“So we can strike any historical earthquakes as a reference?” Sam replied.
“Exactly. The next best clue is that the boys want to speak directly to Poseidon. With that reference, we can rule out anytime after Christianity firmly took hold in the area—which makes it more than likely the third century A.D. or earlier. The boys’ names were somewhat common in ancient Greece, which is no help. One name from the story stands out, primarily because it isn’t Greek. Pactyes. The spelling varies, but the name is prominent in Lydian history, especially around 546 B.C.”
“Lydian?” Sam asked.
“Turkey,” Remi whispered, “before it was Turkey.”
“How do you remember this stuff?” he whispered back.
She shrugged as Selma continued, saying, “King Cyrus conquered Lydia, invaded Sardis, the capital, and entrusted the Sardis treasury to a Lydian named Pactyes, who was supposed to take the gold back to Persia. Instead, he hired mercenaries to steal it. In short, if this Pactyes mentioned in your children’s book is the Lydian Pactyes, then it’s no wonder someone’s bent on killing over the whole thing.”
“Why’s that?” Sam asked.
Remi’s brows went up as she turned toward him. “Surely you’ve heard the term ‘rich as Croesus’?”
“Exactly,” Selma replied. “King Croesus was reported as being one of the wealthiest monarchs in history. And, while Pactyes was eventually captured somewhere in the Greek islands by King Cyrus’s army, there’s no record that the stolen Sardis treasury was ever recovered.”
“So, is there a Poseidon’s Trident?” Sam asked her.
“Unfortunately, there are very few written records that describe Poseidon’s Trident as being anything other than a spear wielded by the god himself. Since the book suggests otherwise, I thought it might be prudent to find an expert who could possibly guide you on ancient children’s fables.”
“Are you saying you found someone?”
“The closest I could get was the classical literature expert from the University of the Aegean, Professor Pallas Alexandris. If you can get to Samos, the professor is willing to meet you. I’ve cc’d you on the email. There should be a response waiting.”
“I’ll take it from there. Thanks, Selma.” He checked his email, finding that the professor had forwarded the ferry schedule for their convenience. After emailing back that he would head over that afternoon, he looked at Remi. “I don’t suppose there’s any use in suggesting you stay here while I head to Samos?”
“You can always suggest. I just don’t know how much good it’ll do.”
“We’d better head to the port and pick up our ferry tickets.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Minerva Heibert Kyril let herself into Adrian’s office, then took a seat at his desk, leaning back with a tired sigh.
As much as she didn’t like having to see her son locked up like some common criminal, what choice did she have? It had taken her decades to rebuild what had once been a thriving family business.
Her gaze strayed to a painting on the wall of a World War I plane. The Hawk of Macedonia, flown by Kurt Heibert, one of her granduncles. She’d found the work of art gathering dust in a basement after inheriting the crumbling Heibert estate from her father. It was her other uncle, Admiral Erich Heibert, however, whom she had been interested in, primarily because her own father had been obsessed when he’d learned about the admiral’s history—even naming her Minerva after the now-defunct shipping line the man had been involved with.
Her granduncle’s criminal enterprise, run under the name Bruno von Till, was not something that Minerva had ever publicly discussed. Certainly not with her husband, and definitely not with Adrian, who had clearly inherited the Heibert propensity for crime.
Poor Adrian. The Kyril men, while handsome, were not known for their intelligence.
She leaned back in her chair, wondering if she’d kept a tighter rein on the boy, would they have avoided this whole sordid mess? Her husband, the senior Adrian Kyril, had always been perfectly content to sit back and let her handle the more important matters of their business. The only reason she had married him was for the capital she’d needed to rebuild the Heibert empire. Adrian Sr.—as the public face of the olive oil business and the charities they headed up, loved by all who met him—had never delved too deeply into her affairs, for which she was grateful. He did, however, want children, which was how Adrian Jr. came to be.
And now she was left to clean up the mess their son had made.
Again.
She tapped her fingers on the desktop, eyeing the empty spot where Adrian’s computer had been, as well as the empty file drawer to her left—all of it taken by the police in their search of the premises.
A soft knock at the door alerted her to Ilya’s arrival. “Come in.”
Adrian’s friend and security adviser entered the room, closing the door behind him. “My apologies for being tardy.”
She waved her hand at him. “I’ve only just arrived myself. Sit.”
He pulled a chair to the desk.
“I’m glad,” she said, once he was seated, “that the police didn’t destroy the property in their search.”
Ilya gave a slight nod.
“What I don’t understand,” she continued, “is how this started?”
“Your son was looking for Poseidon’s Trident.”
She was certain she’d misunderstood. When she asked Ilya to repeat himself, she was stunned. “Explain.”
“It may be one of the greatest treasure finds in Greek history. Adrian hoped that by locating it, his financial difficulties would be solved.”
Another of Adrian’s faults. He had no concept of what a budget was. Giving him this home was a last-ditch effort to help him put his life in order. All he had to do was pay for the upkeep and the property taxes, something he should have easily been able to do on the salary he earned sitting on the board of their olive oil empire. Sadly, he couldn’t even manage that. Chasing after this Poseidon’s Trident, when he was near bankruptcy, was one more example of his lack of common sense. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”
“It seemed like a harmless diversion—one that would keep him out of the business. Who knew he’d decide to kill the man who was helping him?”
“Do you think they’ll be able to prove murder?”
“I doubt they’ll be able to prove anything there. I saw nothing, and Fayez would never talk. It could very well have been an accident. That he slipped.”
“Except the kidnapping,” she said. “That sort of negates that it was all innocent.” She tapped her fingers on the desktop again. “I pay you good money to keep him out of trouble. I don’t understand how things have gotten so out of hand.”
“Things were going fine, until Sam Fargo happened.”
“Exactly who is this Sam Fargo I keep hearing about?”
“I’ve made a few inquiries, but there isn’t much known.”
“Surely you’ve found something?” she asked.
“Other than he works in a California grocery store as a shelf stocker, no. I do have this, though.” He took out his phone and showed her a surveillance video from their olive oil processing facility.
Within a few short minutes, she watched as the man blew up the pallet load on the back of the truck, effecting their escape from the island after killing one guard and taking down the other two. “Show that to me again.”
He started it from the beginning, telling her, “Based on what a few of my men have said, he’s extremely competent in hand-to-hand combat. His skill set, the way he easily broke into your son’s office, and what you see him doing here in the video, suggests he’s a very competent adversary. Definitely a good shot. And he also managed to convince the two who came after him that they’d successfully killed him in a boat explosion.”
Her brows went up. “Do
you mean to tell me that this man”—she nodded at the screen—“has a job whose sole purpose is to put things on shelves in a grocery store? I find that hard to believe. He must be a spy. Or a government agent.”
“I suppose that possibility exists. But my source tells me otherwise.”
Frustrated, Minerva pushed back her chair, then rose, walking to the window to look out. Now that the weather was once again clear, Adrian’s latest flame, Phoebe, was in the pool, swimming. The girl was the last hope that the Heibert name might continue on. Perhaps young Phoebe’s genes might lend a better mix to the Kyril-Heibert line. “Has she heard about the charges?”
“Not yet. I didn’t think it my place to tell her.”
“I suppose I should sit down and have a chat with the poor girl.”
Ilya cleared his throat.
“What is it?” she asked without turning around.
“Are you actually planning to let your son take the blame?”
“He committed the crimes.”
“He did.”
Minerva looked back at him. “Would you rather it was you or I sitting in that jail cell?”
“No.”
“Then Adrian it is. For now.” She cocked her head to the window. “Perhaps, if I’m lucky, I’ll have a granddaughter to carry on the bloodline.”
Ilya’s gaze flicked to the window, but he said nothing.
With a sigh, she returned to the desk, sitting. “Where were we?”
“Sam Fargo.”
“Yes. Do you think he found anything on our island?”
“No. There was no product there at the time. Containers only. As soon as Dimitris was discovered, they stopped the shipment.”
“And where is it?”
“Awaiting your orders.”
“We’ll have to stop all shipments for now. I expect the police will be watching us even closer.” She held her hand out. “May I see that video again?”
He unlocked his phone and slid it toward her.
She scrolled through the video, pausing as the man shot out the truck tire, causing the pallet to explode. “It appears he knew that the explosive was set to go off if the weight shifted.”
“I would agree.”
That smacked of more than just luck and skill. The man had to have had some sort of training, she thought, watching as he shot out the lights a moment before killing a guard. “I don’t suppose there’s any way we could use this against him?”
“Not unless you want to explain why they were holding Dimitris against his will.”
“I suppose you’re right.” With a heavy sigh, she returned the phone to him. “As soon as things calm down, I want that heroin out of here. I hate to think I sacrificed my son for nothing. As for this Sam Fargo, what is it you’re planning?”
“Already implemented. The men who were following him last night informed me that he and the woman with him are boarding a ferry to Samos.”
“Do you know why?”
“I have no idea.”
“Find out. Then take care of him. All of them. I can’t imagine they’ll be able to prosecute Adrian if every one of the witnesses are dead.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
After Sam and Remi stored their rented motorcycle and helmets in the ferry’s hold, they headed up the stairs to find a spot on the crowded upper deck. The weather was clear, and the waters calm, once the vessel departed, and the two found a couple of seats near the stern.
Sam, his hair slightly damp from the sea mist that sprayed over the side, recognized quite a few of the passengers who were residents of Fourni. Perhaps because of everything they’d been through, he found himself scrutinizing everyone on board. There were two men who caught his attention. He’d seen them talking on the pier as they waited for the ferry to arrive. The taller of the two, wearing a red ball cap and dark sunglasses, seemed familiar, but Sam couldn’t place him. It was possible he was simply a Fourni islander. Once on board, the man took a seat inside, and Sam didn’t see him again. The second man, however, had followed them out to the deck, and stood not ten feet away from Sam and Remi.
Never once looking their way.
It was that last part that bothered Sam, because he and every other passenger on that boat had nothing better to do than look at each other for the one-and-a-half-hour ferry ride into Pythagorio. Not wanting to alarm Remi in light of their near miss on the road the night before, he said nothing. Had Manos and Denéa not driven up when they did, he couldn’t help but wonder if the car might have made a second attempt at running them down. Of course, it was highly possible that Sam was simply being paranoid—easy to do, considering all that had happened to them.
For now, he kept his eye on the man, hoping he was wrong. Remi, apparently, noticed his interest. “Something going on?”
“You didn’t happen to notice that man at the pier, did you?”
She glanced to her left, then looked away, giving no indication that she was at all bothered by his presence. “No. Have you heard back from Selma about where we’re supposed to meet the professor?”
He checked his phone, realizing he should have had Selma send a text to Remi’s sat phone instead. “No signal. We probably won’t get one until we reach port.”
As they neared Pythagorio, the red-tile-roofed houses, set high on the hills, overlooked the busy marina filled with yachts and fishing boats. Gulls flew overhead, one calling out as it dropped down, skimming the surface in search of food.
“It’s beautiful,” Remi said as the ferry backed into the terminal.
Sam paid little attention, his focus on the one man, who hurried inside, getting lost among the passengers filing toward the exit. He and Remi followed, only to find the man lingering near the steep stairs. Seemingly in no hurry to leave, he was focused on his phone screen, glancing up with casual interest as Sam and Remi walked past. He lifted his phone to his ear, speaking to someone on the other end, unfortunately in Greek. The taller man was nowhere in sight.
Sam, following Remi down the stairs to the lower deck, leaned toward her, asking, “You didn’t happen to catch any of that conversation, did you?”
“He said hello to his mother and that the ferry had arrived.”
Definitely not what Sam was expecting. He glanced up the stairs, seeing the man waving other people past him as he continued his call. “Maybe I was wrong.”
“Let’s hope so.”
His suspicion rose when he noticed one of two vehicles stored in the hold. One was a navy-blue compact car with a rental sticker on the windshield. Though he couldn’t be sure, since it had been dark at the time, it was close in size and color to the car that had nearly run him and Remi off the road.
Remi saw him looking at the vehicle. “Please tell me we’re simply being paranoid and that’s not the same car.”
“I wish we were down here when they loaded it. It would’ve been nice to see who was behind the wheel.” Sam handed Remi her helmet, then glanced up in time to see the man in the red ball cap and dark glasses walking past. “There’s the other guy. He seems familiar.”
“I was thinking the same. Maybe the car’s his?”
But the man walked past, disembarking on foot with the other passengers.
“Guess not,” Sam said.
Remi put on her helmet, and climbed on the motorcycle behind Sam. He cruised down the ramp onto the pier, weaving around the long line of cars that were waiting to pick up or drop off passengers.
Although Sam could’ve parked in the lot adjacent to the pier and marina, he decided it might be best to put some space between them and the men from the ferry—just in case. He found a parking space in front of a busy souvenir shop. Leaving their helmets with the motorcycle, they walked down to the waterfront. While Remi asked for directions to Elia, the restaurant chosen by the professor, Sam moved out far enough to watch the people leavin
g the ferry. The blue rental car was locked in a logjam of taxis and other vehicles that had all converged at the pier, unfortunately too far away to see who was at the wheel.
The man in the red ball cap, he noticed, was well in front of the blue car, strolling through the parking lot, not seeming to be in a hurry at all.
Remi walked up, looking. “I suppose that means we were wrong about them?”
“So it would seem.” He glanced at her. “Did you find out where the restaurant is?”
“Elia is at the very end of the marina.” She pointed to their left.
Hand in hand, they walked along the stone-paved waterfront past a number of busy restaurants, all with tables set on the patios facing the harbor. Elia was the very last restaurant. A light breeze swept in off the water, fluttering the pale green tablecloths. No one seemed to be waiting for them.
“You’re sure we have the right time?” Remi asked.
Sam checked the email. “Elia. Two o’clock . . . According to Selma, Dr. Alexandris looks like a professor.”
“Did she really say that?” Remi surveyed the nearby patrons. “Exactly what does a professor look like, in her opinion?”
“She didn’t say. Sherlock Holmes? Tweed jacket and a pipe?”
“You’re sure you’re not thinking of Dr. Watson?”
“Watson doesn’t smoke a pipe, does he?”
“‘Ship’s tobacco,’ to be exact,” Remi said. “More importantly, what makes you think the professor is male?”
He nodded to their left at a man sitting at a corner table. Early fifties, his brown hair flecked with gray, his attention was on a newspaper as he nursed a glass of beer. “That’s got to be him.”
“Sam Fargo?” a woman called out from the opposite direction.
He and Remi turned to see a silvered-haired woman in her late sixties sitting at a table on the other side of the aisle. She stood, waving them over.
Wrath of Poseidon Page 23
