Riptide

Chapter 40

Fifty minutes later, Hatch was quickly climbing the path toward the Water Pit. The rays of the lowering sun blazed over the water, turning the island's fogbank into a fiery swirl.

Orthanc was empty save for Magnusen and a technician operating the winch. There was a grinding noise, and a massive bucket emerged from the Water Pit, hooked to a thick steel cable. As Hatch watched through the glass porthole, a crew at the edge of the Pit swung the bucket off to one side and tilted it into one of the abandoned tunnels. There was a loud sucking sound, and countless gallons of mud and dirt poured out in a rush. The crew righted the now-empty bucket and swung it back toward the mouth of the Water Pit, where it once again descended out of sight.

"Where's Gerard?" Hatch asked.

Magnusen was monitoring a wireframe grid of the base of the Water Pit. She turned to look at him for a moment, then returned to her screen. "With the digging team," she replied.

On the wall near the winch technician was a bank of six red phones, hardwired to various points on the island network. Hatch picked up the phone labeled WATER PIT, FORWARD TEAM.

He heard three quick beeps. In a moment, Neidelman's voice came over the channel. "Yes?" Hatch could hear loud hammering in the background.

"I need to speak with you," Hatch said.

"Is it important?" Neidelman asked, irritation in his voice.

"Yes, it's important. I have some new information about St. Michael's Sword."

There was a pause during which the hammering grew louder. "If you must," Neidelman replied at last. "You'll have to come down here. We're in the midst of setting some braces."

Hatch returned the phone to its cradle, buckled on a safety helmet and harness, then stepped outside and climbed down the tower to the staging platform. In the gathering dusk, the Pit looked even more brilliant, projecting a shaft of white light into the mists above. One of the crew members at the Pit's mouth helped him onto the electric lift. He pressed a button on the housing and the small platform lurched and descended.

He passed through the gleaming web of titanium struts and cables, marveling despite himself at the complexity. The lift descended past a team checking a set of braces at the forty-foot level. Another ninety seconds and the bottom of the Water Pit became visible. Here, activity was more pronounced. The muck and mire had been removed, and a battery of lights erected. A smaller shaft now extended down from the base of the Pit, braced on all sides. Several small instruments and measuring devices— belonging to Magnusen, or maybe Rankin—dangled from slender wires. The winch cable descended into one corner, and in the opposite corner a titanium ladder had been fitted. Stepping off the lift, Hatch went down the ladder into a roar of sound: shovels, hammers, the rush of air-filtration units.

Thirty feet below, he reached the actual floor of the excavation. Here, under the gaze of a lone closed-circuit camera, workmen were digging out the sodden earth and dumping it into the large bucket. Others were using suction hoses to vacuum up the mud and water. Neidelman stood in one corner, a construction helmet on his head, directing the placement of the supports. Streeter hovered nearby, a set of blueprints in his hand.

Malin came toward them, and the Captain nodded. "I'm surprised you haven't been down here to see this before," he said.

"Now that the Pit is stabilized, we've been able to proceed with the final digging at full speed."

There was a pause in which Hatch made no answer.

Neidelman turned his pale eyes toward him. "You know how pressed for time we are," he said. "I hope this is important."

A great change had taken place in the man in the week since Wopner's death. Gone was the look of calm certainty, the equanimity that had surrounded him like a mantle from the very first day he'd sat in Hatch's office and looked out over the Charles River. Now, there was a look Hatch found hard to describe: a haggard, almost wild, determination.

"It's important," said Hatch. "But private."

Neidelman looked at him a moment longer. Then he glanced at his watch. "Listen up!" he said to the men. "Shift ends in seven minutes. Knock off, get topside, and tell the next team to come down for an early start."

The workers laid aside their tools and began climbing the ladder toward the lift. Streeter remained where he was, silent. The large suction hoses fell silent, and the half-filled bucket rose toward the surface, bobbing on its heavy steel cable. Streeter remained, standing silently to one side. Neidelman turned back to Hatch. "You've got five minutes, maybe ten."

"A couple of days ago," Hatch began, "I came across a stash of my grandfather's papers, documents he'd gathered about the Water Pit and Ockham's treasure. They were hidden in the attic of the family house; that's why my father never destroyed them. Some mentioned St. Michael's Sword. They hinted that the sword was some kind of terrible weapon the Spanish government planned to use against Red Ned Ockham. There were other disturbing references, too. So I contacted a researcher I know in Cadiz and asked her to do some more digging into the sword's history."

Neidelman looked toward the muddy ground at their feet, his lips pursed. "That could be considered proprietary information. I'm surprised you took such a step without consulting me."

"She found this." Hatch reached into his jacket and handed Neidelman a piece of paper.

The Captain looked at it briefly. "It's in old Spanish," he said with a frown.

"Below is my friend's translation."

Neidelman handed it back. "Summarize it for me," he said curtly.

"It's fragmentary. But it describes the original discovery of St. Michael's Sword, and what happened afterwards."

Neidelman raised his eyebrows. "Indeed?"

"During the Black Plague, a wealthy Spanish merchant set out from Cadiz with his family on a barque. They crossed the Mediterranean and put ashore along an unpopulated stretch of the Barbary Coast. There they found the remains of an ancient Roman settlement. They settled down to ride out the plague. Some friendly Berber tribesmen warned them not to go near a ruined temple that lay on a hill some distance away, saying it was cursed. The warnings were repeated several times. After a while, when the plague started to abate, the merchant decided to explore the temple. Maybe he felt the Berbers had hidden something of value, and he didn't want to depart without taking a look. It seems that among the ruins he found a slab of marble behind an altar. Underneath was an ancient metal box that had been sealed shut, with an inscription in Latin. In effect, the inscription stated that the box contained a sword, which was the deadliest of weapons. Even to look upon it meant death. He had the box carried down to the ship, but the Berbers refused to help him open it. In fact, they drove him from the shore."

Neidelman listened, still looking at the ground.

"A few weeks later, on Michaelmas—St. Michael's Day—the merchant's ship was found drifting in the Mediterranean. The yard-arms were covered with vultures. All hands were dead. The box was shut, but the lead seal had been broken. It was brought to a monastery at Cadiz. The monks read the Latin inscription, along with the merchant's own log. They decided the sword was—and I quote from my friend's translation—a fragment vomited up from Hell itself. They sealed the box again and placed it in the catacombs under the cathedral. The document ends by saying that the monks who handled the box soon fell ill and died."

Neidelman looked up at Hatch. "Is this supposed to have some kind of bearing on our current effort?"

"Yes," said Hatch steadily. "Very much so."

"Enlighten me, then."

"Wherever St. Michael's Sword has been, people have died. First, the merchant's family. Then the monks. And when Ockham snaps it up, eighty of his crew die right here on the island. Six months later, Ockham's ship is found drifting just like the merchant ship, with all hands dead."

"Interesting story," Neidelman said. "But I don't think it's worth stopping work for me to listen to. This is the twentieth century. It has no bearing on us."

"That's where you're wrong. Haven't you noticed the recent rash of illnesses among the crew?"

Neidelman shrugged. "Sickness always occurs in a group of this size. Especially when people are becoming tired and the work is dangerous."

"This isn't malingering we're talking about. I've done the blood work. In almost every case, the white cell counts are extremely low. And just this afternoon, one of your digging team came into my office with the most unusual skin disorder I've ever seen. He had ugly rashes and swelling across his arms, thighs, and groin."

"What is it?" Neidelman asked.

"I don't know yet. I've checked my medical references, and I haven't been able to make a specific diagnosis yet. If I didn't know better, I'd say they were buboes."

Neidelman looked at Hatch with a raised eyebrow. "Black death? Bubonic plague, in twentieth-century Maine?"

"As I said, I haven't been able to diagnose it yet."

Neidelman frowned. "Then what are you rabbiting on about?"

Hatch took a breath, controlling his temper. "Gerard, I don't know exactly what St. Michael's Sword is. But it's obviously very dangerous. It's left a trail of death wherever it's gone. I wonder if we were right, assuming that the Spanish meant to wield the sword against Ockham. Perhaps he was meant to capture it."

"Ah," Neidelman nodded, an edge of sarcasm distorting his voice. "Perhaps the sword is cursed after all?" Streeter, standing to one side, sniffed derisively.

"You know I don't believe in curses any more than you do," Hatch snapped. "That doesn't mean there isn't some underlying physical cause to the legend. Like an epidemic. This sword has all the characteristics of a Typhoid Mary."

"And that would explain why several of our sick crew have bacterial infections, while another has viral pneumonia, and yet another a weird infection of the teeth. Just what kind of epidemic might this be, Doctor?"

Hatch looked at the lean face. "I know the diversity of diseases is puzzling. The point is, the sword is dangerous. We've got to figure out how and why before we plunge ahead and retrieve it."

Neidelman nodded, smiling distantly. "I see. You can't figure out why the crew is sick. You're not even sure what some of them are sick of. But the sword is somehow responsible for everything."

"It isn't just the illnesses," Hatch countered. "You must know that a big Nor'easter is brewing. If it keeps heading our way, it'll make last week's storm look like a spring shower. It would be crazy to continue."

"Crazy to continue," Neidelman repeated. "And just how do you propose to stop the dig?"

Hatch paused for a moment as this sunk in. "By appealing to your good sense," he said, as calmly as he could.

There was a tense silence. "No," said Neidelman, with a heavy tone of finality. "The dig continues."

"Then your stubbornness leaves me no choice. I'm going to have to shut down the dig myself for the season, effective immediately."

"How, exactly?"

"By invoking clause nineteen of our contract."

Nobody spoke.

"My clause, remember?" Hatch went on. "Giving me the right to stop the dig if I felt conditions had become too dangerous."

Slowly, Neidelman fished his pipe out of a pocket and loaded it with tobacco. "Funny," he said in a quiet, dead voice, turning to Streeter. "Very funny, isn't it, Mr. Streeter? Now that we're only thirty hours from the treasure chamber, Dr. Hatch here wants to shut the whole operation down."

"In thirty hours," Hatch said, "the storm may be right on top of us—"

"Somehow," the Captain interrupted, "I'm not at all convinced it's the sword, or the storm, that you're really worried about. And these papers of yours are medieval mumbo jumbo, if they're real at all. I don't see why you . . ." He paused. Then something dawned in his eyes. "But yes. Of course I see why. You have another motive, don't you?"

"What are you talking about?"

"If we pull out now, Thalassa will lose its entire investment. You know very well that our investors have already faced ten percent overrun calls. They're not going to cough up another twenty million for next year's dig. But that's exactly what you're counting on, isn't it?"

"Don't lay your paranoid fantasies on me," Hatch said angrily.

"Oh, but they're not fantasy, are they?" Neidelman lowered his voice further. "Now that you've gotten the information you need out of Thalassa, now that we've practically opened the front door for you, you'd love nothing more than to see us fail. Then, next year, you could come in, finish the job, and get all the treasure. And most importantly, you'd get St. Michael's Sword." His eyes glittered with suspicion. "It all makes sense. It explains why, for example, you were so insistent on that clause nineteen. It explains the computer problems, the endless delays. Why everything worked on the Cerberus but went haywire on the island. You had it all figured out from the beginning." He shook his head bitterly. "And to think I trusted you. To think I came to you when I suspected we had a saboteur among us."

"I'm not trying to cheat you out of your treasure. I don't give a shit about your treasure. My only interest is in the safety of the crew."

"The safety of the crew," Neidelman repeated derisively. He fished a box of matches from his pocket, removed one, and scratched it into life. But instead of lighting his pipe, he suddenly thrust it close to Hatch's face. Hatch backed off slightly.

"I want you to understand something," Neidelman continued, flicking out the match. "In thirty hours, the treasure will be mine. Now that I know what your game is, Hatch, I'm simply not going to play. Any effort to stop me will be met with force. Do I make myself clear?"

Hatch looked carefully at Neidelman, trying to read what was going on behind the cold expression. "Force?" he repeated. "Is that a threat?"

There was a long silence. "That would be a reasonable interpretation," said Neidelman, dropping his voice even lower.

Hatch drew himself up. "When the sun rises tomorrow," he said, "if you're not gone from this island, you will be evicted. And I give you my personal guarantee that if anyone is killed or hurt, you will be charged with negligent homicide."

Neidelman turned. "Mr. Streeter?"

Streeter stepped forward.

"Escort Dr. Hatch to the dock."

Streeter's narrow features creased into a smile.

"You have no right to do this," Hatch said. "This is my island."

Streeter stepped forward and grasped Hatch's arm.

Taking a step to the side, Hatch balled his right hand into a fist and shot his knuckles into the man's solar plexus. It was not a hard blow, but it was placed with anatomical exactness. Streeter dropped to his knees, mouth gaping, the wind knocked out of him.

"Touch me again," Hatch said to the gasping figure, "and you'll be carrying your balls around in a cup."

Streeter struggled to his feet, violence in his eyes.

"Mr. Streeter, I don't think force will be necessary," said Neidelman sharply, as the team leader moved forward menacingly. "Dr. Hatch will return to his boat peaceably. He realizes there is absolutely nothing he can do here to stop us, now that we've smoked out his plan. And I think he realizes how foolish it would be to try."

He turned back to Hatch. "I'm a fair man. You took your best shot, and you failed. Your presence is no longer required on Ragged Island. If you leave, and allow me to finish as we agreed, you'll still get your share of the treasure. But if you try to stop me..." Silently, he swept his hands back and placed them on his hips, pulling his slicker aside in the process. Hatch could clearly see the handgun snugged into his belt.

"Well, what do you know," Hatch said. "The Captain's strapped."

"Get going," said Streeter, stepping forward.

"I can find my own way." Hatch backed up to the far wall, and then—without taking his eyes off the Captain—he climbed out of the excavation to the base of the array, where the lift was already depositing the first diggers of the next shift.