“I’m fine. Thank you.” Sam studied the map, noting grid marks drawn in various places in the water around the island, some in black, some in red. “What are these?”
“Shipwrecks,” Nikos said, joining him. “The red areas are where we’re currently mapping. The black are documented wrecks that we’ll get to in the future.”
“Where were Remi and Dimitris when you last saw them?”
He tapped an area in the lower left quadrant of the map. “Here. You actually passed by it on the ferry. It’s where we found the Asteri,” he replied. “Another reason I know they weren’t diving. The sonar wasn’t reeled in. My son knows how important this site and the equipment is to our group. He would never treat it so carelessly.”
The office door opened. Both turned to see a petite woman in her early thirties walk in. Her shoulder-length wavy brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, her cheeks pink from the wind. She paused just inside the doorway, regarding them with her bright blue eyes. “Sorry we’re late,” she said.
“We only just arrived,” Nikos replied. “Where’s Manos?”
She glanced behind her as a bearded man walked through the door a moment later.
“Good, good,” Nikos said, waving them in. “Manos Mitikas is responsible for helping start the documentation and preservation of all the Fourni shipwrecks. His girlfriend, Denéa Buckingham, is from Australia. They’re helping with the search.” After Sam shook hands with both, Nikos looked at the young couple expectantly. “Any news?”
“Not yet,” Manos said. “We’re heading back out after lunch.”
Nikos gave a brief nod, then turned to Sam, his face looking haggard and drawn. “Where were we? Ah, yes. The boat . . .”
“Where is it now?”
“Docked. We passed it on our way in. The port police examined it, but maybe you’ll see something?”
“Can’t hurt.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Sam and Nikos boarded the Asteri, which was, as Nikos said, empty. No blood, nothing to indicate anything violent had happened. “Who discovered the boat?” Sam asked.
“One of the local fishermen found it not too far from where they were working. The only thing left on the boat was an empty camera bag, and Remi’s backpack. That’s where we found her sat phone.”
“What about where Remi was staying? Has anyone taken a look there?”
“Not that I know of. She was staying in one of the cottages down in Kampi.”
They took Nikos’s car, a small white Suzuki sedan, which was parked at the port. The village of Kampi was to the south of Fourni, less than five minutes away. The main road turned off to the right, then veered sharply on the steep road, ending in a cul-de-sac about halfway down the hill. Nikos parked, then led Sam down a long, narrow staircase into the small beach community.
Remi’s cottage was located at the far end of the beach. A jingle of bells caught Sam’s attention and he looked up to see several goats grazing on the low shrubs sprouting from the otherwise barren rocks that jutted out next to the cottage.
Nikos, seeing the direction of his gaze, smiled. “Goats. You’ll see them everywhere on the island.” He opened a low gate into the courtyard of a small white house with dark turquoise trim around the windows and door. “This was Remi’s.”
Sam checked the door. Locked. “Do you have the key?”
He dug a ring from his pocket and opened the door.
Everything seemed in order. Assuming Remi had been the last person in there, the bed appeared slept in, but neatly made. A carry-on and two larger suitcases were stacked in a corner by the bed. Yup, that’s Remi, prepared for any occasion. In the closet, he saw a neat row of sandals, boat shoes, and barely-worn hiking boots. There was even an evening dress and fancy strappy red shoes with high heels that women love to wear. They walked out to the kitchen. A table and two chairs were set up before a window that looked out over the quiet bay. An empty coffee cup sat in the sink. Other than that, everything seemed to be in its place.
So much for his detective skills. If there were any clues to be found, he wasn’t having any luck.
Outside, Nikos led Sam across the courtyard to a set of stairs that led up onto the roof, giving him a view of the entire beach. A boy sat on a wooden dock to the left, fishing. A half-dozen moored boats of various sizes bobbed in the water just beyond him. “What about Dimitris?” Sam asked. “Where was he staying?”
“At home. With me. Unfortunately, no one saw either of them after they left. I’m not sure if you knew, but Remi’s camera was stolen. My nephew, Ares,” he said, nodding to the boy at the end of the dock, “was fishing from a skiff that morning. He told us that there was a strange boat in the area. Sadly, he didn’t see who was in it.”
“Do you mind if I talk to him?”
“Of course not. His English is not so good. But he’s learning.”
They walked to the end of the dock to talk to the boy. Nikos introduced them, adding, “Remi is Mr. Sam Fargo’s friend. He’s worried about her, and wants to know what you saw.” He repeated it in Greek, then translated the boy’s response, saying, “A speedboat driving away from the Asteri. He’s never seen it before . . . They’re not from around here.”
Which didn’t help. “Do you know what kind of boat?” Sam asked.
The boy drew his pole back, then flicked it forward in a perfect cast as Nikos translated. “Long and fast. For racing. There was a name on the side, but it was not written in Greek, so he couldn’t read it. Which,” Nikos added, “there are many of around the islands.”
Sam thanked Ares for his help. About to leave, he looked back at the boy. “Any chance you could draw the boat you saw?”
Nikos asked him, then nodded. “Maybe.”
Ares secured the hook upon the reel, tightened it, then set his pole on the dock. When they reached the beach, he jumped down into the sand, smoothed out a portion with his hand, and traced an outline of the boat, saying something to Nikos, who said, “It was long and dark, like this.”
Which didn’t narrow it down any, Sam thought, watching as the boy made a circle on the side of the boat, along with a few scribbles. As he drew, he spoke to Nikos, who in turn, said, “This is where the name of the boat was written. And the numbers.”
He drew the letter O, then poked his finger where the rest of the letters were, Nikos saying that he couldn’t recall the name. Then he added the numbers 1 and 4.
Sam did a double take. “What color was that boat?”
Apparently the boy understood that, because he said, “Black.”
Sam, wondering if he could have transposed the numbers, crouched down beside him, writing OMEGA 41 in the sand.
The boy nodded, speaking rapidly.
“That’s the name,” Nikos said.
“I may know where it is.”
Nikos glanced at the crude drawing, then at Sam. “You can tell from that drawing?”
“From the name and the color. It was heading toward a yacht in between here and Samos. Had I known, I would’ve paid more attention.”
“The police will want to know this.”
“Let’s make sure the yacht’s still there before we call. The more information we can give them, the better.”
They hurried back to the port. Within fifteen minutes, they were motoring away from Fourni toward the waters of Samos.
“There!” Sam said, pointing at the superyacht he’d seen earlier that day.
Nikos lifted his binoculars. After a few seconds, he handed them to Sam. “If that is the same yacht, I’m not sure the police can help. The Mirage belongs to Adrian Kyril.”
“Why would that make a difference?”
“There are those who believe that the billions the Kyrils have made from exporting olive oil really comes from their ties to organized crime. The rumors are unproven, mostly because no one can get close en
ough to the Kyrils to prove anything.”
Sam studied the yacht through the binoculars. In his mind, a vessel that size had far too many places to hide hostages. And if the Kyrils were, as Nikos said, part of some organized crime family, Sam suspected that once the police boarded—and failed to find Remi or Dimitris—it’d be the last anyone would see of either of them.
He immediately called Rube to update him on this newest detail. “How long until you can get a team out here to rescue them?”
“Through the proper channels? Tomorrow at the earliest. There’s a team in Italy. How sure are you that she’s on that boat?”
“Does gut instinct count?”
“Between you and me? Yes. To my bosses? Before they commit any resources, they’re going to need some firm evidence to back that up.”
“I can give them some once I’m on board.”
“Do me a favor? Let me see what I can do before you do anything that gets you in trouble, which then gets me in trouble.”
“Keep them on speed dial,” Sam said. “If you don’t hear from me by morning, send them in after me.”
“Fargo, do not—”
Sam disconnected. By the time Rube gathered the necessary intel to put together a rescue operation, their window of opportunity might be gone.
“What did he say?” Nikos asked. “Can he help?”
“He can get a team out here by morning, if we can get evidence they’re on board.”
“That’s a long time from now. And how do we get evidence?”
“Too long, and we get it the old-fashioned way, in person.” Sam took one last look at the yacht, then lowered the binoculars. “Which is why I plan on going in after dark.”
Nikos nodded. “I’ll go with you.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea. If it goes wrong, I’ll either end up dead or in jail. Someone’s got to make sure to tell Rube what happened. Then, make sure someone follows up.”
“But—”
“If I know you’re here to do that, I’ll be able to concentrate better.” He looked at his watch. A little after seven. “We have a few hours to get everything we need. First thing on the list, a very fast boat.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Remi, hands zip-tied in front of her, had her ear to the door, listening, while Dimitris, cuffed in similar fashion, searched the tiny cabin. Until ten minutes ago, they’d been held down in the tender garage very near the same speedboat they’d been kidnapped in. She wasn’t sure why they’d been moved to the small cabin one deck up. She was, however, grateful, since now they had water and a toilet, and no longer had to call out for a guard to escort them to the head.
During their time below, their captors hadn’t bothered to give them food or water, which told Remi they probably weren’t interested in how they were faring. No doubt their being thrown in this tiny cabin was more a matter of convenience for them, not their prisoners.
After standing at the door, she heard footsteps, then heard one of the guards saying, “Ilya’s on his way.”
That was a name she hadn’t heard before.
“Found something,” Dimitris said.
“Someone’s coming.”
She hurried to her spot on the floor. Dimitris stepped out of the head and sat next to her as the door opened. A guard stepped in, his hand on his pistol. A second stood just outside, his posture straightening as a third man finally walked up and entered the cabin. Several inches taller than the other two, he had dark curly hair, and a thin mustache covering his upper lip. He wore a charcoal gray suit and a white shirt, open at the collar. The sheen of the material told her this was not something off the rack. The fit told her it was definitely custom-made.
Ilya, no doubt.
He took one look at Dimitris and Remi, then spoke to the lead guard in Greek, asking, “Why are they here and not down below as usual?”
“We’re short-staffed. It’s easier to watch them from here.”
Ilya’s gaze narrowed and he suddenly switched to Italian—rebuking the man for discussing staffing levels in front of the prisoners.
Remi, who only spoke what she considered passable Greek, happened to be fluent in Italian. She listened impassively, as though she understood none of it—not an easy task, considering that they suddenly switched subjects and were now discussing how best to kill the two of them.
“We could just throw them overboard,” the guard said.
“You’d have been better off killing them on their boat. Imagine the inquiries on why two divers were kidnapped, murdered, then dumped. The last thing he needs is to bring attention to the island.” Who “he” might be, Remi didn’t know. Ilya might be the one in charge here, but it seemed apparent that he answered to someone else, a fact confirmed when he took out his phone and looked at the screen, which lit up with an incoming call. He answered in Greek, saying, “It’s being take care of.” When he disconnected, he directed his attention to the guard, switching back to Italian. “We’ll put out a ransom demand to string them along.”
“For how much?”
“Does it matter? The American authorities are already speculating that they’ve been kidnapped by pirates. In a few days, you can dump their bodies in Turkish waters.”
In English, Remi asked, “What do you want from us?” When they ignored her, she added, “If you’re going to hold us down here, can you please remove the ties?”
Ilya started to turn away.
“Unless,” she added, “you think we can fit through that porthole?” She gave a pointed look to the tiny, round window.
He walked out, telling the guard, “If they make any attempt to escape, shoot them.”
The guard closed the door, locking it from the outside. Remi waited until she no longer heard their footsteps. “What’d you find?”
“Manicure kit. We can cut our ties.” He slid a small black case from beneath his shirt. Opening it, he showed her a set of plier-style toenail clippers, and a nail file. “I guess they didn’t do a thorough search.”
“I gathered from their conversation that this cabin isn’t normally used as a prisoner hold.” When he started to pull out the clippers to cut their zip ties, she stopped him. “Not yet. If they check on us before we’re ready, we’re not likely to get another chance.”
“I didn’t think of that.” He hid the case beneath his shirt once more. “What else were they saying?”
“Besides that they’re going to kill us? Ilya was angry that one of the guards slipped up and mentioned they were short-staffed. Too bad. We might have had a better chance of escaping through the tender garage.” She eyed the cardboard cases of cola stacked on the lowest berth. “The good news is that we won’t die of thirst.”
“Cola or lemon-lime?”
“Cola. I can use the caffeine.”
He tore open one of the cases, gave her a can, then took one for himself.
She sank to the floor, cracked open her soda, and took a long sip, the room-temperature carbonation bubbles burning her dry throat. “There’s got to be some way we can get out of here. I have someone waiting for me in the States.”
She stopped, surprised by what just came out of her mouth. I’m an independent woman with a career, a future for myself. And now I’m longing for someone who would find me because the North Star is always there.
“They’re going to murder us and that’s what you think of?”
“What about you and Zoe? Aren’t you thinking of her? I saw it in your eyes.”
“Well, I heard it in your voice.”
She stared down at the open can in her hands. As odd as it was for them to be discussing her future love life, it was exactly what she needed to stay calm, keep her head, and not let the stress overtake her. “I at least want a chance to find out if he’s the one.”
“What makes him so special?”
“Good q
uestion.” It wasn’t the way he’d raced into the water to rescue that surfer. If anything, his actions that afternoon seemed . . . daring, even reckless. Definitely not the sort of man she’d ever dated before. It was just two weeks that they had dated. But what a two weeks it turned out to be. Spur of the moment. To places she’d only dreamed of. And at a pace she could hardly keep up with. Helicopters appearing out of nowhere. Kelp diving off Catalina. Long walks on the beach. The cliff top. Where he’d said they would build their home.
“He’s sharp, witty, loves the ocean. And if you ignore the fact we come from two completely different worlds, almost a perfect match.”
“Almost?”
“I’m reserving judgment.” Her parents definitely wouldn’t approve. That brought a smile to her face. As much as she loved them, she’d felt stifled by their carefully orchestrated attempts to keep her firmly entrenched in Boston society. It was the main reason she’d taken the lower-paying translator job in California, when there was a higher-paying position with the same company in Boston. And now, faced with the threat of death, wondering if she’d ever see her parents again, she didn’t regret it at all. Well, maybe just a little bit.
“What about you?” she finally said, her voice cracking. “Tell me more about Zoe.”
He smiled. “We have always been together for as long as I can remember. But she is devoted to her grandfather and I’m afraid that as long as she is taking care of him she won’t marry me.”
“Have you asked her grandfather for permission to court her?”
“Not yet. I’m not sure I would like the answer. What about you? Do your parents know about . . . ?”
Wrath of Poseidon Page 7
