Spartan Gold

best speed to Nisporto. Umberto, his forearm wrapped in his own shirt, used the sat phone to alert his cousin to their arrival.

Nisporto, a village of a few hundred people, sat in the nook of a V-shaped cove ten miles up the coast from Portoferraio. When they arrived, Umberto’s wife, Teresa, and his cousins—all five of them—were waiting at the back door. While Teresa tended to Umberto’s wound, which had missed hitting any bones or arteries, the cousins bundled the now-conscious Bianco into the garage. The mother of the house, Umberto’s aunt Brunela, ushered Sam and Remi into the house and straight to the kitchen table, where she set about feeding them homemade pasta with onions, capers, olives, and red sauce. Thirty minutes later Umberto reappeared, his arm bandaged.

“We’ve put you in some danger,” Sam said.

“Nonsense. You’ve helped me redeem my honor. I think my father would have been proud.”

“I think he would, too,” Remi said, leaning over and kissing him on the cheek. “Thank you.”

Sam asked, “Do we want to know what you’re going to do with Bianco?”

“Here and in Corsica, he’s untouchable. On the mainland . . .” Umberto shrugged. “I’ll make some calls. I think with the right evidence, real or otherwise, the Carabinieri will be happy to embrace him. As for the other one, his partner . . . he’s a coward. We’ll be fine, my friends. Now, finish eating and we’ll see about getting you off the island.”

Knowing Bondaruk’s influence and Kholkov’s thoroughness made the Marina di Campo Airport too risky, they’d enlisted Umberto’s cousin Ermete, who ran a charter fishing boat, to ferry them back to Piombino on the Italian mainland. From there they’d returned to Florence, checked into the Palazzo Magnani Feroni, and called Selma, who’d directed them to e-mail her the photographed symbols from Laurent’s codebook then head straight to Marseille. The next morning they dropped the book itself into an overnight envelope for San Diego, then headed to the airport.

“Why all the mystery? Remi now asked Selma. Sam sat down on the bed and Remi put the phone on speaker.

“No mystery,” Selma replied. “I was hashing out some details, but I knew you’d want to be in Marseille one way or the other. By the way, Pete and Wendy are working on the symbols right now. It’s fascinating stuff, but the book’s condition is the big question—”

Sam said, “Selma.”

“Oh, sorry. Remember Wolfgang Muller, captain of the UM-77? I found him.”

“Him? You mean—”

“Yep, he’s still alive. Took a lot of legwork, but it turns out he was aboard the Lothringen when it was captured. After the war he was shipped back to Germany by way of Marseille. He got off the boat, but didn’t take the train home. He lives with his granddaughter. I’ve got their address. . . .”

The next morning they got up and walked to a cafe, Le Capri, a few blocks away on Rue Bailli de Suffren overlooking the Vieux Port, or Old Port, which was filled with sailboats of all shapes and sizes, their sails dancing in the offshore breeze. The bright morning sun glinted off the water. At the mouth of the port, rising from the north and south shorelines, were the forts of Saint Jean and Saint Nicholas. Above these on the hillsides stood the Abbaye de Saint Victor and the churches of Saint Vincent and Saint Catherine. Farther out, in the Bay of Marseille proper, lay the four-island archipelago of Frioul.

Sam and Remi had been to Marseille three times together, the last a few years earlier on their way to the Camargue up the coast. Every May some twenty thousand gypsies from western and eastern Europe gathered there to celebrate their gitane heritage.

They finished breakfast and hailed a taxi, giving the driver an address in the Panier, a cluster of medievalesque neighborhoods filled with tightly packed pastel-painted houses sandwiched between the town hall and the Vieille Charite. Wolfgang Muller lived in a two-story butter yellow, white-shuttered apartment on Rue de Cordelles. A blond woman in her mid twenties answered the door when they knocked.

“Bonjour,” Sam said.

“Bonjour.”

“Parlez-vous anglais?”

“Yes, I speak English.”

Sam introduced himself and Remi. “We’re looking for Monsieur Muller. Is he at home?”

“Yes, of course. May I ask what this is about?”

They’d already discussed this and decided honesty was the best course. Remi replied, “We’d like to talk to him about the UM-77 and the Lothringen.”

The woman cocked her head slightly, her eyes narrowing. Clearly her grandfather had told her about his time in the war. “One moment, please.” Leaving the door open, she walked down a hall and disappeared around the corner. They heard muffled voices for a minute, then she reappeared. “Please, come in. My name is Monique. This way, please.”

She led them into the front room, where they found Muller sitting in a rocking chair in front of a muted television tuned to France’s version of the Weather Channel. He wore a gray cardigan buttoned up to his throat, and his lap was covered in a blue and yellow argyle blanket. Completely bald, his face heavily wrinkled, Muller watched them through a pair of placid blue eyes.

“Good morning,” he said in a suprisingly strong voice. He gestured with a trembling hand to a floral-patterned couch across from him. “Please. Can I offer you some coffee?”

“No, thank you,” Remi answered.

“Monique tells me you found Ilsa.”

“Ilsa?” Sam asked.

“It’s what I named the 77. After my wife; she died in the Dresden bombings a few months after we left Bremerhaven. You found her in the cave, in Rum Cay?”

Remi nodded. “We were doing some exploring and came across the entrance. We found her sitting on the bottom, in almost pristine condition.”

“She’s still there?”

Sam smiled. “Well, no, not exactly. There was a . . . problem. We used her as what you might call an escape raft.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The main entrance collapsed. We rode the 77—”

“Ilsa.”

“Rode Ilsa down the underground river and out through another cave.”

Muller’s eyes went wide and he smiled. “That’s astounding. I’m glad she was put to good use.”

“We’ve arranged to have her transported back to the U.S. If you’d like, we’ll have her shipped—”

Muller was shaking his head. “That’s kind of you, but no. Keep her; take good care of her.” He smiled and shook his finger at them. “Something tells me you didn’t come all this way just to tell me that.”

“We also found the UM-34.”

At this Muller leaned forward. “And Manfred?”

“Captain Boehm was still aboard her.” Sam recounted their discovery of the sub, leaving out any mention of Bondaruk or Kholkov. “The authorities are salvaging her right now.”

“Mein Gott . . . We’d always worried about the weather. Those boats weren’t meant for open ocean.” Muller’s eyes went distant for ten seconds, then he blinked and refocused on them. “Manfred was a good friend of mine. It always pained me that I never knew what happened. Thank you.”

“The reason we’re here is the wine,” Remi said.

“The wine? Oh, the bottles . . . yes, we were going to celebrate with them after the mission was over. Are you telling me they survived?”

Remi nodded. “One aboard the 34, and one aboard Ilsa.”

“And the third? Did you find that one? As Manfred had the harder of the two missions, I gave him two bottles.”

“We found a shard near his sub’s resting place. We’re not sure how it got out of the sub.”