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Remi kept her gaze on Sam’s phone, placed in the middle of the table. “I think it’s the best way.”
“Unless you have a better idea,” Sam told Selma.
“Let me get back to you on that. Once Lazlo has a chance to thoroughly study the photos of the artifacts you recovered from the shipwreck, he and I can come up with something plausible. I’ll give you a call as soon as I know anything.”
“We’ll wait to hear from you.”
After a long day of fact-checking on their own—finding little that helped—Sam and Remi broke for an early dinner at Esquina Mocoto, known for its northeastern Brazilian food. Instead of a main meal, they split several tapas—their favorite, the dadinhos de tapioca, fried cheese squares—and the torresmo, crackling bacon, along with roasted vegetables, and the recommended pairing of artisan beers instead of wine.
They were walking out of the restaurant when Selma called back.
“We have an update on the items you found at the shipwreck,” she said. “Lazlo’s here with me.”
After she put Lazlo on the phone, Sam said, “I’ll call back as soon as we return to the hotel. We’re not in the greatest of locations to talk.”
“Just as well,” Lazlo said. “This is, I believe, what you Americans call a good news, bad news sort of thing.”
Nineteen
Charles Avery was just stepping out the door of his Washington, D.C., office when his secretary informed him that he had a call. “Can it wait? I have a dinner meeting scheduled.”
The other half of said meeting was currently sitting on the couc
h in the lobby just outside. A stunning twenty-something-year-old brunette named Suzette, who glanced up just then, saw him, and gave a flirty wave.
“It’s Mr. Fisk,” his secretary said.
He glanced at Suzette, tempted to blow off Fisk’s call—except he wanted to hear that the Fargos were now lying on the bottom of the ocean floor as fish food. “Send it to my phone,” he said, then strode into his office. He sat at his desk, then picked up. “I’m on my way to dinner. Is this important?”
“I’ve just met with the crew in São Paolo.”
“And?”
It seemed a heartbeat before he answered. “Something that might lead us to the cipher wheel.”
A feeling of elation swept through him. At long last, he thought. He glanced at the Pyrates and Privateers book he kept on his desk. For centuries, his family had been searching to recover what had been stolen from them. So close . . .
“Where is it?”
“Brazil. Near São Paolo. I’m headed to the airport as we speak.”
Charles was tempted to fly out himself—and he might have if he thought it didn’t show weakness on his part or just how important the wheel was. Fisk knew that it was a family heirloom he wanted to recover. What he didn’t know was what it led to. That was a secret he intended to guard until the right time. “The Fargos? What of them?”
“It appears they either drowned in a storm or went ashore and were bitten by an island snake. Rest assured, the Fargos have been dealt with.”
Finally. He leaned back in his seat, relaxing for the first time all week. He’d gone to great pains to hire out every charter boat once he learned the Fargos were en route to the Port of Santos. Did it really matter now that they were that much closer to finding the cipher wheel? Unless, of course— “How much of this can be traced back to me?”
“Not a thing. The crew has been dealt with. There are no paper trails. Every charter hired was through a shell account. Anyone looking into the Fargos’ deaths won’t find a thing. As of now, there is absolutely nothing that points to you.”
“Good,” Charles said. “Make sure it stays that way.”
“I will.”
He hung up, then sat there for several seconds, staring at the book, telling himself that soon all this money and trouble would pay off in a big way. So close, he thought, as his office door opened.
He looked up, surprised to see his wife, Alexandra, walk in.
Still beautiful, even at fifty, her blond hair cut in a short bob, she flipped the door closed, tossed her purse on the couch, then sat. “Who’s the bimbo in the lobby?”