Riptide

Chapter 20

At quarter to ten that evening, Hatch emerged from the boarding hatch of the Cerberus and walked across the gangway to his own boat. At the end of the working day, he'd motored over to the big ship to inspect the CBC machine he'd be using if blood work was needed for any of the expedition members. While on board, he'd struck up a conversation with Thalassa's quartermaster, and in short order had been invited to stay for dinner in the ship's galley and to meet the half-dozen occupants. At last, full of vegetable lasagna and espresso, he'd said his farewells to the easygoing crewmen and lab technicians and headed back through the white corridors toward the exit hatch. Along the way, he'd passed the door to Wopner's stateroom. For a moment, he'd considered checking in with the programmer, but decided the unpleasant reception he was sure to get outweighed the benefits of a status report.

Now, back on the Plain Jane, he powered up the engine, cast off the lines, and pointed the boat into the warm night. The distant lights of the mainland were strung out across the dark, and a nearer cluster on Ragged Island glowed softly through the mantle of mist. Venus hung low over the western horizon, reflected in the water as a wavering thread of white. The motor ran a little roughly, but eased as Hatch moved the throttle forward. A glowing trail of phosphorescence sprang from the boat's stern: sparks swirling from a green fire. Hatch sighed contentedly, looking forward to the placid journey ahead despite the lateness of the hour.

Suddenly the roughness returned. Quickly, Hatch cut the motor and let the boat drift. Feels like water in the fuel line, he thought. With a sigh, he went forward for a flashlight and some tools, then returned to the cockpit and pulled up the deckpads, exposing the engine beneath. He licked the beam about, searching for the fuel-water separator. Locating it, he reached in and unscrewed the small bowl. Sure enough, it was full of dark liquid. Emptying it over the side, he bent forward again to replace it.

Then he stopped. In the silence left by the killing of his engine, Hatch could make out a sound, coming toward him out of the nocturnal stillness. He paused and listened, uncomprehending for a moment. Then he recognized it: a woman's voice, low and melodious, singing an enchanting aria. He stood up and turned involuntarily in the direction of the voice. It floated across the dark waves, bewitchingly out of place, ravishing in its note of sweet suffering.

Hatch waited, listening as if transfixed. As he looked across the expanse of water, he saw it was coming from the dark form of the Griffin, its running lights extinguished. A single point of red glowed out from Neidelman's vessel: through his binoculars he could see it was the Captain, smoking his pipe on the forward deck.

Hatch closed the deckpads, then tried the engine again. It sprang to life on the second crank, running sweet and clear. Hatch eased the throttle forward and, on an impulse, moved slowly toward the Griffin.

"Evening," said the Captain as he approached, the quiet voice unnaturally clear in the night air.

"And to you too," said Hatch, putting the Plain Jane into neutral. "I'd bet my eyeteeth that's Mozart, but I don't know the opera. The Marriage of Figaro, perhaps?"

The Captain shook his head. "It's 'Zeffiretti Lusinghieri.'"

"Ah. From Idomeneo."

"Yes. Sylvia McNair sings it beautifully, doesn't she? Are you a fan of opera?"

"My mother was. Every Saturday afternoon, the radio would fill our house with trios and tuttis. I've only learned to appreciate it these last five years or so."

There was a moment of silence. "Care to come aboard?" Neidelman asked suddenly.

Hatch tied the Plain Jane to the rail, killed the engine, and hopped over, the Captain giving him a hand up. There was a glow from the pipe, and Neidelman's face was briefly illuminated with a reddish aura, accentuating the hollows of his cheeks and eyes. A wink of precious metal shone from the pilothouse as the curl of gold reflected the moonlight.

They stood at the rail, silent, listening to the final dying notes of the aria. When it ended and the recitative began, Neidelman breathed deeply, then rapped out his dottle on the side of the boat. "Why haven't you ever asked me to quit smoking?" he asked. "Every doctor I've ever known has tried to get me to quit, except you."

Hatch considered this. "It seems to me I'd be wasting my breath."

Neidelman gave a soft laugh. "You know me well enough, then. Shall we go below for a glass of port?"

Hatch shot a surprised glance at the Captain. Just that night, in the galley of the Cerberus, he'd heard that nobody was ever invited below on the Griffin; that nobody, in fact, even knew what it looked like. The Captain, although personable and friendly with his crew, always kept his distance.

"Good thing I didn't start lecturing you on your vices, isn't it?" Hatch said. "Thanks, I'd love a glass of port."

He followed Neidelman into the pilothouse, then down the steps and under the low door. Another narrow half-flight of metal stairs, another door, and Hatch found himself in a large, low-ceilinged room. He looked around in wonder. The paneling was a rich, lustrous mahogany, carved in Georgian style and inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Delicate Tiffany stained glass was set into each porthole, and leather banquettes were placed against the walls. At the far end, a small fire glowed, filling the cabin with warmth and the faint, fragrant smell of birch. Glass-fronted library cabinets flanked either side of the mantelpiece; Hatch could see bound calfskin and the gleam of gold stamping. He moved forward to examine the titles: Hakluyt's Voyages, an early copy of Newton's Principia. Here and there, priceless illuminated manuscripts and other incunabula were arranged face outward; Hatch recognized a fine copy of Les Tres Riches Heures du Duc de Berry. There was also a small shelf devoted to original editions of early pirate texts: Lionel Wafer's Batchelor's Delight, Alexander Esquemelion's Bucaniers of America, and A General History of the Robberies and Murders of the most notorious Pyrates, by Charles Johnson. The library alone must have cost a small fortune. Hatch wondered if Neidelman had furnished the boat with earnings from prior salvages.

Beside one of the cabinets was a small seascape in a gilt frame. Hatch moved in for a closer look. Then he drew in his breath sharply.

"My God," he said. "This is a Turner, isn't it?"

Neidelman nodded. "It's a study for his painting, Squall Off Beachy Head, 1874"

"That's the one in the Tate?" Hatch said. "When I was in London a few years back, I tried sketching it several times."

"Are you a painter?" Neidelman asked.

"I'm a dabbler. Watercolors, mostly." Hatch stepped back, glancing around again. The other pictures that hung on the walls were not paintings, but precise copperplate engravings of botanical specimens: heavy flowers, odd grasses, exotic plants.

Neidelman approached a small baize-covered dry sink, laid with cut-glass ship's decanters and small glasses. Pulling two tumblers from their felt-covered moorings, he poured a few fingers of port in each. "Those engravings," he said, following Hatch's gaze, "are by Sir Joseph Banks, the botanist who accompanied Captain Cook on his first voyage around the world. They're plant specimens he collected in Botany Bay, shortly after they discovered Australia. It was the fantastic variety of plant specimens, you know, that caused Banks to give the bay its name."

"They're beautiful," murmured Hatch, accepting a glass.

"They're probably the finest copperplate engravings ever made. What a fortunate man he was: a botanist, given the gift of a brand-new continent."

"Axe you interested in botany?" Hatch asked.

"I'm interested in brand-new continents," Neidelman said, staring into the fire. "But I was born a little too late. All those have been snapped up." He smiled quickly, covering what seemed like a wistful gleam in his eyes.

"But in the Water Pit you have a mystery worthy of attention."

"Yes," Neidelman replied. "Perhaps the only one left. That's why I suppose setbacks such as today's shouldn't dismay me. Great mysteries don't yield up their secrets easily."

There was a long silence as Hatch sipped his port. Most people, he knew, found silence in a conversation to be uncomfortable. But Neidelman seemed to welcome it.

"I meant to ask you," the Captain said at last. "What did you think of our reception in town yesterday?"

"By and large, everyone seems happy with our presence here. We're certainly a boon to local business."

"Yes," Neidelman replied. "But what do you mean, 'by and large'?"

"Well, not everyone's a merchant." Hatch decided there was no point in being evasive. "We seem to have aroused the moral opposition of the local minister."

Neidelman gave a wry smile. "The minister disapproves, does he? After two thousand years of murder, inquisition, and intolerance, it's a wonder any Christian minister still feels he holds the moral high ground."

Hatch shifted a little uncomfortably; this was a voluble Neidelman, quite unlike the cold figure that just a few hours before had ordered the pumps run at a critically dangerous level.

"They told Columbus his ship would fall off the earth. And they forced Galileo to publicly repudiate his greatest discovery."

Neidelman fished his pipe out of his pocket and went through the elaborate ritual of lighting it. "My father was a Lutheran minister himself," he said more quietly, shaking out the match. "I had quite enough to last me a lifetime."

"You don't believe in God?" Hatch asked.

Neidelman gazed at Hatch in silence. Then he lowered his head. "To be honest, I've often wished I did. Religion played such a large role in my childhood that being without it now myself sometimes feels like a void. But I'm the kind of person who cannot believe in the absence of proof. It isn't something I have any control over. I must have proof." He sipped his port. "Why? Do you have any religious beliefs?"

Hatch turned toward him. "Well, yes, I do."

Neidelman waited, smoking.

"But I don't care to discuss them."

A smile spread over Neidelman's face. "Excellent. Can I give you a dividend?"

Hatch handed over his glass. "That wasn't the only opposing voice I heard in town," he continued. "I have an old friend, a teacher of natural history, who thinks we're going to fail."

"And you?" Neidelman asked coolly, busy with the port, not looking at him.

"I wouldn't be in it if I thought we'd fail. But I'd be lying if I said today's setback didn't give me pause."

"Malin," Neidelman said almost gently as he returned the glass, "I can't blame you for that. I confess to feeling a moment of something like despair when the pumps failed us. But there's not the slightest doubt in my mind that we'll succeed. I see now where we've gone wrong."

"I suppose there are even more than five flood tunnels," Hatch said. "Or maybe some hydraulic trick was played on us."

"Undoubtedly. But that's not what I mean. You see, we've been focusing all our attention on the Water Pit. But I've realized the Water Pit is not our adversary."

Hatch raised his eyebrows inquiringly, and the Captain turned toward him, pipe clenched in one fist, eyes glittering brightly.

"It's not the Pit. It's the man. Macallan, the designer. He's been one step ahead of us all the way. He's anticipated our moves, and those who came before us."

Placing his glass on a felt-topped table, he walked over to the wall and swung open a wood panel, revealing a small safe. He punched several buttons on the adjoining keypad, and the safe door swung open. He reached inside, removed something, then turned and laid it on the table in front of Hatch. It was a quarto volume, bound in leather: Macallan's book, On Sacred Structures. The captain opened it with great care, caressing it with long fingers. There in the margins, next to the printed blocks of text, appeared a neat little hand in a pale brown wash that looked almost like watercolor: line after line of monotonous characters, broken only by the occasional small, deft mechanical drawing of various joints, arches, braces, and cribbing.

Neidelman tapped the page. "If the Pit is Macallan's armor, then this is the soft joint where we can slip in the knife. Very soon now, we'll have the second half of the code deciphered. And with it, the key to the treasure."

"How can you be so sure this journal contains the secret to the Pit?" Hatch asked.

"Because nothing else makes sense. Why else would he have kept a secret journal, not only in code, but written in an invisible ink? Remember, Red Ned Ockham needed Macallan to create an impregnable fortress for his treasure. A fortress that would not only resist looters, but would physically endanger them by drowning, or crushing, or whatever. But you don't create a bomb without knowing how to disarm it first. So Macallan would have had to create a secret way for Ockham himself to remove his treasure when he chose: a hidden tunnel, perhaps, or a way to defuse the traps. It stands to reason Macallan would keep a record of it." He leveled his gaze at his guest. "But this journal holds more than just the key to the Pit. It gives us a window into the man's mind. And it is the man we must defeat." He spoke in the same low, strangely forceful tone that Hatch remembered from earlier in the day.

Hatch bent over the book, inhaling the aroma of mildew, leather, dust, and dry rot. "One thing surprises me," he said. "And that's the thought of an architect, kidnapped and forced to work for pirates on some godforsaken island, having the presence of mind to keep a secret journal."

Neidelman nodded slowly. "It's not the act of a fainthearted man. Perhaps he wanted to leave a record, for posterity, of his most ingenious structure. I suppose it's hard to say what motivated him, exactly. After all, the man was a bit of a cipher himself. There's a gap of three years in the historical record, following his leaving Cambridge, during which he seems to have disappeared. And his personal life as a whole remains a mystery. Take a look at this dedication." He carefully turned to the title page of the book, then slid it toward Hatch:

With Gratefulle admiration

For shewing the Way

The Author respectfully dedicates this humble Work

To Eta Onis

"We've searched high and low, but haven't been able to determine the identity of this Eta Onis," Neidelman went on. "Was she Macallan's teacher? Confidante? Mistress?" He carefully closed the book. "It's the same with the rest of his life."

"I'm embarrassed to say that, until you came along, I'd never even heard of the man," Hatch said.

"Most people haven't. But in his day he was a brilliant visionary, a true Renaissance man. He was born in 1657, the illegitimate but favored son of an earl. Like Milton, he claimed to have read every book then published in English, Latin, and Greek. He read law at Cambridge and was being groomed for a bishopric, but then apparently had some kind of secret conversion to Catholicism. He turned his attention to the arts, natural philosophy, and mathematics. And he was an extraordinary athlete, supposedly able to fling a coin so that it rang out against the vault of his largest cathedral."

Neidelman stood up, returned to the safe, and placed the volume within it. "And an interest in hydraulics seems to extend through all his work. In this book, he describes an ingenious aqueduct and siphon system he designed to supply water to Houndsbury Cathedral. He also sketched out a hydraulic system for locks on the Severn canal. It was never built—it seemed a crazy idea at the time—but Magnusen did some modeling and believes it would have worked."

"Did Ockham seek him out deliberately?"

Neidelman smiled. "Tempting to think so, isn't it? But highly doubtful. It was probably one of those fateful coincidences of history."

Hatch nodded toward the safe. "And how did you happen to come across that volume? Was that also a coincidence?"

Neidelman's smile widened. "No, not exactly. When I first started looking into the Ragged Island treasure, I did some research into Ockham. You know that when his command ship was found floating derelict, all hands dead, it was towed into Plymouth and its contents sold at public auction. We managed to dig up the auctioneer's list at the London Public Records Office, and on it were the contents of a captain's chest full of books. Ockham was an educated man, and I assumed this must be his personal library. One volume, On Sacred Structures, caught my eye; it stood out among the maps, French pornography, and naval works that made up the rest of the library. It took three years, on and off, but we finally managed to track that volume down in a heap of rotting books in the undercroft of a half-ruined kirk in Glenfarkille, Scotland."

He stood closer to the fire and spoke in a voice that was low, almost dreamlike. "I'll never forget opening that book for the first time and realizing that the ugly soiling in the margins was a 'white' ink, only then becoming perceivable through the ravages of time and rot. At that moment, I knew—I knew—that the Water Pit and its treasure were going to be mine."

He fell silent, his pipe dead, the glowing coals of the fire weaving a mazy light through the darkening room.