Phantom Prospect - Alex Archer [8]
Cole glanced at Tom. “Interested in coming along for the ride?”
Tom fixed him with a gaze. “Now, why would you even ask that question? Of course I am.”
Cole smiled. “I don’t like to assume things.”
“Yeah, well assume all you want. I’m not going to miss the chance to see what’s going on up there.” He shrugged. “Besides, it’s a hunt for treasure. What guy didn’t dream of doing that when he first heard about Treasure Island?”
Cole turned to Annja. “I know you’ve got plans to fly out soon, so I won’t bother asking—”
Annja held up her hand. “The dive site actually sounds like something I’d enjoy. And like Tom said, it does involve the search for relics and treasure. That’s something I’m always interested in, in case you didn’t know.”
Cole looked at Sandy. “Flight arrangements for three, if you please.”
Sandy nodded and left the room. Cole watched her go for a moment and then, noticing the silence that hung in the room, turned back. “She’s a good worker. Knows everything I need to keep up with.”
Annja eyed him. “She didn’t seem too thrilled with me being around here.”
“Ah, that’s just Sandy. She’s had a thing for me ever since she started working here.”
“That’s awfully modest of you,” Annja said with a laugh. She took a sip of her coffee and put her cup back down on the table. “Clearly, she thinks I’m a threat. Just make sure she doesn’t throw me overboard to the shark.”
“Sure thing.” He looked at Tom. “I suppose we’d better get the charts out and study up on the site if we’re going to be a de facto replacement crew.”
Tom walked to the nearby metal file cabinets and yanked one of the drawers open. With a sheaf of charts and papers, he laid them out on the table and spread them around. Annja could make out pictures of the ship itself, lists of what its inventory was rumored to have been, and even notes form an old journal.
“Where’s it supposed to have gone down?”
Cole sighed. “That was always the problem. The ship sank near Prospect, but attempts to find it so far have proven futile. It was 1814, after all, so maybe the location was wrong. Back then there was no Coast Guard to help fix a position. It always amazes me to think of what people must have thought about when they cast off from dock. There was no guarantee that you’d ever make it home alive. Between storms, dangerous shoals, prowling marauders, you had a slim chance of completing a journey.”
“And yet they did it,” Annja said. “And they opened up the world to exploration.”
Cole jabbed his finger at the east coast of Nova Scotia. “Hunter always thought the ship went down here. In about a hundred feet of water. But the currents are strong and there’s no telling where the remains of the ship might have been dragged to since that time.”
“Almost two hundred years have passed,” said Tom. “That ship could be scattered halfway between Nova Scotia and Greenland.”
Cole frowned. “Hunter has always based his hunts largely on his intuition. Until he learned to trust it, he never hit it big. The first time he went with his gut, he struck gold, literally. It’s something he tries to abide by to this day. And he seemed pretty convinced he knew where he’d find the wreck.”
“You believe him?” Annja asked.
“I’d better,” Cole said. “I’m sinking two million dollars into the hunt for the Fantome. I expect to make that back and then some. The treasure on board would be worth tens of millions of dollars.”
“If not more,” said Tom. “Remember that a lot of it was taken right form the White House. There’d be gifts and such from all the powerful world leaders at the time in the wake of the Revolutionary War. That stuff today would be an incredible draw for collectors.”
“Good point.” Cole studied the maps. “I wonder where Hunter is right now and whether he thinks that he knows where he’ll find the largest stock of loot.”
Annja studied a picture of the Fantome. “So this is the ship?”
“Loaded down with all that booty, she must have weighed tons,” Cole said. “Imagine setting off bound for England and running into the storm they took the brunt of? No thanks.”
“After weathering