shoal sand and they came to a gentle stop six feet onto dry land.
“Beautiful landing, Mr. Lindbergh,” Remi said, unbuckling her seat belt.
“I like to think all my landings are beautiful.”
“Of course they are, dear. Except for that time in Peru . . .”
“Never mind.”
Remi climbed out onto the beach and Sam handed down their backpacks and the duffel bags containing their camping gear. Sam’s satellite phone trilled and he answered.
“Mr. Fargo, it’s Selma.”
“Good timing. We just touched down. Hold on.” Sam called Remi over and put the phone on speaker. “First things first: You’re buttoned up?”
After learning the pedigrees of Bondaruk, Arkhipov, and Kholkov from Rube, Sam had ordered Selma, Pete, and Wendy to move into the Goldfish Point house and set the alarm system, which Sam had long ago tweaked to satisfy his engineer’s mind; the system, he knew, would give a CIA black-bag team a run for its money. And, as luck would have it, the San Diego Commissioner of Police and Sam’s thrice-weekly judo partner lived a half mile from them. Squad cars were on quick-response alert for their neighborhood.
“Safe and sound,” Selma replied.
“How goes the battle?”
“We’re getting there. Should have some interesting reading for you when you get home. First, some good news: I figured out what the bug is on the bottom of the bottle. It’s from Napoleon’s family coat of arms. On the right side of the coat is what looks like a bee. Though there’s some debate about this among historians, most believe it isn’t a bee at all, but a golden cicada—or at least that’s what it was in the beginning. The symbol was first discovered in 1653 in the tomb of Childeric I, the first king of the Merovingian dynasty. It represents immortality and resurrection.”
“Immortality and resurrection,” Remi repeated. “A tad conceited—but then again we are talking about Napoleon.”
“Let me get this straight,” Sam said. “Napoleon’s signature icon is a grasshopper?”
“Close, but not exactly,” Selma said. “Different branch of the family tree. The cicada is more closely related to leafhoppers and spittlebugs.”
Sam laughed. “Ah, yes, the royal spittlebug.”
“Between the cicada and Henri Archambault’s mark, there’s no doubt the bottle’s from the Lost Cellar.”
“Good work,” Sam said. “What else?”
“I also finished dissecting the translation of Manfred Boehm’s diary. There’s a line in there about ‘the Goat’s Head’ . . . ?”
“I remember,” Remi replied. Both she and Sam had assumed it had been a Rum Cay tavern Boehm and his shipmates had visited.
“Well, I massaged the translation a bit, using both High and Low German, and I think the Goat’s Head is a landmark of some kind—maybe a navigation aid. Problem is, I did some digging and I couldn’t find anything about a Goat’s Head related to Rum Cay—or any of the other islands, for that matter.”
“We’ll keep our eyes peeled,” Sam replied. “If you’re right, it’s likely a rock formation of some kind.”
“Agreed. And last, I owe you guys an apology.”
“For?”
“An error.”
“Say it isn’t so.”
Selma rarely made mistakes and those that she did were almost always minor. Even so, she was a strict taskmaster—more so with herself than anyone else.
“I was slightly off in translating the abstract from the German naval archives. Wolfgang Muller wasn’t the captain of the
“So Boehm and Muller and their subs are aboard the
“That’s the word the sailor—Froch—used in his blog, correct?”
“Correct. Refit.”
“Then a week later, Boehm’s boat, the
“According to the German archives, it’s listed as lost. According to U.S. Navy archives, they found nothing aboard the
Remi replied, “Which means the
“I agree,” Sam said, “but there’s also a third possibility.”
“Which is?”
“She’s still here. It’s the word ‘refit’ that got my attention. The
“About that,” Selma replied.
“To refit a ship that big would have taken a fair-sized facility—something big enough that it would have been discovered by now. I’m beginning to think the refitting they mentioned was for the
“Which means . . . ?” Remi asked.
“Which means we may have some spelunking in our future,” Sam replied.
They finished unloading the Bonanza, then staked her tie-downs deep into the sand and started looking for a campsite. Nightfall was only a few hours away. They’d get a fresh start in the morning.
“We’ve got a competitor,” Remi said, pointing down the beach.
Sam shaded his eyes with his palm and squinted. “Well, that’s not something you see every day.”
A quarter mile away, nestled against the tree line along the cove’s northern arm, was what looked for all the world like a Hollywood version of a tiki hut, complete with a thatched conical roof and plank walls. Hanging between the hut’s two front posts was a hammock; in it was a figure, one foot dangling over the edge, rocking the hammock back and forth. Without looking up the figure raised a hand in greeting and called, “Ahoy.”
Sam and Remi walked the remaining distance. In front of the hut was a fire pit surrounded by wave-worn logs for seating. “Welcome,” the man said.
He looked distinguished if not a bit weathered, with white hair, a well-trimmed goatee, and twinkling blue eyes.
“Don’t mean to intrude,” Sam said.
“Nonsense. Wanderers are always welcome, and you two certainly look the part. Have a seat.”
Sam and Remi dropped their gear in the sand and found seats on a log. Sam introduced themselves to their host, who simply said, “Happy to have you. In fact, I’m going to turn the estate over to you. Time to move on.”
“Don’t go on our account,” Remi said.
“Nothing of the sort, dear lady. I’ve got a previous engagement in Port Henry. Won’t be back for a couple days.”
With that the man disappeared into the trees and emerged a few seconds later pushing a Vespa scooter. “There’s a fishing pole, lures, pots, pans, and all that inside,” he said. “Make yourselves at home. There’s a trapdoor wine cellar. You’re welcome to try a bottle.”
Sam, strangely certain he could trust this stranger, said, “You haven’t heard any legends about a secret base around here, have you?”
“A Nazi submarine base, yes?”
“That’s the one.”
The man put the scooter up onto its kickstand. He went inside the hut and came back out carrying what
