Spartan Gold

“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 pla

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 ru

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.