselves at the edge of a clearing.

The space was immense, perhaps two square acres filled with hulking tubular shapes, some the size of garages, some the size of compact cars, lying at angles like a child’s set of pick-up sticks. As Sam’s eyes adjusted to the darkness he realized what he was seeing: a boiler junkyard. How and why it was here, in the middle of the Maryland countryside, he didn’t know, but here it was. Judging from their size he guessed the boilers had come from a variety of sources—locomotives, ships, and factories. The falling rain pattered the leaves around them and pinged softly on the steel of the boilers, sending echoes through the trees.

“Well, this is the last thing I was expecting to find here,” Remi whispered.

“Me, too.” And this told them something about Ted’s assailant. Either he knew this area well or he’d done some homework before coming here. Neither thought gave Sam much comfort.

The Buick Lucerne was parked in the middle of the clearing, but there was no sign of either Frobisher or the car’s driver. Clearly they’d gone deeper into this maze of boilers. But why come here? Sam wondered. The first answer that came to mind chilled him. What Ted’s abductor had planned for him was unknown but one thing seemed certain: The man wanted privacy. Or a place to leave a body. Or both. Sam felt his heartbeat quicken.

“We can cover more ground if we split up,” Remi suggested.

“Forget it. We don’t know who this guy is or what he’s capable of.”

He was about to step out from the trees, when an idea formed in his head. A Buick Lucerne. Buick . . . GMC. He pulled Remi back into cover and said, “Wait here, be right back.”

“What—”

“Just stay put. I’m not going far.”

He took one last look around, watching for the slightest movement, then, seeing nothing, dashed out and headed for the Lucerne. He reached the driver’s-side door, crouched down, then said a quick prayer and tried the door handle. It clicked open. The dome light popped on. He clicked the door shut again.

Damn! At least there was no “keys in the ignition” chime.

Nothing to do but risk it.

Sam opened the door, slid inside, shut the door behind him, then waited for thirty seconds, occasionally peeking over the dashboard. Nothing was moving. He began looking around the car’s interior and found what he was looking for almost immediately. Set into a panel on the dashboard was a button labeled ONSTAR. Sam pushed it. Twenty seconds passed, then a voice came over the radio speakers.

“This is Dennis at OnStar, how may I assist you?”

“Uh, yeah.” Sam grunted. “I’ve been in a crash. I’m hurt. I need help.”

“Sir, do you know your location?”

“Uh . . . no.”

“Stand by, sir.” Five seconds passed. “All right, sir, I have your location near Black Road, west of Princess Anne in Maryland.”

“Yeah, that sounds right.”

“I’ve alerted the 911 dispatcher in your area. Help is on the way.”

“How long?” Sam croaked, doing his best injured-driver impression.

“Six to seven minutes, sir. I’ll stay with you. . . .”

But Sam was already moving, slipping back out of the car and shutting the door behind him. Using his pocketknife he punched a hole in the left rear tire’s valve stem. He then crawled around to the opposite side, repeated the process on the other tire, then sprinted back to the trees and rejoined Remi.

“OnStar?” Remi asked with a smile.

Sam kissed her on the cheek. “Great minds.”

“How long until the cavalry arrives?”

“Six, seven minutes. It’d be great if we were gone before then. I’m not in a question-and-answer mood.”

“Me neither. I’m in a warm brandy mood.”

“Ready for a little hide-and-seek?”

“Lead on.”

They had little hope of following any footprints in the mud so he and Remi dashed across the clearing and began picking their way through the paths and tunnels formed by the boiler graveyard. Sam found two pieces of rebar and gave the shorter one to Remi and kept the longer one for himself. They’d gotten only fifty feet or so when they heard a faint voice through the falling rain.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about . . . what piece?”

It was Ted.

A male voice said something in return, but neither Sam nor Remi could make out the words.

“That thing? It was a piece of a bottle. Nothing important.”

Sam turned his head, trying to catch the sound and narrow in on where it was coming from. Using hand gestures, Sam pointed ahead and to the left, under an arch formed by a boiler that had half collapsed against its neighbor. She nodded. Once they were through the arch the voices became more distinct.

“I want you to tell me exactly where you found it,” the unidentified man was saying. The voice was accented, either eastern European or Russian.

“I told you, I don’t remember. It was somewhere on the river.”

“The Pocomoke River?”

“Right,” Ted replied.

“Where?”

“Why are you doing this? I don’t understand what—”

There was a slapping sound, something hard striking flesh. Ted grunted, followed by a splash as he obviously fell over in a mud puddle.

“Get up!”

“I can’t!”

“I said, get up!”

Sam signaled for Remi to wait as he crept ahead, pressed himself against the wall of the boiler, then slid ahead until he could see around the curve.

There, in a space between a pair of pickup truck-sized boilers, was Ted Frobisher. He was on his knees, arms bound behind his back. His assailant stood a few feet in front of him, a flashlight in his left hand, a revolver in his right. He was pointing the gun at Ted’s chest.

“Tell me where you found it and I’ll take you home,” the man said. “You can forget all about this.”

There’s a lie if ever I’ve heard one, Sam thought. Whoever this man was he hadn’t brought Ted all the way out here only to take him back home and tuck him safely into bed. So sorry about all this, have a nice night. . . . Whether or not the man got what he’d wanted, Ted’s fate was sealed unless they acted quickly.

Sam thought for a few seconds and formulated a rudimentary plan. He would have preferred a more elegant solution, but they had neither the time nor the resources for that. Besides, simple was often the most elegant. He slid back along the boiler and returned to where Remi was waiting.

He sketched out the scene he had witnessed, then his plan.

“Sounds like you’re getting the most dangerous part,” Remi said.

“I have absolute confidence in your aim.”

“And my timing.”

“That, too. I’ll be right back.”

Sam disappeared into the trees for half a minute, then returned and handed her a rock about the size of a grapefruit.

“Think you can climb that one-handed?” he asked, nodding at the rusty maintenance ladder rising up the side of the nearest boiler.

“If you hear a big thump in the dark you’ll have your answer.” She leaned forward, curled her fist around his shirtfront, and drew him in for a quick kiss. “Listen, Fargo: Try to look harmless and for God’s sake be careful. If you get killed I’ll never forgive you.”

“That makes two of us.”

Sam hefted his piece of rebar and took off at a half sprint, heading back the way he came, then veered right and began circling around. He stopped to check his watch. Six minutes had passed since his OnStar call. He couldn’t wait any longer.

He tucked the rebar into the waistband at his back, then took a calming breath and started walking until he came around a boiler and the pool of light from the flashlight appeared in the darkness. Sam stopped and called out.

“Hey, there, howdy, is everything okay?”

The stranger whipped around, shining his flashlight in Sam’s eyes. “Who are you?”

“I was just driving by,” Sam said. “I saw the car. Thought maybe somebody broke down. Hey, how about not shining that in my eyes?”

In the distance came the faint sound of sirens.

Gun raised, the man spun back to Ted, then back to Sam.

“Whoa, fella, what’s the gun for?”

Sam raised his hands and took a careful step forward.

“Don’t move! Stay right there!”

“Hey, I’m just trying to help.” Breath held, Sam took another step forward, closing the gap to fifteen feet.

Be ready, Remi. . . .

He raised his voice to make sure he could be heard over the rain and said, “If you want me to leave, no problem. . . .”

Remi took her cue, and to his right Sam saw a shadow arcing out of the dark sky from atop the boiler. The stone seemed to hang for an impossibly long time, then landed with a sickening crunch on the man’s right foot. Remi’s aim was dead-on. Though a head shot would have made things much easier, it would have also likely killed the man, a complication they didn’t need.

Even as the man groaned and stumbled backward, Sam was moving, drawing the rebar from his waistband with his left hand as he charged ahead. Arms windmilling, the man was trying to regain his balance and had almost succeeded when Sam’s perfectly timed uppercut caught him squarely in the chin. The gun and flashlight flew up and away, the former landing with a plop in the mud, the latter rolling toward Ted. From the corner of his eye Sam saw Remi appear behind Ted. She lifted him to his feet and together they started running.

The stranger was lying on his back, half sunken in the mud, groaning. Tough customer, Sam thought. That uppercut should have solidly shut off his lights. Sam switched the rebar to his right hand.

The sirens were coming closer now, not two minutes away.

Sam picked up the flashlight and cast it around until he spotted the man’s pistol half buried in the mud a few feet away. Using the tip of his shoe, Sam pried it free, slipped the top of his foot beneath it, and kicked it far into the trees.

He turned back and shined the light into the man’s face. The man stopped moving, eyes squinting against the glare. His face was lean and weathered and he had small, mean eyes and a nose that had clearly been broken many times over. The white line of a scar ran from the bridge of his nose across his right eyebrow and ended just above his temple. Not just tough, Sam now thought. But cruel, too. The eyes told him that much.

Sam said, “Don’t suppose you’d care to tell me who you are or why you’re here, would you?”

The man blinked rapidly, clearing away the cobwebs, then focused on Sam and spat out a word. Russian, Sam thought. Though his Russian was passable for tourist purposes, he didn’t recognize the word. Still, it was a safe bet it had something to do with either his mother, some form of carnal knowledge, or both.

“That had a distinctly unfriendly sound to it,” Sam said. “Let’s try this one more time: Who are you and what’s your business with our friend?”

Another curse, this one a full sentence.

“Didn’t think so,” Sam said. “Well, better luck next time, pal.”

With that he leaned forward and swung the rebar in a tight arc, tapping the man behind the ear with what he hoped was just enough force. Rebar wasn’t the most delicate of weapons. The man grunted and went limp.

“Here’s hoping we never meet again,” Sam said, then turned and started running.

CHAPTER 6

Here, Ted, drink this,” Sam said, handing Frobisher a snifter of warm brandy.

“What is it?” Frobisher grumbled. Surprising neither Sam nor Remi, Ted’s adventure in the boiler graveyard had done nothing to improve his disposition. Then again, Ted wouldn’t be Ted if he were sunny.

“Just drink it,” Remi said and gave his hand a pat.

Frobisher took a gulp, scrunched up his face, then took a second gulp.

Sam put another log on the fire, then joined Remi on the love seat. Frobisher sat opposite them in a wingback chair, wrapped in a flannel blanket and fresh from a hot shower.

After leaving Frobisher’s mystery man lying in the mud, Sam had sprinted back to the BMW, which Remi had turned around and pulled up to the driveway. His decision to leave before the police had been an instinctive one: Though they’d done nothing wrong, being embroiled in a police investigation would also entangle them with Frobisher’s attacker. Sam’s gut told him the more distance they put between themselves and the man, the better.

With Sam back in the car they’d sped back down Black Road, then headed west on Mount Vernon Road. Thirty seconds later they saw flashing lights come around the corner behind them and pull onto Black Road. At Sam’s direction Remi did a quick U-turn, pulled over to the shoulder, and doused the headlights, waiting until the emergency responders—a police cruiser and a fire truck, it appeared—reached the boiler graveyard. She then pulled out and headed back toward Princess Anne. Forty minutes later they were back in their room at the B&B.

“How do you feel?” Sam asked Frobisher.

“How do you think I feel? I’ve been kidnapped and assaulted.”

Frobisher was in his mid sixties and bald save a monk’s fringe of silver. He wore a pair of Ben Franklin half-glasses; behind them, his eyes were a pale, watery blue. Other than being wet and cold and shaken up, the only leftover from his ordeal was a badly bruised and swollen right cheek where the man had pistol-whipped him.

“Kidnapped and assaulted is better than kidnapped, assaulted, and killed,” Sam observed.

“I suppose,” he replied, then grumbled something under his breath.

“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.