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They rode back in comfortable silence and enjoyed dinner in the room. Sam surprised her with her favorite, pomegranate margaritas, and rewarded himself with Don Julio Blanco on the rocks with salt and lime. When they were done, Sam called Selma to see what luck she’d had with the manuscript. Kendra answered the call and the news wasn’t positive.
“No hits so far. We tried an automated run and that didn’t yield anything, so now we’re doing it manually. But it doesn’t look good. According to Pete, the automated sequence would have picked it up if it was a known cipher. So we could be looking at something that hasn’t been seen in that period, which is a whole different kettle of fish.”
“It also could be tied to a different document, in which case we’ll never figure it out,” he said.
“Selma’s going to run it through her sources and see if anything comes up. But most of the ciphers are well understood now, and those that aren’t . . . well, they’re keeping their secrets.”
“Stay on it, Kendra. I’ll touch base again tomorrow. Has anything else come in?”
“A progress report from Canada. A Dr. Jennings indicated that the preparations are coming along nicely. He said you would understand what he meant and that he’s returning to Montreal as the cataloging continues so he can start raising funds for the restoration. He asked me to thank you for putting Warren Lasch from the CSS Hunley effort in touch with him—apparently, he’s been a godsend.”
“Oh, good. I thought he might be able to help.”
“He’s flying to Canada for a few weeks to assist with the infrastructure preparations and the transport of the ship.” Kendra hesitated. “Oh, and I sent the progress report to your e-mail account, too.”
“Good. Thanks for all the hard work. We appreciate it.” Sam paused. “How’s Selma?”
“Fighting the good fight—you know her, she’s a trouper. She’s getting stronger and more mobile every day, but still needs painkillers at night sometimes if she overdoes it.”
“Is she there?”
Kendra hesitated. “She’s resting right now. Do you want me to go wake her?”
“No. Of course not. Let her sleep. I just wanted to say hello. It can wait.”
“Okay. Is there anything else?”
“No, Kendra. I’ll call again at nine tomorrow morning your time.”
“I’ll be here.”
Remi watched as he ended the call and saw his frown.
“Nothing?” she asked.
“Not yet.”
“Ever the optimist.”
“All part of my childish naïveté.?
?
“How’s Selma?”
“According to Kendra, holding her own.” Sam relayed the gist of the conversation.
Remi sat in silence for a long moment and then kissed Sam’s cheek. “You’re a good man, Sam Fargo.”
“Fooled you again. My evil scheme is working,” he said, and kissed her back.
“More like fatigue and the margaritas.”
“Gotta love those margaritas . . .”
The throbbing of the massive diesel engines vibrated the yacht’s salon floor. Janus Benedict paced its length, a snifter of cognac clenched in his hand as he listened in quiet fury on his cell phone. Off in the distance, the white-and-blue buildings of Mykonos dotted the island’s hills as the big ship approached for a week of revelry and meetings with Middle Eastern clients who were willing to pay top dollar for difficult-to-acquire arms.
“Two amateurs gave your professional Cuban intelligence service team the slip? How is that possible? Explain it to me,” he seethed.