Spartan Gold

“Impressive, Mr. Fargo.”

“It’s in the brochure. As for the second line, I don’t know.”

“I think I do,” Remi said. “In Hebrew, ‘Sheol’ means abode of the dead, or underworld. The opposite—eternal Sheol—is everlasting life. Remember the cicada from the bottle . . . ?”

Sam was nodding. “From Napoleon’s crest: resurrection and immortality. And the other part . . . ‘the third realm of the forgotten’?”

“It’s the French version of a dungeon: oubliette. To forget. Unless we’re wrong, somewhere in the basement of the château is a cicada waiting to be found. But why a riddle at all?” Remi wondered. “Why not simply, ‘go here, find this’?”

“That’s where it gets really interesting,” Selma replied. “From what I’ve been able to translate so far, Laurent’s book is part diary, part decryption key. He makes it pretty clear the bottles themselves aren’t the real prize. He called them ‘arrows on a map.’ ”

“Arrows to what?” Remi asked. “And for whom to follow?”

“He doesn’t say. We’ll know more when I finish the translation.”

Sam said, “Well, it seems clear Laurent was doing this on Napoleon’s orders, and if they went to this much trouble to hide the bottles, whatever’s at the end of the map has to be something spectacular.”

“Which might explain why Bondaruk has no problem with murder,” Remi replied.

They chatted for a few more minutes, then hung up.

“Uh-oh,” Remi said out of the side of her mouth and pointing with her eyes. “Look who’s here.”

Sam turned around. Kholkov was walking across the patio toward them, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket. Sam and Remi tensed, ready to move.

“Relax, do you think I’d be stupid enough to shoot you both in broad daylight?” Kholkov asked, stopping before them. He pulled his hands from his pockets and held them up. “Unarmed.”

“I see you escaped your little fender bender,” Remi said.

Kholkov pulled out a chair and sat down.

Sam said dryly, “Please, join us.”

“You could have easily bumped us off the edge,” Kholkov said. “Why didn’t you?”

“It occurred to us, believe me. If not for your trigger-happy friend, who knows?”

“I apologize for that. He overreacted.”

“I don’t suppose you’d care to explain how you’ve been tracking us,” Remi said.

Kholkov smiled; there was none of it in his eyes. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to tell me why you’ve come here.”

“You suppose correctly,” Remi replied.

“Whatever you’re selling, we’re not buying,” Sam said. “Your colleague kidnapped, tortured, and was seconds away from killing a friend of ours, and you’ve tried to kill us twice. Tell us why you’re here.”

“My employer is proposing a truce. A partnership.”

Remi laughed softly. “Let me guess: We help you find whatever you’re after and you’ll kill us for it later rather than sooner.”

“Not at all. We join forces and split the proceeds, eighty-twenty.”

“We don’t even know what we’re after,” Sam said.

“Something of great value—both historically and monetarily.”

“And which of those interests Bondaruk most?” Remi asked.

“That’s his business.”

Sam and Remi had no illusions. Her prediction of Bondaruk’s and Kholkov’s plans for them was dead-on. Whatever Bondaruk’s true motives and whatever the prize, there was no way they were going to let it fall into the Ukrainian’s hands.

Kholkov added, “Let’s just say the items involve a family legacy. He’s simply trying to finish what was begun a long time ago. If you were to help bring that about, he’d be properly grateful.”

“No deal,” Sam said.

Remi added, “And you pass along a message for us: Nuts.”

“You should reconsider,” Kholkov said. “Have a look around.”

Sam and Remi did so. Standing on the far side of the patio were three of Kholkov’s men—all familiar faces from the Rum Cay cave.

“The gang’s all here,” Sam said.

“No, they’re not. I have more. Wherever you go, we’ll be there. One way or another, we’ll get what we want. What you need to decide is whether you wish to live through this.”

“We’ll manage,” Remi said.

Kholkov shrugged. “Your choice. I don’t suppose you’re stupid enough to have brought the codebook along with you, are you?”

“No,” Sam replied. “And we’re not stupid enough to have left it at the hotel, either, but you’re welcome to have a look around.”

“We already did. I assume it’s already in Mrs. Wondrash’s hands.”

“Either that or it’s in a safe-deposit box,” Remi said.

“No, I don’t think so. I think you have your people trying to decode it right now. Perhaps we’ll pay them a visit. I’ve heard San Diego is beautiful this time of year.”

“Good luck with that,” Sam said lightly, fighting to keep his face impassive.

“You’re talking about your security system?” Kholkov waved his hand dismissively. “That won’t be any trouble.”

“Clearly you’re not familiar with my résumé,” Sam said.

Kholkov hesitated. “Ah, yes, an engineer. Tinkered with the alarm system, have you?”

Remi added, “And even if you get past that, who knows what you’ll find once you’re inside? You said it yourself: We’re not stupid.”

Kholkov’s brows furrowed, a flicker of uncertainty, but it was gone in a second. “We’ll see. Last chance, Mr. and Mrs. Fargo. After this, the gloves come off.”

“You have our answer,” Sam replied.

CHAPTER 30

CHÂTEAU D’IF

A drizzle had begun to fall shortly before they left the hotel and now, as midnight approached, it had given way to a steady rain that pattered through the trees and gurgled down the rain gutters. The streets glistened under the hazy yellow glow of the streetlights. Here and there late-night pedestrians hurried down the sidewalks under umbrellas or folded newspaper or waited in clusters beneath bus shelters.

In the alley across from their hotel, Sam and Remi stood in the shadows and watched the lobby doors.

Down the block a gray Citroën Xsara sat at the curb, a pair of figures just visible in the dimmed interior. Earlier from the window of their hotel room Remi had gotten a look at the driver’s face: he’d been with Kholkov at the Malmousque café. Whether there were more watchers around they couldn’t tell, but they knew it was best to assume so.

After parting company with Kholkov at the café earlier that afternoon, they’d roamed the Malmousque, shopping and taking in the sights for a few hours. They saw neither Kholkov nor his men until they started back to the hotel, when two men on motorcycles fell in behind their taxi.

Despite their nonplussed reaction to Kholkov’s threats, Sam and Remi had taken them seriously. Fearing their room was bugged, they found a quiet corner in the mostly deserted hotel bar and called Rube Haywood on the Iridium; he wasn’t at CIA headquarters in Langley, but they reached him at home.

Sam put him on speakerphone and quickly explained the situation and their worries.

Rube said, “I know a guy in Long Beach—used to work for the Diplomatic Security Service. He runs his own shop now. Want me to have him send a couple guys to the house?”

“We’d be grateful.”

“Give me ten minutes.” He called back in five: “Done. They’ll be there in two hours. Tell Selma they’ll have IDs—Kozal Security Group. They’ll ask for Mrs. French.”

“Got it.”

“Don’t you think it’s time to call it a day?” Rube asked. “You’ve seen how far these guys will go. Nothing’s worth this.”

“We don’t even know what it is,” Remi said.

“You get my point. I’m worried about you two.”

“We appreciate that, Rube, but we’re going to see this through.”

Haywood sighed. “At least let me help you.”

“What did you have in mind?” asked Sam.

“I’ve taken a second look at Kholkov. A few years ago he was in Chechnya; we think he was playing middleman for a black-market AK-47 dealer. Wouldn’t take much to get his name slipped onto the Terrorist Watch List. A couple calls and I could put him on the radar of the DCPJ,” he said, referring to the Direction Centrale Police Judiciaire, or Central Directorate Judicial Police, France’s version of the FBI. “There’s nothing they could arrest him on, but they might be able to detain him and his buddies for a while.”