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“I don’t want to imagine,” Sam replied.
They were stretched out on chaise lounges in the solarium surrounded by potted palms and flowing ferns, the midday sun highlighting every tone of the Tuscan flagstone tiles. It was one of their favorite rooms in the house, not an easy choice by any measure.
Sitting atop the cliffs overlooking Goldfish Point and the indigo waters of the Pacific, the Fargos’ home and base of operations was a four-story, twelve-thousand-square-foot Spanish-style house with vaulted maple-beamed ceilings and enough windows and skylights to keep their maintenance man busy for eight hours every month.
The upper floor held Sam and Remi’s master suite and below this, one flight down, were four guest suites, a living room, a dining room, and a kitchen/great room that jutted over the cliff. On the second floor a gymnasium containing both aerobic and circuit-training exercise equipment, a steam room, a HydroWorx endless-lap pool, and a thousand feet of hardwood floor space for Remi to practice her fencing and Sam his judo.
The ground floor sported two thousand square feet of office space for Sam and Remi and an adjoining workspace for Selma, complete with three Mac Pro workstations coupled with thirty-inch cinema displays and a pair of wall-mounted thirty-two-inch LCD televisions. Mounted on the east wall was Selma’s pride and joy, a fourteen-foot, five-hundred-gallon saltwater aquarium.
Sam told Remi, “We can always hope he went quickly and peacefully.”
The man in question, the poor soul they’d found sprawled at the bottom of the Molch’s ladder, now had, thanks to the journals they’d found aboard, a name: Manfred Boehm. Korvettenkapitän (Commander) Manfred Boehm. One of the journals had turned out to be the Molch’s log; the other, Boehm’s private diary dating back to the early days of World War II.
Armed with rough translations courtesy of some software, Sam and Remi had dived headfirst into what quickly began to feel like the last will and testament of both Boehm and his submarine, which they soon learned had a given name: the UM-34—Underwater Boat, Molch type, thirty-fourth constructed.
Sam had been concentrating on the UM-34’s log, trying to piece together where it had come from and how it had ended up trapped in an inlet on the Pocomoke River, while Remi worked through Boehm’s diary, learning about the man beyond the uniform and rank.
After packing up the skiff and leaving the Molch behind, they’d thought it wise to avoid Snow Hill and Maxine’s Bait ‘n’ Boat, assuming Scarface and his friends would be lurking about awaiting their return. Instead, they’d motored ten miles downriver and put ashore just south of Willow Grove, where Highway 113 and the Pocomoke ran closest to one another. From there they’d first called for a Pocomoke City taxi, then Maxine’s. Sam kept his explanation vague and short, offering a generous tip for troubling them to come down and collect the skiff. His final call went to the B&B’s manager, who agreed to ship their belongings back to California.
Five hours later they were at Norfolk International Airport boarding a plane bound for home.
The bottle from the UM-34 they’d immediately turned over to Selma upon their return, but they’d heard nothing from her on the matter since she’d locked herself and her assistants, boyfriend and girlfriend Pete Jeffcoat and Wendy Corden (both of whom had heard all the Peter Pan jokes they’d cared to), in the workshop for a marathon sleuthing session that wouldn’t end until they had an answer.
On the outside, Pete and Wendy were stereotypical twenty-something Californians—tan and lean with easygoing smiles and blond hair highlighted by the sun—but intellectually there was nothing conventional about them, each having graduated from the University of Southern California in the top percentile, Pete with a B.A. in archaeology and Wendy with a degree in social sciences.
Whatever Sam and Remi had discovered, there was no doubt the insect symbol on their bottle was a perfect match for the one on Ted’s shard, nor was there any doubt about the bottle’s general provenance. The writing on the label was French. Handwritten French, no less.
The questions seemed to be piling up quickly: What was the connection between the two pieces? What did the symbol mean? Had both bottles started out aboard the UM-34, and if so how did they get separated? And finally, what about these bottles was worth killing over?
What to do about the UM-34 itself and the remains of Boehm had been nagging at Sam’s and Remi’s consciences since leaving Maryland. Though somewhat of a gray area, it could be argued the submarine was in fact an archaeological site, which in a sense made them grave robbers. They consoled themselves by promising that once they were done with their investigation all of Boehm’s possessions would be returned to their rightful owner, whether that be the German government or Boehm’s surviving family or descendants.
/> Wanting to put as much distance between themselves and the UM-34, which it now seemed clear was what Scarface was after, they had called their lawyer, who assured them the submarine would be found by a responsible party and that the proper authorities would be alerted to the possible presence of torpedoes lying along the bottom of the Pocomoke.
“He had a wife and son,” Remi said without looking up from the diary’s pages. “Frieda and Helmut, in Arnsburg, outside Düsseldorf.”
“That’s fantastic. Then the chances are better than fair he’s got family there. If so, we’ll find them.”
“How’s the log coming?”
“Slowly. I’ll have to start mapping some of these coordinates, but it looks like the 34 was attached to an auxiliary mother ship Boehm called Gertrude.”
“Gertrude? Did the Kriegsmarine name their—”
“No, it has to be code.”
“Secret codes, lost submarines, and mysterious wine bottles. Sounds like a suspense novel.”
“Maybe when we’ve solved the whole puzzle . . .”
Remi laughed. “I think our plates are full enough.”
“Someday we’ll have to write all this down, you know. It would make a great book.”
“Someday. When we’re old and gray. I talked to Ted, by the way. He’s sitting tight.”
“Thank God. What did you decide? Did you ask him about the sub?”
“No.”
