“Not yet, sir.”
His CFO, Martin Edwards, had been with his company since its inception. When it came to finances, Charles trusted him implicitly. “Your recommendation?”
“Considering the basis—” Edwards stopped as Colin Fisk walked into the room.
“My apologies for the interruption,” Fisk said, his tone sounding anything but sorry, “but I have news that can’t wait.”
Charles eyed him, trying to determine if the news was good or bad. The man’s face was a blank slate, he thought, turning to Edwards and saying, “The figures speak for themselves. Unless there’s something I’m not seeing?”
“No, sir. My opinion is, we should proceed.”
“Do so. Now, if you’ll
excuse us, apparently I have some pressing business that needs dealing with.”
Edwards gathered his papers, then left.
Charles waited until the door had closed behind him before addressing Fisk. “Is it done?”
“We have the book and the key. On the way here as we speak.”
He leaned back in his chair, relieved, and very much pleased with the outcome. “And the Fargos? They believed the story?”
“Not exactly. They followed my men to the warehouse.”
“Tell me they were dealt with.”
“They escaped. But then, so did two of my men, so all was not lost.”
Charles gripped the arms of his chair, wanting to lash out, break something. These Fargos had already cost him considerable time and money. “I want these treasure-hunting socialites dealt with.”
“At the moment, they’re no more trouble than a thorn in our side.”
“Thorns have a way of becoming infected. If they so much as appear on the fringes of any of my operations, kill them.”
“I have a plan in the works.”
“What sort of plan?”
“Involving the two women. Pickering’s niece and daughter. Let’s just say they’ve been very useful up to this point. If things proceed as expected, we should hear good news within the next day or so.”
Twelve
Sam and Remi sat across from each other in the cabin of their jet, both enjoying the relative solitude of each other’s company. Remi was refreshing her memory about the history of Oak Island and the hunt for treasure in the so-called Money Pit while he read the report on Charles Avery that Selma had put together and forwarded.
After a while, Sam sat back, then looked up at Remi. “I thought this guy’s name seemed familiar. I remembered reading about him in Forbes,” he said. “Made his millions raiding corporations. When he’s not buying cash-strapped companies, he fancies himself an expert in maritime salvaging.”
“How is it we’ve never heard of him beyond that?”
“We don’t run in the same circles. And judging from the number of people he’s put out of business, I wouldn’t want to.”
Remi smiled as Bree wandered in, looking somewhat more refreshed from having had a nap. “Feeling better?” Remi asked her.
“Much.”
Sam nodded at a light dinner laid out on the sideboard. “Help yourself. Selma’s made arrangements for you to fly home tomorrow afternoon.”
“Thank you.” She looked over the paperwork Remi had spread all over the table. “Oak Island? You really think that’s what Larayne was talking about?”