Wrath of Poseidon (Fargo Adventures 12)

The gray-haired man nodded. “I don’t know of any other cave on the island that fits the description you gave me. Votzos. Straight down. With bones.”

The cave wasn’t exactly what Adrian had read about, but it was the closest that he’d found. And he’d spent a veritable fortune searching for it in hopes that it contained the legendary Sardi treasure, stolen from Cyrus the Great.

After years of meticulous research, most of which turned out to be false leads, this possible location was discovered by accident. An overheard conversation between two archeologists about an inscription found in a cave attributed to a man who’d hidden there to escape hanging for piracy. That discovery had led to an obscure reference in another book about another cave that led them to Fourni and eventually to Tassos.

Unfortunately, Fourni was a very small island with a little over a thousand inhabitants. While Adrian had gone to great pains to make sure his name wasn’t associated with this search, he worried constantly about word getting out. “Who else knows about Poseidon’s Trident?”

Tassos drew his gaze from the cave and looked over at him. “On Fourni? Everyone. Some of the islanders claim to be related to the very pirates who hid the treasure.”

Eventually,

Fayez emerged. As he pulled himself over the top, the loose limestone rock crumbled beneath his weight, showering down into the cavern below. “There are definitely bones in there. I took photos if you want to see them.”

The news of the bones was encouraging. That, at least, fit with the history. Adrian glanced at Tassos. “You’ve certainly earned your money.” Again, he asked, “You haven’t told anyone about my interest here, have you?”

He shook his head. “No. I made a promise.”

Adrian moved next to the old man, clasping his thin shoulder. “Good,” he said, then shoved.

Tassos tumbled into the opening. His scream echoed as he fell.

“Adrian . . .” Ilya, one of Adrian’s oldest and most trusted friends—and in charge of his security team—stood a few feet away, looking through a set of binoculars.

“What is it?”

“At the top of the hill, over there.” He pointed to the northwest, then handed Adrian his binoculars. “Two people just walked up. One is taking pictures with a telephoto lens.”

Adrian focused, seeing a red-haired woman with a camera talking to a man standing next to her. “What are the chances her lens could capture anything here?”

“Hard to say without actually seeing it. It looks big enough.”

Adrian returned the field glasses to Ilya. “Make sure it didn’t. We don’t need any more witnesses.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

A flock of gray-and-black hooded crows swooped from below, then arced skyward. Remi lifted her camera—heavy from the telephoto lens borrowed from the archeological society—to capture their flight, then realized there were three people standing on the hill below them. No doubt that’s what sent the birds flying, she thought, pressing the shutter as the flock twisted into a magnificent pattern against the blue sky.

Instead of the familiar click, nothing happened.

“Did you get the shot of the murder?” Dimitris, a young man in his twenties with an affable smile, olive complexion, and a head of dark hair, stood next to her, staring up at the sky, his hand covering his eyes against the bright sun.

“Murder?”

“Yes, that’s what a group of crows is called. You can thank Homer for the name.”

“Wow.” Remi shook her head. “I’ve heard of a flock, a skein, even a parliament of owls. Never . . .” She looked at the screen on the back of the camera, dismayed to see a MEMORY FULL notification. “Darn it. No.”

“There’ll be others. Fourni is full of beauty.”

Pulling out the memory card, she stuffed it in her pocket, then took out a new card, inserting it into the slot. “Just my luck. Probably could’ve won a National Geographic photo contest with that shot.”

“But you know what you saw.” He tapped his temple, smiling as she took more photos of the sea that shimmered in hues of light to dark turquoise in the early-morning sun.

“You’re right. It was worth the hike up.” The vista, overlooking the Aegean, was—to use a clichéd phrase—picture postcard perfect. To the right, she could see the small village of Chrysomilia. To the left, a partial view of the main village of Fourni, its classic white houses trimmed in blue, terraced on the hills overlooking the port. “The view is amazing.”

“The best in all of Fourni. My friend Denéa always says gods and grapes have the best view.” He pointed. “You can see the island of Thimena over there, and on the other side, Samos, where you took the ferry to get here. When it’s very clear, you can even see Turkey.”

They continued hiking up the steep hill, then stopped in front of a sheer rock face. Dimitris pointed out a carving. It looked like a wreath or a sun about a foot in diameter. Beneath it was an inscription.