Remi shook her head. “You’re assuming whoever did it is rational and logical. And we’re also assuming this has to do with treasure. It could be that we intruded on something we weren’t meant to see, even if we have no idea what it was, and they took action. It could be smuggling, drugs, anything. We shouldn’t assume we have all the puzzle pieces because after only a few days here the odds say we don’t.”
Sam nodded. “She’s right, as usual.”
Leonid grunted. “So where does that leave us? What should we do now?”
Sam’s brow furrowed. “I’m not sure we do anything different except keep our eyes open. We can’t really dive the ruins properly until the boat arrives anyway, so it’s a moot point.”
“I don’t like unknowns. Particularly when they shoot at you,” Leonid said.
“Agreed, my friend. But that’s all we have. I think a better question than trying to figure out the unknowable is how we treat our new knowledge of a possible treasure,” Sam said. “If we’re going to do anything more than catalog the site, we may want to consider bringing in some specialized talent. Because if we’re going to conduct a more thorough search, the ship’s divers aren’t going to do the trick—we’ll want a large pro team with related experience.”
Leonid nodded. “I gather you have someone in mind?”
Sam grinned. “Not someone specific, because many of those we’ve worked with in the past are busy with their own projects. But we have the resources to get whatever we need. Let’s put Selma on it and see who she can find. She can coordinate with the research vessel. Anything they don’t have she can get flown in.”
Remi took Sam’s hand. “He may look like just another pretty face, but every now and then he comes up with a good idea. I agree. Let’s get some serious talent here as soon as possible.”
“When is the boat supposed to be here?” Leonid asked.
“Tomorrow evening.”
The Russian rubbed his face and studied Sam and Remi. The dark circles and bags under his eyes lent him the appearance of an unhappy raccoon. “Then all you need to do is keep from getting killed for twenty-four hours or so while I endure the final tortures of the damned scuba instruction.”
Remi smiled. “Sounds like a good plan.”
“Particularly the avoiding being murdered part,” Sam agreed.
“No more driving around in the boonies,” Remi warned.
“My appetite for adventure is completely sated at the moment. One brush with death per day is more than enough.”
“The problem is tomorrow’s another day.”
“Right, but technically we had two brushes today: going off the cliff and being shot at. So that takes care of tomorrow, too.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Remi said, her tone skeptical.
Sam smiled. “I’m a changed man.”
“Sure you are, Fargo. Sure you are.”
CHAPTER 16
Sydney, Australia
Jeffrey Grimes leaned back in the executive chair and eyed the others in the conference room, the air filled with the aroma of half-drunk coffee, tension, and frayed nerves. The end of another quarter was upon them and the publicly traded conglomerate they operated was going to report a loss—the third straight quarter the company had hemorrhaged money due to its international subsidiaries.
Grimes was a fixture on the Australian business and social scene, legendary for his high-risk strategies that had, until now, turned out to be winners. But the increasingly difficult financial landscape and tightened access to investment capital had proved more challenging than any he’d encountered and several spectacular flameouts had gutted the company’s balance sheet as well as investor confidence.
Going public had seemed a brilliant idea two years earlier when the Australian economy was booming and money was flowing like water. The initial offering had raised almost a billion dollars. But Grimes’s personal stock was locked up and his net worth had collapsed in the wake of bad bets in the mining and petroleum sectors when the company’s valuation dropped by half overnight.
The decline triggered covenants in the company’s debt agreements and now the wolf was at the door, the former golden child of the Australian investment community struggling for survival.
Grimes ran his fingers through his thick salt-and-pepper hair, worn longish and combed straight back, and sighed. “Can’t we push some of the bad assets off into a subsidiary, at least for this quarter? You know, the usual game of musical chairs?”
His chief financial officer, Curtis Parker, shook his head. “The regulators will be all over us. If we transfer anything off the balance sheet, there will be fifty snoops demanding to know where it went and that will open a whole new can of worms. No, whether we like it or not we have to take our lumps and hope we can turn it around next quarter.”
Grimes frowned. “What about accelerating or slowing depreciation on some of the underperforming investments? Or why don’t we simply claim an inflated value for the assets with a straight face, get an accounting firm to sign off on it, and ignore that in a sale we’d get ten cents on the dollar?”
Parker gave him a humorless smile. “Because we aren’t a Wall Street bank. We don’t get to play those kinds of games. We’re expected to behave honestly.”
Grimes tossed his pen on the table. “Fine. How much of a hit are we going to take on the stock? Give me your worst-case scenario.”
“Fifteen percent. Which will recover within a week—I’ve lined up some buyers to come in and stabilize the price at that level and they’ll hype it once they’ve stopped the fall, turning a handy profit in the meantime—they’ve already established short positions to finance the purchases.” Parker glanced at a spreadsheet. “But we’re going to have a hell of a time with our credit lines. It’s looking increasingly like we won’t be able to service our debt within another two quarters and nobody’s going to want to be last in line to get paid.”
A beautiful brunette in her early thirties poked her head into the conference room and caught Grimes’s eye.
“Yes, Deb?” he asked.
“I have a call on your private line. Said it’s urgent . . . that you’re expecting the call?”
Grimes brightened. “Ah, yes.” He looked around the room at his inner circle. “Gentlemen, would you excuse me for a moment?” Without waiting for a response, he rose and made his way down the hall, trailed by Deb, who had to practically jog to keep up with his long strides.
“Line two,” she said as he entered his office, and he nodded as he closed the door behind him and walked to his desk. He sat in his burgundy calfskin executive chair and raised the handset to his ear.
“Hello,” he said.
The caller’s voice was flat, genderless, robotic, run through some sort of software filtering that disguised it, as it had been each time he’d spoken with his mystery accomplice.
“The first step in escalating our conflict has been taken. By the end of the day there will be articles in the Australian and Solomon papers about the aid workers’ disappearance, as well as the militia’s demands.”
“Finally, some good news. How do you intend to resolve the situation once the tension’s built sufficiently?”
“Unfortunately, the workers won’t make it. Which will trigger cries of outrage, demands for retribution, and travel advisories. Most important, it will create a difficult situation for the sitting administration, whose approach so far to unrest has been to do nothing.”
“Will that be sufficient?”
“Only time will tell.”
“I presume you have an alternate course of action if this doesn’t do the trick.”