“Says the man who just lost millions by being restrained,” Reginald said, and then immediately regretted it when he saw the cold in his elder sibling’s eyes.
“Well, old boy, I make the millions, so they’re mine to lose, aren’t they? I think you might want to reconsider any further insolence. You’re the one who begged to participate in my operations—as I recall, it was you who decided that the life of a playboy had grown tiresome, not I. And you didn’t complain about my approach when that young woman filed the police report in Cannes. You were more than grateful that I’m respected enough to arrange for that sort of unpleasantness to disappear.” Janus paused for a moment and sighed. “Don’t push the limits of my patience, Reginald. If you want to be a part of my business, you’ll do things my way. Impetuous mistakes only bring grief, whether you believe me or not. This was nothing more than one round in a longer fight. I’m confident we’ll see the Fargos again, and, when we do, things will go very differently.”
Reginald gave him a curious look, chastised but unrepentant. “You say that as though it’s fact.”
Janus put a fatherly hand on Reginald’s shoulder and gestured to the breakfast bounty laid out on the circular table near the main salon.
“Patience has its own reward. This isn’t over. You’ll have to trust me on that.” Janus cleared his throat, the subject closed. “The statue of Athena will bring several million from a buyer in Moscow, so at least we’ll cover the fuel and sundries for our little outing, if not much more. So it wasn’t a total loss. And remember this: good things come to those who wait.”
They walked to the table and took seats opposite each other, and a steward practically ran to pour them piping-hot dark roast coffee. Another arrived with glasses of fresh-squeezed orange juice, and a third stood discreetly in the background until both had been attended to before inquiring how they preferred their eggs prepared.
Reginald ordered an omelet and Janus an egg-white scramble, and when his younger brother returned his gaze to him, Janus was staring off into the distance, an expression of tranquillity on his refined features, as though the plan had gone perfectly and he had not a worry in the world. Reginald knew Janus and he knew that look. If he said it wasn’t over, it wasn’t, and Reginald was confident that the meddling Americans would get their just deserts at his brother’s hands—for all his civilized veneer, Janus was as deadly as a cobra, and equally silent.
There would be a tally of all debts, and when that time arrived, the Fargos would pay.
Of that he was certain.
As morning drifted lazily by, Dominic failed to get any response from his contacts, and Remi decided to take matters into her own hands. She activated one of the satellite phones and called a familiar number. Selma Wondrash answered on the fourth ring.
“Selma? It’s Remi. Sorry to call so late.”
“There you are! I haven’t heard from you for almost a week. I get worried when you two go dark on me.”
“We were busy with the dive.”
“How did it go?”
“We’re finished, but there’s a wrinkle.”
“Isn’t there always? What can I do to help?”
“What kind of contacts do you have with the Spanish Navy?”
Selma thought about it, processing furiously. “Spanish Navy . . . let me dig around some. If I don’t have an in, I can probably find someone who knows the right people. What did you have in mind?”
Remi explained her thinking and Selma grunted assent. “I understand. Let me get on this. It’s one in the morning here, but I’m still up, so might as well make use of myself.”
“I was afraid I’d woken you.”
Selma hesitated. “No, I’ve been somewhat of a night owl lately. Insomnia. Comes and goes.”
“I hate that. You should take something for it—you sleep little enough as it is . . .”
“If it lasts much longer, I will. But for now, it’s a good thing I was up. I’ll call you back once I have something to report. Is there anything else?”
“Have the Gulfstream fueled and ready for takeoff for tomorrow evening. That’ll give us the twenty-four hours we need from our last dive. File a flight plan for San Diego. We’re coming home.”
“That’s wonderful. Consider it done.”
Sam had purchased a Gulfstream G650 business jet with an effective range of over seventy-five hundred miles from a bank that had repossessed it from an investment group that had fallen on lean times. Since acquiring it, their ability to move around the globe had increased markedly. The extravagance was unlike him, but as the accountants had pointed out, there was never a U-Haul following the hearse at a funeral—you couldn’t take it with you. The sale of the company and the ongoing royalties from Sam’s latest inventions ensured that they would always have far greater financial resources than they could spend in ten lifetimes.
Remi hung up and leaned in to Sam, who was standing on the aft deck, gazing at the blue expanse of the Mediterranean distrustfully as though Benedict’s yacht would reappear at any instant.
“Selma’s putting on the full-court press. Knowing her, she’ll have the Seventh Fleet here by lunchtime.”
Sam put an arm around her and kissed the top of her head. “Have I told you lately how lucky I am to have you?”
She turned to face him, stood on her tiptoes, and rewarded him with a long kiss. “I’m glad you’re finally realizing it. Does this mean my spa time and hedonistic pampering start soon?”