Wrath of Poseidon (Fargo Adventures 12)

Everything seemed in order. Assuming Remi had been the last person in there, the bed appeared slept in, but neatly made. A carry-on and two larger suitcases were stacked in a corner by the bed. Yup, that’s Remi, prepared for any occasion. In the closet, he saw a neat row of sandals, boat shoes, and barely-worn hiking boots. There was even an evening dress and fancy strappy red shoes with high heels that women love to wear. They walked out to the kitchen. A table and two chairs were set up before a window that looked out over the quiet bay. An empty coffee cup sat in the sink. Other than that, everything seemed to be in its place.

So much for his detective skills. If there were any clues to be found, he wasn’t having any luck.

Outside, Nikos led Sam across the courtyard to a set of stairs that led up onto the roof, giving him a view of the entire beach. A boy sat on a wooden dock to the left, fishing. A half-dozen moored boats of various sizes bobbed in the water just beyond him. “What about Dimitris?” Sam asked. “Where was he staying?”

“At home. With me. Unfortunately, no one saw either of them after they left. I’m not sure if you knew, but Remi’s camera was stolen. My nephew, Ares,” he said, nodding to the boy at the end of the dock, “was fishing from a skiff that morning. He told us that there was a strange boat in the area. Sadly, he didn’t see who was in it.”

“Do you mind if I talk to him?”

“Of course not. His English is not so good. But he’s learning.”

They walked to the end of the dock to talk to the boy. Nikos introduced them, adding, “Remi is Mr. Sam Fargo’s friend. He’s worried about her, and wants to know what you saw.” He repeated it in Greek, then translated the boy’s response, saying, “A speedboat driving away from the Asteri. He’s never seen it before . . . They’re not from around here.”

Which didn’t help. “Do you know what kind of boat?” Sam asked.

The boy drew his pole back, then flicked it forward in a perfect cast as Nikos translated. “Long and fast. For racing. There was a name on the side, but it was not written in Greek, so he couldn’t read it. Which,” Nikos added, “there are many of around the islands.”

Sam thanked Ares for his help. About to leave, he looked back at the boy. “Any chance you could draw the boat you saw?”

Nikos asked him, then nodded. “Maybe.”

Ares secured the hook upon the reel, tightened it, then set his pole on the dock. When they reached the beach, he jumped down into the sand, smoothed out a portion with his hand, and traced an outline of the boat, saying something to Nikos, who said, “It was long and dark, like this.”

Which didn’t narrow it down any, Sam thought, watching as the boy made a circle on the side of the boat, along with a few scribbles. As he drew, he spoke to Nikos, who in turn, said, “This is where the name of the boat was written. And the numbers.”

He drew the letter O, then poked his finger where the rest of the letters were, Nikos saying that he couldn’t recall the name. Then he added the numbers 1 and 4.

Sam did a double take. “What color was that boat?”

Apparently the boy understood that, because he said, “Black.”

Sam, wondering if he could have transposed the numbers, crouched down beside him, writing OMEGA 41 in the sand.

The boy nodded, speaking rapidly.

“That’s the name,” Nikos said.

“I may know where it is.”

Nikos glanced at the crude drawing, then at Sam. “You can tell from that drawing?”

“From the name and the color. It was heading toward a yacht in between here and Samos. Had I known, I would’ve paid more attention.”

“The police will want to know this.”

“Let’s make sure the yacht’s still there before we call. The more information we can give them, the better.”

They hurried back to the port. Within fifteen minutes, they were motoring away from Fourni toward the waters of Samos.

“There!” Sam said, pointing at the superyacht he’d seen earlier that day.

Nikos lifted his binoculars. After a few seconds, he handed them to Sam. “If that is the same yacht, I’m not sure the police can help. The Mirage belongs to Adrian Kyril.”

“Why would that make a difference?”

“There are those who believe that the billions the Kyrils have made from exporting olive oil really comes from their ties to organized crime. The rumors are unproven, mostly because no one can get close en

ough to the Kyrils to prove anything.”