Maroon Rising (8 page)

“Where’s your friend?” he said.

“Should be here any—”

A roar sounded over our heads. I turned to see a sleek green helicopter settle onto an island just in front of the beach.

“Speak of the devil,” Chris said.

Nanny slapped him on the shoulder. I hadn’t asked but was suddenly very curious—who was joining us, and what was his or her relationship with Nanny?

Moments later a stocky man in a suit and tie emerged from the darkness and moved toward us at a steady pace. I glanced at Nanny—who, of course, could read my face like a book.

“Michael Portland, owner of the Trident,” she said.

“Half the world,” Chris said under his breath.

Michael Portland—the first Jamaican-born billionaire. Last I heard most of his enterprise was based in the United States.

We all stood as he approached.

Hugs for Nanny and Chris, then he turned his sharp eyes toward me.

“You must be Buck Reilly.”

I stuck my hand out. I’d known other billionaires—hell, I was pretty damned sure Harry Greenbaum was one—and had once been worth tens of millions myself, so wealth didn’t intimidate me. But I usually came more prepared when meeting them.

Chris ushered us up the beach to a private dining room where waiters stood at the ready. Champagne waited on ice, candles provided intimate circles of light in the otherwise dark space. Chris’s and Michael’s small talk about the resort business led to forward-looking assessments of how Jamaica might benefit from new laws legalizing marijuana in the U.S. I was just happy the conversation hadn’t focused on me.

I caught Nanny watching me. She immediately looked away, then looked back a second later with a smile. We’d shared a connection during the ride, or so I thought. And just now in that moment I’d gotten a new look—an intimate look?

“So, Buck,” Michael said. “Or do you still go by
King
Buck?”

If I had a dollar for every time someone used that line on me, I’d be a billionaire too, but I let it go.

“It’s just Buck these days.”

“Consider yourself lucky your opponent was selected to dig in the mud and stabilize sunken structures,” Michael said.

“Couldn’t agree more,” I said. “Are you interested in missing treasure, Michael?”

He pressed his lips together. His eyes were jovial when chatting amongst friends, but he was always ready to pounce, that much I could see. You don’t become a billionaire by being passive.

“I’m interested in fairness for the Jamaican people. Too many of our national treasures have been squandered by civil servants who may mean well or more likely may be trying to line their pockets—let’s call it ‘aggressive
touristization
.’ It may provide some immediate benefits, but if not done thoughtfully it will hurt this country for generations to come.”

I nodded.

“I know what you proposed in your application for the Port Royal farce,” he said. “It would have been good for Jamaica—but less so for you.” He paused and leaned closer. “Did you let your competitor outbid you?”

A laugh tickled my lips. “Do you really think I’m that calculating, Michael?”

“Given everything I’d heard about your past? Possibly.” He smiled. “It’s how I would have played it.”

“Seems like our sealed bids must have been printed in the
Jamaican Gleaner
.”

“Nanny and the colonel shared with you that our interest is for the Jamaican people—”

“Not self-enrichment?”

He smiled, and I immediately felt foolish.

“Do you think I need the money?” he said back. “I’ve already provided millions to help the Jamaican people, but this is different. This is our
history
. Using treasure from those who brought our forefathers here for something positive would be unlike any subsidy—ever. Can you imagine the sensation? The pride? The catharsis?”

Each of them stared at me intently. There was no sympathy on Nanny’s face, and it hit me that we were picking up where we’d left off with Colonel Grandy—except the qualifications of the negotiators had elevated significantly.

I puckered my lips and pressed them between my teeth. If this was poker, I didn’t even have a face card.

“If there was more in-depth information on the Morgan legacy than what led to the Port Royal excavation,” Nanny said, “and if we were willing to share it with you—”

“But for only a fraction,” Michael said.

“I’m going to speak with the chef,” Chris said. He sauntered back toward the kitchen.

“Since I have no idea what you’re talking about, or whether it would infringe on the permit already issued to Jack—that is, SCG International—”

“It doesn’t infringe on what they’re doing,” Nanny said.

“We can handle the government and Heritage people,” Michael said. “They will ultimately see the logic in this effort.”

With my elbows on the table, I pressed my palms together and held them against my chin. Butterflies—hell, vampire bats—swirled in my stomach. Clearly they were convinced that whatever information they had was significant. But even with the aid of the intelligent and beautiful professor from the University of the West Indies, they hadn’t been able to piece it together. They needed me.

“In all my years of working with governments, museums, or universities, we never accepted less than 25 percent for our efforts—”

“Weren’t you listening to me?” Michael said.

“I don’t even know what information you have.”

“And you won’t.”

A deep breath filled my lungs. I was rusty at this. Facing off against a world-class billionaire negotiator like Michael Portland was futile. Time to tack.

“So what’s it worth to you?”

“Only a small—”

I held up a hand. “To have King Buck, as you called me, on your team, connecting shreds of clues to discover long-lost antiquities and who-knows-how-valuable treasure? As one of my favorite philosophers once said, ‘15 percent of nothing is nothing.’ Is that what you want, nothing?”

A wave of cold sweat ran over my brow. Why did I have to use that quote? I’d just dropped myself to 15 percent—thanks, Jimmy.

Michael shared a long look with Nanny before turning back to me. The candlelight reflected in his eyes like small fires. Maroons practiced ancient African Obeah, and Queen Nanny was a chieftainess and priestess as well as a revolutionary leader. Was Michael also of Maroon descent?

I looked up into the dark rafters of the ceiling, seeking to break the stare. Here I am at GoldenEye, former home of Ian Fleming—

Fleming.

Bond, James Bond.

I sat up straight. “You can shake me, but you can’t stir me. I have partners, too. The cost of these efforts is huge, as are the risks, so if you can’t agree to—”

“Ten percent, Reilly. We’ll cover all the expenses. You’ll get our information.
And
a cut of the treasure your former partner, Jack Dodson, and his crass partner Rostenkowski, have wasted a fortune digging for in the harbor.”

I swallowed. Jack and Gunner.

Heather.

I tried to swallow again, but my throat had gone dry.

Michael and Nanny broke into smiles and I realized I’d nodded, accepting their offer. He extended his hand. At first my grip was soft, but then I clamped down and his eyes popped wide.

Fuck you, Jack. I promised revenge, and I meant it.

Another wave of cold sweat blew over me. Harry Greenbaum would kill me. I’d had to beg him to agree on 25 percent for the Port Royal project.

At 10 percent, this had better be one hell of a find.

Michael clapped his hands and two waiters rushed over, one carrying a tray of fresh seafood, the other two more bottles of champagne—Dom Pérignon, of course.

Nanny stood. While I was focused on what I’d tell Harry, she bent down to kiss my cheek. I found my face squarely in the low cut of her blouse for a moment before she straightened up.

Treasure comes in many forms.

T
he night had run long, and feeling a bit like a hired hand, I finally said my goodbyes. The sound of Michael Portland’s helicopter departing shortly thereafter allowed me to rest easy. In my champagne and rum-induced fog, I fantasized about Nanny entering my villa, but as I drifted into sleep I remembered she’d said a friend was taking her back to the Trident. No doubt she’d left with Michael.

A morning swim around the lagoon helped clear my head, and when I sat down at the restaurant to order breakfast I was surprised that a note came with my coffee. It had a familiar scent that made me smile.

I tore open the sealed envelope.

Buck,

Meet me at the grotto under the bridge at 10:00. I have something to show you.

N.

I folded the letter and placed it back in the envelope. Images of Bond girls stepping out of the Caribbean onto white sand beaches ran through my head—

I glanced at my watch. Ten o’clock on the dot.

I wrapped my towel over my shoulders, left the coffee on the table, and headed down the stairs to where the sporting equipment was kept. No one was in the grotto, or so I thought.

Nanny stepped out from behind a wall of coral, the light reflecting off the water and dancing over her bare legs. She was wearing a swimsuit, and what I’d imagined about her figure yesterday wasn’t nearly as alluring as the reality in front of me now.

She stepped into the light, carrying a plastic case. Without a word she nodded for me to follow and led me to a quiet picnic table on the edge of the water sports area.

“Sleep well?” she said.

“My mind was playing tricks on me at first, but I slept fine,” I said. “How was the night flight?”

She shook her head. “I stayed here last night.”

“Then why meet at this grotto instead of one of our rooms?”

Her eyes narrowed. “It seemed prudent.”

She didn’t want anybody to see me visiting her? Again I took in her supple body. She didn’t trust us alone together?

I glanced at the plastic case. It was waterproof and looked heavy. She must have seen the crease in my brow.

“Michael brought it with him last night.” She grabbed the two clasps that held the case shut, then looked up at me. “I take it you’re still committed to what we discussed at dinner?”

“More than ever. What have you got?”

Inside the case were several archival sleeves filled with various notes, drawings, even a small leather-bound diary. A tingle ran down my arms and into my fingertips. She laid everything out on the table: I counted seven documents, including the diary. I put my finger gently on top of that one.

“Henry Morgan’s last diary,” she said. “Only a few pages filled, but there are some important passages that mention the name Njoni, one of his most trusted privateer associates. A Maroon—”

“Whoa,” I said. “Back up.”

“What is it?”

“Njoni was the author of the letter that led to the Port Royal salvage effort. He said the treasure had been buried under the Jamison House—”

“Right, but
this
evidence leads us to conclude that was a ruse planned by Morgan to protect the treasure.”

My heart was racing. Pieces connected and hung in the air. What was true, what was a lie? Were we just seeing what we wanted to see? Always a concern in the hunt for antiquities, often a fatal mistake.

“And the rest?” I bent down to look at the sketches on bark or preserved parchment. My gaze stopped at a crude drawing on yellowed paper. It was too faded to determine the subject—all that remained visible were some curved lines. Which could be anything.

“Back in the day, I’d have these documents appraised for period and authenticity,” I said.

“They’re authentic, don’t worry.”

I stood up and looked into her eyes. She didn’t flinch.

“You’re a professor of archaeology,” I said. “Why do you need me? I don’t even understand the language on some of these—Ashanti, I presume?”

“That, and Akan. Just because we can read the language doesn’t mean we know how to tie this material together and figure out what it refers to.”

She took a deep breath. The sun through the trees caught her light brown eyes as she looked into mine.

She picked up the diary and removed it from the sleeve. As it opened, the pages moved around—they weren’t bound or fastened, just loose. She scanned through a few and pulled a couple out. One page was stained with what looked like old wine, the next was clean. She held the stained one up for me.

“The ink is seriously faded.” I leaned closer. The name Panama jumped off the page. I wished I at least had a magnifying glass.

I pointed to the page, a word that looked like “Njoni.”

Nanny nodded.

I scanned down further and while the language was virtually impossible to read given the faded ink, old English, and what almost seemed like code, a number jumped off the page: 100,000 pesos.

My finger stopped there.

“Exactly,” Nanny said.

“100,000 pesos in the late 1600s would be worth …” I tried to calculate. “Tens of millions today.”

“Ten percent of that’s not bad, Buck.”

Her words stung. People always assumed I’d only been after money, but I liked to think it was more the hunt, the historic value of the antiquities, and most of all the thrill of finding what no other man had been able to unearth for centuries that really drove me.