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“Do you see the mountains to the south, the great ones touching the heavens?”
“I do.”
“You will travel there.”
“Your Majesty, that is enemy territory!”
“What better test for a weapon of war?” Francesco opened his mouth to protest, but the Kangxi Emperor continued. “In the foothills, along the streams, you will find a golden flower—Hao knows the one I mean. Bring that flower back to me before it wilts and you will be rewarded.”
“Your Majesty, those mountains are”—Forty miles away, Francesco thought. Perhaps fifty—“too far for a maiden voyage. Perhaps—”
“You will bring the flower back to me before it wilts or I will mount your brother’s head on a spike. Do you understand?”
“I understand.”
Francesco turned to his younger brother. Having heard the entire exchange, Giuseppe’s face had gone ashen. His chin trembled. “Brother, I . . . I’m scared.”
“No need. I’ll be back before you know it.”
Giuseppe took a breath, set his jaw, and squared his shoulders. “Yes. I know you are right. The craft is a wonder, and there is no one better at piloting it. With luck, we’ll be sharing dinner together tonight.”
“Good spirit,” Francesco said.
They embraced for several seconds before Francesco pulled away. He turned to face Hao, and said, “Order the braziers stoked. We lift off in ten minutes!”
1
SUNDA STRAIT, SUMATRA,
THE PRESENT DAY
Sam Fargo eased back on the throttle, taking the engine to idle. The speedboat slowed, gliding to a stop in the water. He shut off the engines, and the craft began rocking gently from side to side.
A quarter mile off the bow their destination rose from the water, a thickly forested island whose interior was dominated by sharp peaks, plummeting valleys, and thick rain forest; below these, a shoreline pockmarked with hundreds of pocket coves and narrow inlets.
In the speedboat’s aft seat, Remi Fargo looked up from her book—a little “escapist reading” entitled The Aztec Codices: An Oral History of Conquest and Genocide—pushed her sunglasses onto her forehead, and gazed at her husband. “Trouble?”
He turned to her and gave her an admiring stare. “Just enjoying the scenic view.” Then Sam gave an exaggerated wiggle of his eyebrows.
Remi smiled. “A smooth talker.” She closed the book and placed it on the seat beside her. “But Magnum P.I., you’re not.”
Sam nodded at the book. “How is it?”
“Slow reading, but the Aztecs were fascinating people.”
“More than anyone ever imagined. How long until you’re finished with that one? It’s next on my reading list.”
“Tomorrow or the next day.”
As of late, each of them had been saddled with a daunting amount of homework, and the island to which they were headed was largely the cause. In any other circumstances, the speck of land between Sumatra and Java might be a tropical getaway, but it had in the last few months been turned into a dig site crawling with archaeologists, historians, anthropologists, and of course a plethora of Indonesian government officials. Like all of them, each time Sam and Remi visited the island, they had to negotiate the tree house–like rope city the engineers had strung above the site lest the ground collapse below the feet of the people trying to preserve the find.
What Sam and Remi had discovered on Pulau Legundi was helping to rewrite Aztec and U.S. Civil War history, and as the directors of not only this project but also two others, they had to stay current on the mountain of data coming in.
It was for them a labor of love. While their passion was treasure hunting—a decidedly hands-on, field-intensive avocation based as much on instinct as it was on research—each of them had come to it from a scientific background, Sam a Caltech-educated engineer, Remi an anthropology and history major from Boston College.
Sam had fallen fairly close to the familial tree: his father, now passed away, had been one of the lead engineers on NASA’s space programs, while his mother, Eunice, now seventy-one, lived in Key West, the sole proprietor, captain, and chief bottle washer of a snorkeling and deep-sea-fishing boat. Remi’s mother and father, a custom homebuilder and a pediatrician/author respectively, were both retired and living the good life in Maine, raising llamas.
Sam and Remi had met in Hermosa Beach at a jazz bar called The Lighthouse. On a whim, Sam had stopped in for a cold beer, and he found Remi and some colleagues letting off steam after spending the past few weeks hunting for a sunken galleon off Abalone Cove.
