“Well, I’ll give you the short version first. Just a few months after my father’s death we found one of the Manila galleons he was searching for. It was the Santa Azalea, and it went down in 1733, fully laden. That means—”
“I understand. All crew and trading goods were lost.”
“It went down in 1,500 feet of water just a few miles off the coast of Acapulco. First, we sent the robots down to determine what we had. Results were positive.” Sally took a deep breath. “Very positive.”
“You found the treasure?” Crouch couldn’t stop the bloom of excitement that grew in his chest nor the sudden upturn in the tone of his voice. “I’m so very happy for you. What did you find?”
“Naturally, the robots took their time. There are all kinds of procedures to overcome, not the least of which is safety. But eventually, a little under two months later, we were ready to send people down and, in particular, through a hole in the side of the galleon and into the first treasure room.”
“Go on.” Crouch was rapt with attention.
“All went well until we came to the treasure room, the storage space aboard the Santa Azalea that held the pick of the items. From the survey photographs we knew it was packed wall to wall with unopened crates, chests and boxes.”
“Sat beneath the sea waiting for you all these years.” Crouch reflected on the many treasures his team had found during the last few years, from the Aztec riches to Crusader’s gold and pirate booty. The best part of all, the most memorable moment, was when you first set eyes on an ancient treasure thought lost, or sometimes believed never to have existed at all.
“I understand your obsession now, Michael, and my father’s, because when I first set eyes on the treasure that awaited, I felt it myself. I couldn’t wait to get down there and start opening those crates...”
Crouch sensed a ‘but’ was coming. “Go on.”
“But... when we reached the galleon, just weeks after the last survey robot departed, all of that treasure was gone.”
Crouch sat bolt upright, electrified. “What?”
“You heard me correctly. Oh, the crates are there, all opened. The Asian silks and jars of spices, lacquerware, Indian rugs and cotton and Japanese screens are there. But they’re all exposed, some smashed apart. The goods are caught on wooden planking or floating around. Some items are smashed, ruined. But at the center of all this wanton grave robbing are four empty crates which, according to the ship’s manifest, held ‘priceless jade, porcelain, ivory, silks, precious stones and items of richest amber.’ There are no pesos, of which there should be two to three million. The so-called ‘silk money.’ No ingots. And nothing to suggest the ‘items of value unknown’ attributed to various dignitaries of the time including the King of Spain no less, were ever on board.”
Crouch listened with increased incredulity. “Are you saying they were stolen? From under your noses?”
“I knew you would see it immediately. That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
Crouch was momentarily at a loss, but then collected himself. “I can’t say how sorry I am,” he said. “I can’t imagine...”
Sally let the pain and weariness show in her voice now. “Thank you. But I didn’t call for your sympathy. I called you for your help.”
“Whatever I can do. But I have to warn you, my team and I essentially track down land-based treasure, not sea-based. And we’ve never tracked any that’s effectively just been stolen.”
“Didn’t you discover the treasure hoard of Henry Morgan?”
“Well, yes, but that wasn’t what you’re asking.”
“No. I know your reputation. Dad confided in me more than you would think. He said that if ever I were in trouble, to call you and your team. Well, I’m calling you.”
Crouch was left to wonder exactly what James Hope had let slip to his daughter. “Then what would you like me to do for you?”
“First, I want you to find out exactly what was taken and, at the same time, I want you to find the bastards that destroyed my father’s legacy. And mine. That’s what I want you to do.”
Crouch remained silent for a while. It was certainly an intriguing prospect, searching for nameless individuals that might have stolen treasure right out from under the principal treasure-hunters’ noses. James Hope’s quest in the Pacific had been no secret—the news channels often skimmed over it. But the fact that his daughter had located the Santa Azalea? That was definitely not common knowledge.
“The easy conclusion is to say you have a traitor in your midst,” Crouch said. “It’s not unusual. He or she reports to a criminal enterprise that pay him off handsomely. They wait for further information and then act in a lull, or by creating a distraction. I don’t know how many items were taken but I’m guessing the entire op would have lasted many hours. They also must have obtained a copy of the ship’s manifest.”
“It wasn’t under lock and key—” Sally began. “It’s a public document.”
“These things never are locked up,” Crouch said. “Because, inherently, we trust those we share such a great endeavor with. They’re our team, our family. But, Sally, I have to tell you: Traitors outnumber true friends a million to one—no matter the line of work or play you’re interested in.”
“I understand. Will you help me?”
Crouch was already wondering what he could do. This wasn’t really an operation where he could send Russo and Alicia in. The damage was already done and couldn’t be regulated. Perhaps he and Caitlyn could at least do some research into the Santa Azalea.
“I can help with the past,” he said. “But your problem lies in the future.”
“Investigators will be working on catching these criminals,” Sally said without any sign of hope in her voice. “Maybe you could help identify items so that when they come up for sale, we can back-trace the culprits.”
“I’d be happy to help,” he said. “Send me all the details you have.”
“Already on your computer.”
Crouch smiled and said he’d call her later. As he sat back in his leather chair, raising a tepid cup of coffee to his lips, another thought popped into his mind. Another old friend by the name of Hugh Duggan was a master archaeological investigator working out of Oxford Uni. Crouch remembered Hugh having some kind of obsession with the Manila galleons many years ago, comparing them to the shipwrecked legendary pirate vessels of the Caribbean, assuring Crouch that they went down with even more loot.
Hugh might be interested in this.
Crouch reached for the phone.
CHAPTER FIVE
“I will look into the potential perpetrators,” Crouch said. “You start with the Manila galleons.”
Hugh Duggan nodded, his fine shock of gray hair bobbing around his shoulders. Duggan was a fit man in his mid-fifties with piercing blue eyes and the faintest trace of a Birmingham accent that private schooling hadn’t quite been able to filter out. He tapped his fingers often when he was thinking hard and enjoyed rolling his thoughts back and forth with others. Where Crouch liked to work quickly, Duggan enjoyed a good laid-back investigative session.
“Huggan?”
“Yeah, yeah I heard you. I nodded.”
Crouch cracked a smile when Duggan threw a long-suffering glance at him. The nickname Huggan, a fusing together of his friend’s first and second names, had started way back in high school.
Crouch turned his attention to the job at hand. Where to start? There couldn’t be more than a few crews in the world with the expertise to pull this off. Crouch settled back into his plush leather chair and plucked a cup of coffee from the table, drinking half its contents.
Crouch was an ex-SAS soldier, an ex-SAS captain and an ex-leader of the infamous Ninth Division—a covert British Special Forces team made up of the best of the best and used only when the situation was deemed beyond saving.
Thirty years of making contacts had already paid off handsomely in Crouch’s new life.
Crouch had some of the best contacts in
the world. He was renowned for it. But this particular challenge was going to need more than contacts, it was going to take some brain power too. Every agency collected records on known criminals, on suspected thieves, but robbers operating on the ocean bed, working as proficiently as this crew must have? That was a whole new scenario.
But a thief was a thief, and Crouch knew good men that could introduce parameters to the search to narrow it down. The best in the business was a man named Armand Argento, a fiery Italian and Interpol agent who spoke at the fast, clipped rate of a sub-machine gun.
“Armand!” Crouch cried into the phone, finding himself slipping straight into the Italian’s way of speaking the moment he heard his friend say: “Hello?”
“Is that you, Michael Crouch? Where have you been? It has been too long, eh?”
“Truly, truly,” Crouch said, for some reason now trying to temper the Italian’s enthusiasm by speaking like Eeyore. “How have you been?”
“Ah, buono. I am good, amico mio. But you have not called to ask me that.”
“No, Armand, I have not. We have come across a rather strange case that I thought you might have some interest in.”
Crouch laid it out quickly the way Sally Hope had laid it out for him. At the end he paused for a while, allowed Argento to soak it in.
“Underwater treasure thieves,” Argento perused. “That may be a new one.”
“May be?”
“This salvage ship, it was right there the whole time?”
“The ship was. Not all of the crew were present all of the time.”
“All right. There has been no officially reported theft to my knowledge?” Argento let it hang.
This was the tricky part. “Armand, she owes a fortune. If the news got out that the treasure her father crippled his company for wasn’t there, they’d go down overnight. Thousands of jobs lost. Families unable to pay their bills. Miss Hope wants this done quietly and I agree.”
Argento let out a whistle. “If it was anyone else, amico mio, anyone else... I would insist.”
“Anyone?”
Argento gave a bark of a laugh. “Well, not everyone, I guess. Aaron Trent and Claire Collins would get a pass. Drake. Alicia. Hayden Jaye. Carrie Webber.”
Crouch knew them all except the last. “Who?”
“One of Britain’s best operatives, Michael. You never heard of Rogue?”
Ah, of course. “We haven’t crossed paths yet.”
“Be careful when you do. She’s deadly.”
“I’ll bear that in mind, Armand. So, any ideas?”
“Ah, you will have to leave this with me. I can’t click, click, click and give you the answer. I should do my thing first.”
Crouch grunted. “You do your thing, Armand, and get back to me. Sooner the better, my friend.”
“I know that.”
Argento hung up. Crouch gazed out of the window for a few minutes, cast his eyes over a rear garden with flat, manicured lawns surrounded by thick, high trees and rolling fields beyond, and then turned to Duggan.
“Argento’s good. He’s a fast worker. He’ll call back soon.”
Duggan nodded. “Give him chance. It’s already afternoon, and later over there. I know you’re fretting for Sally, but we still have time.”
“Fretting?”
“Oh, I apologize. Do the SAS not fret?”
“Don’t even know the meaning of that word.”
“Of course. Well, you know how I like to do things. Start big and narrow it down. I’m assuming you’ve heard of the Manila galleons. Legendary treasure ships sailing in an armada twice a year from Manila in the Philippines to Acapulco in Mexico, and then back again. They were laden with all the precious cargos the Spanish could lay their hands on and bound for trade throughout the world. The goods created an educational and social exchange that helped shape the personalities and art of all the countries involved. These ships literally joined and changed the world. The years... we’re talking 1565 to 1815, approximately, forty years after Magellan discovered the Philippines and then died there. The renowned Sir Francis Drake was also around at this time and fought and captured several Manila galleons himself. The first incentive for people to explore what we now call California was to locate potential way-stations for these sea-weary vessels approaching the end of their journey. So you see... they helped shape the world we know.”
Crouch nodded, happy to let Duggan talk. He could see the Oxford professor in Duggan’s manner, in his words. It hadn’t always been that way.
“We’ve come a long way from scrapping in the schoolyard, Huggan.”
His friend looked up, startled. “Oh wow, I’d forgotten all about that.”
“That’s because I bloodied your nose.”
Duggan laughed in fond memory. “The only fight I’ve ever had.”
Crouch blinked, wondering if his friend was pulling his leg. But he was thinking like a soldier. Maybe normal people didn’t fight all the time. Maybe they led quieter lives, existences that Crouch could barely imagine.
“It’s good to have you on board with this,” he said.
Duggan laughed. “Is that a crafty analogy on your part, Michael?”
Crouch laughed. “What else do you have?”
“Right. Well, trade with Ming China by way of Manila was extremely lucrative, as you can imagine. I have one snippet that may help us right here—as a result of Spain’s constant attempts to control the galleon trade, the knowledge of a ship’s cargo was commonplace.”
Crouch raised an eyebrow. “I see. Which explains why certain manifests are inaccurate.”
Duggan nodded. “People will always bypass the system when overbearing leaders try to control their every action. Especially when those leaders are lining their own pockets, assuming their pathetic actions cannot be seen.”
Crouch squinted at Duggan, seeing deeper meaning beneath his words, but deciding to keep his old friend on track for now. “Sailors’ and public records are something we could use.”
“Some survived,” Duggan said. “Of that you can be sure. Back then, most of these seaman had no lives, no families. If they didn’t go back out to sea they would have settled where they hit solid ground.”
“Acapulco,” Crouch said.
“Or nearby. One of our next steps will be to dig out old land maps. We should get to know places and their eighteenth century names sooner rather than later.”
Crouch nodded, firing up his computer. He could take a hint. “I’ll do that. You carry on with the galleon research.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
Crouch began his research. Outside, the sun was setting, a plethora of crimson rays shooting through the swaying trees, catching his attention and dazzling his eyes.
He got up to shut the blinds.
When he looked down into the garden he felt his heart lurch. “Shit,” he said, whirling toward Duggan. “We’re in trouble.”
CHAPTER SIX
Crouch forced down a surge of surprise as he turned to face Duggan. “Move,” he said. “With me.”
“What is it?” Duggan responded to the grim expression on Crouch’s face.
“Not sure. Mercenaries, at least.”
Duggan blinked rapidly. “Mercenaries?”
“Don’t worry. They’re not as tough as they seem.”
Duggan didn’t look like he believed him. Crouch pushed the man to the back of the room where an adjoining door opened onto a narrow corridor that ran down the rear of the property. Crouch hurried along it, seeing no movement out of the windows.
“Maybe they left,” Duggan said.
But Crouch’s trained ear could hear all the telltale noises that Duggan’s couldn’t. The forced opening of a door and a window, which pointed to two separate entry points—two crews—boots on the stairs, the low drone of a car’s engine outside the rear fence indicating at least one getaway car.
“What have you gotten me into?” Duggan was starting to panic.
Crouch pushed him
to get his legs moving faster. “I have no idea, but don’t worry. I’ll sort this out.”
Using his cellphone, he sent an emergency text which would go to all the members of his team, advising them that he was in trouble. Then, he called the cops. Finally, as they reached the end of the corridor, he grabbed one end of a protruding bookcase.
“Help me.”
Duggan caught hold too. Together, they swung the heavy piece of equipment to one side. Hinges creaked. Crouch gazed at the items presented within.
“It’s not a safe room,” Duggan commented. “I thought it would be a safe room.”
“I’m a soldier,” Crouch said. “We don’t think ‘safe room.’ We think ‘fight back.’”
He unsnapped a Glock, several mags, and a Heckler and Koch submachine-gun from a wooden rack. He started to hand a spare Glock to Duggan, but the man looked so scared he decided giving him the gun might be the greater of two evils.
The silence that surrounded them and the whole house was more than creepy. Knowing that men were inside your place, hunting you, and yet hearing no sound of their approach was something that could debilitate most people. But not Crouch. He pushed Duggan through a far door and then paused as they entered a dark, oak-paneled library. High shelves touched the ceiling, crammed with a selection of hardbacks, paperbacks and photo frames. All sentimental items. Crouch took a quick look at one of the corner monitors.
A yellow light was flashing.
“They’re upstairs,” he said. “Stay quiet.”
Duggan looked terrified. And Crouch hadn’t yet told him that there was no way out. Their only option was to hold the mercenaries off until help arrived. As yet, there were no sirens whooping in the early night. A quick check of his phone told him every member of the Gold Team had responded and were on their way.
ETAs were not good.
We’re on our own.
Crouch barred the library door with a chair. It would give them time. He could hear the mercs now, clearing the rooms one by one, no doubt getting increasingly worried on finding each one empty. The voices were getting nearer and then he heard boots approaching down the corridor.
Galleon's Gold Page 3
