Pirate by Clive Cussler Read Free Book Online

record, no one actually tried to kill us.”
    â€œBut they
did
have guns.” Remi eyed Sam. “And we left
ours
on the plane.”
    â€œIs this a good time to point out that it was your idea to stop off at that bookstore?”
    â€œPretty sure it’s never going to be a good time to mention that.”

Five

    S am decided that their overnight trip to the Inn at Spanish Bay and dinner at Roy’s on the Monterey Peninsula would have to wait for another day. He contacted his flight crew and had them fly back to San Francisco from the airport in Monterey. Remi was too worried over not being able to get in touch with Bree. That, along with this morning’s events, had put a damper on Sam’s plans for the week. Within a few hours, they were at cruising altitude aboard their G650, relaxing to the soothing allegretto of Beethoven’s Seventh. Remi had received a text from Selma that the book arrived this morning in “fairly good shape,” and other than some minor damage to the inside cover, possibly from being jostled during shipping, there was nothing that stood out. No keys or anything else packed with it.
    Even with Selma’s text, Remi seemed restless. Sam saw her check her phone, then return it to the table, a look of frustrationon her face, no doubt hoping to hear from her friend. He wished he could ease her worry. He didn’t know Bree Marshall well, but Remi had worked quite closely with her these last few weeks and had grown fond of the young woman.

    When they arrived at the San Diego Airport, they drove straight to Bree’s apartment in La Jolla. She lived on the second story in a complex about two miles inland. Palm trees lined the parking lot, the offshore breeze rustling the fronds above them. Sam and Remi climbed the stairs, Remi ringing the doorbell, waiting a few seconds, then trying again. When no one answered, Sam knocked sharply. The door behind them opened, and a blond-haired woman poked her head out. “No one’s home.”
    â€œAny chance you know how to reach Bree?” Remi asked.
    â€œYou are . . . ?”
    â€œRemi Fargo. My husband, Sam. We work—”
    â€œThat Foundation. I’ve heard her mention her job there,” she said, opening the door wider, eyeing both of them. “Just wanted to make sure you weren’t some random strangers. She took off suddenly.”
    â€œWhen?” Remi asked.
    â€œLate last night. I was just getting home, and she was running down the stairs, saying something about her uncle. Going to see him, I think.”
    Sam pulled out his wallet, took a business card from it, and handed it to her. “If you hear from her, ask her to give us a call? It’s very important.”
    â€œOf course. Sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”
    In the car, Sam glanced over at his wife. “She’s probably already in San Francisco.”
    â€œI’m sure you’re right. I just hate to think how awful this must be for her.”
    â€œShe has our number. She’ll call. In the meantime, let’s go home, check in with Selma, and take a look at this book Mr. Pickering wrapped up for you.”
    They lived just a few miles away in the hills of La Jolla’s Goldfish Point, overlooking the ocean. The moment they stepped inside from the garage, their massive German shepherd, Zoltán, bounded down the hallway toward them, his nails clicking on the tumbled-marble tile floor as he skidded to a stop in front of Remi and Sam.
    Remi kneeled down, scratching him behind his ears as he pressed himself closer to her. She’d acquired the dog in Hungary when they were searching for Attila the Hun’s tomb, and the two had bonded so well, she brought Zoltán home. There was one slight drawback. Zoltán knew only Hungarian commands. Fortunately, their researcher Selma, a former Hungarian citizen—still retaining a slight accent—set about teaching the dog English