Spartan Gold by Clive Cussler

B&B’s manager, who agreed to ship their belongings back to California.
    Five hours later they were at Norfolk International Airport boarding a plane bound for home.
    The bottle from the UM-34 they’d immediately turned over to Selma upon their return, but they’d heard nothing from her on the matter since she’d locked herself and her assistants, boyfriend and girlfriend Pete Jeffcoat and Wendy Corden (both of whom had heard all the Peter Pan jokes they’d cared to), in the workshop for a marathon sleuthing session that wouldn’t end until they had an answer.
    On the outside, Pete and Wendy were stereotypical twenty-something Californians—tan and lean with easygoing smiles and blond hair highlighted by the sun—but intellectually there was nothing conventional about them, each having graduated from the University of Southern California in the top percentile, Pete with a B.A. in archaeology and Wendy with a degree in social sciences.
    Whatever Sam and Remi had discovered, there was no doubt the insect symbol on their bottle was a perfect match for the one on Ted’s shard, nor was there any doubt about the bottle’s general provenance. The writing on the label was French. Handwritten French, no less.
    The questions seemed to be piling up quickly: What was the connection between the two pieces? What did the symbol mean? Had both bottles started out aboard the UM-34 , and if so how did they get separated? And finally, what about these bottles was worth killing over?
    What to do about the UM-34 itself and the remains of Boehm had been nagging at Sam’s and Remi’s consciences since leaving Maryland. Though somewhat of a gray area, it could be argued the submarine was in fact an archaeological site, which in a sense made them grave robbers. They consoled themselves by promising that once they were done with their investigation all of Boehm’s possessions would be returned to their rightful owner, whether that be the German government or Boehm’s surviving family or descendants.
    Wanting to put as much distance between themselves and the UM-34 , which it now seemed clear was what Scarface was after, they had called their lawyer, who assured them the submarine would be found by a responsible party and that the proper authorities would be alerted to the possible presence of torpedoes lying along the bottom of the Pocomoke.
    “He had a wife and son,” Remi said without looking up from the diary’s pages. “Frieda and Helmut, in Arnsburg, outside Düsseldorf.”
    “That’s fantastic. Then the chances are better than fair he’s got family there. If so, we’ll find them.”
    “How’s the log coming?”
    “Slowly. I’ll have to start mapping some of these coordinates, but it looks like the 34 was attached to an auxiliary mother ship Boehm called Gertrude.”
    “Gertrude? Did the Kriegsmarine name their—”
    “No, it has to be code.”
    “Secret codes, lost submarines, and mysterious wine bottles. Sounds like a suspense novel.”
    “Maybe when we’ve solved the whole puzzle . . .”
    Remi laughed. “I think our plates are full enough.”
    “Someday we’ll have to write all this down, you know. It would make a great book.”
    “Someday. When we’re old and gray. I talked to Ted, by the way. He’s sitting tight.”
    “Thank God. What did you decide? Did you ask him about the sub?”
    “No.”
    Frobisher clung to his well-ordered cocoon of a life and his run-in with this mystery assailant was all the adventure he could handle. Besides, Sam knew Ted: Once the sub’s discovery hit the airwaves he would wonder, given their proximity, if the shard and sub were connected. He would contact them if he had anything of value to add.
    “Here, listen to this,” Remi said, her finger tracing along the page: “ ‘Wolfi gave me two fine bottles of wine today, two of three he brought along. He said we would celebrate together at the end of the mission.’ ”
    “Wolfi,” Sam repeated. “Do we know who that