Pirate by Clive Cussler Page B

up after digging through about thirty feet. And there it remained, untouched, until one of them remembered it early in the nineteenth century.” He stopped to face the crowd. “Neither boy could have foretold the man-hours and the amount of money poured into the aptly named Money Pit in search of whatever secrets it might reveal. Templar treasure? Burial crypt of a long-forgotten high priest?” He took a dramatic pause. “No one knows. But the new owners of Oak Island intend to find out, and we’ll let you make up your own mind. So if you’ll follow me this way . . .”
    He led them inland toward the pit, relating more history as they walked. There seemed to be nothing that stood out beyond the known history: the pit, the rocks with symbols carved on them, the reported tunnels that flooded the pit every time someone dug deep enough.
    In fact, it was beginning to look as though they’d wasted two hours. After being led to the outer shore where another cryptic formation of carved rock supposedly pointed to the Money Pit—thereby strengthening the legend—Sam said, “Hear that?”
    The loud revving of a motorboat out on the water.
    â€œOver there,” he said. He nodded toward the small island justeast of them, where Remi saw two men motoring toward it in a boat.
    â€œIs it them?” she asked as he lifted his binoculars for a better view.
    â€œSure looks like it,” he said and handed the glasses to her.
    She adjusted the focus and watched as the boat maneuvered into the cove at the south shore of the island. One of the men got out, waded toward the shore with a shovel and a backpack, searching for something on the rocks. She recognized one of the two from the warehouse and their hotel in San Francisco. “Our book robber and one of the faux cops.”
    â€œClearly, they know something we don’t.”
    After several minutes, Sam drew Remi from the crowd, not heading toward the pit but toward the outer bank through a stand of trees. He continued watching the men on the other island.
    â€œThey found something,” he said. “They’re digging behind that boulder.”
    â€œExcuse me,” came a voice from behind them. “You’re not supposed to be over here.”
    They turned and saw one of the tour guides standing a few feet away, his arms crossed.
    â€œSorry,” Sam said. “We didn’t realize . . .”
    â€œYou’ll need to rejoin the others.”
    She and Sam followed the man back to the group.
    Sam caught up with the guide. “That island back there?” he asked. “What’s the name of it?”
    â€œThat?” he said, glancing behind him. “Frog Island.”
    Sam nodded, and Remi asked, “Is it part of the Oak Island mystery?”
    â€œFind me something around here that isn’t.”
    â€œAnything specific?”
    He glanced over at her and she gave him her most charming smile. “Actually,” he said, “there
were
some claims that at one time there was some sort of connection between Frog Island to Oak Island. An underwater tunnel, though how anyone could have built one without it flooding is beyond me. Probably someone was digging there for treasure and a new rumor started.” He stopped and pointed toward the shoreline. “See that little cove where the boat is? By all accounts, that’s where the tunnel was built.”
    Remi and Sam watched as the two men on shore waded back to the boat, tossing in their shovels and packs. “Do you think there’s any truth to the legends?” she asked.
    He laughed. “I certainly hope so. I’d hate to think how many people have spent millions of dollars digging a hole in the same spot looking for something that isn’t there.”
    â€œGood point,” she said as he left them to join the group again. Through the trees, she saw the boat speeding away, and she looked over at Sam.