Relic Page 3

  A slamming door startled him. He froze like a statue for thirty seconds, listening. The noise was in another part of the mansion.

  Jake approached the twin wooden doors at the end of the conference room. They were locked, but he could see a home office through the window.

  It was a beautiful office with burgundy carpeting, oak-paneled walls, and built in bookshelves. Light from a window flooded in and lit up a painting of a race horse that was mounted over the fireplace. Oak doors covered beautiful wooden cabinets. Jake was curious what was kept in those cabinets and whether or not there was a safe behind the painting.

  He got out his lock-pick set. He was competent with these because he had been contracted out to repossess ships as a sideline business. He recalled the training that his stepfather had given him when he was a kid. His stepfather, Stuart, was a former Navy SEAL who had trained Jake to become a SEAL, but ultimately Jake had gone in another direction. His true passion was for the sea and maritime history. He taught history but also stayed close to the sea. Commercial fishing was only a seasonal gig, so he’d picked up an old World War II-era supply ship, which his friend and business partner Wan-si captained on supply runs up to remote coastal towns in Alaska. Years ago, Jake had fully intended to become a SEAL, but he’d stayed in school longer than necessary. He studied maritime archaeology and paid his way by working as a fisherman in Alaska. Finally, he realized that he wanted to become a historian. He became an adjunct professor at the University of Washington. He’d locked himself out of his office and his fishing boat many times, so he had recent practice with the lock-pick set. He worked the tumblers and had the door open in less than two minutes.

  He checked beneath the horse painting, but found no safe. He opened the cabinets and revealed rows of black notebooks. Each of them was labeled with the name of a bank or a corporation, and there were hundreds of notebooks. Jake grabbed one notebook after another and just glanced at the first page because he recognized the pattern. Somebody was extremely well organized. Every notebook began with corporate papers. Jake quickly found the names of the corporate officers or agents. He then spotted a new pattern, this one of names. Certain names kept reappearing—the names of Santiago Rosario and Nicolas Rosario.

  Jake was intimidated. He was very happy with his life. He enjoyed his life of adventure, researching and exploring old ships, collecting historical log books and speaking at maritime museums. He enjoyed fishing in the Puget Sound and teaching maritime history at the University of Washington. Now, however, he suddenly felt like his life was very small compared to that of the Rosarios. Whoever these people were, they were extremely wealthy. They operated more international banks than Jake could even begin to keep track of—and these were all privately-owned banks. It was obvious that they were worth billions.

  Jake suddenly felt like an intruder. He was such an outsider to this world that he had just entered that he felt he felt like some kind of criminal—and indeed he was breaking and entering. The only thing is, he had thought of himself as investigating criminals before. Now, he felt like the criminal. How could such distinguished international businessmen be criminals? Then again, of course they could be, he thought. Who else could afford helicopters and planes and to have teams of thugs on the payroll?

  Jake opened the top desk drawer and saw a stack of photos clipped together with a butterfly clip. It caught his attention because the top photo was of Irina, the girl that he had rescued during the storm in the Puget Sound. He flipped through the pictures. They were all of Irina. They showed her in different countries. Chuck recognized some of the locations—Red Square, the Taj Mahal, and Acropolis of Athens. Other photos seemed to show her in Tokyo, London, New York. Then there other places that he could not identify. What struck him most about the photos was that Irina was always alone in the photos—and never smiling. She always looked serious. In one photo, she was standing at Stonehenge in the United Kingdom, and she looked sad, even troubled. Jake put the photos back in the drawer.

  A stack of books caught his attention because they weren’t notebooks. They looked like leather-bound photo albums. Jake opened the top album. It was a collection of articles about Juan Carlos Rosario. Dozens of articles had been written up about him in just the past several years—in newspapers and magazines from all around the world in numerous languages.

  Jake found an article from Fortune Magazine that gave a brief history of the Rosario dynasty. Fifty years ago, Juan Carlos Rosario went to work for the Chicago branch of Willis & Hodgkins, a mid-sized New York investment banking house. After three years, he transferred to their main branch. After five years, he became a partner when Hodgkins died from a fatal illness. As head of Willis & Hodgkins, Juan Carlos Rosario built a reputation over forty years as a conservative operator. He was known for considering only one deal in ten and then doing just one in seven of those. He studied every deal in massive detail to the point where he knew everything about it. He made smart investments that compounded year after year. He specialized in loaning money to foreign businesses. He made a fortune and bought a small chain of banks in Argentina, which his son, Santiago Rosario, took over as a young man. Unlike his father the conservative analyst, Santiago was a smooth-talking salesman. The nature of his banking business was not explained, but there was a reference to his son Nick Rosario, who was a very successful but low-key international banker.

  Jake put the photo album away and reached for a second one.

  Then someone behind him yelled, “Do not move! Slowly lift your hands out to the sides.”

  Jake raised his hands. As he looked back over his shoulder, the man yelled, “Do not move!”

  Jake froze, but his head was already turned. He saw now that the man was fumbling for his cell phone in his pocket. The man pulled out his phone and started dialing. As he did this, the gun was not pointed at Jake.

  Jake lunged to the right and dove through the window. He landed on his side and rolled, lessening the impact. He sprung and burst into a run. He flashed across the clearing at top speed. He thought of the racehorse painting and ran even faster. He booked around the back of a greenhouse and shot across an open expanse before he entered the forest. He then slowed down to a jog until he found the motocross trail. Then he turned on the sprint. It didn’t last long, however, because he heard the whine of dirt-bike motors. Jake angled off the trail and ducked into a mound of blackberries that was the size of three bulldozers.

  Within less than a minute, four dirt-bikes raced past. The leader was holding an auto-pistol with his free hand. The other riders had assault rifles strapped to their backs.

  As soon as they were out of sight, Jake tore back to the mansion and broke across the clearing. He ran right out onto the dock and leapt onto the deck of an offshore turbine raceboat. He cut the lines with his survival knife, shoved off, and managed to hotwire the boat in less than a minute.

  Just as he was about to sit up, he felt the boat rock. Someone was on the deck and about enter the cabin.

  Jake reached up and shoved the gas lever forward. He looked back and saw someone swimming for shore. Jake poured on more power. He shoved the lever forward and was soon practically flying over the water. He looked at instruments and watched the speed climb above a hundred miles per hour. This was incredibly fast on the open water, but he was just getting started. He eased the lever forward. Within a couple of minutes, the boat exceeded two hundred miles per hour. It was actually catching air and bouncing across the Puget Sound like a rock skipping across the water.

  He didn’t have all that much distance to cover, so he eased back on the accelerator. As he soared past a Coast Guard vessel, he realized that he was now guilty of stealing a boat. This had really been a bad day. Was he going too fast? Did they call ashore? Would they monitor him by radar to see where he docked so that they could ask him a few questions?

  Jake didn’t know. He slowed way down as he approached Bellingham. He aimed for the first marina that he spotted, then pulled up to a dock and got
out. Pulling off his balaclava face mask, he walked ashore. He took one last affectionate look at the most amazing boat he’d ever driven, which was now floating out into the bay.

  Walking casually, Jake had barely gone a block when three cop cars raced past and turned left toward the marina. Jake frowned. He kept walking away from the waterfront. He was leaving the marina area and crossing the train tracks when his phone rang—his emergency phone.

  CHAPTER 6

  “Jake, where are you?” It was Ashley, his lovely assistant.

  After crossing the train tracks Jake entered a residential area and started walking toward the dry-dock. “It’s a long story. I need a favor.”

  “Jake, the police are here.”

  Jake gasped for a breath. He felt his heart start to pound in his chest. “Why?”

  “Because I called them. I was accosted. Someone is threatening to kill you.”

  “Are you alright?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. It was down in the lobby. There were witnesses. He shoved me against the wall and threatened me. He threatened you. He says you have something that doesn’t belong to you.”

  “What? What does he think I have?”

  “He said ‘the artifact.’ What’s he talking about?”

  “I don’t know. I hear voices in the background. Is that Wan-si?”

  “Yes, I called him. I was scared. He’s trying to explain why a professor is out on a fishing boat rather than teaching classes.”

  “Look, just tell them I was checking out a dive site. It’s field work.”

  “Wan-si already did.”

  “Did the cops say anything else about the assault?”

  “No, I don’t know who it is. The police are taking a report right now. They want to talk to you.”

  “Look, tell them I’m out at sea, but I’ll call them soon, okay?”

  “No, this is serious. I’m scared.”

  “I know it’s serious, Ash. I need you to do me a favor, alright. You need to keep this between you and I.”

  “Okay.”

  “I need you to cancel my classes for the rest of the week. You’re also going to take the week off. I don’t want you anywhere around the campus in case they come back.”

  “No complaints here.”

  “I need you to do some research about the Spanish shipwreck El Nuestra Senora de las Maravillas. I need to know right away if there’s any connection between the Maravillas and a banking family by the name of Rosario.”

  “Fine, but the police are here.”

  The words were like daggers. Jake felt their impact. “I know. I’ll talk to you soon. Be careful.”

  He put his phone away. He wanted to see her in person, but under the circumstances, he couldn’t do that. It would only put her at greater risk. If Rosario’s killers came for him, he didn’t want Ashley to be anywhere around.

  Jake walked to the dry dock. He weaved through dozens of boats that were up on blocks and steadied by keel stands--tripods made of metal bars that held contact plates against the keel. The boats were like injured athletes leaning on their slanted crutches. He stood by the rudder of one of these boats and scanned the yard. He saw nothing unusual. The cops might check his boat slip in Port Townsend, but they wouldn’t know he was dry-docked in Bellingham. He would be safe here…he hoped.

  Walking in the shadows of propped-up boats, he made his way through the yard. He could hear the rumbling engine of the boatyard travel lift. He stood by a motor yacht and spied out his fishing boat, which was also on blocks and propped up with keel stands. A ladder was leaned against it. It was also his home, and since he didn’t like hotels, he needed to hide out here for a little while. He needed a plan, and he knew it would have to be extreme. His whole life was on the line right now. He climbed onboard. Nobody was working on it yet, so he was alone. He went into his cabin. He had left the girl there after he’d rescued her. She’d been in there for at least ten or fifteen minutes before Jake had been attacked and knocked out. The memory nauseated him. He thought about what the thug had said, the one who’d gone overboard during the fight.

  “Where is it?”

  What was he talking about?

  Jake thought back. When he’d pulled the girl out of the half-sunken open boat, she’d been barely conscious yet rigidly clinging to a waterproof bag. Jake recognized the type of bag since he owned several of them. He carried her to his cabin. Jake had then rushed up to the wheelhouse. The radar showed clear seas. That was good. He had tried to call the Coast Guard, but the radio wasn’t working—jammed or something. Then a blip showed up on the radar. It was approaching too fast to be a boat. Jake had figured it was a helicopter. He’d gone back down to check on the girl and found her unconscious. Her breathing was so faint that that he’d thought he’d lost her. Her jaw was slack. He knew he had to call the Coast Guard for help. Could that be the Coast Guard’s helicopter approaching, he wondered. Were they already searching for the girl? Back up in the wheelhouse, he checked the radar again, but he didn’t have to. He could hear the helicopter. He could see it hovering over the back deck. Men were dropping down a rope. Jake had grabbed the metal stair railings and slid down to the lower deck. That’s when he’d been hit.

  Everything had happened so fast. Jake now replayed the memory over and over again in his mind. He’d left her alone for ten or fifteen minutes. He couldn’t recall seeing the waterproof bag when went back the second time. Had she hidden something on his boat? What was in that bag? What had they searched for? Evidently the girl had been unconscious when they found her, so she couldn’t tell anyone where she’d stashed the bag.

  So they’d torn his boat apart. What was in that bag?

  Jake searched the cabin thoroughly, but found nothing. The place had already been trashed by the thug who had tried to kill him. Mattresses had been slashed. Drawers had been dumped, cabinets emptied onto the floor. Jake sifted through the mess. He also checked under the mattresses, in the drawers, cabinets, everywhere… If Irina had hidden anything, she’d hidden it well.

  Jake stepped out of the cabin. He wandered into the kitchen. After sweeping up the broken plates, he began searching all the cabinets, but found nothing out of the ordinary. He searched the stowage under bench seats. He didn’t even know what he was looking for, but they hadn’t left that thug behind for nothing. Jake searched the fridge. Nothing there. He opened the freezer. Everything looked normal. He was just closing it when he realized one of the meat packages wasn’t properly taped. The tape was loose. He picked up the meat, but heard a clinking sound. There was something else in there. It wasn’t steak.

  CHAPTER 7

  Berkshire, England, near Henley-on-Thames, Oxfordshire

  The Mercedes, Ferraris, Lamborghinis and Bentleys were parked in rows at the renowned waterfront mansion, Thames Pearl, which was surrounded by 90 acres of grounds. The lawns surrounding the 15,000 square-foot mansion were beautifully manicured and provided stretching spaces in between the gardens and trees. In fact, the lush green front yard covered a full ten acres of wide open space. It was a perfect place for entertaining, and that’s what was happening on this particular Friday night. Half a dozen white tents had been set up. These included a barbecue tent, two bars, and three picnic tents supplied with tables where people were talking and eating. Fifty yards away, the Rolling Stones were performing “Sympathy for the Devil” to a crowd of party guests.

  It wasn’t exactly the most peaceful setting on this particular night. With over forty ducks barbecuing right now in the food tents, most of the guests were eating, but the band was still playing and the skeet shooters were just finishing up.

  “Throw.”

  A man flung a disk into the sky and a guest swung his shotgun skyward and blasted off a shot. The clay disk erupted into dozens of fragments.

  A toddler tugging at the shooter’s pant-leg began to cry from the noise. The scrawny shooter with a curved mustache and eyeglasses turned and scolded his wife. “Esmerelda, I thought you were watching her.
Take her away. She should not be this close when we are shooting. Take her to the kids’ tent and let her ride the pony.”

  His beautiful young wife, Esmerelda, shrugged her shoulders in frustration and made apologies to her friend. She collected her daughter and turned back to her husband: “Maybe you should take her over there. Do you have to shoot that thing now? We shouldn’t be doing this.”

  He ignored her and eyed the man with the clay pigeons. “Throw,” he said.

  The lovely wife hurried away, carrying her daughter.

  The thrower nodded and flung the clay pigeon skyward. The shooter swung his gun up with the confidence of an expert, blasting one clay pigeon, then another.

  A dozen watchers “oohed” and “aahed.”

  The shooter waved to the thrower. “Good job, Henry. That’s enough for tonight. Dinner is on.”

  The shooter was none other than Phillip Abbey, owner of the Thames Pearl. He also owned one of the largest oil companies in the world. His corporation had hundreds of oil leases in dozens of countries. Phillip handed the shotgun to his groundskeeper. He had taken two steps toward the kid’s tent when a red dot formed on his forehead. He staggered and fell to the ground. Several guests rushed to his side. A man turned him onto his back. A woman screamed.

  “He’s been shot,” someone screamed. “Sniper.”

  The band stopped playing. “Shooter,” someone shouted. “Take cover!”

  CHAPTER 8

  Bellingham Boat Yard, Washington State

  Standing in the galley of his propped-up fishing boat, Jake unfolded the butcher paper and slowly uncovered the package he’d found in the freezer. He heard the rain start up again, and he glanced out the door and across the boat yard, out into the fog-shrouded Bellingham Bay. The fog lay as thick as whipped cream. A funereal stillness slept upon the water. Then the fog began to churn, and Jake saw a ship, a bulk carrier, cutting through the gloom. Fog swirled around the moving monstrosity. Then the freighter vanished. Jake looked back at the package in his hands.