After seven years at DARPA Sam retired with the vague notion of bringing some of his own wild ideas to reality, and moved back to California. It was there, two weeks later, that Sam and Remi met at the Lighthouse, a jazz club on Hermosa Beach. Sam had wandered into the club for a cold beer and Remi was there celebrating a successful research trip looking into rumors of a sunken Spanish ship off Abalone Cove.

Though neither of them had ever called their first meeting a case of “love at first sight,” they’d both agreed it had certainly been a case of “pretty damned sure at first hour.” Six months later they were married where they’d first met, in a small ceremony at the Lighthouse.

At Remi’s encouragement Sam dove headfirst into his own business and they struck pay dirt within a year with an argon laser scanner that could detect and identify at a distance mixed metals and alloys, from gold and silver to platinum and palladium. Treasure hunters, universities, corporations, and mining outfits scrambled to license Sam’s invention and within two years the Fargo Group was seeing an annual net profit of three million dollars, and within four years the deep-pocketed corporations came calling. Sam and Remi took the highest bid, sold the company for enough money to see themselves comfortably through the rest of their lives, and never looked back.

“I did a little research while you were in the shower,” Sam said. “From what I can gather, I think we may have a real find on our hands.”

The waiter came, deposited a basket of warm ciabatta and a saucer of Pasolivo olive oil, and then took their orders. To start they ordered calamari with red sauce and porcini mushrooms. For entrées, Sam selected a seafood pasta with pesto-sautéed bay scallops and lobster, while Remi chose a stuffed shrimp-and-crab ravioli in basil white cream sauce.

“What do you mean?” Remi asked. “Isn’t a submarine a submarine?”

“Good Lord, woman, bite your tongue,” Sam said, feigning shock.

Where Remi’s forte was anthropology and ancient history, Sam loved World War II history, another passion he’d inherited from his father, who’d been a marine during the United States’ island-hopping campaign in the Pacific. The fact that Remi had little interest in who exactly sank the Bismarck or why the Battle of the Bulge was so important was something that never ceased to amaze Sam.

Remi was an anthropologist and historian without peer, but she tended to take an analytical approach to things, while for Sam history had always been stories about real people doing real things. Remi dissected; Sam dreamed.

“Apologies for the gaffe,” Remi said.

“Forgiven. Here’s the thing: Given the size of the inlet, there’s no way it can be a full-sized submarine. Plus, that periscope looked way too small.”

“A mini sub, then.”

“Right. But there was a lot of growth on the periscope. A few decades’ worth, at least. And one more thing: As far as I know, commercial subs—for surveys or mapping or whatever—don’t have periscopes.”

“So it’s military,” Remi said.

“Has to be.”

“So, a military mini submarine, twenty-some miles up the Pocomoke R iver . . . ” Remi murmured. “Okay, I admit it. You got me. I’m officially intrigued.”

Sam smiled back at her. “That’s my girl. So, what do you say? After dinner, we drive over to Princess Anne and see what Ted has to say. He’s forgotten more legends about this area than most people will ever know. If anyone might have some hunches about what this thing is, it’s going to be him.”

“I don’t know. . . . It’s getting late and you know how Ted hates visitors.”

Ted Frobisher, for all his genius and well-hidden softheartedness, wasn’t exactly people-oriented. His shop thrived not on his interpersonal skills, but on his breadth of knowledge and business acumen.

Sam said, smiling, “A little surprise will do him good.”

CHAPTER 4

After dessert, a tiramisu so good it left them temporarily speechless, they walked back to the B&B, grabbed the BMW’s keys from the room, and set off for Princess Anne, heading northwest up Highway 12 to the outskirts of Salisbury before turning southwest onto Highway 13. The evening’s earlier clear skies had given way to low rain clouds and a fine, steady mist fell on the BMW’s windshield.

Remi frowned. “It feels like you’re going too fast.” She enjoyed the BMW, but not the latent race-car-driver urge it brought out in her husband.

“Dead on the speed limit. Don’t worry, Remi. Have I ever crashed?”

“Well, there was that time in Mumbai—”

“Oh, no. If you’ll recall, the tires were almost bald and we were being chased by a very angry man in a very big dump truck. Plus, I didn’t crash. I just got . . . sidetracked.”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

“An accurate description, I’d say.”

“Okay, then, there was the time in Scotland. . . .”

“Okay, that was my fault.”

“Don’t feel bad, Sam. That peat bog did jump right in front of us out of nowhere.”

“Very funny.”

“You got us out of it, though, and that’s what counts.”

And he did. Using a short coil of rope, the car jack, a stump and a branch for leverage, and some well-applied basic physics.

They drove in silence, watching the darkened countryside slide by until finally the lights of Princess Anne appeared a half mile down the road. Named after the daughter of King George II, the town—or hamlet, as many locals demanded it be called—boasted a population of 2,200 souls, not counting the students who called University of Maryland Eastern Shore their home. During their first trip here years ago, Sam and Remi had agreed if not for the cars on the streets and the electric lighting, it would take little effort to imagine you’d been transported back to Maryland’s prerevolutionary days, so quaint were parts of the hamlet of Princess Anne.

Sam took Highway 13 into the middle of town, then turned east onto Mount Vernon Road, which he followed for a mile before turning north onto East Ridge Road. They were now on the outskirts of Princess Anne. Frobisher’s shop, whose second floor served as his apartment, was set a quarter mile back from the road down a long driveway bordered by maple trees.

As Sam reached the turn-in, a black Buick Lucerne sedan pulled out of the driveway and passed them, heading south to Mount Vernon Road. As the BMW’s lights washed over the passing car’s windshield, Sam caught a glimpse of Ted Frobisher sitting in the passenger seat.

“That was him,” Remi said.

“Yeah, I know,” Sam muttered distantly.

“What is it?”

“Don’t know . . . Something about his face didn’t seem right.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“He looked . . . scared.”

“Ted Frobisher always looks scared. Or annoyed. Those are his only two expressions, you know that.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Sam muttered, swinging the BMW into a precise Y-turn, backing into the driveway, then heading after the Lucerne.

“Oh, boy,” Remi said, “here we go.”

“Just humor me. Probably nothing.”

“Fine. But if they pull into an IHOP, promise me you’ll turn around and leave the poor man alone.”

“Deal.”

The Lucerne did not pull into an IHOP, nor did it stay on the main road for very long, turning south onto Black Road after only a few miles. The streetlights had long since disappeared, leaving Sam and Remi driving in pitch blackness. The earlier drizzle had turned to a steady rain and the BMW’s windshield wipers beat out a rhythmic squeaking thump.

“How’s your night vision?” Sam asked her.

“Good . . . why?”

In response, Sam turned off the BMW’s headlights and accelerated, closing the distance to the Lucerne’s taillights.