The Gray Ghost by Clive Cussler
Something in Colton’s tone told him that he was downplaying the information. “Forward everything you have on these Fargos to me.”
He nodded, pressed a button on his phone, returned the device to his pocket, and stood. “They’re searching the names now. I’ll send a full report to you as soon as we have it.”
About thirty minutes after Colton left, Oren’s computer dinged with an incoming email. He opened it, read the dossier on Sam and Remi Fargo. Sam Fargo graduated summa cum laude with an engineering degree from Caltech, was trained in weapons and hand-to-hand combat while employed at the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. After leaving DARPA, he met and married his wife, Remi Longstreet. She, apparently, hailed from the East Coast, a graduate of Boston College, with a master’s in anthropology and history, with a focus on ancient trade routes. The two started the Fargo Group, which they eventually sold for millions, now devoting their time to running the Fargo Foundation, which, apparently, was all about charity work. By the time he finished reading the entire dossier, including the fact that both held valid concealed-carry permits, he wasn’t so sure that either Sam or Remi Fargo were as minor a problem as Colton had suggested.
Not that he was worried. He read the last line in Colton’s email: The timing of the Payton visit to the Fargos is suspicious. If they interfere, we’ll take care of it.
Oren opened his file folder and took another look at the black ravens. So fitting, he thought.
The bringers of death.
6
Sam drove the rental car while Remi navigated the country roads outside of Manchester, using the map on her phone, finally seeing the manor house in the distance, thinking it looked very regal.
“Must have been something in its heyday,” Sam said, as they cruised up the cobblestone drive. “A place as old as this must cost a fortune in upkeep.”
“Imagine what it must be like to lose everything.” Remi took it all in, sighing. “How does anyone survive that? I’m not sure I could.”
“As resourceful as you are? You’d find a way,” he said, parking the car.
A frail woman in her late sixties, her gray hair pulled into a bun on top of her head, stood at the open door, waiting for them, as they walked up. “Mr. and Mrs. Fargo, I hope your trip was pleasant.”
“Very,” Sam said. “You must be Mrs. Beckett.”
She gave a slight nod. “Mr. Payton was called out on an emergency or he would’ve been here himself to greet you. But he’s asked that you make yourself at home.” She waved for them to follow her in. “I’ll see you to your rooms. You’ll be in the North Wing on the first floor. Would you like me to carry your bags?”
“We can manage,” Sam said.
She led them up the stairs, then down the hall, where Remi found it hard to ignore the obvious squares and rectangles on the white walls where paintings used to hang.
Mrs. Beckett stopped to open a door, stepping back to let them enter. “His Lordship prefers to stay in the Dowager Cottage, where he takes supper. At six. We find the routine—and less stairs—is easier for him. If you’d rather rest after your long trip, I’d be glad to send a tray up.”
Remi glanced at Sam, who gave the slightest shake of his head. Tired as they were, this might be the only opportunity to talk to Albert Payton without his nephew around.
An opportunity they weren’t about to pass up.
“That’s very kind of you,” Remi said. “But we’d be honored to join His Lordship.”
“Very good. I’ll come around for you just before six. A bit of a maze, this house. Especially to get to the South Wing.” Mrs. Beckett gave a stiff smile, then backed out of the room, closing the door behind her.
As promised, she returned before six to take them to dinner, leading them through a maze of hallways allowing them a glimpse into numerous rooms, walls bare, furniture gone. She stopped at a closed door, looked back at them, her dour expression softening. “Try not to think ill of us, keeping His Lordship out of this part of the house, under lock and key. A bit of a wanderer, of late. And seeing the empty rooms confuses him. He likes to pop over from the cottage in the morning to take breakfast in the Conservatory before he starts his day. He likes to tend the roses. Rather than disrupt his routine, we simply lock the rest of the house, which helps keep him on task. The Conservatory and the Dowager Cottage still have their original furnishings, which helps to keep him grounded.”
She paused in the doorway, looking back at them. “A few weeks ago, someone left the garden gate ajar, and off he went. Found the keys to his nephew’s car, no one the wiser, until a constable brought him ’round after he wrecked it. We’re grateful he wasn’t killed, that we are.” Surprisingly, after they stepped through, she locked the door behind her and handed the key to Sam. “It’s a master. You’ll need this to get back to your room.”
Sam took the key, slipping it into his pocket. “We’ll be careful.”
“The Breakfast Room and Conservatory,” she said, opening yet another door.
Remi saw at once why he preferred eating there. Two of the room’s walls were floor-to-ceiling windows, the third had French doors that opened to a square of lawn surrounded by a high brick wall covered with jasmine. To the left was the garden gate, the one Mrs. Beckett said had been left open. To the right was the rose garden. They stepped out onto a flagstone patio, Mrs. Beckett leading them down a graveled path that crossed the vast lawn to a quaint cottage that looked like a dollhouse version of Payton Manor.
They passed through the arched doorway into a small parlor, where a gray Persian cat jumped up onto the pianoforte for a better view of the people who’d invaded his space. Mrs. Beckett shooed him off as she passed, then led them through another archway to where Albert was seated at a round table set for three.
He stood as they entered. “Well done, Mrs. Beckett. I quite forgot we were having guests or I would have met them myself.”
“Sam and Remi Fargo,” she announced.
Albert nodded in greeting. “I daresay, your names sound familiar. I hope you’ll forgive me, but I don’t recall how we met.”
“At the car show in Pebble Beach,” Sam said.
“Yes, of course,” he said, as he shook hands with Sam. “The oddest thing . . . You remind me of someone. Sit. Sit. I’ll think of it in a minute. About to have dinner. You will stay?”
“We’d be glad to,” Sam said, as he and Remi each took a seat.
Albert nodded, looked at the housekeeper. “Two more for dinner, Mrs. Beckett.”
“Very good, sir.” She removed the lids of the serving dishes, steam rising from the pork medallions in one and the mixed vegetables in the other.
“Wish my nephew was here. Off doing something or other.” He stopped, his eyes narrowing as he studied Sam. “I know exactly who you remind me of: Cousin Eunice.”
Remi looked at Sam, whose expression remained neutral on hearing his mother’s given name. He still wasn’t convinced that the Paytons hadn’t played up this relationship to get closer to them. Curious, Remi smiled at Albert. “You have a cousin named Eunice?”
“Haven’t seen her in years.” He pushed his chair back. “Have a picture of her somewhere . . .”
Mrs. Beckett set her hand on his arm, preventing him from standing. “Perhaps, M’lord, you’ll allow me to fetch your album. You have guests, after all.”
“What’s this ‘M’lord’ rubbish? Family doesn’t ‘M’lord.’”
She smiled patiently, as she handed him a serving spoon, then turned to leave. “No, sir.”
“Or ‘sir,’ either,” he called out as she left the room. “Woman’s lived in this house almost as long as I have. I daresay, she’s earned the right to call me by my first name.”
“Selma,” Sam and Remi said at the same time, laughing.
“Selma?” Albert echoed.
“A woman who works for us,?
His expression turned cloudy, as though he’d already forgotten what they were talking about. By the time they were nearly finished with their meal, Remi was convinced the man wasn’t acting. When Mrs. Beckett returned, he looked up at her and smiled. “A shame Oliver couldn’t be here. Guests for dinner.”
“He’ll be ’round for breakfast.” She handed him a thin brown leather photo album about the size of a paperback novel.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“You asked me to bring it.”
“Did I? Whatever for?” He opened it, turning through the handful of pages until he reached the last photo. “Don’t remember putting these in here.”
“Oliver went through your pictures,” she said, clearing their dishes. “Put it together for you for the visit.”
He stared at the last photo, then looked at Sam. “I remember. Your mother used to bring you here when you were just a lad. You and Oliver used to love banging on that old piano,” he said, nodding toward the parlor. “Horrible racket, that.”
“Do you play?” Remi asked.
“No. Not sure why we still have it. Belonged to . . . Well, I don’t recall who.”
“May I?” Sam asked.
He handed the album, still turned to the last page, to Sam.
Remi leaned over to see a photo of Sam, just a toddler, sitting on the piano bench with another boy about the same age, each wearing a suit and tie. “Oliver?” Remi asked.
Albert’s smile was bittersweet. “At my son’s funeral. He was just a few years older than the two of you.”
Sam peered at the photo. “I don’t recall any of this.”
“Neither do I, most days.”
Sam turned the pages, working toward the front of the book, stopping at a photo of his mother, in her late teens or early twenties, blond and dark-eyed like Sam, standing next to a dark-haired man about the same age. Judging from the hairstyle of Sam’s mother, Remi guessed the photo was taken in the late 1960s or early ’70s. “Is that you?” Remi asked Albert.
He looked at the photo and smiled. “My brother, Oliver’s father,” he said, reaching out, turning to the front of the book. “This one is my favorite. Thick as thieves, those two. Always going on about that car. Something they wanted . . . For the life of me, I can’t remember.”
Sam and Remi stared. The photo was of his mother and Albert’s brother—both sitting in the front seat of what was most definitely the Gray Ghost.
7
You still doubt him?” Remi asked, once they were alone in their room.
“No one’s that good of an actor.” Albert had let Sam borrow the photo album and he was studying the photo of his mom and Oliver’s father in the car. “How is it she never told me about this side of our family?”
“Maybe she didn’t want the fact you’re connected to royalty to go to your head?” She sat next to him on the bed, taking his phone from the nightstand and scrolling down to his mother’s number. “I’m sure there’s a good reason. Call.”
He pressed the number.
His mother answered on the second ring. “Everything okay?” she asked. “How’s Albert?”
“Fine, for the most part. Is there some reason you kept this branch of the family secret?”
She laughed. “What secret? We used to visit all the time when you were little.”
“When?”
“Are you telling me you don’t remember those summers in Manchester? You and Oliver used to play together.”
“Other than the picture I just saw, can’t say it’s ringing a bell. Why’d we stop?”
“Life, your father’s job. And after the terrible accident—the fire—”
“What fire?”
“At Payton Manor. If I recall, it had something to do with the old gas lighting, which hadn’t been converted to electricity yet. There was an explosion, and the entire east wing went up in flames. Albert managed to get the children out, but his own son died from smoke inhalation. I’m afraid his wife never forgave him, as if it had been his fault. She divorced him not long after that. And Oliver’s parents were killed just a few years later. The family’s just had a string of bad luck.” She gave a deep sigh. “Time and distance . . . you know how it is. We lost touch.”
“I saw a photo of you and Albert’s brother sitting in the Gray Ghost.”
“Is that the old Rolls-Royce? I loved that car!”
“The same. I don’t suppose you know anything about it?”
“Any memories I have are from decades-old photos stuffed in some box somewhere.”
Sam eyed the photo in the album. “Albert told me that you and his brother were always searching for something in that car.”
She laughed. “Heavens, but I’d forgotten all about that. Albert’s dad was so mad when he’d discovered us in the barn. And when he learned we’d found the car, I thought he was going to die of a heart attack. He said the car was cursed and ordered us not to tell anyone about it. We were kids, playing treasure hunters. No doubt where you got your fascination for treasure hunting from.”
Remi made no effort to refrain from laughing.
“Back to this curse. Did he say why?”
Libby laughed again. “To keep us out of the barn. If I’m not mistaken, they hid it there during the war. You are helping them, I hope?”
“I’m reserving judgment,” he said.
“All they’re asking for is a loan, Sam.”
“The loan, I have no problem with.”
“Then what?”
He thought about the men who’d followed them in Pebble Beach—not that he was about to worry his mother with that sort of detail. “We have a few things we need to iron out first. I’ll let you know when it’s all taken care of.”
“At least you know they’re not trying to pull one over on us,” Remi said, once he disconnected.
“The only thing I know for sure is that they want money, and someone wants something they have.”
“Obviously, the car.”
“But why follow them all the way out to Pebble Beach when the car is here?”
They were no closer to answers the next morning when they met Oliver and his uncle for breakfast. Oliver dismissed the matter when Sam brought it up. “Why would it have anything to do with the car? Way out there?”
In a rare moment of lucidity, his uncle said, “They want the Gray Ghost. That car’s cursed. Nothing but trouble ever since.”
“That’s what my mother remembered,” Sam said. “A curse. Any idea what sort?”
“Haven’t the foggiest,” Albert replied.
Oliver cleared his throat. “You should have sold it years ago.” Deciding to change the subject, he smiled at Sam and Remi. “Sorry I wasn’t here for dinner. A bit of an issue on one of the farms. I trust your evening was pleasant?”
“Very nice,” Remi said. “Your uncle was showing us the photos you’d put together. Mrs. Beckett brought them down.”
He looked at his uncle, then Sam. “His memory of those days is better than mine. Apparently, you and I were mates. Don’t remember a thing about that.”
“Don’t feel bad,” Sam said. “Neither do I.”
Oliver looked over, noticed his uncle hadn’t touched the food on his plate. “Eat up, Uncle Albert. We have a ten o’clock train to catch.”
* * *
—
THE TRAIN actually passed through the southernmost tip of the Payton estate on its way to London, and Oliver pointed out a few of the farms visible in the distance. “The tenants have lived on this land for generations,” he said, his voice laced with pride. The four were seated at a table, facing each other. “And I hope they continue to do so. Unfortunately, their farms aren’t the mos
“How long has the land been in your family?” Remi asked.
“Since the recovery of the Gray Ghost. Prior to that, it belonged to the Payton-Orens.”
His uncle made a scoffing noise. “Cutthroats and thieves, those Orens.”
“One Oren,” Oliver said, leaning back in his seat. “Reginald Oren was responsible for the theft of the Gray Ghost and the robbery of the King’s Treasury back in 1906.”
“Definitely a colorful past,” Remi said.
“Cursed,” his uncle said again. “Reginald Oren made sure of that. Nothing but trouble ever since. That’s what killed your father.”
Oliver shot an exasperated look toward his uncle before looking out the window at the passing scenery. “I suppose if you can blame a farming accident on a car that had been hidden away by that time, then yes. Now, shall we find something more pleasant to chat about?”
While Oliver discussed the workings of one of their farmer tenants, Sam’s gaze swept over the other passengers, noting one in particular, on the opposite side of the aisle, who was reading the newspaper. The cut of his hair reminded Sam of the man who’d followed them in Pebble Beach. Definitely not the same person; still, something about him bothered Sam.
“I could use a cup of coffee,” Sam said, standing. “Would anyone else like something?”
“Nothing for me, thank you,” Oliver said. “Uncle Albert?”
A soft snore escaped Albert’s lips as his head fell forward.
“Guess not,” Sam said. He looked at Remi, who started to rise. “Don’t get up. I know how much you enjoy the scenery. Watch it for me, would you?”
His back to the man, he gave a slight nod to his right.
Remi settled into her seat. “Don’t take too long. I can use the caffeine.”
Sam turned, pulling out his cell phone, his attention on the screen as he strolled past, filming everything in front of him. He left that car, walked through the next two cars, then retraced his steps. When he reached Remi’s side, he held up his phone, saying, “Got so absorbed in the email, didn’t realize I was going the wrong direction.”