“Sam, you could have fooled me.” Remi’s green eyes lit up as she smiled.
Sam cleared his throat. “You see. It wasn’t easy.”
“Hardly a fair assessment.”
“Totally fair assessment.”
“Do I sense differing views?” Perlmutter asked.
Remi laughed. “Let’s just say it wasn’t smooth sailing.”
“Well, it wasn’t typhoon fury.”
“Maybe just a few ten-foot swells.”
“A few?” Sam said. “Understatement of the year.”
Remi gave Perlmutter a sideways glance. “It’s a bit complicated.”
“As love is,” he replied. “But it sounds like you two still enjoy a few waves now and then.” This brought a laugh from Sam and Remi.
The champagne poured, Perlmutter continued. “So . . . a chance meeting at the Lighthouse somehow led to this Mediterranean caper, and the one treasure that the two of you never found?”
“Exactly,” Sam said. “It was the hoard of gold stolen from King Cyrus after he conquered King Croesus in 546 B.C. It kickstarted our love for adventure.”
“And for each other?”
Remi placed her hand over Sam’s. “I’d say it played a small part. And, while we didn’t find the fabled hoard, we did find proof it exists.”
“But that was what . . . ? Ten or more years ago?” Perlmutter’s brows furrowed. “Why now?”
“We’d recently been talking about the treasure and what we might have missed in our search,” Remi began.
“But, more importantly,” Sam continued, “the man who was obsessed with finding the treasure all those years ago was recently released from prison—far earlier than anyone expected. From what Rube has told us, the man’s spent over a decade in confinement consumed with hate and fixated on two things—those who he feels are directly responsible for landing him in prison, and where this treasure might be. I have a feeling that the first obsession might be Remi.”
“And you,” Remi added.
“The second is that anyone who gets in his way of finding the treasure will not be safe,” Sam said.
Perlmutter lowered his glass. “I know we could get straight to the point—search my memory banks and my library for the possible location of this fabled hoard—but I have to admit, I do love a good adventure. And Remi being so deeply involved, I don’t suppose you’d be willing to tell it? From the beginning?”
“That depends,” Sam said. “How much time do you have?”
Perlmutter smiled. “However long it takes.”
CHAPTER TWO
Hermosa Beach, California
Sam Fargo gripped the top corner of his bodyboard with his right hand, his left hand on the outside rail, and looked back at the massive wave approaching.
Timing was everything.
He gave a swift kick, his fins propelling him forward. At the crest, momentarily suspended, he teetered, then dropped almost straight down the shimmering wall. Head up, back arched, chest out, he dug the waterside edge of his board into the wave, riding across the smooth, glassy surface as the lip fell, creating a tunnel of blue and gray. In a rush, it was over. The white water crashed, the surge speeding him toward the shore crowded with onlookers who came to watch the expert surfers and bodyboarders riding the giant waves left over from a rare Category 3 hurricane a few days before.
Sam, having been out there all morning, was ready to call it a day. He reached the shallows, pulled off his fins, picked up his board, and waded up to the beach, walking across the wet sand to where his friend Blake Thomas sat. The two were polar opposites, size-wise and coloring. Sam, brown-eyed with light brown hair bleached by the sun, was tall with a lean muscular build. The dark-haired, blue-eyed Blake had a wrestler’s build, short and compact. They’d met their freshman year at Caltech when they were assigned adjoining dorm rooms, and had remained friends ever since.
Sam dropped his board on the sand, took a seat next to Blake, and picked up the lunch bag he’d packed earlier that morning. The offshore wind nearly ripped the paper from his hand as he reached in and pulled out a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. “Just like Mom used to make.”
Blake, eating a deli sandwich thick with roast beef, eyed the Spartan meal. “Ever thought if you got a real job, instead of working midnights, stocking shelves, you could afford real food?”
“But I wouldn’t have time to work on my project.” He bit into the soft wheat bread, chewed the stiff peanut butter, and washed it down with water from his thermos.
“Come to think of it, you can afford real food. You know, I don’t remember you being such a tightwad.”
“I have plans.”
“You and your plans. I remember, if Plan A doesn’t work, go to Plan B. You need to chill. Loosen up. Relax. If you backed off, you might actually have a life. Maybe even meet a girl.”
Sam smiled at Blake’s ribbing, then nodded at the Coast Guard cutter as it sped north across the water, lights flashing, siren blaring.
Blake glanced out. “Heard a surfer up in Malibu was killed yesterday.”
Sam had seen the news. A forty-year-old man had fallen from his surfboard. By the time anyone could get to him, he’d drowned. “Let’s hope whoever they’re after is okay.”
He watched the boat disappear past the pier, then finished his sandwich. As he got up to toss the bag into the trash, he saw a surfer paddling to catch what promised to be a monster wave. The swell turned into a wall of water, glistening in the sun as the man expertly hopped up onto his board, hands holding either side. He balanced then rose as the tip of the wave curled over, creating a perfect barrel.
Blake stood next to Sam. “Where was that wave when we were out there?”
The surfer emerged from the tube, victorious for several seconds—until an avalanche of water collapsed on top of him.
The crowd on the beach gasped almost collectively as he disappeared from sight. His board shot up, straining against the leash connected to his leg, then jerked back into the water. A moment later, the man surfaced, only to disappear as another wave came crashing down. He didn’t rise a second time.
“Call for help!” Sam said as he grabbed his bodyboard and fins. At the water’s edge he put on his fins and wrapped the Velcro leash to his arm, and paddled out. With each wave that broke, Sam pressed the front of his board down, ducking his head, diving below the white water. A few surfers to the south tried to reach the fallen man, but the waves, breaking in a southeasterly pattern, made it near impossible.