“I don’t understand.”
“I know you don’t.”
Bondaruk started walking away, calling to his dogs after him, then suddenly stopped and turned back to Arkhipov. “You’ve served me very well, Grigoriy, for many years.”
“It’s been my pleasure.”
“As I said, I don’t blame you for losing the Fargos, but I need your pledge that it won’t happen again.”
“You have it, Mr. Bondaruk.”
“You’ll swear to it?”
For the first time, Arkhipov’s eyes showed a trace of uncertainty. “Of course.”
Bondaruk smiled; there was none of it in his eyes. “Good. Raise your right hand and so swear.”
After only a moment’s hesitation, Arkhipov raised his hand to shoulder height. “I swear I will—”
Bondaruk’s shotgun spun in his hands and the barrel spat orange flame. Arkhipov’s right hand and wrist disappeared in a spray of blood. The former Spetsnaz stumbled backward one step, staring for a few moments at the gushing stump before letting out a moan and dropping to his knees.
Kholkov, standing a few feet behind and to the side, sidestepped, his eyes fixed on Bondaruk’s shotgun. Arkhipov clutched feebly at the stump, then looked up at Kholkov. “Why . . . ?” he croaked.
Bondaruk strolled up to Arkhipov’s side and looked down on him. “I don’t blame you, Grigoriy, but life is about cause and effect. Had you worked more quickly with Frobisher, the Fargos wouldn’t have had time to intervene.”
Bondaruk shifted the shotgun again, leveled it with Arkhipov’s left ankle, and pulled the trigger. The foot disappeared. Arkhipov screamed and toppled over. Bondaruk broke open the shotgun, loaded two more shells from his pocket, then methodically blasted off Arkhipov’s remaining hand and foot, then watched his subordinate writhing on the ground. After thirty seconds Arkhipov went still.
Bondaruk looked up at Kholkov. “Do you want his job?”
“Pardon me?”
“I’m offering you a promotion. Do you accept?”
Kholkov took a deep breath. “I have to admit your management style gives me pause.”
At this Bondaruk smiled. “Arkhipov isn’t dead because he made a mistake, Vladimir. He’s dead because he made a mistake that couldn’t be fixed. The Fargos are involved now, and it is a complication we can’t afford. You’re allowed mistakes—just not irreversible ones. I’ll need your answer now.”
Kholkov nodded. “I accept.”
“Wonderful! Let’s have some breakfast.”
Bondaruk turned and started walking away, his dogs trailing behind him, then he stopped and turned back.
“By the way, when we get back to the house you might want to check the American news sites. I heard a local man, a Maryland State Police officer, in fact, stumbled across a half-sunken German midget submarine.”
“Is that so.”
“Interesting, isn’t it?”
“Okay, go on.”
“About a year after he was exiled Napoleon escapes, returns to France, and puts together an army. Louis XVIII flees the throne and Napoleon takes over again. This was the start of what historians call the Hundred Days Campaign—though it didn’t even last that long. Not quite three months later, in June, Napoleon is routed by the British and Prussians at the Battle of Waterloo. Napoleon abdicates again and is exiled by the British to Saint Helena—a chunk of rock about twice the size of Washington, D.C., dead center in the Atlantic Ocean between West Africa and Brazil. He spends the remaining six years of his life there and dies in 1821.”
“Of stomach cancer,” Sam offered.
“That’s the generally accepted theory, but there are a lot of historians who believe he was murdered—arsenic poisoning.
“So,” Selma concluded, “that brings us back to the Lost Cellar: The myth dates back to 1852 and the alleged deathbed confession of a smuggler named Lionel Arienne, who claimed that in June of 1820, eleven months before Napoleon died, he was approached by an agent of Napoleon’s at a tavern in Le Havre. The soldier—who Arienne simply referred to as ‘the Major’—hired Arienne and his ship, the
“According to Arienne, when they reached Saint Helena six weeks later they were met in a small cove by a lone man in a rowboat, who carried aboard a wooden case, roughly two feet long and a foot wide. With his back facing Arienne, the Major opened the case, inspected its contents, resealed it, then suddenly drew his sword and killed the man from the rowboat. The body was weighted with a length of anchor chain, then dumped overboard. The rowboat was scuttled.
“It was at this point in Arienne’s telling of the story that the old smuggler was said to have simply died—in midsentence, no less—taking with him any clue as to the contents of the case or where he and the Major took it. And that might have been the end of it,” Selma said, “if not for Lacanau.”
“The name of Napoleon’s private vineyard,” Sam offered.
“Correct. While Arienne and the phantom Major were supposedly on their way to Helena, the vineyard at Lacanau—which the French government had generously allowed to remain as part of Napoleon’s estate—was burned to the ground by person or persons unknown. The vines, the winery, all the casks—utterly destroyed. Even the soil was obliterated, dosed with salt and lye.”
“As well as the seeds, right?” Remi said.
“Those, too. Actually the name ‘Lacanau’ was one of convenience. In fact, the Lacanau vineyard grapes came from seeds taken from the Corsican regions of the Ajaccio Patrimonio. Napoleon had Archambault cross-pollinate the seeds to create the Lacanau strain.
“Anyway, while he was still in power, Napoleon ordered the seeds for the Lacanau grape to be kept in secure repositories at Amiens, Paris, and Orleans. According to legend, while the fires were raging at Lacanau, the seeds mysteriously disappeared and were assumed destroyed. The Lacanau grape, which grew only in that coastal region of France, was gone forever.”
Remi said, “For argument’s sake let’s say all of this isn’t just a folk-tale. What we’re getting at is this: From exile, Napoleon, via secret messenger or carrier pigeon or whatever, ordered Henri Archambault, his chief winemaker, to produce a final batch of Lacanau wine and have it delivered to Saint Helena, then he orders his loyalist operatives back in France to raze the vineyard, ruin the soil, then kidnap and destroy the seeds. Then a few months later he orders this . . . Major to sail to Helena and spirit—no pun intended—the wine away to points unknown.” Remi looked at Sam and Selma in turn. “Have I got that right?”
“Sounds about right,” Sam said.
The three of them paused for ten seconds, staring at the bottle on the table with new eyes.
“How much is it worth?” Remi asked Selma.
“Well, the story has it there were twelve bottles in the case the Major and Arienne took from Saint Helena, and it seems likely that one of the bottles is already broken. If the case were intact . . . I’d say nine or ten million dollars—to the right kind of buyer, of course. But the case isn’t intact, so that really brings down the price. If I had to guess . . . I’d say each bottle would be worth between six and seven hundred thousand dollars.”
“For a bottle of wine,” Remi breathed.
“Not to mention the historical and scientific value,” Sam said. “We’re talking about a strain of grape that is in all likelihood extinct.”
“So what do you want to do?” Selma asked.
“We have to assume Scarface is after the wine rather than the
They worked on Boehm’s diary and the
UM-34
“Here,” Remi said, straightening in her chair and tapping the diary. “This is what we’ve been looking for: Wolfgang Muller. Listen to this entry: ‘August 3, 1944: For the first time as brothers in arms Wolfi and I ship out together tomorrow. I pray God we succeed and prove worthy of our commands.’ ”
“Brothers in
UM-34
“Perhaps.” Remi picked up her cell phone and called down to the workshop. “Selma, can you work your magic on something for us? We need anything you can dig up on a World War II Kriegsmarine sailor named Wolfgang Muller. In summer or fall of 1944 he might have commanded a ship of some kind. Right, thanks.”
True to her reputation, Selma called back thirty minutes later. Remi put her on speakerphone.
“Found him,” she said. “You want the short or long version?”
“Short for now,” Sam replied.
“
Wolfgang Muller, born 1910 in Munich. Joined the Kriegsmarine in 1934. Standard promotions, no disciplinary action. In 1944 he was assigned to captain the auxiliary ship
Lothringen
“A mine layer?” Remi said. “Why would they—”
“By that time in the war the Germans were losing and they knew it—everyone but Hitler, that was,” Selma said. “They were desperate. The kinds of auxiliary ships they would have normally used to transport the
“I also found a website entitled Survivors of the
“About fifty miles south of Pocomoke Sound,” Remi said.
“Right. Only about half the
Lothringen
“What about Muller? Any idea what happened to him?”
“Nothing yet. Still looking. One of the
Lothringen
“Selma, did the
UM-34
“That would explain why they didn’t do whatever refitting was required at sea,” Remi said.
“True, but why didn’t they do the refit in Bremerhaven before they left? Maybe they were in a hurry. As I said, they were getting desperate by that point.”
“Wait a second,” Sam blurted out, then grabbed the
“Rum Cay,” Remi murmured.
“Has to be.”
“It fits,” Selma agreed.
Sam looked questioningly at Remi, who smiled and nodded back. “Okay, Selma, time to put on your travel-agent hat. Get us on the next flight to Nassau.”