Spartan Gold

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 running toward him, but when no one came he slowly rolled onto his belly and started crawling away, behind the boilers and into the trees where he now lay.

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.

And if not, well, he would simply settle the score and move on. Ingenious as they’d been in their ambush of him, he felt it only fair he find an equally novel way of repaying them.

CHAPTER 7

POCOMOKE RIVER

What do you think the chances are Ted will stay away?” Remi asked, giving the outboard motor’s starter cord a tug.

Sam climbed into the skiff’s bow and pushed off the dock with his leg. “I think I got through to him, but with Ted you never know. That shop is his life.”

After questioning Frobisher for another half hour the night before and satisfying themselves they’d gotten the whole story, Sam had ordered a cot from the reception desk and put Ted, who was by then more than a little tipsy from three servings of brandy, to bed.

The next morning after breakfast they’d convinced him to take a vacation, then made some calls and found a beach house on Fen-wick Island that belonged to a friend of a friend of a friend. It was unlikely anyone would trace Frobisher to there. Whether Ted would stay there, they didn’t know, but short of tying him up it was the best they could do.

The question for them was whether to get any further involved. Par for his personality and his solidly Libertarian ideals, Ted had dismissed their suggestion that he get the authorities involved. He had little love or use for the government and asserted the police would simply take a report and file it away, which Sam and Remi tended to agree with. They doubted Ted’s abductor had left enough of a trail to follow.

While they mulled it all over, Sam had decided they’d continue with their original plan of identifying the mini sub trapped in the inlet, then return to their search for Patty Cannon’s treasure.

Remi got the engine started, then brought the skiff about and pointed the nose downriver, the engine puttering softly in the cool morning air.

“What a difference a day can make,” she said, staring up at the sky.

“Amen,” Sam replied.

The previous night’s rain had stopped just before dawn, giving way to a bright blue sky dotted with cotton- puff clouds. Along the river-banks, birds chirped and flitted from branch to branch. The surface of the water, cloaked in a thin mist, was flat save a ripple here and there as a fish popped to the surface to catch an unwary fly or water bug.

“Say,” Remi said, “have I already mentioned how proud I am of you?”

“For what? Finding us those croissants this morning?”

“No, you dummy. For last night. You were downright heroic.”

“Yes, you mentioned it. Thanks. Don’t forget, though, I had some fantastic help. Couldn’t have done it without you.”

Remi shrugged and smiled at the compliment. “You looked rather sexy, you know, all covered with mud and carrying that rebar around. Very cavemanish.”

“Ugh-ugh.”

Remi laughed.

“Sorry about your sweater, by the way.”

Her cashmere turtleneck hadn’t survived the previous night’s adventure, having taken on the distinct and irreversible odor of wet goat.

“It’s just a sweater. It’s replaceable—which isn’t true of everything,” Remi said with an affectionate smile.

“Don’t I know it,” Sam said.

“I assume you’ve taken steps to make sure it doesn’t happen again?” Hadeon Bondaruk asked.

Arkhipov clenched the phone tighter against his ear until his knuckles turned white. “Yes. Three of my best men are here now. I’m guessing they have an hour’s head start on us.”

“What are their names?” Bondaruk asked.

As Arkhipov had predicted, finding the identities of Frobisher’s rescuers had been a relatively easy task.

After the deputy and the tow-truck driver had left, Arkhipov had half jogged, half limped up the road to the nearest farmhouse, where he found an old Chevy truck parked behind the barn with the keys in it. He drove back to Frobisher’s shop and parked the truck behind the garage, then went inside and turned the house upside down, finding what he needed in ten minutes. Frobisher had only a few dozen names in his Rolodex, half of them businesses, the other half personal, and of these only eight were couples. A quick Google search gave him what he needed.

From Frobisher’s house to the Princess Anne Greyhound station was a short five-minute drive. The truck he parked on a side street and the license plates he stuffed into a nearby trash can under some coffee grounds and a bucket of KFC chicken bones.