“Your point?” Atlas countered.
“He's been vetted. For the right price, he would be a loyal and capable employee. Sava dealt with betrayal or incompetence swiftly.” Joseph withdrew his pipe and a bag of tobacco from his breast pocket and filled the bowl as he spoke. “This family has always operated in the gray, but where your uncle was a diplomat, you are a warrior.” He patted down the leaves and struck a wooden match. Atlas inflated at the compliment. “This man, Miguel Ramirez, could prove to be quite an asset. No reason not to take advantage of Gemini's flight of fancy. She has plans for him; why not make some of your own?”
Joseph puffed on his pipe, absently tapping the closed file.
Atlas sat back and brushed the velvet upholstery of the armrest, watching the fabric's color change with the back and forth motion. “And what if he is not… amenable to these plans?”
Joseph countered, “Read the file, Atlas. The man is an urchin, an enforcer. He was living on the streets before coming to work for Sava. You think you can’t convince him to come live in the lap of luxury with a beautiful woman in his bed?” Joseph folded his glasses and replaced them in his breast pocket, pushed back his chair, and stood, patting his employer on the shoulder with fatherly affection as he left. “I’m sure you’ve successfully negotiated deals with far less to offer.”
Joseph stopped at the room's entrance and looked back. Alone at the table, Atlas placed one finger on top of the closed file and slid the papers in front of him. Pleased, Joseph continued walking. Miguel Ramirez was about to experience an abrupt change in circumstance.
Joseph Nabeel ate up the lawn in long strides. Golf carts were scattered throughout the March estate, but Joseph chose to walk the kilometer or so to his quaint guest house, just as he had for the past twenty-two years. He idly wondered if he would still be living here when he would require such a conveyance.
He depressed the latch on the unlocked door and entered the lavish guest cottage that had been his home for two decades. After following his ingrained routine—hanging his trench coat on the coat rack, flipping through the stack of mail his housekeeper had left on the small pillar table by the door, and pouring himself a small measure of sherry—he surveyed the surroundings. His outward calm belying the excitement bursting from within.
Joseph Nabeel was a man reborn.
In the name of his many endeavors, he had foregone marriage and family, had led a solitary life. Instead of friends, he had staff. Instead of children, he had Gemini March. He had grown tired. Tired of a search that never seemed to yield rewards. Taking his drink, he made his way to his study. At the doorway, he stared at the ancient map that lay on the weathered desk.
Crossing the room, he opened the top drawer, withdrew a pair of loose, white cotton gloves, put them on, and took a seat. His hands and eyes moved reverently over the drawings and landmarks depicted on the centuries-old parchment. Time had altered the shoreline and terrain of Mallorca, but Joseph had spent a lifetime studying everything from sea currents to volcanic activity. The landscape had a familiarity to him that no one else possessed, as if the eyes and thoughts, even the very souls, of his ancestors lived within him.
Over the centuries, many men had attempted to find the place indicated on this map. The piece of parchment itself now spread before him was worth over a million euros. After studying every nuance of the page for nearly a year, Joseph believed he had discovered the error the cartographer—or, more likely, a lowly sailor—had made.
In 1478, the caravel ship had made a rushed departure from Algiers, the Moorish king desperate to escape with his prize before King Ferdinand's Spanish crusaders arrived. They had sailed through the night in a violent storm. Joseph was convinced that the ship had been blown off course. What was marked on the map as Ibiza—actually Yebisah, the Arabic name from when the Moors controlled the island through the thirteenth century—was actually a jutting tip of the Spanish coastline. Thus, the point where the ship ran aground in Mallorca had been miscalculated by over thirty kilometers.
Joseph relished the image of infidels and claimless treasure seekers scouring the caves near Palma when, by his estimation, the location was just east of Banyalbufar in the honeycomb of caves carved into the limestone cliffs.
Despite his revelation with the map, his search had yielded nothing. The Panther's Eye remained undiscovered.
As a small boy, Joseph had been hypnotized by the story. Each year, during Ramadan, after they had broken the fast and prayed, one of the village elders would gather the children and share the lore. The others had whispered and giggled, but Joseph had been snared.
He knew even then that the story was meant for him, that Panther's Eye was to be his.
He had worked two jobs to pay for his schooling at the University of Cairo. Then he had received an offer of employment that was both profitable and prophetic: March Mining. Ulysses March had just started his business when Joseph came to his side. Joseph's work had included the immoral and even the criminal, but he was well-appreciated and better compensated. More importantly, he had ample time to explore the arcane caves and underground passages of Mallorca in search of his prize.
And that's what he had done for more than two decades. He had found breadcrumbs through the years; he had even discovered a stash of Moorish coins and silver from another ship and another time. He had been on the brink of abandoning the hunt. Joseph was not a religious man, but two nights ago, he had knelt and prayed to whatever god would listen. He had begged for a sign. And like a dying man resuscitated, he was brought back to life. He withdrew the photograph from his suit pocket and placed it on the desk. The moment he beheld the golden eyes of the man, he knew. It was his sign. This man had panther's eyes.
When a soft knock came at the door, Joseph stood to assist his man with the tray. After the servant had poured the mint tea into the handleless decorative cup, Joseph dismissed him and set the food aside. He walked to the window cradling the small teacup in one hand, the photo of Miguel Ramirez in the other. A smile touched his lips.