Chasing the White Lion by James Hannibal (best free e book reader .TXT) 📗

Conrad raised a dismissive hand. “Relax. Winston is not ‘the press.’ He’s here to get a few jittery shots for my blog. No identifying landmarks. Follow me, everyone. Onward.” He passed them by, leading the way into the trees—in completely the wrong direction.

Val caught up to him and corrected his heading. “This way, Malcom. Same as yesterday. Same as every day this week.”

Nearer to the site, a shouting match overpowered the compressor’s rattle. Finn and Eddie looked like they might come to blows. The geek crossed his arms and shook his head. “I’m telling you, it’s too dangerous.”

“And I’m telling you, this is what subs are for, mate. They go where divers can’t.” Finn flicked the rounded metal frame of the ROV. “Now send this little Sheila down, or I’ll toss her in myself.” He pushed his face closer to Eddie’s. “And maybe I’ll toss you in too.”

The geek didn’t back down. “Go easy, mate. That’s a quarter-million-dollar rig you’re smacking around. And she’s a rental.”

“Hey,” Val said. “What’s the problem here?”

“You want to show her?” Finn thrust his chin at the screens. “Or shall I?”

“Like you could.” Eddie fiddled with a keyboard and mouse to bring up a sonar image—the one he’d told Talia was a school of mackerel. “This right here. This is the problem.”

By appearances, the fake Smythe and Winston could not have cared less. They busied themselves looking for good camera angles. But Atan took an instant interest. “What is this we are looking at?”

“I’ll tell you”—Eddie shot a look at Finn—“because he can’t tell a marine sonar from a sonogram. This is a river cave, with a big metallic signature deep inside.”

Val made some late introductions. “Taner Atan, meet Edward Fyers and Phineas Scrug.” She didn’t specify which was which.

Eddie pointed to himself, then the thief. “Eddie . . . Finn. In case it wasn’t obvious.”

“So, Mr. Scrug.” Atan narrowed one eye at Finn and his scuba gear. “I take it you are the Australian Miss Macciano mentioned in my coin vault. I thought you said he worked in security.”

“I’m something of a jack-of-all-trades.”

“And master of none.” Eddie reclaimed the group’s attention. “I’m glad you’re here, Miss Macciano. As I was just explaining to your diver, we can’t proceed. The cave is too dangerous, even for the ROV.” He launched into a drawn-out explanation of deep river topography and current variations, so animated he had to continually reset his glasses. Atan, reduced from mobster to schoolboy by his desire for the Bavarian Thalers, hung on every word.

Talia fought back a cringe as he finished the monologue with a honking blow of his nose. He stuffed the handkerchief away and tapped his screen. “River caves are nature’s time capsules, Mr. Atan. The current drives debris in, like the wreckage from a crashed vessel.”

“Or a lost treasure”—Atan’s smile grew—“perhaps barrels of Bavarian coins.”

“Sure. The problem is, whatever or whoever goes in”—Eddie glanced at Finn—“stays there forever. The current is too strong for a scuba diver and way too strong for a remote sub.”

Talia caught Atan holding his breath, enraptured by all their theater. At the riverbank, Finn dropped his vest and tank in the tall grass and sat on a rock overhanging the water. He strapped on his fins. “Maybe I can’t make it out of that cave weighed down with scuba gear, but I can do it freediving.”

“Finn, don’t,” Val said. “That’s suicide.”

“Then say goodbye to my mum for me. Her flat’s on Baker Street. South Melbourne.” He dropped into the water.

CHAPTER

THIRTY-

FIVE

MARE’S ORBIT FOREST PRESERVE

RIVER VLTAVA

TYLERSTAREDATTHERIVER’SSURFACE from the ROV station. “Your diver’s been down too long. I don’t like it.”

Atan regarded him with a raised eyebrow. “Why, Mr. Tyler, how compassionate of you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I couldn’t care less about Mr. Scrug. But I’d rather not answer questions from the Czech authorities if he dies.”

This wiped the grin from Atan’s lips. He turned to Eddie. “Get him back. Now.”

A few feet away, on the riverbank, the fake Smythe played to his camera, talking over the rattling compressor. “Will our intrepid diver return with the gold? Will he return at all?”

Atan spun Eddie around by the shoulder. “I said, get him back.”

“How? We have no communication.”

“The sub. Send it down.”

“And do what? Video the drowning?”

The Albanian was done arguing. He nudged Tyler and nodded at the sub. “Help me get this into the water.”

“Why? You heard the kid. The sub can’t pull him out.”

“Perhaps not. But I have a plan.” Atan snatched up one end of a nylon rope coil lying atop a pile of crates and gear. “We use this.”

“A lifeline.” Tyler held the sub while Atan secured the rope. “It’s worth a try.”

This con only works if the mark drives. Val had written the play. Tyler had directed. And now Atan had made himself the hero. With Tyler’s help, he put the ROV in the water and secured the other end of the rope to the steel post of Eddie’s satellite dish. “Drive, Mr. Fyers. Find our man.”

The whole group gathered around the monitors, except for Smythe, who stayed at the bank, pontificating about the eternal war between the fragility of life and man’s lust for gold. The signal from the rig’s 4K camera popped up on Eddie’s left screen. The murk lessened for a fleeting moment. “There.” Atan pointed. “Go back. I saw a light.”

“I saw it too,” Val said. “The dive light on Finn’s mask. He’s still alive.”

But Tyler shook his head. “A light only tells us his battery hasn’t died. I don’t care how good Mr. Finn is. No one can hold their breath this long.”

The silt flowing past the camera parted like curtains on endless gold half buried in the muck. Atan seemed to forget all about poor Mr. Scrug. He gasped. “Maximillian’s gold. After all these centuries. It’s ours for the—”

The rope went taut. A light washed out the coins.

Atan looked from the screen to the water and back. “What is happening?”

“It’s him.” Val