“You need to leave. It’s dangerous for you to stay. Run. Get out! I can’t talk now. I’ll call back.”
We exchanged a look, and we didn’t exactly run, but we didn’t waste any time leaving. We hurried out of the building and stood in the middle of the grassy quad, looking up at Devereaux’s office window.
“Maybe we’ve been punked,” Josh said.
Barooom! Flames shot out of the open window, and the fire alarm went off.
“I was wrong,” Josh said. “That’s not the work of a punker.”
The alarm was blaring, people were pouring out of the buildings, sirens screamed in the distance, and Josh’s phone buzzed.
“I can’t hear you,” Josh yelled into the phone. “Can you repeat that?”
We all stared at Josh.
“It was Devereaux,” Josh said, sliding his phone back into his pocket. “I couldn’t get everything, but he wanted us to meet him at the museum ship. The Friendship of Salem.”
We made our way around the clumps of gawkers and first responders, loaded ourselves into Diesel’s orange Charger, and Diesel drove us off campus.
“I don’t want to take everyone onboard the Friendship,” Diesel said to Glo and Josh. “I’m going to drop both of you off first.”
—
The Friendship of Salem was the name of the replica frigate docked at Derby Wharf and used as a museum. We drove to the wharf, left the car in the lot, and walked toward the frigate. It was early evening, and the sun was low on the horizon. The tall masts and rigging were dark against the sky. The squat Derby lighthouse flashed red at the end of the wharf.
The gate at the end of the gangway was unlocked. Diesel opened it, and we stepped onto the empty deck of the Friendship. Ropes creaked with the movement of the ship, but all else was silent. We prowled from one end to the other, found an open hatchway, and went below. Diesel flipped a light switch, and we were transported from the eighteenth century to the twenty-first century. We were in a shining white room filled with state-of-the-art navigation equipment and a complicated-looking control panel. Professor Devereaux was at the consul.
“What’s up?” Diesel said.
“Are you alone?” Devereaux asked. “Did anyone follow you?”
“Yes, we’re alone. And no, we weren’t followed,” Diesel said. “And, by the way, someone blew up your office.”
“Bastard,” Devereaux said. “Was anyone hurt? Did the building burn down?”
“Not sure if anyone was hurt,” Diesel said. “It looked pretty well contained to your office.”
“It’s Martin Ammon,” Devereaux said. “He hates me. He sent one of his goons to tell me to stop looking for the treasure. I told him I wasn’t looking for it, that I was merely a historian. And he said historians are the worst treasure hunters of all. And then he said he was going to make sure I understood the consequences of my actions. I assumed he was going to break my arm or slash my face, and I was about to call for security when one of my colleagues came in, and Ammon’s thug left. When you called I was worried you would get caught in the crossfire. It didn’t occur to me that he would blow up my office.”
“Why did you come here?”
“I was in the middle of some research, and I didn’t feel safe in my office or my apartment. I knew I could use the equipment here and be undisturbed. As you know, I have a history with the ship. I’m no longer officially involved, but I still return on the sly from time to time.”
“Why does Ammon hate you?” Diesel asked.
“Ammon inherited a diary that belonged to Palgrave Bellows. The diary spoke of a fabulous treasure that had been plundered from the Mughal ship Gunsway. Problem was, Ammon didn’t know how to find the treasure. It wasn’t enough to just have the diary. The treasure was hidden and could only be found with the help of a map and a coin.
“I’d received some publicity while I was working on the Friendship restoration, and Ammon approached me, offering to share the treasure if I could locate the map and the coin. It was the opportunity of a lifetime. I would have funding to research the lost Gunsway.
“After almost a year of searching I ran across the map in a curio shop in Boston. I gave the map to Ammon and continued to search for the coin but had no luck. It was a total dead end. I was disillusioned by then anyway. In the beginning of our professional relationship I thought Ammon was a wealthy eccentric. As I got to know him better I came to realize he’s criminally insane. He has delusions of grandeur, and he’ll stop at nothing to get what he wants.
“The diary listed, among other riches, the Avaritia Stone as part of the Mughal treasure. This was Ammon’s true reason for funding my research. Ammon had become obsessed with the idea that he might possess the Avaritia Stone. He’d begun to believe that he could awaken the sleeping Mammon within himself if he had the stone. He hates me because I know this about him, and because I don’t worship Mammon.”