Spartan Gold

by Clive Cussler

  Remi said, “Says here Rio nell’Elba is the rock-hunting capital of Tuscany. They’re still finding mines that date back to the Etruscans.”

  They found a parking spot across from the Hermitage of Santa Caterina and got out. According to Yvette, their contact, a man named Umberto Cipriani, was the assistant curator of the Museo dei Minerali, the Mining Museum. Remi got herself oriented on the map and they started walking, finding the museum ten minutes later. As they crossed the piazza Sam said, “Here, let me take your picture. Stand in front of the fountain.”

  She did as he asked, smiled for several shots, then rejoined Sam, who called up the images on the camera’s LCD screen. “We should take another, Sam, I’m a little out of focus.”

  “I know. Look at what is in focus. Smile, look pleased.”

  Remi peered more closely at the image. Fifty feet behind her blurred figure she could see the hood of a cream-colored car jutting from the mouth of a shadowed alley. Behind the wheel a man stared at them through a pair of binoculars.

  CHAPTER 24

  Playing the carefree tourist, Remi smiled and pressed her face against Sam’s as they looked at the LCD screen. “Our friendly tailgaters,” she whispered through her smile. “A coincidence?”

  “I’d like to think so, but the binoculars make me nervous. Unless he’s an urban bird-watcher—”

  “Or he’s stalking an ex-girlfriend—”

  “I think we’d better assume the worst.”

  “Do you see the other one around, the one with the mustache?”

  “No. Come on, let’s go in. Act casual. Don’t look around.”

  They entered the museum, stopped at the welcome desk, and asked for Cipriani. The receptionist picked up the phone and spoke a few words in Italian, and a few moments later a portly man with thinning salt-and-pepper hair appeared in the doorway to their right.

  “Buon giorno,” the man said. “Posso aiutarla?”

  “You’re up, Remi,” Sam said. While they both spoke several languages, Italian had for some reason always flummoxed him; Remi was the same way with German, which came naturally to Sam.

  “Buon giorno,” she said. “Signor Cipriani?”

  “Sì.”

  “Parla inglese?”

  Cipriani smiled broadly. “I speak English, yes. But your Italian is very good. How can I help you?”

  “My name is Remi Fargo. This is my husband, Sam.” They all shook hands.

  “I’ve been expecting you,” Cipriani said.

  “Is there somewhere we might speak in private?”

  “Certainly. My office is this way.”

  He led them down a short hallway to an office with a window overlooking the piazza. They all sat down and Sam pulled Yvette’s letter from his pocket and handed it across to Cipriani, who scanned it carefully, then handed it back.

  “Forgive me . . . may I see some identification, please?”

  Sam and Remi handed over their passports, then took them back when Cipriani was done. He asked, “And how is Yvette? Well, I hope.”

  “She is,” Sam replied. “She sends her regards.”

  “And her cat, Moira, it is well?”

  “It’s a dog, actually, and its name is Henri.”

  Cirpriani spread his hands and smiled sheepishly. “I’m a cautious man, perhaps overly so. Yvette has entrusted me with this matter. I want to be sure I’m worthy of it.”

  “We understand,” Remi said. “How long have you known her?”

  “Oh, twenty years or more. She has a villa here, outside the cas tello. There were some legal issues in connection to the land. I was able to help her.”

  “You’re an attorney?”

  “Oh, no. I simply know people who know people.”

  “I see. You’ll be able to help us?”

  “Of course. You simply want to examine the crypt? You don’t plan to move it?”

  “No.”

  “Then it should be very simple. However, just to be safe, we should wait until it is dark. We Elbans are a nosy lot. Have you a place to stay?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then you’ll stay with us, my wife and me.”

  Sam said, “We don’t want to—”

  “No imposition. You’ll be my guest. We’ll have some supper, then I’ll take you to the graveyard.”

  “Thank you.”

  “May we use your office for a few minutes?”

  “Of course. Take as much time as you need.”

  Cipriani left, shutting the door behind him. Sam pulled out their satellite phone and punched in Selma’s number, then waited through twenty seconds of clicks and buzzes. Selma’s voice came on the line: “Mr. Fargo. Everything okay?”

  “So far. Any trouble there?”

  “All’s quiet.”

  “I need you to check a license plate for me. Could be tricky; we’re on Elba. If you have trouble, call Rube Haywood.” He gave her the number to Cipriani’s office.

  “Okay, I’ll see what I can do. Be back to you shortly.”

  She called back twenty minutes later. “Took some doing, but as it turns out the Italian DMV database isn’t exactly what I’d call hacker-proof.”

  “Good to know,” Sam said.

  “The plate belongs to a tan Peugeot, correct?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Then I have bad news. It’s registered to a Polizia Provinciale officer. The Provincial Police. I’m sending you the specifics right now.”

  Sam waited three minutes until the e-mail finally arrived, scanned the contents, then thanked Selma and hung up. He filled Remi in. “Either I’ve been speeding and haven’t realized it, or someone’s interested in us,” he said.

  “If it were official they would have stopped us at the ferry in Rio Marina,” she replied.

  “Agreed.”

  “Well, at least we got some warning.”

  “And we know what our other pursuer’s face looks like.”

  At Cipriani’s suggestion they spent an hour exploring Rio nell’Elba, but they did so warily, taking care to stay within the village limits and close to crowds. They saw no sign of either the Peugeot or its occupants.

  Strolling arm in arm, Sam said, “Been thinking about what Yvette said—that she suspected Kholkov had already been here looking for Laurent’s crypt. Bondaruk knew we’d come here eventually. It was a logical step.”

  “So he sits back and lets us do the heavy lifting,” Remi replied.

  “It’s the smart move,” Sam said.

  At five thirty they returned to the museum to find Cipriani locking the front door and agreed to follow him home.

  His cottage was less than a mile away, sitting behind an olive orchard. Signora Cipriani, portly like her husband and with flashing brown eyes, greeted them with smiles and double cheek kisses as they walked up. She exchanged some rapid-fire Italian with Umberto, who ushered them onto the porch and toward a cluster of chairs. A curtain of white clematis hung from the eaves, creating a cozy alcove.

  “You’ll excuse us for a moment,” Umberto said. “My wife needs me in the kitchen for a moment.”

  Sam and Remi sat down and a few minutes later Umberto and his wife, whom he introduced as Teresa, reappeared with a tray and glasses. “You enjoy limoncello, I hope.”

  “We do,” Sam said.

  Limoncello was essentially lightly sugared lemonade cut by a healthy dose of vodka. “Cento anni di salute e felicità,” Umberto said, raising his glass. After they’d all sipped, he asked, “You know the toast—Cento anni di salute e felicità?”

  Remi thought for a moment and said, “A hundred years of health and happiness?”

  “Bravo! Drink up. We will eat shortly.”

  After supper they returned to the porch and sat in the dusk watching fireflies winking in the trees and sipping espresso. Inside they could hear dishes clinking as Teresa cleaned up. She’d adamantly refused Sam and Remi’s offer to help, ushering them outside with flaps of her apron.

  “Umberto, how l
ong have you lived here?” Sam asked.

  “All my life, and my family, going back . . . three hundred years? Yes, that’s right. When Mussolini came to power my father and my uncles joined the partisans and lived in these hills for years. When the British finally landed here in 1944—”

  “Operation Brassard,” Sam said.

  “Yes, that’s right. Very good. When the British came my father fought alongside the Royal Navy Commandos. He even received a decoration for it. I was still in my mother’s belly when the war ended.”

  “He survived the war?” Remi asked.

  “Yes, but none of my uncles did. They were captured and executed by a Nazi death squad Hitler sent to quash the partisans.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Cipriani spread his hands and shrugged: What can you do.

  Sam pulled his cell phone from his pocket and glanced at Remi, who nodded. They’d already discussed this. “Umberto, does this name look familiar to you?”

  Umberto took the phone, studied the screen a moment, then handed it back. “Oh, yes, of course. Carmine Bianco. First, let me ask: Where did you get this name?”

  “There was a car following us today. It’s registered to him.”

  “Bad business. Bianco is a police officer, but corrupt. He is in the pocket of the Unione Corse—the Corsican Mafia. Why would they be interested in you, I wonder?”

  “We don’t think it’s them,” Remi said. “We suspect they’re doing a favor for someone else.”

  “Ah. Not that it makes a difference. Bianco is an animal. Was it just him in the car?”

  Sam shook his head. “Another one: dark complected, handlebar mustache.”

  “He doesn’t sound familiar.”

  “Why don’t the police do something about this Bianco?” Remi asked. “You said he’s corrupt. Can’t they arrest him?”

  “On the mainland, perhaps, but out here, and on Sardinia and Corsica things are not quite that simple. I think I know the answer to this, but have to ask: I don’t suppose I could convince you to leave? Tonight, before Bianco does something?”

  Sam and Remi looked at one another and instinctively knew each other’s thoughts. Sam spoke for them: “Thanks, but we’ve got to see this through.”

  Umberto nodded somberly. “I thought as much.”

  Remi said, “We don’t want to put you and Teresa in danger. If you’ll give us directions to—”

  Umberto was already rising. “Nonsense. Wait here.” He went inside then returned a minute later carrying a shoebox. “You’ll need this,” he said, handing it over.

  Inside Sam found a genuine World War II-era nine-millimeter Luger pistol along with two full magazines.

  “My father liberated that from the Gestapo officer who executed my uncles. As my father told the story, the man no longer had any use for it.”

  Umberto smiled grimly at them and winked.

  “We can’t accept this,” Sam said.

  “Of course you can. When you’re done here, you can return it. Besides, I have another. My father was an exceptionally good liberator. Come, we’ll go now.”

  CHAPTER 25

  The graveyard to which Yvette had had Laurent’s remains moved had no name, Umberto told them, but it was hundreds of years old, dating back to when Elba was still a French protectorate. Nor was it on any map.

  They took the Lancia and followed the main road to the outskirts of the village then turned north, heading higher into the mountains, now in complete shadow as the sun set. After ten minutes Umberto, who was riding in the backseat, said, “Stop the car, please.”

  “What’s wrong?” Sam said.

  “Just pull over, please.”

  Sam did so, shutting off the headlights and coasting to a stop. Sam and Remi turned around to see Umberto rubbing his forehead. “I’ve done something terrible,” he murmured.

  “What?”

  “I’m leading you into a trap.”

  “What are you talking about?” Remi asked.

  “This afternoon, while we were still in town, Bianco came to my home. Teresa called me. He threatened to kill us if we didn’t help him.”

  “Why are you telling us this?”

  “The gun. My father took that gun from a man who was threatening his family, his friends. He was afraid, too, I am sure, just like I am, but he fought back. I have to do the same. I’m very sorry.”

  Sam and Remi were silent for a few minutes, then Remi said, “You told us. That’s enough. Are they waiting for us?”

  “No, but they’re coming.” He checked his watch. “Thirty minutes, no more. I am to let you open the crypt and recover whatever you’ve come for, then they’ll take it and kill you both, I imagine. And perhaps me as well.”

  “How many men?” Sam asked.

  “I don’t know.” Umberto pulled a spare magazine for his own Luger from his pocket and handed it over the seat to Sam. “The bullets in yours are dummies.”

  “Thanks, but why give us a gun at all?”

  “I wanted to gain your trust. I hope you can forgive me.”

  “We’ll let you know in an hour or so. If you cross us—”

  “You have my permission to shoot me.”

  “I’ll hold you to that,” Sam said, staring him in the eyes.

  Remi said, “What about Teresa? Won’t she—”

  “She’s already gone,” Umberto replied. “I have cousins in Nisporto; they’ll protect her.”

  “Well, we have the sat phone. Call the police. Umberto?”

  The Italian shook his head. “They wouldn’t get here in time.”

  “We can turn around or keep going and do our damnedest to get in and out before they get here.”

  “There are only two roads in and out of here,” Umberto said, “and Bianco will have both watched. You can be sure of that.”

  Remi looked at Sam. “You’re quiet.”

  “Thinking.” The engineer in him was looking for an elegant solution, but he quickly realized he was overthinking the situation. Much like with their initial run-in with Arkhipov at the boiler graveyard, they had neither the time nor the resources for a sophisticated plan.

  “Fortune favors the bold,” he finally said.

  “Oh, no. . . .”

  “He who dares, wins,” Sam added.

  “I know what that means,” Remi said.

  “What?” Umberto asked. “What’s happening?”

  “We’re going to make it up as we go along.”

  Sam started the car, put it in gear, and pulled out.

  They found the graveyard in a weed-filled meadow surrounded on three sides by hillocks covered in pine and cork trees. Only an acre in size, it was surrounded by a waist-high wrought-iron fence that had long ago been overtaken by rust and vines. Befitting the evening’s task, a low fog filled the meadow, swirling around the headstones and crypts. The sky was clear, showing a bright full moon.

  “Okay, I’m officially creeped out,” Remi said, staring through the windshield as Sam brought the car to a stop before the gate. He shut off the engine and doused the headlights. Somewhere in the trees an owl hooted twice, then went silent. “All we’re missing is howling wolves,” she whispered.

  “No wolves on Elba,” Umberto replied. “Wild dogs. And snakes. Many snakes.”

  The graveyard was arranged haphazardly with no regard to spacing or symmetry. Headstones jutted from the weeds at odd angles, some within a foot of its neighbor, while crypts of all shapes and sizes rose from the ground in various states of disrepair, crumbling or overgrown by foliage or collapsed altogether. In contrast, several crypts, freshly painted, were islands of manicured grass and flowers.

  “They’re not much for civil planning, are they?” Sam said.

  “It’s been here so long the government can’t bring itself to intervene,” Umberto replied. “The truth is, I can’t remember the last time anyone was buried here.”

  “How many are here?”

  “Many hundreds, I think. Some graves are deep, some
shallow. The dead are stacked atop one another.”

  Remi asked, “Where’s Laurent’s crypt?”

  Umberto leaned forward and pointed through the windshield. “That one, in the far corner, the one with the domed roof.”

  Sam checked his watch. “Time to find out how well the Lancia holds up to punishment.”

  He started the engine, did a Y-turn on the gravel drive, then spun the wheel and drove into the meadow, the tall grass scraping the car’s underbody. He followed the fence line to the back of the graveyard and coasted to a stop behind Laurent’s crypt. He shut off the engine again.

  “Where does that go?” Sam asked Umberto, pointing past Remi out the passenger window. A half mile away a pair of tire ruts disappeared over the hill and into the trees beyond.

  “I have no idea. It’s an old mining road. It hasn’t been used for seventy, eighty years—since before the war.”

  Remi murmured, “The road less traveled.”

  “Not for long,” Sam replied.

  He opened the door and climbed out, Remi and Umberto following. To Remi he said, “Why don’t you wait here? Slide into the driver’s seat and keep your eyes peeled. We’ll just be a minute.”

  He and Umberto walked to the fence and hopped over.

  Compared to some of its neighbors, Laurent’s crypt was small, not much bigger than a walk-in closet and barely four feet tall, but, walking around to the front side, Sam saw that it was sunk into the ground a few feet. Three moss-covered steps led to a rough-hewn wooden door. Sam pulled his LED microlight from his pocket and shined it on the lock while Umberto used the key. In keeping with the fog, the hooting owls, and the full moon, the hinges moaned as Umberto swung open the door. He glanced back at Sam and smiled nervously.

  “Keep an eye out,” Sam said.

  He walked down the steps and through the door and found himself facing a curtain of cobwebs. Under the blue-white glow of his flashlight, spiders scrambled across the webs and disappeared. Using his hand like a blade Sam slowly cut the curtain down the center; desiccated flies and moths pattered on the stone floor. Sam stepped inside.