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Sam looked up from the papers. “What I’m reading here makes it seem like an early case of corporate espionage.”
“That was my take on it as well,” Selma continued. “Reginald Oren was employed by Rolls-Royce. But he had connections with the gang responsible for the theft of the treasure. And it’s not really clear if the treasure and the car were found together.”
“So, maybe someone thinks that missing part of the treasure is hidden in the Gray Ghost?” Remi said. “Or maybe a hidden map? It might explain why the Paytons are being followed.”
“Makes sense,” Sam said. “Any idea what part of this treasure is still missing?”
“Lazlo reached out to acquaintances of his familiar with the local history in England and Manchester just after the turn of the century. They believe it’s around half.”
“Five hundred thousand dollars?” Remi said. “The Gray Ghost has to be worth more than that.”
“Don’t forget inflation,” Selma said. “Five hundred thousand gold sovereigns from 1906 are worth close to three hundred times that much just for the gold. Close to one hundred and fifty million.”
Remi whistled.
“That car’s worth a pretty penny,” Sam said.
“And about to go on public display,” Selma reminded him.
“I’m still not convinced that we should involve ourselves,” Sam said. “Who’s to say the Paytons are on the up-and-up?”
Remi eyed the screenshot of the Gray Ghost, then picked up the phone on Selma’s desk, holding it toward Sam. “Can’t wait to hear this call to your mother, you telling her you think her relatives are conning her.”
Sam took the phone from Remi, dropped it back in the cradle. “Now that I think about it, a quick trip to Great Britain seems perfectly reasonable.”
5
Arthur Oren opened the folder, revealing a color print, an artist’s rendering of a coat of arms he’d recently had commissioned. Oren’s family name should have read “Oren-Payton.” A few generations ago, the Oren-Payton brothers fought over their inheritance, the older brother taking the Payton name when he became Viscount Wellswick, the younger brother adopting the Oren name when he was forced to leave everything behind to make his own fortune. The two never spoke again.
What his distant relative had failed to do when he’d walked away all those years ago was create a new family crest.
Arthur Oren had finally rectified that detail, using the original version and adapting parts of it for his own. The artist had done a fine job, and Arthur imagined what it would look like, full-sized, hanging in the Great Hall, once he recovered the manor from those Payton thieves. With the endgame so close, he’d taken the liberty of having this new design drawn up, one that more closely resembled the original family crest.
After the Paytons had usurped the ancestral home, they’d removed the raven from the shield and chosen a dragon on a red background, meant to signify their role as guardian of the treasure and service to their country. The artist’s new design had rectified that substitution by changing the red background to maroon, meant to signify victory in battle. But second, and most importantly, he’d removed the dragon and replaced it with more than the original single raven, this time including one for each generation that had suffered at the hands of the Paytons.
This last alteration made Arthur smile, and he ran his finger across the ravens, relishing their symbolism: divine providence, endurance, and, most significant, as the bringers of death.
A fitting end to the descendants of those who’d usurped the Oren lands—and any who got in the way of his recovery of it all, he thought. His brown-haired secretary, Jane, knocked on the door. “Sir? Colton Devereux is here to see you.”
“Send him in.”
“Right away.”
She returned to her office. A moment later, Colton entered, taking a seat in the chair opposite his desk without being asked. Deciding to ignore such presumptuousness, Oren closed the folder containing his sketch. “What’ve you found so far?”
“The old man decided to show the car after all.”
“How’d you manage that?”
“By convincing the family that it would raise the value of the car should he ever decide to sell.”
And sell he would. Albert Payton was broke, thanks to Colton. One more reason that Oren was dependent on his skills. Colton and the team of men he had working for him were the best money could buy. A mix of Special Forces and computer hackers—black hatters, Colton called them. They were a near unstoppable force, loyal to Colton and therefore loyal to the person paying his exorbitant fee. It was Colton who’d come up with the idea of hacking and depleting the Payton accounts, forcing the sale of their assets, allowing Oren to buy them for a tenth of the value while hiding behind the shell companies Colton had set up. “You’re sure he’s entering the car into the show?”
“Absolutely,” Colton said, lighting up a cigarette, again without asking.
The man smoked nonstop, a fact Oren found surprising, given his muscular appearance as well as his background in the Special Forces. Then again, he usually stood back and let his men do the heavy lifting.
Colton exhaled a stream of smoke, pocketed his lighter. “I told him that the organizers were so excited about putting the car on display, they were willing to waive the entry fee. Once he heard that, he was all for it. I’ve added the entry
