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As the procession of gray storm clouds approached, the Cameron reversed into the center of the fjord, where it dropped anchor in the deepest portion and waited. Soon after, the wind picked up, and within a half hour a gale was driving sheets of freezing rain through the glacial canyon. Lightning crackled overhead, the baritone boom of thunder shaking the big ship with each explosive volley.
The surrounding mountains shielded them from the worst of it. Sam and Remi could only imagine what the crew of the Viking boat had endured, and gave silent thanks in the wee hours of the morning that they’d been spared the experience of an Arctic storm while in their tent.
They awoke to a fresh blanket of white. Four hours later, the expedition team was waving farewell to Sam and Remi as the Cameron steamed slowly toward the gap. Remi inched closer to Sam as the sheer rock walls moved past them and, once the ship was well into the narrow channel, they returned to their stateroom, their part in the discovery now consigned to the history books.
The captain intercepted them on the way inside and shook both their hands with brisk enthusiasm. “We’ll have you back in Clyde River by tomorrow morning. Anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable, let me know.”
“I’m still trying to get used to the concept of warm water and hot food,” Remi quipped.
“Well, we have plenty of both, and I believe Jennings left a few bottles of excellent wine in case you need something to quench your thirst during lunch and dinner. Again, don’t hesitate to ask if you need anything.”
“When will you return for the team?” Sam asked.
“Hard to say. It may be a larger ship that picks them up—something that can accommodate the entire longship. Our readings show that gap as being ninety-seven feet at the narrowest point, so we should be able to get one of our bigger boats in—with a little luck and some lubrication on either side of the hull.”
“Thanks for the hospitality. It’s good to be off the ice,” Remi said.
The captain nodded. “I have no doubt. Whenever you like, come up to the bridge and I’ll give you a tour. Hopefully, the seas will have calmed down and it will be a smooth ride back to civilization . . . if you can call Clyde River that.”
They shook hands again, and then they were alone. In their stateroom, Remi checked the indicator on the satellite phone, noting it was recharged, and handed it to Sam before plopping down on the bed.
“Give Kendra a call and check on Selma. See about having Rick meet us at the airport. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve spent about as much time as I ever want to on Baffin Island, even if it was in such charming company as yours.”
“You know you’re going to be bored out of your mind after an adventure like this. How are you going to occupy your time now that you don’t have to chip ice all day long?” Sam teased.
“I’d say we both have plenty to do now that we know for a fact that Vikings had contact with pre-Columbian America. I’m thinking that we should take a hard look at the lore and see if there’s anything that points us in a promising direction. They were there, and the artifacts we found represent a significant treasure for those civilizations. There had to be a reason the Vikings were loaded down with goods from what’s now Mexico.”
Sam nodded. “Great minds think alike. Now that we know—”
“We can get a jump on everyone. And if there’s somewhere this thread leads, get there first.”
“Now, that’s the girl I married.”
“Then fly that girl out of here on the first plane you can find.”
Sam took the hint. He swung the heavy door closed behind him and made his way to the bridge so he’d have a clear line of sight for the phone to function. Remi had been unflagging and tireless in her efforts, and it wasn’t lost on him that he’d need to make it up to her in spades.
After all, a deal was a deal.
ANTIBES, SOUTH OF FRANCE
The sunset deepened to a soft gold hue over the Tuscan-inspired waterfront villa. A lofty shoal of cloud streaks hung like colored smoke, all vivid orange and red, a dazzling kaleidoscope reflected off the Mediterranean as the sun sank slowly until it was nothing more than a glowing ember in the sea. The view from the house was as magnificent as they came, which was the reason Janus Benedict had purchased it almost twenty years before, adding to the grounds a tennis court and pool that would have been the en
vy of most hotels in the area.
Out on the veranda, Janus sat watching the celestial light show, his raw silk navy blazer unbuttoned as a concession to informality as he sipped a 1923 Fonseca Port. He’d purchased it from a store in Lisbon on one of his wine-hunting forays into the region. The ruby liquid had turned amber from age, and the passage of years had imbued it with secondary flavors that more than justified the exorbitant price the seller had demanded.
A micro cell phone chirped from the circular glass table next to him. Janus set his Romeo y Julieta Short Churchill cigar in a crystal ashtray and reached over to answer it.
“Benedict,” he said.
“Sir, we have more news on the Canadian find.”
“Yes, Percy. Do tell.”
“Everyone’s being tight-lipped about it, but I persuaded one of the assistant professors that his financial woes might be temporary if he could give us something usable,” Percy said, his words clipped, delivered with the precision of a laser. Percy was Janus’s go-to man for skullduggery and had performed admirably for decades.
“I’d like to think my generosity knows few bounds.”