The African Quest

Multum ille et terris iactatus

Much buffeted by sea and land

5

Ship's manifest

Glass beads, one pithos

Ivory pieces, one pithos

Gold jewelry, one pithos

Wine, 200 amphorae

Oil, 200 amphorae

Olives, 100 amphorae

Copper, 250 ingots

Tin, 100 ingots

Silver, 100 ingots

Coins, 5 amphorae

1 Cedar box, contents unknown

B E CAREFUL. SHADOWS are dangerous. Not if you keep to them perhaps. Where to look for the weapon? Mago. I don't like Mago. Cuffed me yesterday for no reason. But worse than that, he is an evil man. Safat, too. But Safat is stupid, and therefore not so dangerous. I found the short-sword, didn't I? Found it right away, in Mago's kit. Mago had Abdelmelqart's pendant, too, didn't he? Does this make Mago a murderer, or just a thief? The captain will know.

Check the cargo, now. Pithoi, yes. Contents as specified. Amphorae, 505 amphorae, all accounted for. Tin, 100 ingots. Silver, 99 ingots. One missing. Theft again?

No, too difficult. All will be counted before the crew leaves the ship. Thrown overboard? Too valuable. It will have to be returned. I will hide in the shadows and wait.

K RISTI LINGERED UNTIL morning, but she was gone by the time they released Ben and me from hospital. She'd obviously made an attempt to get out, but like me, had become disoriented. They found her huddled between the bed and an armoire next to it. I figured she was dead drunk, a condition that would have considerably reduced her chances of escaping.

Ben and I stopped by to see Aziza before we left. She lay propped up on pillows, pale and a little weepy. Her husband sat beside her, holding her hand. He got up when we came in.

"What kind of tour are you running here?" Curtis demanded. "People are dropping like flies!"

"Curtis!" Aziza coughed.

"That hotel is a deathtrap. You should never have brought us there."

"Now wait a minute, here!" Ben huffed. "It is hardly Lara's or the hotel's fault. I wouldn't put it past that Ellingham woman to have disconnected the smoke detector so she could smoke in bed."

"She brought that bitch on the trip, didn't she? For the publicity."

"Curtis, please!" Aziza implored.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Ben demanded. It was a side of Ben I hadn't seen before. The two men were almost nose to nose, barking at each other. "If it weren't for the fact that Lara raised the alarm and went in there--risking her own life, I might add--your wife most assuredly would be . . ."

"Stop it, both of you!" I interrupted. "Can't you see you're upsetting her?"

They ignored that. "What exactly was your wife doing in that room, anyway?" Ben asked. It was a very good question.

"Silence!" a nurse ordered, coming into the room. "Mme. Clark needs rest. You gentlemen will leave the room, please. Maintenant. Now."

"I'll meet you outside, Ben," I said. "Do you need anything, Aziza?" I asked her. "A nightgown? Something to read?"

She shook her head. She looked just miserable. "The doctor said I could probably leave tomorrow. Thank you for getting me out," she added. "And don't mind Curtis. He's upset, that's all."

"Why were you in Kristi's room, Aziza?" I asked her. I might have objected to Ben asking the question, but I was just as determined to find out what had happened.

"I was out for a little walk around the hotel," she said. "I saw that Kristi's door was open very slightly. Just a crack. Anyone could just walk in, and after Catherine's necklace having been stolen, and Jimmy's money and everything, I just thought I shouldn't leave it like that."

"You were out walking at that time of night?" I said.

She didn't answer for a moment. "I couldn't sleep and didn't want to bother Curtis," she said finally.

"So you noticed the door was ajar, and then . . ." I prodded as gently as I could.

"I wasn't sure whether she had left it that way deliberately, you know, cross ventilation or something, so I tapped on the door and then went in. All of a sudden there was this whooshing sound, and the room filled with smoke. I tried to find the door, but I couldn't."

"The door was locked when I got there," I said.

"I suppose I must have closed it behind me when I went in, and it locked automatically," she said. She was picking at some lint on the hospital blanket, and didn't look at me once while she spoke.

"It's horrible what happened," she said. She started to cry a little.

"You rest, Aziza," I said. "And if you think of anything you need, anything at all, please give me a call at the hotel."

As I turned to leave, I looked back. She lay there, eyes closed, one small tear running down her face.

I was absolutely certain she was lying, but I didn't know what to do about it. It could have something to do with Curtis, given to nocturnal ramblings of his own. Not that I could blame him for being upset right now. His wife really was within minutes of being the third corpse on this tour. Which brought me back to the subject of the rest of the group: I had to believe that they were all considering asking for their money back and heading home any time now.

As we arrived back at the Auberge, two men were loading a very sodden mattress, or what was left of it, into a police van. It was an upsetting sight, and it all seemed so unnecessary. If anything, this was an even more idiotic death, to use Jimmy's expression, than Rick's had been.

But two people on the tour were dead, no matter how supremely careless both may have been, and it was a very subdued group that greeted us as we returned.

"Jamila," I said, taking her aside. "Ben and I are considering taking the rest of the day off." That was an understatement. "You've got to take these people somewhere special today. Do you know a really splendid restaurant around here that serves lunch outside? A patio overlooking the water or some such thing?"

"I can arrange something like that," Jamila replied. "I know just the place."

"Good. Just take them there and let them order whatever they want. We'll cover it. But you'll have to manage on your own today."

"I can do that. You rest," she said. "Hello, everyone," she called, crossing over to the group in the breakfast area. "If I may have your attention for just a minute, I have an announcement. We're going to do something special today, a little surprise."

"A few too many surprises already, if you ask me," I heard Jimmy say.

"A lovely lunch at one of the finest restaurants in the country," she went on, undeterred. "Something special we're including as part of the tour."

"Fresh seafood, I hope," Ben said. "Is wine included, too?" Ben apparently was recovering quite nicely, and contrary to what I expected, was carrying right on.

"Of course," Jamila said, after looking at me for a sign. I nodded. "Drinks, too."

"I'm going to bed," I said to no one in particular.

Tired as I was, I couldn't sleep, just a few minutes here and there, broken by horrible dreams. By noon, I gave up trying and went downstairs.

"Your husband called three times, Madame Swain," Mohammed said as he handed me little pink slips of paper with Clive's name on every one. "Mme. Sylvie said we were not to put the calls through to your room while you were resting."

"Thank you, Mohammed," I said, tearing up the messages. Word of Kristi's demise had apparently already made its way back home, and Clive would be beside himself. There'd be time to listen to him rant, later on.

A few minutes later, I found myself in town in what is rather whimsically called a taxiphone, one of the few places, other than some of the large American hotel chains, where it is possible to dial direct overseas. I looked at my watch. It was 6:20 A.M., Toronto time, and it was Sunday. I put in a dinar coin or two and dialed, anyway.

"Rob," I said. "It's me."

"Oh," the sleepy voice said. "It's good to hear from you." He paused. "Is everything okay?"

"Not really," I said. "I needed to hear a friendly voice. I know it's early."

"That's okay. What's happened?" he asked anxiously. I told him.

"That's terrible," he said. "But it's not your fault, remember that."

"I know," I said miserably. "But it was really unpleasant, and Clive already thinks I'm making a mess of things--even before he heard about Kristi."

"I don't understand why you went into business with that fellow again," Rob said. He did not like Clive much, it was fair to say. "Moira would have understood if you'd said no when he suggested it."

"I know," I said again. That one phrase seemed to be the height of my conversational abilities at that moment. "You have no idea how bad an idea it was. Please don't ask me why. He may be right about my making a mess of this trip, though."

"That sounds unlikely to me," he replied. He was being so nice.

"I suppose you see this kind of thing all the time, being a policeman. Have you ever pulled someone out of the pool when they've bashed their head in?"

"Unfortunately, yes. Twice. Well, once in a lake. Same idea, though."

"What happens when they hit the bottom?" I asked.

"What?" he said. "Oh, I see. Your fellow died. Drowned, I suppose. If you get them out in time, they're usually paralyzed. Quadriplegics in some cases."

"Actually, I meant what happens to their head?"

"Isn't this a little grisly, Lara? Why would you want to know?"

"I guess I need to understand this in some way, Rob," I said. "Maybe I'll feel better about the fact that I didn't get him out in time." There didn't seem to be much point in mentioning I was being haunted by a dream that was making me question the conclusions the local police had drawn.

"I'm not sure telling you this is a good idea, but essentially they break their necks. I'm not a doctor, but I think the top of the head and the neck take the whole weight of the body, and one of the vertebra is forced out of position, slicing the spinal cord. The extent of their injuries, or the paralysis, depends on where it gets severed."

"I think what I'm really asking is, did I kill him taking him out of the pool? I mean should I have known his neck was broken, or anything?"

"I don't think there'd be any way of telling that his neck was broken just by looking at him, and leaving him on the bottom of the pool for a while until someone who understood neck injuries arrived wouldn't have helped him much, now would it? Don't do this to yourself, Lara! You did what you could. If he hadn't gone swimming by himself, then maybe someone could have got him out in time. From what you've told me, he was the instrument of his own death."

"I know, but I keep thinking of him lying there conscious for a moment or two, unable to help himself. He wasn't a very nice person, maybe, but he didn't deserve that. And Kristi . . ."

"Lara, if you're going to ask me now what happens to the lungs of people who die smoking in bed, forget it. I'm not going to tell you. I think you should just try and get some rest. You'll feel better tomorrow," he said gently.

"Who's with you?" I said suddenly. I could have sworn I heard a sleepy female voice asking him who it was he was talking to.

"Nobody," he said. That, I realized with a pang, was a lie.

"I think I'll take your advice," I said. "And get some rest. Thanks for being there," I added.

"Lara," he said. "We'll talk about this, okay? I mean you, we, aren't really . . . are we?"

"Whatever," I said. "Goodbye, Rob."

It was true, we weren't, if by that he meant lovers. We'd never got past the necking stage. Something always seemed to intervene: his daughter, my shop, his job, and then one or the other of us would think better of it. But when I was feeling really wretched, Rob was the person I wanted to talk to, to hear his nice calm voice, and knowing there was someone else with him early on a Sunday morning did nothing to improve my day. Looking on the bright side, I suppose, I'd found out what I needed to know, whether I liked it or not, about both Rob and Rick Reynolds.

"I thought you were supposed to be resting," a voice said as I passed through the lobby on the way back to my room. I turned to see Briars in the lounge. "Can't sleep?"

"It seems not," I agreed.

"Would you like a little fresh air?" he inquired.

"Sure, I guess so."

He hailed a little yellow taxi outside the hotel gate, and soon we were descending to the harbor, then picking up the coast road headed north. Just on the outskirts of Taberda we stopped at a pier, where several colorful fishing boats bobbed at anchor. Briars climbed down to a little outboard, and beckoned me to follow. Soon we were bouncing across the water toward a boat about a quarter mile offshore.

"Here we are," he said, as we pulled alongside. A smiling Hedi offered me a hand up the ladder.

"Welcome aboard the Elissa Dido," he said.

"And," Briars added, "our project site. Meet two of our divers: Ron Todd, one of my students at UCLA, and Khmais ben Khalid, a local archaeologist and diver. Hedi, you know, of course. He's our dive supervisor, and he's been filling in as project director while I've been with your group. We have two other divers--both, I gather, Hedi?--down below." Hedi nodded. "Gentlemen, meet Lara McClintoch. I shook a couple of wet hands. Briars reached into a cooler. "Something cold to drink, Lara? Cola? Mineral water? No alcohol allowed onboard, I'm afraid." I gratefully took the proffered mineral water. "Ron, see if you can find Lara a hat."

Ron emerged from the cabin a minute or two later with a black neoprene cap emblazoned with the words The Elissa Dido Project in white, and what looked to be some kind of ship, with a large square sail, the prow in the shape of a horse's head. Briars presented it to me with a flourish. "Since you're helping pay for this expedition," he said, "whether you knew it or not," he added, "you get to be an honorary crew member. Lara's had a bad day," he said to the men, "so we won't put her to work right away."

"Explain this to me, Briars," I said.

"About paying for the expedition, you mean, or getting down to work? I just meant that we're a little underfunded, and so your offer of a salary for a couple of weeks helped us out here with our expenses quite a bit. I knew Hedi would fill in for me admirably. Your tour may keep us going for another month."

"You know that's not what I meant. I thought you were digging away on some ancient city site around here somewhere," I said. "You did say you had a project on the Gulf of Hammamet, didn't you? You meant on the gulf literally, I suppose."

He smiled. "Perhaps I should have said in, rather than on, the gulf. I didn't mean to mislead you. I guess I'm so deep into this project that it never occurred to me there was more than one possible interpretation of that phrase. We're looking for a shipwreck," he said.

"What kind of shipwreck?" I asked. "A Spanish galleon or something?"

"We're not entirely sure, but I hope much older than that," he replied. "We're looking for a ship that dates back at least two thousand years."

"Is that possible?" I exclaimed. "Wouldn't the ship have rotted away?"

"The ship itself might have, yes. But not necessarily the cargo. Not only is it possible to find it, we are going to find it. First, I might add." The others clapped and whistled.

"You're nuts," I said.

He laughed. "You're not the first woman to tell me that. My soon to be ex-wife, for example, was quite convinced of it. When are Sandy and Gus due up?" he asked Hedi.

Hedi looked at his watch. "About nine minutes," he said. I looked over the side to see two trails of bubbles from below. Khmais and Ron started pulling on their gear, checking and rechecking their tanks.

"You asked me the other day--was it only yesterday?--what I meant by sabotage," Briars said quietly to me as the others moved out of range. "Come over here for a minute."

I looked into the wheelhouse: There were maps and papers all over the place. "I think maybe you could use a little help with the housekeeping," I said.

"You should have seen it yesterday. We keep all our charts and records here. Someone got in: We lock up, but someone broke the padlock. The place was a shambles. Chart drawers open, and everything dumped on the floor, the scanning equipment wrecked. The fish--that's the piece of equipment that trails behind the boat when we're scanning and gives us the pictures--was severely damaged, maybe even permanently."

"Anything taken?"

"Hard to tell. The place was, and still is, a mess. But I don't think this was theft. As I keep saying, it was sabotage, designed to scare us off, or slow us down. After all, we leave the ship out at anchor so we don't have to pay marina fees, and whoever it was would have to get out to it. It wouldn't be a casual, spur-of-the-moment kind of smash and grab. I'll bet I'm not making any sense, am I? Why don't I start at the beginning."

"Please do," I said.

"Good. Back to the beginning. I first got interested in this part of the world in my university days. I came over under the auspices of UNESCO to work at Carthage in the early seventies, along with a boyhood friend of mine named Peter Groves. Peter and I had been chums since we were about seven. I think it's because we were both wimpy guys, lousy at sports, and good at school, the kind of lads the other kids despise. I had no idea what I wanted to be when I grew up. I was taking a general arts course at the university and had taken a course in archaeology, but nothing much had piqued my interest. I'd say Peter was about the same. I can't even remember how we got the job. I think Peter's father knew somebody who knew somebody; that kind of thing. So while our friends at school were spending their summer cleaning pools or flipping burgers, Peter and I headed for Carthage. Revenge of the nerds, they'd call it now.

"In any event, a whole new world opened up for Peter and me. I loved the job. I was a dig assistant, and worked for some very good people, and I found I had a real feel for it. Peter didn't like it nearly as much as I did: He thought it was boring, actually, while I found it endlessly fascinating. What we did agree on were the weekends. It was paradise. We sailed, swam, learned to scuba dive, met European and Arab girls.

"There was an old Arab who was working on the project as a laborer, and he kind of adopted Peter and me. He was awfully good to us--took us to meet his daughter and her family, made sure we ate properly, which considering our student status, was something. As with most kids, I'm not sure we appreciated him at the time. But oh, what stories that man had to tell! He claimed that in his younger days he'd been a sponge diver, and that he'd once seen the most marvelous sight: He said he'd found a graveyard of amphorae guarded by the god of the sea, who, as it turns out, was made of gold. We thought he was just kidding us, but the old man insisted that the story he was telling us was true, that the amphorae and the god himself were still down there in the depths.

"We asked around, and found that the old man--his name was Zoubeeir--had indeed been a sponge diver in his youth. At first we put the tale about the golden god and the graveyard of amphorae down to the Martini Law. Do you know what that is?"

"No, but I could probably guess the general idea," I replied.

"The Martini Law says that every ten meters you go down--that's about thirty-two, thirty-three feet--has the same effect as a double martini. You'll understand that when you're working at, say, a hundred and twenty feet, the Martini Law has significant impact. The more technical term is nitrogen narcosis, what they call the rapture of the deep, staying down too deep for too long. Bit of a nutter was how Peter put it at first.

"But the story seemed to worm its way into Peter's soul. "˜What if there really is a golden statue down there?' he kept saying to me. "˜It's possible, isn't it? Gold is essentially inert. It would stand up under water virtually forever. And the graveyard of amphorae? Doesn't that sound like a shipwreck to you? The wooden ship might be gone, but the amphorae that held the cargo would last for a very, very long time. Maybe we should go and look for it.' Or "˜I've looked into this, and more shipwrecks have been found based on this kind of anecdotal information than on all the fancy technology in the world,' he would say. And there is a certain amount of truth in that. The Mahdia wreck, which was found toward the south end of the gulf here, was originally discovered by sponge divers. So was the Uluburun wreck off Turkey. Ready for another mineral water?

"That summer was a defining experience for both of us. I went home, changed courses to get into archaeology and eventually got my doctorate--my thesis was on Carthaginian shipping and trade--found myself a teaching job at UCLA, got married, and had a couple of kids. Peter dropped out of the university, got married, too, had a daughter, and went into business for himself, manufacturing plastic bottles, I think. Made lots of money at it, much more than I did as a professor of archaeology, that's for sure. We kind of lost touch. Just Christmas cards and things like that as contact. Then one day, he packed it all in, the company, the marriage, the works. He became--and he and I might quibble about the terminology--a treasure hunter. He'd say a marine salvage expert. He started looking for sunken treasure. He had some success right away, found a Spanish ship in the Caribbean, loaded with gold. Trouble was, he ended up in endless litigation over ownership of it. So he hired himself a fancy lawyer, and went on looking for shipwrecks. His initial success, regardless of all the legal problems, ensured that he was always able to get investors. His passion was sunken treasure, any sunken treasure, but I think there was a special place in his heart for Zoubeeir's amphorae graveyard and the statue of gold. He tracked down Zoubeeir, who was now blind, and essentially senile, and his daughter and son-in-law, and found out that Zoubeeir used to dive in the Gulf of Hammamet.

"There's a lot of water in the gulf, to that I can attest, and under water you could be almost on top of something and still miss it. Peter tried to get Zoubeeir to narrow it down a little, and in a manner of speaking, he did. The god of the sea, Zoubeeir maintained, lined up with a piece of rock that looked like a camel on the shore. Trouble was, there's been a lot of development along the gulf since Zoubeeir was sponge diving, so if that particular rock formation ever existed anywhere but in the old man's imagination, I expect it's long gone.

"Peter was undaunted, though. One day near the end of the term, not having had any contact with him for a few years, I get a phone call out of the blue. "˜You've been mired in theory long enough,' Peter said. "˜It's time to find Zoubeeir's graveyard of amphorae and the golden god of the sea.' I took the bait. Marine archaeology is a relatively new discipline--it simply wasn't possible to do much of it until underwater technology was developed, particularly the Aqua-Lung, which wasn't invented until the 1940's. It was true I'd been immersed in theory about Mediterranean shipping routes, currents, and trade routes and all the rest. It was an exciting idea to go out and see what all that study would get me, and I confess I got bitten by the bug a little, too."

He paused and looked out to sea for a moment.

"You and Peter aren't still partners?" I asked.

"Nope," he replied. "The second summer I came over to help him, we had a serious difference of opinion. There were a couple of incidents that summer, one that caused me to question Peter's commitment to the protection of the heritage resource, another to question his sanity.

"While we both wanted to find Zoubeeir's ship, I wanted to find it for the knowledge it could bring, although if I was being completely honest, I could also see it making my reputation in the field. He wanted the treasure. At the end of the day, these were essentially incompatible philosophies, no matter how much the salvage industry claims the two visions can co-exist. I've come to look upon salvage companies as the marine equivalents of tomb robbers--not all, maybe, but many of them. We actually found a wreck, south of here, not very old, maybe three hundred years, but I was very excited about it, concerned about dating the wreck, seeing it was properly mapped and photographed. I went into town to get some equipment, and when I came back, the divers had already raised a lot of the stuff and were dividing it up. I was furious. I told Peter he was just paying lip service to marine archaeology, that I was along for window dressing. He was suitably contrite, said it wouldn't happen again, and for a while I tried to make myself believe him.

"But then there was the other incident." Briars took a deep breath before continuing. "I don't want to get into it, but we lost a diver, a young man, a kid really, one of my students. The sea was pretty choppy that day. I thought we should call it quits and head for shore. But Peter had seen something on the side scan sonar that he thought was worth checking out. There was only one diver that had any time left that day. You have to keep very close track of how much time you can be down in any given day: It depends on the depth you're working at, essentially. And you never go down without a buddy. The kid was over the side before anyone knew what was happening. I am certain Peter told him to go, although he denied it. We lost the trail of bubbles almost immediately in the choppy water. You have no idea what that's like, standing helplessly on the deck counting the seconds, knowing you're too late. Two of us went in, even though we'd had enough for one day. He was gone. We never found him. That was it for me. I left Peter's expedition. I went home and gave up the search for shipwrecks for a year or two. I remember I phoned the kid's parents when I got home. Talked to his dad. It was one of the worst things I've ever had to do in my life. The man was just shattered. Told me he'd entrusted his son to me, and I'd let him die. Which maybe I did. Maybe I didn't protest enough, you know, turned a blind eye to Peter's shenanigans. Anyway, why am I telling you this? You've had a rather rough few days yourself. Are you feeling okay?"

"Not too bad, all things considered," I replied. "But you're back looking for Zoubeeir's ship."

"Yes. Peter and I eventually became competitors, maybe even enemies, two former friends, two boats, both looking for the same thing. I said that there's a lot of water around here, but apparently, judging from the mess they've made of my boat, there wasn't enough for the two of us."

"Why did you come back?" I'd heard about people like this, obsessed with hidden treasure, sunken or otherwise. People who saw clues everywhere, and who refused to acknowledge information that would say they were wrong. People who were prepared to risk everything for some elusive and probably imaginary windfall. Peter Groves sounded like one of those people. The question was, I suppose, was I talking to another one now?

"I'm not entirely sure. I do know that if we could find this shipwreck, if it does exist, it would be a tremendous find. Ships that old are not exactly a dime a dozen. What it would tell us about life at that time would be spectacular. That's the thing about shipwrecks, you know. Archaeologists often dig up graveyards, tombs, that kind of thing, but the people in them have been specially prepared, laid out for the afterlife. Shipwrecks are different. They are little microcosms of life at the time. If they're merchant ships, you get an idea of what was valued in those times. You might get to see the difference between the officers and the common sailors, in terms of the utensils they used for eating, and so on. You are getting a chance to see the here and now of a particular time period, not the great hereafter, if you see what I mean. That's what I say, anyway, and I believe it. But maybe another reason is that my wife and I are getting divorced, my kids are essentially grown up, and I decided there were worse things to do with my sabbatical. I made a proposal to a foundation and got some funding.

"I've often wondered," Briars mused, "whether the kid, Mark Henderson, his name was, found something at the end. That's a real danger, you know. You see something really important--you might be the first person to see a ship in centuries, if not millennia. In your excitement, you ignore the timer that says it's time to head for the surface. But if he did see something, I couldn't find that, either."

"Here they are," Hedi called. "Any news?" he said to the first diver up the ladder.

"No joy," a young woman said, pulling off her mask and shaking her tank free. She pulled her blond hair back into a twist, and grabbed a towel.

"Ah, well. Come over and meet Lara," Briars said. "Lara, these are a couple more members of the team: Sandy Groves," he said, gesturing toward the young woman, "and Gus Patterson."

"Hi," they said in unison.

"Nothing?" Briars asked.

"'Fraid not," Gus said. "We found the formation that showed up on the scanner before it got trashed, but it turned out to be nothing. A wooden boat, yes, but one that went down about a week and a half ago, by the look of it. Nice to meet you, Lara."

"What did I tell you? Another day of great hopes dashed," Briars said, with a shrug.

The engines throttled up and the ship moved on several hundred yards, the outboard bouncing along behind. "We've got time for one more dive," Hedi said, slowing down and anchoring in a new position. "In you go, you two. You know the drill. I want you back up here on deck in no more than twenty-five minutes." Ron and Khmais sat on the gunwales, and then rolled backward into the water. "Watch for them," Hedi said to the others.

"I have an idea for tomorrow, boss. To try to keep us going while we get the scanner fixed," Hedi said to Briars, as the other two kept watch.

"Let's hear it," Briars said.

"Why don't we use a tow rope? I think I could rig something up that would work. We can send three divers down instead of two, to about sixty feet, put them about twenty feet apart, and just tow them slowly through the zone we want covered. It's shallow enough in here that they could see the bottom, at least well enough to see if there's something we might want to take a closer look at. We could cover a lot more ground that way."

"Not bad," Briars said. "Let's see what you can come up with. Hedi's terrific," he added, after the young man had moved out of range. "Very careful, doesn't let the divers take any chances. Meticulous about the equipment. I was lucky to find him. He's Berber, you know, not Arab. His family still lives out in the desert, way south of here. In tents, if you can imagine. Can't think why you'd take up scuba diving when you've grown up in the desert, but what do I know? I didn't think I'd ever take it up either, and I grew up in California."

"Did you say Groves?" I asked. "Sandy Groves?"

"You noticed," he said. "Sandy is Peter's daughter. She turned up here a few months ago, and has been with us every since. A little family feud, I expect. I don't ask questions about it. She's a solid, experienced diver. Khmais is Zoubeeir's grandson, by the way. We've got the whole original gang represented in some form or another."

"You mentioned that you got some funding from a foundation. I'm surprised a foundation would put money into something so . . . speculative," I said. "Couldn't this be an elaborate hoax? A little joke on the part of Zoubeeir, to tease the students in his charge?"

"Sure it could. But Zoubeeir never struck me as that kind of person. He took a fair amount of razzing about it from everybody, but he stuck with his story. I'm not convinced myself about the statue, by the way. It would be covered with centuries of silt, if it existed at all. But I'd be very happy to find the ship even without it. But I see you remain unconvinced. You really should meet my ex-wife. I'm sure the two of you would get along," he said with a smile. "Come, I'll see what I can dig up in the mess. You sit," he said, positioning a chair outside the entrance to the wheelhouse. "And I'll look.

"Okay, it must be here somewhere. One reason to believe Zoubeeir is that the old man was very specific about what he saw. He described it in some detail: how he'd found the amphorae--which are unquestionably one of the things that indicate the presence of a wreck. He said there was a mound in the middle of the amphorae, and he'd cleared the silt off it over the course of several dives, until he realized that what he had was a golden god. He was frightened by this, and stopped working on the wreck, for fear of angering the god. But he, too, was obsessed by it. He sketched it over and over, from memory, and his daughter had kept drawings: We've got the sketches, which I'd show you if I could find them in here, of both the amphorae and the statue. Here they are!" he exclaimed triumphantly. "A copy of the old man's drawings. What do you think?"

I looked at rather crude but surprisingly powerful sketches. They showed the outline of what I suppose were the tops and sides of several large jars. The dominant feature, though, was a man's, or, I suppose, a god's, head, in an elongated cone-shaped headdress. He was buried from about mid-chest, so that all you could see was the head, and part of one arm. He did, in a way, look as if he were guarding the amphorae, the right arm raised as if to ward off any attacker.

"I agree with you that these are interesting drawings, and I'll take your word for it that Zoubeeir was sincere, but how do we get to a two-thousand-year-old ship from this?"

"Good question. Do you know what I mean by transport amphorae? They are clay vessels, and can be very large, maybe four or five feet high, cylindrical in shape. They were used much the way we would use shipping containers now. They were used to carry olives, olive oil, wine, that kind of thing, and even glass beads and small objects like that. The merchant seamen stacked them on their sides with the handle of one at right angles to the handle of the one above or below it. That locked them in place so they wouldn't roll about and destabilize the ship. A large merchant ship would have hundreds and hundreds of these onboard. Now, does the term Dressel amphora form mean anything to you?"

I shook my head. "I'm afraid not," I said.

"Well, there's no particular reason it should. Heinrich Dressel was a nineteenth-century German scholar who developed a way for us to date amphorae based on their design--whether they were long and thin or round and more squat, what the tops looked like, the shape of the handles, and so on. He published a chart with Mediterranean amphorae listed in chronological order. All of them are numbered. So Dressel 1 forms, for example, were manufactured in Italy and used from the middle of the second century B.C.E. to the beginning of the first, often to hold Italian wine. A lot of them show up in wrecks in the French part of the Mediterranean. The Dressel forms are a wonderful tool for dating wrecks, because amphorae were used all through antiquity in shipping; they tend to hold up well over time on the bottom, unlike wood, for example; and they are relatively easy to spot."

"You're going to tell me these amphorae in Zoubeeir's drawings date the wreck to that time period, aren't you?"

"I am," he replied. "They do. If we believe the legends, Carthage was founded in 814 B.C.E. The archaeological evidence doesn't go back quite that far, but it's close enough to lend some credence to the myth. The city fell to the Romans in the spring of 146 B.C.E. The wife of the city's leader threw herself into the flames rather than be taken by the Romans."

"I hope you're not going to tell Chastity that story again," I said. "She seems to be rather impressionable, especially on the subject of romantic notions about death by fire, or maybe it's dying for love. But anyway, you're saying the amphorae date to within that time period."

"Yes, they do. We can date them a little more closely than that. Something like the fourth century B.C.E., in fact. There are a couple of other clues as well. See here," he said placing a photograph in front of me. "It's a wine jug, terra cotta. Zoubeeir brought it up from the site. He brought up a few objects, I think, before he found the god and stopped looting the wreck. It's a beauty, isn't it? Not perfect. You can see there's a piece out of the rim. But this jar--you see it's shaped a little like a horse laden with amphorae--would probably date to the third and fourth centuries B.C.E. Given that it is associated with the ship, and not just something dropped at another time, it would help to date the ship."

"It looks very interesting," I said. "Where is it now?"

"Gone. Vanished. Zoubeeir's daughter had it, but it went missing shortly after Peter and I saw it. I figure Peter stole it, but that may be because I can't think of a positive thing to say about the man. Luckily I photographed it when I was there."

"Okay, but there were a lot of nations shipping cargo all over the Mediterranean at that time. Why couldn't this ship you're looking for be Greek or Roman, for example? Have I got the time period about right?"

"Yes. The amphorae, again, would say that this is more likely to be Carthaginian."

"And the statue?"

"Ah, the statue. Well, here it gets a little more complicated, and it's one of the reasons I try to view this all with some healthy skepticism. Assuming Zoubeeir really saw it, and as I've already mentioned, I personally am not sure about that part; I mean I know he believed it, but working at those depths does affect you sometimes. But, if we allow for a moment that he did see the statue, I think this would most likely be a much earlier artifact, older than the amphorae by maybe five or six hundred years. It looks to me to be a version of what we call a smiting god--the upraised right arm attests to that. Striking gods come out of an earlier Phoenician tradition, pre-Carthage. It could be Melqart, the city god of Tyre, or even a Baal, who much later, in a slightly different form, together with his consort Tanit, became the city god of Carthage."

"And this means what?"

"Who knows?" He shrugged. "A shipwreck can't be older than the latest thing in it. It could mean we have a shipwreck that dates to the fourth century B.C.E. which carried a cargo with a statue that was already old when the ship sailed, and I have no idea why that would be so; or, more likely, there are two or more wrecks here--they do tend to go down in the same general area--winds, currents, and so on. The debris scatters over a wide field, which also complicates the matter. Perhaps there's one from the fourth century B.C.E., another much earlier."

"I hear what you're saying, but I guess I just find it hard to believe that it would be possible to find ships that old."

"Older ships than that have been found. The Uluburun wreck that George Bass excavated off the coast of Turkey dated to the fourteenth century B.C.E., and recently Robert Ballard--you know, the fellow who found the Titanic--located a pair of Phoenician ships in very deep waters in the eastern Mediterranean. They were dated, using the amphorae again, at about 750 to 700 B.C.E. They were down really deep, fourteen to fifteen hundred feet or so, with no sunlight, and little sediment, so under those circumstances they might be in remarkably good condition. At the depths we're talking about around here, most of the wood would be gone, but ceramic lasts a very long time, virtually forever, and some of the metal, depending on its composition, too. Sometimes, though, even at these depths, parts of the hull have been protected by the cargo on top of it, and so you can find some wood."

"So is Peter still looking for it, too?"

"He is. He calls his outfit Star Salvage and Diving, out of California. They've got a ship in the area, the Piranha. Sorry," he smiled ruefully, "a little slip of the tongue there. The ship's called the Susannah. They showed up here this spring after not having been here at all last season. I heard Peter was on the verge of bankruptcy, but he seems to have recovered quite nicely. Got all the latest equipment, satellite stuff, underwater robots, deep-water tracking equipment, you name it. He must have spent last year raising a lot of money. Makes us look like the Clampetts. Am I ranting, do you think?"

"Maybe just a little," I said.

"Thank you." He laughed. "I hate to think what will happen if they find it first. I know Peter, remember. They'll strip the ship of everything they think is valuable, and destroy the rest. This would be such an important find. You need to understand that. But not if they find it first. There won't be a scrap left when they're done with it."

"But surely they can't do that with a ship that old! There must be a law of some kind that deals with shipwrecks like this."

"Yes, they can, and there is. It's called the Law of Finds. You find it, you get to keep it. It's that simple. Admiralty law would tend to support you, and anyway, when it comes right down to it, who is going to stop you? It's happening all over the world. These companies are only interested in profit, not scholarship. Sometimes, after they've stripped everything they consider of value from a vessel, they raise it, just to prove they can do it, or maybe because they think there's profit in it. Not with one this old, maybe. There wouldn't be much left. But with relatively recent ships--you know, War of 1812 in the Great Lakes, Spanish Armada, that kind of thing. Turn them into tourist attractions for a while, put them outside a seafood restaurant or something. Then, they're gone. These old ships just disintegrate when they're brought up, unless they are stabilized and cared for, and it costs a fortune to look after them, which these people are not often interested in spending. They've moved on somewhere else by then. Maybe ten years after the ships have been raised, they cart them away to the dump. They could almost vacuum them up, really. They're virtually dust. It's a crime. There are lots of organizations and countries that have tried to stop companies like Star Salvage, but it's really hard to do. So I intend to find this ship before they do," he said grimly. "Sorry," he added after a moment. "This is a sore point with me, as you may have guessed."

I looked out over the water. "As you say, there's a lot of water around here," I said. "Kind of a long shot, isn't it? And what's to stop somebody else coming along and looking for it, too, someone else who heard Zoubeeir talking about it? Another of these sponge divers, or whatever."

"It is a long shot," he agreed. "And as for someone else, a third party looking for it, you've touched a nerve there. While no one has announced a big find, there have been a few items coming on the market in the past year that make me wonder whether someone else has found something. Local divers are always on the lookout. As I said, that's how a lot of the wrecks are found. There were a couple of pieces of gold jewelry for sale in Brussels last year that date to that time period: authenticated and all. And a month or two ago, some terra-cotta pieces showed up in Tunis. It's not an avalanche yet, just a trickle, but yes, I do get a little agitated about it from time to time. On the other hand"--he smiled--"it's a helluva good way to spend an afternoon, don't you think?"

"It is," I agreed. "Incidentally, if you're thinking that hearing all about the ship, fascinating though the subject might be, will make me forget my question about Rick Reynolds, you're wrong. What were you two arguing about?"

"Nothing, really," he said, looking out across the water. "We just didn't get along. I thought he was a boring young twerp. He was trying to talk me into investing with his firm. I told him to get lost. I don't have any money to invest, but even if I did, he'd never see it. Now that he's dead, I feel bad we had words."

He's the second person who has lied to me today, I thought. Aziza was lying this morning, and Briars is lying now. He was right about one thing, though. It was nice sitting there, with the sun and the water and the gentle motion of the boat--and the story I had just heard was compelling. I could almost forget for a moment or two the problems that awaited me back at the auberge, and what I had learned from Rob. I could even make the mistake of overlooking the fact that Briars was someone I needed to be very, very careful about.

"It won't happen again, I can assure you," Briars had said to me when I'd first tried to talk to him about his angry conversation with Rick. Maybe he knew only too well at that moment that it could not possibly happen again.

6

B AALHANNO STOOD IN the shade of the rigging and looked about him, a respite from the backbreaking labor. It was always a good idea to keep a sharp lookout, working or not, always interesting things to observe. And hadn't there been some curious goings-on during this voyage? Infinitely more diverting than most. His fellow crew members might regard this as an ordinary journey. He, Baalhanno, did not.

There was Abdelmelqart's demise, surely at the hand of someone onboard. The captain, he was reasonably certain, was of the same mind. He'd seen the way Hasdrubal had examined Abdelmelqart's body, the wound, and the angle of the fall. No doubt Hasdrubal had reached the same conclusion he had: that it was not possible for Abdelmelqart to have hit his head and landed faceup, with a wound on the back of his head. That meant the body had been moved, rolled over, after the accident, or Abdelmelqart had been helped on his way.

Then there was the stranger and the special cargo, the cedar box and its mysterious contents. He'd watched the stranger carefully as the ship's cargo had been loaded, and curiosity piqued, had followed him through the dark streets of Qart Hadasht to the luxurious home of one of the city's elite. Now that kind of wealth and power, he, Baalhanno, a metalworker's son, would like to enjoy. The house from the outside was impressive; he could only guess at the riches within. There would be a courtyard, of course, perhaps lined with columns and paved with tiny white marble tesserae, the sign of Tanit in the entranceway to guard the home. There'd be marble everywhere, he was certain, and many rooms, with a bathroom just for the family.

The power, he knew, would never be his. That rested with the great families, ruthless in their protection of their position, though quarrelsome amongst themselves. But wealth, perhaps that was within his grasp, if he played this situation right. Hadn't he always profited from being observant? There were always those prepared to pay for his silence.

Mago and the stranger were plotting together. He knew that from the way each one looked about carefully before signaling the other to a meeting place. And wasn't it the stranger who'd brought Mago to the captain to sign on as crew? Mago would not be the first choice for the captain, as he wasn't for others. Mago's reputation as a conniving rascal was well known about the port. So the stranger had a great deal of influence over Hasdrubal's decisions, which made this voyage all the more intriguing.

He'd watched Mago go down into the hold, had watched what he'd done, silently from above. It was strange behavior, to be sure. He'd have to think about what it meant. There were conclusions to be drawn from Mago's activities, interesting conclusions at that.

The question was, what to do with what he'd learned, where the most advantage lay. He could go to the captain and tell him what he'd seen, what he suspected. There'd be a coin or two or three for him in that. But surely there'd be more from the stranger. Someone with connections to the Council of the Hundred and Four would have more resources than the captain.

He'd wait awhile, see what more there was to see, build his case. And then, when the time was right, he'd make his move. He, Baalhanno, would be enjoying the fruits of his labor soon.

"W E ARE STANDING in a sacred and solemn place," Briars said, and the group became still. "We call this place the tophet, although that is not what it was called back then, and it is here we believe that Carthaginians may well have sacrificed hundreds, if not thousands, of their children, from babies up to about five years of age, to the fires of Baal Hammon in a practice we refer to as molk sacrifice." There was a kind of collective gasp.

"Now before we rush to condemn them," he said, looking right at Jimmy, who had already opened his mouth to say something derogatory, "there are a few things I would like to tell you about them. First, it may well be that the children were already dead--infant mortality was high--and this was a sacred cremation. Two thousand years later, it is impossible for us to say with any conviction, either way. Furthermore, many of the historical references were written centuries after the fact by Romans, enemies of the Carthaginians, who reveled in lurid stories of moonlit ceremonies in which children's throats were slit before they were placed in the arms of a statue of Baal Hammon, then tipped into the flames.

"Second, the Carthaginians were the descendants of the Phoenicians. According to legend, they came from the great Phoenician city of Tyre, which is in present-day Lebanon, and they brought with them many of the customs, traditions, and beliefs of that part of the world. The term tophet appears several times in the Bible, for example, and refers to a place where the practice of sacrificing a first-born occurred. Think of the story of Abraham and Isaac.

"Rituals involving fire were also important in this context. If you recall, I told you earlier about the legend surrounding the founding of the city of Carthage, or Qart Hadasht, when Elissa, sister of Pygmalion, the King of Tyre, fled the city after her husband was killed by her brother, and after wandering the Mediterranean, came to the shores of North Africa. Sometime after the city was founded, according to the story in 814 B.C.E., Hiarbas, a Libyan chieftain, demanded that Elissa, by then known as Elissa Dido, Dido meaning the wandering one, marry him or he would kill all her people. Rather than betray her dead husband, she threw herself into a fire. Several centuries later, in 146 B.C.E., the wife of the last leader of Carthage threw herself and her children into the flames rather than submit to Rome. All this is by way of saying that death by fire was an important ritual concept to the Carthaginians.

"Thirdly, molk sacrifice seems to have been practiced, in the later period at least, only in exceedingly difficult times; that is, it was not a regular part of their ritual observances. For example, one of the most dangerous times for Carthage was the period between 310 and 307 B.C.E., when they were locked in a bitter struggle with the Sicilian Agathocles, a ruler who was called the Tyrant of Syracuse, because of his ruthless treatment of the rulers he had deposed, and anyone who opposed him. Carthage had set up a blockade of Syracuse, but the wily Agathocles broke through it, and sailed straight for Carthage, landing on what is referred to as the Beautiful Promontory, what is probably Cap Bon, just across the Bay of Tunis from where we are standing. He arrived with sixty ships and fourteen thousand men. Because he did not have enough men to guard his ships, he burned them, and then started his march overland toward Carthage.

"The Carthaginians were stunned by this. They immediately sent an offering to the Temple of Melqart in their mother city, Tyre. But still Agathocles advanced, pillaging the rich farmlands outside the city, and taking town after town. He also persuaded a lot of Carthage's allies to desert them. A battle was fought not far from Carthage, and Agathocles was the victor.

"The result, however, was not definitive. While Agathocles had won the battle, he was not strong enough to storm the city walls. Inside, the Carthaginians tried to regroup. Being the merchant nation they were, they bought and sold everything, including armies. While they sailed their own ships, including their navy, on land they relied almost entirely on mercenary troops, and they needed time to raise a new army.

"Picture this situation: two implacable enemies staring at each other across the city walls. It is then that the Carthaginians turned again to the molk sacrifice. The leaders, generals, and many of the elite sacrificed their children, probably their firstborn. We're told it was considered a badge of honor that the mothers and fathers would stand there, dry-eyed, as their child was taken from them, and offered to the burning god.

"The Romans regarded the Carthaginians with disgust for a practice they considered barbaric, which it was. But for the Carthaginians this was a sacred ritual. They did not do this for entertainment or sport, nor is there any indication that the elite bought children to substitute for their own. Look at the rows of votive stones here, commemorating their little ones," he said, gesturing toward them. "Some show children with their mothers, others show priests taking the child for the sacred offering, still others depict the goddess Tanit, consort of Baal Hammon, and protectress of many Carthaginian homes. Giving up your firstborn to the fires of Baal Hammon was something you did to save your city from a terrible curse. I think we need to consider it in that context."

"But what happened to the city?" Susie asked.

"The Carthaginians were able to raise an army and send Agathocles packing back to Sicily," Briars said. "But it was only a temporary respite. Just a few decades later, they were locked in a doomed struggle with the mighty power of Rome. Now let's have a look around, and I'll point out more."

The group moved on, all, that is, except Chastity. She stood looking about her, then took a book of matches out of her bag and lit one. It burned as she watched her mother, now hanging on Emile's arm. With a little cry, she dropped the burning match and licked her fingers. The match sputtered and died in the sandy soil.

"That girl is disturbed," Jamila said that evening, taking the lid from a dish and inhaling the heavenly aroma. We were on the outdoor patio of Restaurant Les Oliviers, a lovely place at the edge of town, sharing a specialty called koucha, with fish, potatoes, lots of green olives, peppers, and onions in a spicy tomato sauce. I'd ducked my responsibilities of dinner with the gang to meet Jamila. Not that it wasn't legitimate. We were bringing the group to this same restaurant a day or two later, and we had arrangements to discuss. Still, it felt something akin to skipping classes or reading under the blankets with a flashlight long after I was supposed to be asleep. The restaurant was on four or five different levels, a series of outdoor terraces that cascaded down the side of the hill, with a terrific view of the harbor and the yachts and colorful fishing boats that shared the marina.

"She is. No wonder, though. Her mother is absolutely ignoring her."

"Marlene is spending time with Emile, I notice," Jamila said. "Or trying to, anyway."

"I don't know whether she's having much success there, but for sure Chastity is suffering because of it. I don't know what we can do about it."

"I think we both just have to spend as much time as we can with her. I don't like the idea of her lighting those matches. You don't think she had anything to do with that fire at the hotel, do you?"

"No," I said. "I don't. I talked to the policeman overseeing the investigation. The fire started in the mattress--they even found traces of the cigarette that had started it--and the fuel was simply lighter fluid. She may have spilled some. The smoke detector was disconnected. I think Kristi had herself to blame for that one."

We both enjoyed our food and wine for a while without speaking. "Isn't that a new ship in the harbor?" Jamila said, breaking the silence. "That big one, with all the lights. I wonder if it's someone's yacht. If so, I'd like to meet them."

"It does look nice," I said. "Maybe we could stow away on it. Leave the whole group behind."

"Tempting, I agree." She laughed.

"This restaurant is splendid, though," I said. "The food, the view, everything. I'm glad we did this, even if I shouldn't have."

"Me, too," Jamila said. "And we do have a reason for being here. We need to discuss the evening. I'm suggesting we make it a folkloric night. You know, belly dancers, snake charmers, that sort of thing."

"Yuk," I groaned.

"I know," she said. "But people like it. Have some more wine."

We talked for a while about how it would all work, and what it would cost, and finally got the details all nailed down. The owner joined us for a moment or two to close the deal.

"I guess this is not exactly your average tour, Jamila," I said. I'd been wondering how she felt about tourists dying every other day. "You're probably wondering what awful thing you did in a past life to deserve being the successful bidder on the land portion of this tour."

She shrugged. "Accidents happen," she said. "You've just been unlucky on this one. Both of these people were very careless, wouldn't you say? Diving like that, and if Kristi disconnected the smoke detector and then fell asleep, well, I'd have to agree with you that she brought it on herself."

I was tempted to tell her about my dream, and my conversation with Rob, both of which had convinced me that Rick's death was far from accidental. I held my tongue, though. I didn't know her well enough to confide in her, although I wished I did. It was strange being the group leader. I felt very responsible for everyone's welfare, but at the same time, I didn't feel I could be friends with any of them, except perhaps Emile, whom I'd known before.

"It's too bad about the publicity, though, for both of us," Jamila said. "We were hoping, and I'm sure you were, too, to have a good write-up in that American magazine."

"In that regard we may have been lucky, Jamila," I said. "I don't think Kristi was too keen on this tour, or this country."

"But she seemed very positive!" Jamila exclaimed. "I'm surprised."

"I was, too," I said. "But take my word for it. She thought the ruins were boring."

"Carthage? The tophet? How could she?" Jamila looked indignant at the criticism.

"Are you as surprised as I am that Aziza and Curtis haven't packed up and gone home now that's she's out of hospital?" I asked.

"Yes, I am," she said. "If I'd been the one pulled out of Kristi's room barely conscious, I'd have headed straight home as soon as they'd let me."

"Me, too, and I can't help thinking Aziza shares our feelings."

"It must be her husband who wants to stay," Jamila suggested. "What was she doing in that room anyway?"

"She was out for a stroll and noticed that the door was open, and went in to see if there was a problem, I guess. What do you hear from the rest of them?"

"Actually, other than the fact that people are dropping like flies, to use Curtis's expression, I think the tour is going quite well. People seem to be enjoying the sights, and everyone likes the hotel, despite what happened. Everyone has concluded that Rick and Kristi were . . . what's that Jimmy was always calling them?"

"Idiots," I said.

"Idiots," she agreed. "They seem to have almost forgotten all about it. They all seem very nice."

"Nice" wasn't the first word that now came to mind, although I didn't voice my disagreement. Before I could say anything, a loud burst of laughter caught our attention. I looked about for the source of the noise. The place was almost empty: It was just us; a bunch of giggling schoolgirls having soft drinks on the terrace above; a group of four businessmen, smoking the chicha on the terrace below; and, over at the far end of the main terrace where we were, a large group of what appeared to be Americans, about ten of them, enjoying a meal together. It was one of those occasions, apparently, that called for many toasts, and rounds of applause at regular intervals.

"Do you notice those people are all wearing the same blue shirts?" Jamila asked. "Do you think they're a sports team? The fellow sitting at the head of the table could be the coach, or something."

"Could be," I said. "I've got to go to the ladies. I'll have a look on the way by. Back in a minute."

One of the young women from the sports team table was brushing her long blond hair as I came in. We smiled at each other in the mirror.

"Hi," she said.

"Hi," I replied.

"American?" she asked.

"Canadian, actually, although I'm here with a group of Americans. How about you?"

"California," she replied. "I'm sort of here with a group as well. We're working in the area."

"I saw you on the terrace. Do the matching shirts have any significance? And that nice star logo on the pocket?"

"We're with an outfit called Star Salvage," she said. "I'm a diver. We're looking for an old shipwreck. I don't know if you can see the ship in the harbor, the big one, from where you're sitting, but that's ours."

"I did see it," I said. "It's lovely. I think I've heard of your company."

"Have you?" she said, looking pleased. "We've found some great shipwrecks in the Caribbean. There's one, the Margarita . . ."

"Oh, yes, of course," I said. "Wasn't there some dispute about who owned the treasure or some such thing?"

"Yes," she replied. "There certainly was. In the end Peter--that's the owner, he's here with us tonight, the older guy at the end of the table--got screwed, but he's trying again. We're going for gold this time."

"That must be very exciting," I said.

"Best job I ever had," she said. "I couldn't believe my good fortune when Peter took me on. Left the desk job, and I've never looked back. My name's Maggie, by the way."

"I'm Lara. Are you the only ones looking for this shipwreck?" I asked in what I hoped was an innocent voice.

"There's another small outfit, a bunch of archaeologists. One of them came down to Sousse a couple of days ago, and accused Peter of sabotaging his operation. Made quite a scene. He was kind of scary, actually. The guy's insane. Why would we bother? We'll find it first. We have all the latest scanning equipment, and if it's down deep, we have an ROV--a remote underwater vehicle, kind of a robot, that can go down for us. All they've got is side scan sonar, and a rather small boat."

"That's sounds just fascinating," I said. "So are you going to be searching in this area?"

"Yes," she replied. "We've been working south of here, out of Sousse, for the last several weeks, and we're gradually working our way north."

"I hope you enjoy the search." Tactful, that. I wasn't about to wish her success, given my association with Briars. "And it's been nice talking to you, Maggie," I said, heading into the cubicle as the young woman packed up her cosmetic bag.

"Same here," she said. "I hope we're not too noisy here, by the way. We usually sleep on the ship out at anchor, so we won't waste any time going out to where we're working during the day. But every now and then we come in to port--we still sleep on the ship, but we get to come ashore for a little RR--and we can get a little carried away."

"No problem," I assured her.

"Enjoy your stay," she said.

Well, that pretty much confirmed Briars's story, as unlikely as it might all sound. The overwhelming impression I had was that Briars was rather outclassed in terms of technology. "It's a crew from a marine salvage company, Jamila," was all I said back at the table.

"There you are," a familiar voice said. We looked up to see four heads peering down at us from the terrace above: Ben, Ed, Emile, and Chastity. The heads vanished and the foursome descended the stairs to our table.

"Thought you could sneak away, did you?" Ben said.

"You can run, but you can't hide," Ed said, and Chastity giggled.

"We were doing some planning for the next few days," I said, rather primly.

"Nice spot. Do you mind if we join you?" Emile asked as the other men moved a table over to ours. Chastity sat between Emile and me, and Ben and Ed took places next to Jamila.

"Dessert, coffee, ladies?" the waiter asked. "Gentlemen?" The waiter was looking very dashing with a sprig of jasmine blossoms behind one ear.

"Coffee for me," Jamila said.

"Me, too," I said.

"Me, three," Ed joined in. "What's that flower you have behind your ear?" he added.

"Jasmine," the waiter replied. "If a man wears it behind his right ear, then he is married. On the left, he is looking for a wife."

"So you're not married," Chastity said.

He smiled. "Let's just say most men in Tunisia wear the jasmine behind their left ear."

"Don't worry," Jamila said. "The feminist wave will sweep my country yet. But perhaps," she added, "not in our lifetime."

"Do you have baklava?" Ben said, referring to the sweet pastry drenched in honey and nuts.

"Of course," the waiter answered. "Three coffees and one baklava."

"You've already had baklava tonight," Ed scolded.

"I know," Ben replied. "I'm conducting a baklava taste test. At the end of the trip, I'll announce the winner."

"I'll have one, too," Chastity said.

"A brandy for me," Emile said.

"I'd like a brandy, too," Chastity said.

"No, you wouldn't," Ben told her.

"You're just like my mother," Chastity sulked. "Okay, I'll have some of that nice tea with nuts in it."

"Pine nut tea," the waiter said.

"Where is your mother?" I asked.

"Headache," she replied. "She's gone to bed. Can I have a cigarette, Emile?"

"No, you can't. I've been put in charge of Chastity," Ben said to me. I thought that might be a tall order. There was something different about Chastity. She'd pulled her hair back into a tight knot, and applied makeup, perhaps more than necessary for someone her age. She was wearing the same little black scoop-neck dress she'd worn the first evening, but she'd pushed the sleeves down past her shoulders to reveal a lot more creamy skin, and I was pretty sure she'd shortened the dress by several inches. She kept crossing and uncrossing her legs rather provocatively.

"We went shopping after dinner," Ed said. "Chastity found a necklace she liked. It was brutal bargaining for it," he added. "Thrust and parry. It took stamina, guts, and determination. For a while I feared defeat, but in the end, the dealer folded, and victory was ours." We all laughed.

"Let's see it," Jamila said, and Chastity carefully unwrapped a tissue package.

"That's lovely," I told her, and it was, a choker of silver beads, some round, some rectangular, interspaced with malachite stones. "Those silver beads are Berber design, Chastity. The one right in the center is supposed to bring you luck, and ward off evil."

"Bravo, Chastity," Ed said. "Excellent choice. Put it on, why don't you?"

"I'll help," I said, but Chastity had already turned to Emile.

"Will you help me, Emile?" she cooed. I looked over at Jamila, who raised her eyebrows. Chastity was growing up very fast, it seemed--something about the way she caressed the choker and her neck. Emile was very careful not to touch her as he put the necklace on, but she maneuvered it so that she brushed his hand. An embarrassed silence followed. CS--Lolita, I thought, just what Kristi wrote. How had I missed all this?

"So, Ben," I said brightly, in an effort to change the subject as quickly as possible. "How are you finding the trip? Is it meeting your expectations? Are you here to study, or just to relax?" My, I sounded perky.

"I'm enjoying myself immensely," he said, digging into the gooey dessert with gusto. "As for your question about study or rest, I guess it's a little of both. I teach classics as you know, and my personal area of study is the Punic Wars and the period leading up to them. You know what I mean by the Punic Wars, Chastity?"

She screwed up her face very prettily for a moment. "Hannibal, and those elephants in the Alps," she said finally.

"Right." He smiled. "The Punic Wars--there were three of them, from 264 and 146 B.C.E.--were between Rome and Carthage. Hannibal was a Carthaginian general."

"The Carthage we've seen?" Chastity asked.

"One and the same. The term Punic has various derivations, but it applies to the Carthaginians during this period of time. So, yes, the location is part of my area of interest, but I'm really here to have a good time. Of course, I'm always on the lookout for material for my book. It's to be my magnum opus, you see. I've been working on it for years."

"What's it about, Ben?" I asked.

"The working title is Past Imperfect."

"Past Imperfect," Jamila repeated. "Is it a history book or a grammar book?"

"I told you," Ed said.

"It's history. Ed is always telling me the title is a problem. But I like it, and until it's finished and a publisher tells me otherwise, Past Imperfect it is. One of the things I think people need to know about history is that it's written, by and large, by the victorious, and even more than that, by the dominant group within that victorious culture--usually the elite, and of course, usually men. For example, almost all the reports we have of the Punic Wars come from Rome. As usual, it's the victors who get to give their version of events, while the vanquished do not. There are really no Carthaginian accounts of the wars and the political situation that led up to them. My theory is that the wars were clearly started by Rome for their own internal political reasons, with little if any provocation on the part of the Carthaginians. Others, I might add, are more tolerant of the Romans than I am. But that, you see, is why I called it Past Imperfect, because our view of the events of history is skewed in this way."

"It's a great title," I said.

"Thanks. What I tried to do with the book was cast light upon some of the silent voices of history, the people we don't usually hear about or from, either because they lost some war, and the people who won got to write the account of it, or because they were simply regarded as unimportant and were therefore overlooked when the stories of their time were being told."

"Like women," Jamila interjected.

"Exactly," Ben agreed. "Women, the poor, or even whole nations who lost out in battle. The Carthaginians are an excellent example. The Romans by and large absolutely despised the Carthaginians. They'd make an exception for a few they admired, grudgingly, but essentially they described the Carthaginians as dirty, drunken, barbaric louts. There was a Roman expression, Punica fides, Punic faith. What do you think it meant? Treachery! Punic faith to the Romans was synonymous with treachery. They were particularly scathing on the subject of the child sacrifices in the tophet. So this is the view of the Carthaginians that has come down to us. The Romans won the war, wrote the history, and it is their side of the story we have. But you heard Briars on the subject of the tophet. It could be it didn't happen, or if it did, it was a sacred ceremony, not a game. The Romans, as we know, had peculiar ideas themselves about what constituted entertainment, and there is no indication the Carthaginians shared that. As for dirty, well, we saw the town of Kerkouane the other day."

"They had bathtubs," Chastity said. "We saw them."

"They did. Right in their homes, in addition to public baths. The archaeological evidence would indicate that they weren't nearly as dirty as the Romans said. As for barbaric, the Roman alphabet is based on the Phoenician one, and Carthage was a Phoenician city. Also, a Carthaginian by the name of Magon taught the Romans a great deal about the best agricultural practices. There are lots of examples one could give, but we rarely hear them."

"So are you trying to put some of these stories right?" Jamila asked.

"In a way, yes. I've been researching it for years . . ."

"Years and years," Ed interjected. "I keep telling him that at some point he just has to stop researching and writing, and start trying to find a publisher."

"Ed doesn't understand that the research is the best part of it. I'm trying to find old writings or even ancient works of art that depicted common people rather than the kings and queens or gods and goddesses of ancient times. I uncovered a number of examples, just really interesting stories about common people who did something extraordinary, to refute some of the misconceptions we have of the past, and give a voice to the many people who have been silent."

Group intellectual, I thought.

"This is a rather long-winded answer to your question, isn't it?" Ben said. "Dum loquor, hora fugit. While I'm talking, time flies." A good thing, too, from my perspective. Chastity had, for the moment, stopped her vamping.

"What language is that?" Chastity asked.

"Latin, of course. I teach classics. Would you prefer Greek? What about you, Emile?" Ben said. "Didn't you say you'd been born here but hadn't been back for years? Has it changed much?"

"It's changed a lot in many ways, but in others, it's very much the same," Emile replied, signaling the waiter for another brandy, and lighting a cigarette. "The countryside is as beautiful as I remember it: the sea, and then the mountains and the desert. Such contrasts in a tiny country! I used to come to Taberda as a boy during the summer to visit friends of the family. All these homes were owned by the French in those days. Now, of course, it is wealthy Arabs who live here. I enjoyed a rather charmed life while I was here, I'm coming to realize. A lovely home in Tunis, private school, a week or two every summer here, and my father had a large estate out in the Sahel, south and west of Tunis. He had vineyards and orchards. Pity, what happened."

"What was that?" Chastity asked.

Emile paused for a moment as another cheer went up from the Star Salvage team. The man I took to be Peter Groves stood up and raised his glass. He was a stocky man, but fit, about five foot ten, and maybe fifty years of age. "Here's not just to finding the treasure first," he said, a little unsteadily, the result of a few too many toasts. "But here's also to crushing the competition! Let's never forget they are the enemy, and we're not just going to beat them to it, we're going to blow them away." The group cheered again, and several banged their beer glasses on the table.

I had a sense of someone above us, and looked up. Standing on the terrace above was Briars, his face flushed with anger, his fists clenched. For a moment he stood there, staring toward the group, and then he stepped back from the wall and disappeared. I looked behind, half expecting to see him come down the steps to start a fight, but he didn't. I had no doubt, though, that this was going to be trouble.

"The Arab population started to agitate for independence from France, and the early 1950's were bloody," Emile continued, oblivious to the little drama that was playing out around him. "The country was formally granted independence in 1956, but the bloodshed did not end there. A lot of our fellow countrymen left for France during those years. But my father stayed on. He firmly believed it would all blow over. Then in 1961 there were riots again, and shortly after, my father's name appeared on a death list. We packed up and left the country overnight with only what we could carry. We lost everything. While some of the French who left earlier had managed to sell their properties, albeit at distressed prices, my father just had to walk away.

"It was very hard after that. The French government did negotiate with the Tunisian president, Habib Bourguiba, for some restitution for the lost farms, but it was too late for my father. He had trouble getting a job back in France. We had to live with some distant relatives who were none too pleased to have us. My mother died a few months after we returned. Ostensibly she died of a stroke. I thought she died of a broken heart. I had to drop out of school--I wanted to be a doctor--to find work to support the family. I have a younger brother and sister.

"I vowed I'd never come back, but I'll admit curiosity got the better of me when I saw your ad, Lara. I left booking the trip right up until the last minute, unable to make up my mind. But I finally called, there was a spot for me, and so here I am," he said. "It's stirred up a lot of memories, but not all of them are bad."

"Oh, Emile!" Chastity exclaimed. "That is so--"

"Tragic?" Ed interjected.

"Sad, very sad," Chastity said. She reached out and placed her hand on Emile's thigh. He looked startled, but not entirely displeased.

"Time to go back to the hotel," Ben said, his baklava not yet gone.

I couldn't have agreed more. I signaled the waiter for our bill.

"I'm heading home," Jamila said. "See you tomorrow."

We walked back together in silence, each of us deep in our own thoughts. I for one, had a lot of thinking to do. The tour was beginning to feel rather surreal to me, a regular little hive of intrigue when I'd thought everybody came for sun, sights, and shopping: Curtis threatening Rick, Briars threatening Rick, Rick dying in the swimming pool, whether by accident or design. Then there was Aziza wandering around in the middle of the night, and just happening to go into a room that's about to go up in smoke taking its occupant with it, a room that belonged to a woman who was keeping a nasty list in which Aziza and her husband were featured prominently. Not to forget Briars, who was locked in a hugely competitive search for a 2000-year-old shipwreck that, according to someone named Zoubeeir, was to be found offshore lined up with a rock shaped like a camel, and who had just heard some rather inflammatory talk from his competitor. It was all just too much.

There were so many unanswered questions, it was hard to know where to begin. If Rick had been murdered--and both my dream and what Rob had told me convinced me it was murder, then who had done it? Curtis? What were those two men doing on that path late at night? And where had Curtis gone?

He hadn't come back up the path. The fastest way to the hotel, about a fifteen-minute walk, was back the way we all came. I went that way, Rick went that way, and so, presumably, did Kristi. Curtis didn't. Or at least not for some time. I'd waited for him for quite a while. Later the next day, I'd gone and checked where that path went. It ended at the road along the harbor. To get back to the hotel from there would require a very long walk along the harbor in either direction to the main road, and then back up that road to the hotel. It was not possible to climb straight up the cliff to the hotel, of that I was certain, even for an athlete like Curtis. The cliff actually curved back out near the top. You'd have to be a spider, or have rather elaborate climbing equipment, to manage it. The other possibility would be to get a taxi down on the harbor road. I didn't know if taxis regularly cruised along the harbor that late at night, but I doubted it. But there was a telephone, and it would certainly be possible to call for a taxi. If Curtis got one right away, he could have been back at the hotel in about ten minutes. He could have got there before I did, in fact. My ankle hurt and I wasn't moving very fast. But he could also have gone off somewhere else. Where and why, I had no idea. I supposed Aziza would know when Curtis got back, but I very much doubted she'd be saying.

Could it be Briars? He maintained that Rick was trying to get him to invest with his company, and that he found this offensive and told him to get lost. Certainly I would have objected strenuously if Rick had started a sales pitch with me, too, but somehow I didn't believe Briars on this one. There must be more to it than that. Rick told Briars not to threaten him. Why threaten someone just for being a pest?

Then there was the notebook, and the question as to whether or not it played a role in all of this. It was certainly nasty enough. What had happened to it? This really bothered me. What seemed to be such a brilliant idea at six o'clock that morning, tossing the book in the bushes, that is, looked rather more like poor judgment now. The thought of anyone else finding The List with its horrible insinuations was almost more than I could bear. I kept trying to picture Kristi standing by the pool that morning, enjoying the performance. I was certain I would have noticed if she'd been carrying the notebook with her then, even if I was in something of a state at the time. It could have been that the gardeners simply tossed it out, but I didn't think so.

It was also possible that someone just decided they could use a nice leather diary. If that was the case, I'd better hope they tossed all the pages without looking at them, or, at the very least that it was found by a stranger to whom The List would mean nothing.

Could it have been destroyed in the fire? Unlikely. The fire merely smoldered: Kristi died from smoke inhalation, not burning, and the hotel staff quickly extinguished what little fire there was. The diary might have got a little singed, but nothing more than that.

And it hadn't been among her things. I'd volunteered for the unpleasant task of packing up Kristi's belongings in the hope of finding it, without success.

I decided I would have to find two things: the notebook and a murder weapon. If Rick was hit on the head before he was dumped in the pool, as I believed he was, there had to be a weapon. You couldn't inflict that kind of damage on someone's head with your bare hands. It could be anything, a rock, tools used to clean the pool, even a chair. It was possible the murder weapon would have been disposed of in some way, but not if it were something that by its absence would bring attention to it or to the crime.

Perhaps if I could find both these objects, the rest of it would start to make sense.

7

"W E MUST HEAD for shelter," the captain said. "A cove, if not a harbor. The weather is worsening by the hour." The boy, he knew, was in the corner behind sacks of grain, no doubt listening to every word. He'd told him to hide when he heard the footsteps approaching.

"We must go on," the stranger said. "You know my mission."

"I have been told what your mission is, yes," Hasdrubal replied. "Regardless, we must find shelter."

"You would risk the future of Qart Hadasht!" the stranger exclaimed. "You are a traitor."

"I do not think the future of Qart Hadasht will be secured by the loss of my ship and the death of my men. If your mission is as you have stated it, safe arrival at our destination is paramount."

This man is becoming a nuisance, Hasdrubal thought, what with the advancing storm and a murder to be considered. Well, he'd deal with all of it, with the boy's help. Smart one, that boy. He'd been right about him. Not as young as he looked, either--a man not a boy. Now that he, Hasdrubal, was a grandfather, he noticed everyone seemed younger. Well, a voyage or two would harden the young man, assuming he survived this one. No matter what his age and experience, he knew who to suspect right away. The short-sword he'd found almost immediately, hidden amongst Mago's belongings.

The murder weapon, the captain had feared, would never be discovered, thrown overboard at the earliest opportunity. But the boy had found that, too, a silver ingot. Since it was too valuable to discard, and sure to be missed when inventory was taken at the end of the voyage, the killer had instead attempted to wipe it clean before setting it back in its place. The deed was done in haste, however, and there was a trace of what the captain was certain was blood, and a strand or two of matted dark hair. Clever of the boy to figure it out and wait to see who replaced it.

Unfortunate it was not more definitive, though. Too many men had come down to the cargo hold, and the boy, having only a peephole to look through, and worried about being caught, could not see which one of them had replaced the ingot. But he'd narrowed the list of suspects, that was for certain, from the twenty-odd crew members to only three: Mago, Safat, and Malchus. Funny how it was always those three who came to mind: Mago the crafty thief--and what the boy had been able to see of his actions through that tiny opening was strange to be sure--Safat, the unpleasant accomplice, and Malchus, the jealous lover. Still, just being down there didn't make them guilty of murder, any more than the theft of Abdelmelqart's belongings did. With the storm coming, the cargo would be checked and checked again to make sure it was securely fastened so that it wouldn't come loose in the bad weather and destabilize the ship. But one of them had done it, of that the captain was certain. And he had a reason to interrogate one of them. He would confront Mago about the sword and perhaps more when he was ready, but in the meantime he had the storm and the stranger to deal with.

Come to think of it, was there a fourth suspect in all this? This man who stood before him, the one the crew referred to as the stranger, but who he knew to be one Gisco, esteemed member of the Council of the Hundred and Four, and a man now on a diplomatic mission of vital importance to the future of Qart Hadasht? Hadn't the boy seen Mago and Gisco talking together, their heads bent toward each other so no one could hear? What was a man of Gisco's status doing conferring with someone like Mago?

Yes, he knew what his mission was. Hadn't Bomilcar, the great man himself, one of the two generals whose duty it was to defend the city against that scourge, Agathocles, come to his home in the old quarter of Qart Hadasht, to personally ask him to undertake this voyage? He'd recognized him the moment Bomilcar lowered the corner of the robe he'd held in front of his face. The future of the great city hung in the balance, Bomilcar had told him. They must raise an army from amongst the Libyans, persuade them to switch their allegiance back to Qart Hadasht. Well, the cargo was rich enough to help convince them, that much was certain. But to do this, it was necessary to get there, ship and cargo intact.

"I am in command of this ship," Hasdrubal said, rising from his seat. "And we will set a course for shelter now."

The stranger took a bag from his robe and threw it at Hasdrubal's feet. Coins, silver and gold, spilled from its mouth as it hit the floor. "There is no time. Keep going," the stranger said.

E MILE ST. LAURENT ducked his head to clear the awning in front of the little stall.

"Can I help you, monsieur?" the proprietor asked. "Are you looking for something in particular?"

Emile picked up a leather wallet, examined it closely, then set it down.

"Leather, monsieur? Shoes? Perhaps a handbag for your lovely ladies," he said, glancing at Chastity, Marlene, and me. The three of us were browsing.

"I might like to look at those," Emile said, pointing at something through the glass countertop.

"Roman glass? Very good."

"Not the glass," Emile said. "The case, there."

"Ah, the coins. You are interested in coins. I have some very fine ones."

"I'll take a look, please," Emile said. He took a small magnifying glass from his pocket, and for a few moments he studied the coins carefully.

"This one, perhaps," he said, picking the coin up by the edges. "How much for this one?"

"You have a good eye, monsieur," the proprietor said. "This is a Roman coin, very fine condition. It dates to around 200 B.C. I will give you a special price. Are you paying in dollars?"

"I can," Emile said. "How much?"

"Two hundred American dollars," the man said.

Emile laughed. "That is a special price indeed, my good man. The coin is not in very fine condition, only fine, and is reasonably common. While it may be the best coin you have here, it is not worth more than forty dollars, and that is what I am prepared to pay you."

"You may very well be right about the price and condition, monsieur. But price is also set by the market, and tourists are not all as discriminating as you are. I can do rather better than forty dollars, I can assure you. I will sell it to you for one hundred dollars."

"I'm afraid not," Emile said, turning to leave.

"Monsieur," the man called to Emile as he ducked back under the awning. Emile turned. "You obviously know coins," the man said. "Come back tomorrow. I may have something that will interest you."

"I might do that," Emile said. "If you're sure it will be worth my while."

"Tomorrow then," the man said. He rubbed his hands together and smiled.

"I'd say he picked the wrong man to try to deceive," I commented after we left the stall.

Emile smiled. "Yes, he did, and he wouldn't come down, even though he knew I was right. His argument was that people will pay the outrageous prices he asks, and I couldn't disagree with him. People who don't know anything about coins think a Roman coin is something special, and while some of them are, most are essentially worthless, from an economic point of view, anyway. Nice to have, perhaps, and possibly historically interesting, but that's all. Anyway, all the more power to him if he can get the prices he asks, I suppose. Now, who's for some ice cream?"

"I am," Chastity said.

"Me, too," Marlene said.

"Afraid not," I said. "I have to get back to the auberge. Have a good time. Catherine wants to talk to me about something, apparently."

"I REALLY DON'T want to complain," Catherine whispered. "But you know, this is becoming intolerable." We were talking outside the inn, in the garden.

"What is?" I asked as gently as I could. The woman looked close to tears.

"My belongings," she said. "My cosmetics, my clothes, everything."

"Catherine, I'm sorry, but you are going to have to be a little clearer, here. I don't know what you're talking about."

She blew her nose, and paused for a moment. "Someone is going through my things," she said. "I come back to the room after dinner, and my cosmetics have all been rearranged, and the clothes in the cupboard have been messed up. You'll have to talk to her."

"The housekeeper, you mean?" I said. "You think the staff is moving your belongings about? I'd be happy to speak to the management if that's the case."

"No," she said. "It happens before they've even come in to make up the rooms, or later, after the beds are turned down. We have breakfast at different times, you know. I get up early, and shower first. She's usually still in bed when I leave. And then she goes off jogging for a few minutes. I'm sure she's been in my suitcase. I know she's curious about everything, and she seems good-hearted, but she shouldn't handle my belongings."

"You think Susie is getting into your stuff?"

"Who else could it be? We share a room. Come, I want you to see something while Susie is out."

"Lara! Oh sorry, I didn't realize you were busy," Ed said, coming up to us. "Have either of you seen a croquet mallet? Betty and I are challenging Ben and Marlene to a match, but there are only three mallets."

"It must be around here somewhere," I said, looking about the grounds. "Have you looked in the garden shed?"

"Yes," he replied. "Do you think they might have an extra one at the desk?"

Catherine tugged at my sleeve. "Please," she said. "You must come in now while you-know-who is out."

"All right, Catherine," I said, trying to keep the exasperation out of my voice. "I'll find Mohammed and send him out to help you, Ed. Catherine needs my assistance right now. I'll come back and help you look, too, just as soon as I've taken care of Catherine's problem."

"Okay," he said amiably.

We climbed the stairs to the room Catherine and Susie shared. "Look!" she said, lifting the pillow on one of the beds, uncovering a very pretty blue nightgown. It was all tied in knots. "Now look here," she said, lifting the pillow on the other bed. A rather flamboyant nightshirt featuring a huge green frog, lay there, neatly folded. "It's always my belongings that are tampered with, not hers," Catherine sobbed. "The end of my lipstick got squashed. Then there was my shampoo. It was spilled all over my cosmetic bag. It made such a mess!"

"It's awful when that happens, isn't it," I said. "I've had the same problem. Either the top is substandard, or maybe I didn't quite tighten it."

"But you don't understand!" she said. "It wasn't in my cosmetic bag. It was on the shelf in the shower. She took it from there and emptied it into my cosmetic bag, then put the top on loosely and made it look as if it was an accident, that I'd done what you said, not tightening the top or something. But I know where I left it. Why is she doing this to me? Can you tell me that? I know we're different, but I thought she was a nice person, and we seemed to be getting along fine. I enjoyed her company. Is it because she's jealous I have more money? What is it?"

I stood there wondering if Catherine had an overly vivid imagination, when she exclaimed, walking over to her luggage and unzipping it, "I've tried to ignore it, take it as an attempt at humor, you know, like apple-pie beds at camp, but this is the limit. What is this supposed to mean?" she said, pointing at what lay inside her suitcase. We both stared at it for a moment or two, and then I leaned over and picked up the offending object. Some people might have thought it was just a croquet mallet. Somehow, I knew differently.

"Would you like a room of your own, Catherine?" I asked.

"Yes," she said tearfully. "I know I'll have to pay extra, but I can't take this anymore."

"Let's see what I can do," I told her. "You may not have to pay anything more."

"Thank you," she said. "I will if I have to. I just can't talk to her about it."

"Leave the mallet with me," I said.

A few minutes later I was down at the desk talking to Sylvie. "Oh dear," she said. "We may have a problem here. The room Mme. Ellingham was in is a mess. The contractor has promised to come this week now that the police have cleared the room, but no one could stay in it the way it is, and the room next to it, which was M. Reynolds', is still airing out because of the smell. It's still a little smoky, and I'm not sure Mme. Anderson would like it, particularly because of what happened to M. Reynolds. I just don't have another room," she said.

"Then, I think what we'll have to do is give Catherine my room," I said. "It's lovely. She'll like it."

"So what are you going to do?" Sylvie asked.

"Would there be another hotel nearby that you could contact for me?"

"I'll try," she said. "But it's the November seventh holiday weekend coming up. You know, to celebrate the day our current president, Ben Ali, took office. It's a school holiday, too. I think most places are full. Some of them have been calling here because they've overbooked, and we haven't been able to accommodate them.

"Let me have a look at Rick's room, then," I said. "If it's not too smoky, I'll stay there. After all, he didn't die in the room."

"True," she agreed. "And it has been airing out. Here, I'll give you the key. See how you feel about it, and if you don't like it, I'll phone around to the other hotels in the area for you."

Rick's room looked just fine, but as Sylvie had said, there was a slightly smoky and damp smell to it. It will have to do, I told myself.

"Ah, Emile," I said, as St. Laurent walked through the doorway. "I was hoping I'd see you. I need a favor."

"I hope I can help. What do you need?" he said.

"Could I possibly borrow that magnifying glass of yours?"

"Of course," he replied, pulling it out of his pocket. "Are you checking out an antiquity yourself, perhaps?"

"Not exactly," I said. "I'll bring this right back."

Back in my room, I took the shade off the lamp, and set the croquet mallet on the table. I turned it around very carefully, looking at it from every angle, then put the magnifying glass up to one corner. A tiny dark hair stuck to the surface, held there by what I decided was blood. I carefully placed the mallet in a large plastic bag. The murder weapon had been found.

I called Clive. "Clive," I said. "I think we should send everybody home."

"What are you talking about Lara?"

"I think Rick Reynolds was murdered. I--"

"Whatever would make you think that?" he interrupted.

"I had a dream, a nightmare, really, and then--"

"Lara! Do you realize how that sounds? I've heard of this kind of thing happening to women your age."

"Clive! Let me finish!" Women my age! "I talked to Rob Luczka, and he told me what happens to people's heads when they dive into a pool like that. Rick's injuries were not consistent with a dive. He had a blow to the back of his head."

"Maybe he dove in backwards, did a back flip or something."

"I don't think so. I think he was hit on the head, and I think I've found the murder weapon. Think about it, Clive: If we don't send them home, and something happens to one of the others, it will be on our heads."

"What do the police there say?"

"Well, nothing," I said reluctantly. "They still think Rick's death was an accident."

He was silent for a moment. "Lara, you're going to have to get a grip, here. I know this is hard on you, taking care of all these people, but this is lunacy. Think it through. We'll be bankrupt if we send everybody home. We've prepaid the airfare and the hotel, and there'll be a penalty for changing the flight, which we'll also have to pay. We'll probably be sued for breach of contract. How would we explain why we're calling the whole thing off, when, as far as the police are concerned, these deaths are entirely accidental? Tell them you had a bad dream? Do you know how this sounds?"

"You're right," I said. "We women of a certain age do get all worked up over nothing. I'd better get back to the group."

"B UT WHY IS Catherine moving to her own room?" Susie said later. "I thought we were getting along fine. I know we're different, and everything, but she's very nice, and . . . I don't know. I guess she doesn't like me."

"Susie," I said, "you didn't touch Catherine's belongings or anything, did you? Maybe try on her clothes, or use her cosmetics?" There didn't seem any way to be tactful about this.

"Certainly not," she replied indignantly. "I only used her sunblock when I misplaced mine. But I asked her first, and she said I could help myself. We're very careful to keep our belongings separate. Anyway," she said, "her clothes wouldn't fit me, would they?" That was true.

"I don't suppose you brought a croquet mallet to the room?" I asked her.

She looked perplexed. "Why would I want to do that?" she said.

"Did you notice anything about your own stuff, things that had been moved or that looked as if they'd been handled?"

"The housekeeping staff straighten my stuff up a little when they do the room," she said. "I'm kind of untidy. Is that what it is? She can't stand my mess?"

"I don't know what it is, Susie," I said. "Maybe Catherine is just one of those people who need to have their own room."

"Will I have to pay more now that I don't have a roomie?" Susie asked. "I haven't got a lot of money."

"Don't worry," I assured her. "There'll be no extra charge. We'll look after everything. I think you should just forget about this and enjoy the rest of the trip."

"I guess so," Susie said, but she looked very hurt.

S TILL NO SIGN of Kristi's notebook I did find Marlene's Swiss Army knife. It was wedged between where the tiles around the swimming pool ended and the garden began. That put Marlene in the pool area, but didn't make her a killer. Rick wasn't stabbed to death, after all.

I thought long and hard about where the notebook might be. It was a long shot, but something just twigged. I walked over to the bookcase in the lounge, and pulled the glass door open. There were dozens of volumes, some lovely old leather books, and double rows of popular paperbacks in several languages, many left behind, I suppose, by various guests.

I scanned the shelves, and then reached for the spine of a book. It was, indeed, Kristi's diary. I quickly flipped through it. The List was gone.

"A ND NOW, LADIES and gentlemen, it is my very great pleasure to present to you our folkloric evening at the Restaurant Les Oliviers," the master of ceremonies said. "My name is Tariq. Please sit back and enjoy the show. What we are going to hear first is something called the Malouf. It is a very ancient musical tradition dating back to ninth-century Spain," Tariq explained, "which combines both Middle Eastern music with Andalusian sound. It was brought to North Africa by Muslims and Jews fleeing Christian Spain during the twelfth to fifteenth centuries. Now we consider it our national music, and take great pride in it."

Our group had taken over the main terrace of the restaurant, the establishment having set up a temporary stage at one end. On the terrace above, several diners had moved over to the wall to take in the festivities. The lights went out for a moment, and then came on again to reveal a group of musicians dressed in red and gold who accompanied two singers, a man and a woman. The music began, performed on the Arab lute; the rabab, a two-stringed fiddle played with a bow; and a zither, along with two or three different drums. For many in our little group it was something of an acquired taste. I could tell. Still, it was exotic, and they seemed to be enjoying themselves. Aziza looked pale, but Curtis had convinced her to come along, and the music seemed to cheer her up.

The show took a different turn a few minutes later as the belly dancers appeared, and the pace picked up. Soon Tariq was calling for volunteers, and Betty, Susie, Chastity, and Ben were up on the stage being taught how to belly dance. Jimmy covered his eyes as Betty, all pink and excited, took her turn at wrapping herself in a veil and gyrating about.

"The things people will do when they're on vacation," Jimmy said. "And when they've had a couple of drinks," he added.

He might well have been talking specifically about Ben. There he was up on the stage trying to get his rather sizable belly to rotate, to everyone's amusement. He was a good sport, there was no question about that, a man of rather Olympian appetite who didn't much care what people thought of him. In many ways I found it rather refreshing.

Susie, too, seemed to have recovered her sunny disposition and got right into the swing of things. The red and blue veils she was given clashed spectacularly with her lime-green pant suit, and she just couldn't get the hang of it, but she was clearly having fun, and the group clapped and cheered her efforts.

The only one up there who was any good at it was Chastity. The girl who just a few days earlier had been knocking people flat with her backpack was becoming quite the little seductress. She was wearing a halter top and low-cut white jeans, and with a little maneuvering on her part, her belly button was much in evidence. At the end, the instructor presented her with the prize, a silk scarf, as Chastity blew kisses to the audience, specifically at Emile.

"For our next act," Tariq said, as Ben, Betty, Susie, and Chastity came back to their places to great cheers from the rest of the group, "we once again need a volunteer, a gentleman please."

"I'd like to try it," Cliff said, rising from his seat. "If Ben can do it, so can I."

"Don't be silly, Cliff," Nora said. "You know exertion is bad for you. Please sit down."

"Yes, Nora," he said meekly, sinking back into his chair.

I leaned over to Jamila. "I wonder what kind of heart condition he has. Don't they usually recommend exercise for people with heart problems? Moderate exercise, anyway? He was certainly active and strong when he and Ben broke down the door into Kristi's room, and you know, he looks good."

"I think so, too," Jamila said. "But I'm no doctor. She sure has him under her thumb, though, doesn't she? It makes you wonder where care-giving stops and intimidation begins."

There it was again. Kristi's list. Wasn't that exactly what Kristi had insinuated? That Nora was manipulating the older man? How I wished I had never seen that list.

"Someone else?" Tariq said.

"Emile," Chastity cooed. "Why don't you try it."

"Not me," he said, with a wave of his hand.

"Jimmy!" a couple of the others called out.

"Not on your life!" he exclaimed.

"Oh, all right, I'll do it," Ed said, mounting the steps to the stage. "What do I have to do?"

"You will assist the snake charmer," Tariq said.

"Whoa!" Ed exclaimed, as several of the women shrieked. "Just a minute here."

"Come, come," the emcee said. "It is perfectly safe, I assure you. You'll enjoy it."

Once again the lights went down, and then came up again to reveal the snake charmer, a round basket in front of him. As he began to play the flute, the fanned head of a cobra swayed up from the basket. Everyone gasped. Ed took a step or two back. "Whoa," he said again. "I hate snakes." The music played, the snake swayed, and Ed looked as if he'd rather be just about anywhere other than where he was.

After a few minutes of cobra swaying, the snake charmer let the snake go back down into the basket, and then brought out another one about five feet long. "Here," he said, draping the snake around Ed's neck. Ed grimaced as the group groaned in sympathy.

"What did I tell you?" Nora said to Cliff. "This would have been too much for you."

"You may touch the snake," Tariq said.

"Oh, thank you," Ed said, patting it gingerly. "Nice snake." The snake charmer then grabbed the waistband of Ed's khakis, and fed the snake down his pant leg. The expression on Ed's face was one of frozen disbelief as the snake wriggled out the bottom of his pants. The women shrieked and the men all looked away.

"A special prize for this gentleman," the emcee said as the snake was carried off stage. Everyone applauded wildly as Ed accepted an engraved brass tray. There was no question in my mind that he deserved it.

"Worst moment of my life," Ed was telling anyone who'd listen as we started to gather ourselves together to leave.

"Oh, look," Betty said, pointing toward the harbor. "That lovely ship. Do you think there's something wrong?"

We all turned to look at the ship I knew to be the Susannah, smoke billowing from the stern. There was a loud bang, and flames shot up. We watched helplessly as much of the ship was engulfed in an inferno.

"That should slow them down for a little while," Briars said.

8

T HIS WAS DEEPLY disturbing news, Hasdrubal thought, to say nothing of being damned inconvenient, what with the storm coming, and the ship already short one crew member. But the ship had been searched twice from bow to stern, and he'd even sent the boy, who was infinitely more observant than the rest of them, and who seemed to have found all the nooks and crannies there were to hide in, to have one last look. The inescapable conclusion was that Baalhanno was no longer on board.

He had been a strange one, that Baalhanno, with aspirations way above his station in life, and always an eye for the main chance. And the way he was always watching everybody: More than once Hasdrubal had heard complaints that Baalhanno was a spy; more than once he'd had to break up fights between Baalhanno and the object of his scrutiny. Not a terribly popular crew member, it had to be said. Nonetheless, the news was alarming.

He could certainly have fallen overboard. That happened often enough, regrettable though it might be. On the other hand, since Abdelmelqart had been murdered--there was no question in the captain's mind about that--then perhaps Baalhanno, an innocent if obnoxious man, had been helped over the side. But for now Hasdrubal must put all this aside. There was his ship to think of, and his men, and these were perilous times. Anything could happen.

I T TOOK A FEW hours to get the fire on board the Susannah under control. Fortunately, all but one crew member was ashore for dinner. For that one, however, Margaret Robinson, the outlook was poor; she was severely burned over much of her body. "I have a horrible feeling that Margaret might be the Maggie I met the night you and I were at the restaurant together," I said to Jamila. "She was lovely, and so excited about her job. What a dreadful thing to happen to her."

It got worse. Later the next day, the police tracked down Briars as we were touring the Roman ruins at Thuburbo Majus, and took him in for questioning. He came to see me at the auberge around ten o'clock that evening.

"Apparently there is evidence that the fire on the Susannah was deliberately set," he said, downing what I was afraid was to be the first of several Scotches. "The police know Groves and I are both looking for the same shipwreck. I suppose Groves told them. They certainly seem to be aware of my little tantrum down in Sousse, and are therefore considering the possibility, if not outright assuming, that the fire was my revenge. They haven't thrown me in jail, as you can see, but they've taken my passport."

"You should get in touch with the U.S. embassy in Tunis first thing tomorrow, Briars," I said. "I think you need to take this very seriously."

"I suppose you're right, and I am taking this seriously. That isn't why I'm here, though. First off, I want you to know that I didn't set that fire. I confess my first thought was that I'd have the field to myself for a little while, but I didn't do it, and I think it's terrible what happened to that young woman. My remark last night was callous, and totally inappropriate."

"You heard that little speech of Peter's at Les Oliviers."

"I did, and there is no question I was furious. Still am, in fact. I wanted to go down there and knock the jerk flat on his ass. But I am not a violent man, Lara, despite my temper. My idea of revenge is finding that ship before he does. I still intend to do that, and I've come to ask you for some help. We're really short-handed, and I'm wondering if you would consider helping us out tomorrow afternoon when we get back from the morning tour. Would you?"

"I'll think about it," I told him. "I'll let you know in the morning. In the meantime," I said, as Briars signaled for another drink, "if I were you, I'd get some sleep. I don't think a hangover is going to help you any."

"You're right," he said, canceling his drink order, and getting up to pay his bill. I, too, got up from my chair. "Lara," he said to me, "it's really important to me that you believe me, about the fire, I mean."

I looked at him for a moment, and then, without a word, turned and went up to my room. I didn't know what to say, because I couldn't decide whether I believed him or not.

"If you're interested," he called after me, "be at the pier at two o'clock."

The next day didn't get any better. That morning we were exploring an old Byzantine fort north of Taberda. The views of the coastline from the ramparts were magnificent, although one had to dodge chickens and cows to get there, the space having been taken over by an enterprising farmer and his family. Still, it was worth the visit. The place was not as well maintained as it could have been, and we kept cautioning everyone to watch their step. There was one stage that was something of a bottleneck on the way down, and the group was milling about when there was a cry. Catherine tumbled down the broken steps, and lay in a heap at the bottom.

Everyone rushed over to her. She was breathless, and had a rather nasty scrape on one knee. Her wrist, too, was already swelling.

"I'm all right," she said, as she was helped to her feet.

"I'll get the first-aid kit in the bus," Jamila said, rushing away.

"We were told often enough to watch our step," Jimmy said to Betty.

"Oh hush, Jimmy," Betty replied. "Don't be so critical of everybody and everything."

Jimmy looked nonplused. "First time his wife has stood up to him, do you think?" Aziza said quietly.

"Could be," I replied. "I hope Catherine is all right. She hasn't been having much fun lately, has she?"

"I was pushed," she said to me a few minutes later, after the others had moved on and Jamila had taken care of the scrape and taped her wrist. "I did not fall."

"Who do you think pushed you?" I asked. This is preposterous, I thought. The woman was paranoid.

"I don't know," she said. "There was a whole bunch of us there, and I didn't see who it was, but I was definitely pushed. Susie was there," she said accusingly. "I think it was her."

"Catherine maintains she was pushed," I said to Jamila, taking her aside.

"What?" she exclaimed. "Do you think that woman is completely sane? Maybe she's embarrassed to admit she's none too steady on her feet."

"I don't know. Did you happen to see her fall?"

"Not really. There were a whole bunch of them milling about on that small landing. I was talking to Cliff and Emile when it happened, so if Catherine's story is true, which I very much doubt, then it wasn't one of them. I think Chastity and Marlene had already gone down. Other than that, it could have been any one of them."

"What about Susie? Where was she?"

"I think she was in the pileup of people, but I couldn't say whether she was right next to Catherine or not."

"Catherine thinks Susie is behind all this, because she's envious of Catherine's money. There's no question Susie worries about money, but I don't think she's the jealous type, somehow."

"I don't think so, either," Jamila said. "Nor do I think she's capable of such a thing. She's a contented little soul. I found her annoying at first. All those personal questions! But now I think she's really sweet."

"Okay, but let's assume for a moment these stories of Catherine's are true. I agree it's a stretch, but let's do it anyway. Who has it in for her? Has she inadvertently offended someone in the group that badly?"

"Not that I know of. I haven't heard any talk to that effect. Very puzzling."

"Keep your eyes and ears open, Jamila," I said. "And let me know what you hear." There was something very wrong with this group of people, but I had no idea what.

For instance, I had to decide whether or not to accept Briars' story. Having had a night to sleep on it, I decided I did. He had a temper, but other than some rather heated language, I'd never seen any indication that he'd be capable of arson.

"I'm going back to that dealer who tried to rip me off yesterday," Emile said when we got back to the auberge. "Do you want to come with me?"

"I'm sure that would be very entertaining, Emile, but Briars asked me to come out and give him a hand on his boat this afternoon, and I think I'm going to do that. It's rather pleasant out on the water. Do you want to come along? I don't expect the work will be very onerous."

"No," he replied. "My curiosity has been piqued. I'm going to have to go and see if he really does have something, although everything I know tells me he doesn't."

"Okay, I'll see you at dinner, then." I changed into my bathing suit, pulled shorts and a T-shirt over it, and headed for the pier.

"I can't tell you how much this means to me that you're here," Briars said, giving me a big hug. "Whether you meant it or not, I'm taking your presence as a vote of confidence in me, a sign that you don't think I had anything to do with the fire on the Susannah. It makes me feel as if everything is going to be all right."

"You can safely assume I wouldn't be here if I thought you'd done it," I said, and he beamed. He was an attractive man, with an open face, a lovely smile, and a rather good physique. His beard felt very nice against my cheek. There's nothing like an attractive man who's prepared to admit to some vulnerability to turn me weak at the knees. I thought I was outgrowing this tendency. Apparently not.

"Let's go," he said, untying the outboard. "The others are already out there. This will be our first dive of the day. We had to do some provisioning of both the house and the boat this morning. We'll only get a couple of dives in this afternoon, but it will be better than nothing. Khmais has gone home for the November seventh holiday, and Gus has come down with a whopper of a cold, so we're even more short-handed than usual. It's terrific you've come along. You can keep watch while we're diving, and help Hedi with stuff on the deck." He gave my hand an extra little squeeze as he helped me down into the boat.

"Reinforcements," he called as we pulled up, and Hedi flashed a grin.

"Okay, Ron, are you and I first?"

"Fine with me. I'm ready to go," Ron told him. "Hello again," he said to me, reaching over to shake my hand. In his early twenties, with dark brown hair and eyes, he had a pleasant, easygoing manner, relaxed with people and confident in what he was doing. I liked him.

"I didn't know you were a diver, Briars," I said. "I thought you were just the archaeologist on this job."

"What do you mean just?" he said. "I'm a marine archaeologist, that's what I am. I dive, and I do archaeology. Check the pressure in the tanks one more time, will you, Hedi?" he said, stripping to his trunks and starting to pull on his wetsuit. He was in pretty good shape for a guy his age, I'd have to say.

"Three thousand psi, all tanks," Hedi said. "You're ready to go. I've calculated the time you can be down, and Sandy's double-checked it. Are the stage bottles in place?"

"Yup," Ron said.

"What are stage bottles?" I asked.

"Two full tanks with regulators are attached to our anchor line about twenty feet down," Ron said. "It's just in case we need more decompression time than we have air. We can switch to the new tanks at twenty feet and stay there for a while until it's safe to surface."

"Ron thought he saw something yesterday we should check out," Sandy explained to me. "You know our scanning equipment isn't working, so we've been towing the divers behind the boat to have a look. There's a drop-off of several feet here. We've anchored close to the edge. It has a bit of an overhang, so we couldn't see too clearly. Visibility here is good, about seventy to ninety feet, but the overhang blocked the view. So Briars and Ron are going to do some wall diving. They'll go down the face of the drop-off and see what there is to see."

"How far down are they going?" I asked.

"Maybe a hundred fifty feet, max," she said. "We think there might be a ledge at about that depth. Okay, ready to go? Timers set?" she called to the two men. Both nodded and went over the side.

"Okay, now we keep a lookout," Sandy said. I kept my eyes riveted on two tracks of bubbles. Several minutes went by. "They'll be getting down there by now," Sandy said, checking her watch. "Should be at about a hundred ten, a hundred twenty feet by now. They'll only be able to stay down for a few minutes, then they'll start back up, stopping at various depths to decompress."

I found myself feeling nervous for them. I'm a good swimmer, life-guarded summers as a high school student, but there was something about going that far down with a little tank of air strapped to your back that made me feel uncomfortable.

Suddenly I saw first Ron and then Briars surface.

"Trouble," Sandy yelled. "Get them," she said, grabbing at my arm. "I'll get Ron, you get Briars."

I was over the side, shoes, clothes, and all, almost without thinking, swimming as fast as I could for Briars. "Briars," I cried. "Say something!" But he didn't move. I slung my arm over his shoulder and across his chest and hauled him back to the boat as fast as I could. Hedi was already raising anchor and the engines were revving when Sandy and I reached the ladder. I tried to push Briars up on the deck, but he was too heavy, and it was all I could do to keep his head above water. Hedi rushed to help. It took a tremendous effort on everyone's part, Sandy and I pushing up from the water, and Hedi pulling as hard as he could from the boat, to get first Ron, then Briars, to the deck. "Briars is breathing," I gasped. "What'll I do?"

"Get him lying on his left side with his feet slightly higher than his head if you can," Hedi said. "We'll need to get him to a recompression chamber right away." Sandy helped me roll Briars into position.

"My God, my God," she kept saying, over and over. I turned to see Hedi doing CPR on Ron.

"We've got to get to shore," Hedi yelled. "Sandy, call for help. Lara, can you do CPR?"

"Yes," I said, kneeling beside Ron. "Get going."

One, two, three, four, five, I counted, pressing down on his chest. Now breathe, I told myself, pinching his nose and opening his mouth. Breathe, one, two. Again. One, two, three, four, five. Keep going, don't quit.

I checked his neck for a pulse. There wasn't one. Don't stop, I told myself again. Don't give up. And I didn't, as long as it took to get to shore, and the waiting medics. But I knew we were too late.

"I filled those tanks personally," Hedi said late that night at the hospital, his fists clenched tight. "I filled them last night so we'd be ready to go whenever Briars could get away."

"We don't know it was the tanks, Hedi," I said, soothingly.

"What else could it be if both of them got in trouble? And now Ron's dead! And Briars . . . What could have been wrong? I checked the pressure again this morning, and then one more time when Briars asked me to. Everything looked fine." He buried his head in his hands.

A doctor came over to us. "You may see Mr. Hatley now, but just for a few minutes."

"I can't talk to him," Hedi said. "This must be my fault. Please, you go."

Briars did not look good. He'd aged ten years in a few hours, and he no longer looked robust, just pale and ill. There didn't seem much point asking him how he felt, so I said nothing, just took his hand and held it.

He tried to smile. "Ron?" he said.

I shook my head, and he turned away from me. I squeezed his hand.

"What happened?" I asked at last.

"I don't know," he said. "Everything seemed to be going just fine. Then with no warning at all, at something over a hundred or a hundred twenty feet, I felt kind of strange: My mouth was tingling and there was a ringing in my ears. Then I could feel my face twitch. I looked over at Ron and realized he was in trouble, too. I signaled him to head for the surface. I nailed the power inflator for my buoyancy compensator to take me up fast, and that's all I remember. I must have blacked out almost immediately."

"Your tanks are being tested now," I said. "Hedi thinks it must have been his fault."

"I don't believe that," Briars said. "He is, if anything, overly cautious. He follows diving protocols to a fault. He checked the pressure in the tanks before we went in, and I know he filled the tanks personally from our own compressor."

"Maybe there was a bad mixture in the tanks? Some chemicals or something?"

"I don't know what that would be. We only use compressed air. We don't use nitrox or other mixtures because by and large we're working too deep for that. I just don't know what could have happened."

"Please, madame," the nurse said. "You should leave now."

Briars looked at me with red-rimmed eyes. "I'm going to have to call his family. I can't bring myself to do it. I can't do this again."

"Rest, Briars," I said. "We'll talk about this tomorrow."

"I'm almost certain it was an embolism that killed that young man," the doctor said. "We'll know for certain tomorrow."

"How could that happen?" I said to Hedi.

"Coming up too fast," Hedi replied.

"Then why didn't Briars have one? He's twenty-five years older than Ron."

"Doesn't matter. Briars probably lost consciousness right away. You're unlikely to have an embolism if you're unconscious. Maybe Ron stayed awake too long."

"Oxygen," the policeman, a man named Ahmed Ben Osman, said the next day. "Apparently that was the problem."

"I thought there was supposed to be oxygen in the tanks," I said, mystified.

"Quite so," Ben Osman said. "But not, apparently, in the quantity that was found. I'm not a diver, but according to an expert we called in, there was way too much oxygen, more than forty-five percent," he added, checking his notes.

"How much is there supposed to be?" I asked.

"About twenty-one percent," Hedi said. "Twenty-one percent oxygen, seventy-nine percent nitrogen."

"Quite so," Ben Osman repeated. "I am told--again, I am not the expert--that at the depths that Mr. Todd and Mr. Hatley were working, this much oxygen is as good as poison. Very little warning of a problem, either."

"So why was there too much oxygen in them?" I said.

"A very good question, Madame McClintoch, and one to which I would like the answer myself," Ben Osman said.

"I don't know how it would have happened. We could check the compressor . . ." Hedi said.

"We are doing that," the policeman said.

"I know that when I tested the mixture after I filled the tanks, everything was okay. That means that the problem occurred after that, overnight. I am really very careful about this, Lara," he said miserably. "I hope you believe me."

"I know you are, Hedi," I said. "Briars does, too. So let's talk about how someone else could have tampered with the tanks overnight. Is it possible to put too much oxygen in the tanks?"

"Sure. I suppose someone could have just let some of the compressed air out of the tanks, take them down to say, a thousand or twelve hundred psi, and then fill them up again with straight oxygen. The pressure would look okay when I tested it."

"Would that be hard to do? Put the oxygen into the tanks? I mean, I wouldn't know how to do it."

"I think it is fair to say most people wouldn't know how to do this," Ben Osman said, looking at Hedi.

"Not difficult, no," Hedi said. "You would need the right equipment, and you'd have to get it out to the boat. We leave the boat at anchor, and come in and out on the outboard. It's cheaper than paying the marina fees. But if you had the equipment, it would be easy enough to do."

"So the pressure would look the same, but the contents of the tanks would be different."

"That's right. And there'd be no odor or anything that would warn the divers there was a problem. You wouldn't even notice it until you got down pretty deep. It would have no effect in those proportions until you got down to maybe a hundred twenty feet."

"That's just about where Briars said he was when he realized he was in trouble."

"This is all very interesting," Ben Osman said. "I suppose it could have been an accident, someone making a very bad mistake, or, and personally I think this more likely, it could be the latest strike in a war between two parties looking for treasure. First, the boat belonging to one of these parties is damaged. The head of this particular expedition blames the other. Several people hear his threats. Then, two days ago, the ship belonging to the other party catches fire. Someone who has the misfortune of being on it, is seriously injured. Yesterday, the scuba tanks belonging to the first group in this dispute, are tampered with. One person is injured, another dies. An eye for an eye, perhaps, but rather upping the ante each time, if that is the correct expression, are we not? You may go now," he said. "We are finished here for the moment. Please send in the next person as you leave."

The next person, as it turned out, was a stocky man with graying hair, a paunch, and a ruddy complexion, in a blue shirt with a star logo. He'd been sitting with his head in his hands as we came out, but looked up at us. He had blood-shot eyes, and his hands were shaking. "You're next, Peter Groves," I said, pointing to the door.

9

W HY DID MEN take others' lives in this way, Hasdrubal wondered, not during the heat of battle, nor from a careless act, but in a cold and calculating manner? Greed, perhaps. No doubt many had died to enrich others, and Mago was not, he thought, above such covetousness, nor moreover, incapable of such a deed. And Safat. Never one to come up with an original idea, yet he could almost certainly be talked into such an undertaking. Love? Yes, perhaps as strong a motive, under certain circumstances, as greed. That would point to Malchus, but only, as far as he knew, where Abdelmelqart was concerned. For Baalhanno, he knew of nothing that would have incited such rage. What else? Revenge. Now there was an obsession that ate at the psyche. Was there someone on the ship who burned for retribution? But surely revenge was linked to the other two. When it came right down to it, were there impulses other than greed and love, in all their aspects, that were powerful enough to warp the human soul? How little he knew, really, about the people on his ship. He'd have to think very carefully, listen attentively to what people said, to see if he could find the viper in their midst. He'd talk to the boy again.

"D OES THIS MEET your expectations, monsieur?" the proprietor asked. "Small, I know, but gold. Pure gold."

Emile turned the coin over in his gloved hand and applied the magnifying glass to it once more.

"Not bad," he said. "I will pay you two thousand U.S. dollars for it."

"That is satisfactory. Would you like more than one of them?" the man said, smiling.

"Are there more?" Emile asked.

"Possibly," the man replied.

"And how many more might there possibly be?" Emile said.

"How many more do you want?" the man said, a sly expression crossing his face.

Emile slammed his fist down on the counter. "Answer the question!" he said.

The proprietor started to sweat. "Three, perhaps four."

"Where did you get them?"

The man hesitated for a moment, and licked his lips nervously.

"Where did you get them?" Emile said again. His voice was deadly quiet.

"I have my sources," the man said.

"I will pay you one thousand each for four of them, and only if you sell all that you have to me."

"But, monsieur," the man said. "You offered two thousand dollars. You must pay me two thousand dollars each."

"One thousand each," Emile repeated, and wrote something down on a piece of paper. "You can reach me at L'Auberge du Palmier," he said, handing the man the slip of paper. "I will only be here for a few more days."

"Monsieur," the proprietor said, looking pained. "I am not the expert in numismatics you are, of course. But I have books--" He gestured to a dog-eared row of catalogues behind him. "I know there are very, very few of these coins in existence. This coin is very rare, and worth more than one thousand dollars."

"Not anymore," Emile said. The man looked perplexed. "Think about it," Emile said softly.

"I hate being ripped off," he said to me as we left. "Particularly by amateurs."

"I gather, though, that this fellow is more interesting to you than the last one," I remarked.

"Somewhat," he said. "Now let's try to find those tables you need."

M Y EXPERIENCE OF group travel, limited though it may be, is that there comes a point in every tour where the members of the group begin to feel like old friends. Bonding, I think the psychologists would call it. Perhaps it's just from being so far from home and their real friends, or maybe it's the mutual attraction of like-minded people in a very different--and perhaps threatening, just because it's so different--part of the world. Whatever the reason, they begin to tell each other things about themselves that I am convinced they would never share with such relatively casual acquaintances at home. I could see it happening in my group. But troubled by my suspicions and traumatized by the dreadful happenings of the day before, I did not want to be close to any of them, and felt their confidences something to be endured rather than enjoyed. Indeed, by midafternoon of the day after the diving incident, I was rather uncharitably beginning to feel as if there were a flashing neon sign over my head, visible to everyone but me, that said The Doctor Is In."

First up for a little therapy was Cliff Fielding.

"Lara, I wonder if I might trouble you for a favor," he said, his voice barely rising above a whisper. "I'd appreciate your advice in finding a gift for my daughter. I don't like to ask Nora, you know, and of course, you're so knowledgable about what to buy here."

"I'd be glad to help," I said, setting aside the paperwork I was doing at a poolside table. "Are you thinking of something in particular?"

"No, but something special. Different. Something you couldn't get at home. It doesn't matter how much it costs."

"Okay, tell me about your daughter."

"Gerry's on her own now, divorced. No children. She's a dentist. Takes after her old man," he said proudly.

"Does she have hobbies?" I wasn't sure I could think of gifts with a dentist theme right off the top of my head.

"Oh, yes," Cliff said. "She loves the arts. She's very active in an amateur theater company. They do wonderful productions for kids. She helps paint the scenery, does the makeup, and even ushers in the kids for the performances."

"What does her home look like?"

"What do you mean?"

"Does she have traditional furniture or modern? Does she collect anything special?"

"I don't know what you'd call her furniture," he said. "Kind of a mixture. She has a leather-and-wood dining room set she got on a trip to Mexico. I know she loves that. She has some African carvings, and she likes those done by the Inuit in the Arctic, too. I'm not being very helpful, am I?"

"Sure you are. I have a couple of suggestions. First of all, most women like the silver jewelry here, particularly the kind with the Berber beads. If your daughter likes African and Inuit art, she'd probably like that. Chastity has a necklace. I don't know if you've seen it."

"Oh, yes, I could hardly miss it. She's been showing it off to everybody. She's rather, er, sophisticated, for her age, isn't she?"

I tried not to smile. Then I had the most wonderful idea, the one I'd been waiting for ever since I'd arrived. "My other suggestion, if you're serious about getting something really different, is a puppet. I don't mean the soldier puppets you see hanging in all the gift shops around here. Do you know the ones I mean? They're made of wood, faces painted, often with handlebar mustaches, and they have metal swords and boots, and shields. The ones displayed in the tourist shops are often rather crudely made. But if we could find one of the old puppets, the ones that were used in the French marionette theater here sixty, eighty years ago, that would be quite wonderful. They display beautifully, and they're really unusual. Not inexpensive, though." They would also be absolutely perfect, in my film star client's Rosedale home, exactly the kind of objet d'art that would really make the difference. Why hadn't I thought of it before? I could hardly wait to set off looking for them.

"Price doesn't matter," he said. "That sounds just perfect. It fits in with her love of theater perfectly. Do you think you could find one for me?"

"I'll try. I know a couple of dealers around here now, and I'll ask them. I think I might also get at least one or two for my shop. I'll find what I can, and you can have a look. If you see one you like, it's yours. And if not, I've already purchased some very attractive jewelry that can be our fallback."

"Would it be very big?" he said hesitantly.

"Heavy, you mean? Not very."

"No, big. A large parcel."

Good grief, I thought. Not only does he not want Nora to buy this gift for his daughter, he doesn't even want her to know he bought one. "Tell you what," I said, "if I can find a puppet you like, why don't I get it packed up and shipped with the others going to my shop. It should arrive there about a week after I get back. You can go and buy a nice card and write a note to your daughter, give me the note and her address, and when I get back, I'll courier it to her. I'll also gift wrap it if you'd like."

"You wouldn't mind?" he said, looking relieved.

"It would be my pleasure," I told him. He positively beamed, and had his wallet out in a flash, pressing money on me.

"It's okay, Cliff," I said. "Let's see what I can find, and if you like it, we'll settle up then."

"I'll pay for the courier, too, but can this be our little secret?" he asked.

"Certainly," I assured him. "Now you go and get a card. They have lovely ones with either photographs or sketches of Taberda. That might be nice. Give Gerry an idea where the gift came from."

"Thank you," he said. "I don't want you to think I'm sneaking about here, though. Nora is a wonderful woman. I don't know if you've heard this, but she looked after my wife, Annie, when she was dying of cancer. I don't know what we would have done without her. And then, when I had a heart attack after Annie died, she looked after me, too. I don't want to appear ungrateful. This trip, actually, is a little thank-you for everything she's done. She's always wanted to go to Tunisia. I figured that out from things she said, and arranged the trip as a little surprise for her. She's been wonderful. It's just that Nora and Gerry don't get along at all. They had words, you know, after Annie died. I'm not sure what it was all about, but they don't speak. I haven't seen Gerry in months, and don't get to talk to her as much as I'd like to. I'd like to send her something really special. I just don't want Nora to know about it, that's the plain truth. She has very definite ideas of what's good for me and what's not, and I'm sure she's right. I think she feels Gerry gets me upset, which sometimes she does."

"Don't worry, Cliff," I said. "This is between the two of us. We'll get something really nice for your daughter."

"It's just that sometimes I feel as if I'd like to be on my own," he went on. "Oh dear, there I go sounding ungrateful again. Thank you," he said again. "This is really wonderful."

"What's wonderful?" Nora Winslow said, unexpectedly coming upon us. Cliff stood for a moment, his mouth opening and closing.

"The view," I said, gesturing across the gardens to the town and the coast below it. "It seems particularly clear today, doesn't it? I was telling Cliff I thought I'd found the best place of all to enjoy it."

"I suppose so," Nora said, looking where I was pointing.

"Cliff was telling me you've always wanted to come to Tunisia," I said. "I hope you're seeing everything you would like to."

Nora looked at Cliff and then at me, with a rather startled expression, as if dismayed by the idea we'd been talking about her. "Yes, thank you," she said. "Now, Cliff, you should be resting. Come along."

"Yes, Nora," he said. "You're right as usual." I watched the two of them walk slowly away, Nora with her arm protectively on his. Cliff didn't look back, but Nora turned back to me, pausing for a moment to let Cliff move on ahead.

"It is very beautiful here, more than I thought," she said. "I wish I could enjoy it." I watched them walk away, wondering what sort of warped sense of duty made her stay by his side every moment, and what perverse sense of loyalty kept him with her. It was one of the saddest comments I'd heard so far.

Next up for a visit with the doctor, was Briars. I went to see him in hospital. He was sitting up, and the nurse assured me he'd be able to leave the next morning. That news, however, did not appear to cheer him up. He sat silently as I chattered away to him on whatever neutral subjects I could come up with, until I decided I should just leave him alone.

"Don't go, Lara, please," he said, when I announced my departure. "I know I'm not a brilliant conversationalist today, but I'm really glad to have your company. I'm just dreading having to call Ron's parents. I know I have to do it, but it makes me ill to think of it."

"Maybe you should leave it for a few days," I said. "I've talked to the embassy, and they've contacted Mr. and Mrs. Todd. His body is being shipped back home tomorrow morning."

"Are they coming over here?" he asked.

"I don't think so. I gather Ron's father has MS, and would have difficulty traveling. The U.S. embassy is helping the family look after the arrangements."

"I've had to do this before," Briars said. "When that young man Mark . . ."

"I know, Briars. You told me about it. You don't have to go over it again."

"I've been thinking about it a lot, today," he said. "I think maybe that was what ended my marriage. It didn't seem like it at the time. I flew home a few weeks later, called Mark's father, then went back to teaching. But a few months later, right about when I'd be going back to Tunisia for another summer of diving, were it not for the fact that Peter and I had fallen out, I went into a tailspin. I didn't attribute it to the previous summer until today. Stupid, I know, but it just never occurred to me until this moment that it was the terrible accident that caused it. I drank too much, was horrible to my wife and sons, quarreled with my colleagues and even the head of the department, which is a particularly dumb thing to do if you want to get ahead in academia. Finally Emily, that's my wife, told me to get out. My colleagues said I'd better take a break, or I'd probably be out of the university, too. This revelation has come as something of a shock. As you have no doubt already guessed, I'm not a terribly introspective kind of person."

"Sounds like the average man to me," I said, trying to lighten the conversation up a little.

He smiled ever so slightly. "I have a feeling you and Emily would get along."

"You've said that before. Maybe you should call her."

"She threw me out, remember."

"You don't seem to be drinking excessively, at least as far as I have seen, nor do you strike me as a difficult person anymore, if that was the problem."

"I've been trying to straighten myself out," he said. "But I think as far as my marriage is concerned, it's too late." He paused for a moment. "I have a question to ask you, and I'd really appreciate an honest answer. Do you think I'm turning into another Peter Groves? Have I become so obsessed with finding this miserable shipwreck that I'm risking young people's lives, ruining my marriage, destroying any chance I have at my job? Please tell me the truth."

"Briars, I don't know you very well, but I don't think so. After all, those tanks were deliberately tampered with, weren't they? It's Groves the police are talking to now. It wasn't a case of you sending Ron down under dangerous conditions. You went down with him. Is a shipwreck, no matter how old, worth the loss of a life? No, it isn't. But that's a different question entirely."

"Should I have known, after the fire on the Susannah, that something like this was inevitable?"

"I guess that depends on whether you think Peter Groves, in a vengeful mood, is the one who tampered with the tanks, and, if you'll forgive me for saying it, whether or not you set, or arranged to have set, the fire on Peter's ship, and in so doing escalated the conflict."

"I had nothing whatsoever to do with the fire on Peter's ship, although he no doubt thinks I did. As to whether or not he tampered with the tanks, I wouldn't have thought he'd do such a thing. He'd run the risk of killing his own daughter, wouldn't he? They may be estranged, but it's quite a different thing to do something that might get your child killed."

I had a horrible thought. "Did Sandy ask not to dive yesterday?"

"No. We drew lots. Why? Oh, I see what you're getting at. I have great faith in Sandy."

"Okay, just asking."

"To get back to your earlier question: I wouldn't have put Peter down for such a terrible act, but the truth of the matter is, I can't think of anybody else."

My next therapy patient was Marlene. "That daughter of mine!" she exclaimed. "She's just impossible. She won't do anything I tell her. The way she's carrying on! Lighting those matches and everything. It's been so hard since her father left. And she's pestering Emile all the time, follows him everywhere he goes. She's gone into town now to see what he's doing. I can't stop her. The poor man is getting quite embarrassed about it. I'm just trying to get my life straightened out."

Was it that Emile was embarrassed about it, or that Marlene didn't like the competition from her daughter?

"It's her father. Walking out on us like that. Men are all alike, don't you think? Bastards, just like her father. He takes up with a bimbo who is barely older than Chastity and whose IQ is roughly the same as my bra size. And you know what, Chastity blames me for it, can you believe it?"

"I think that happens a lot with mothers and teenage daughters," I said. "I'm sure she'll get over it." Actually I wasn't sure at all. I just didn't know what to say to this woman who was baring her soul to me. "Why don't you try talking to her about all of these things?"

"I can't," she said. "She won't talk to me. Maybe you could say something to her?" she said, brightening. "She thinks you're great."

"That's nice," I said. "But I think you and she need to talk, Marlene."

She sighed. "I'll try. Maybe we can talk about this again."

Who's next? I wondered.

"Lara," Sylvie said. "I have a matter of some delicacy to discuss with you. Do you mind coming into the office for just a minute?"

"I'll be happy to," I said. "Delicate discussions are something I feel I'm gaining more and more experience with by the hour." She looked perplexed for a moment, poured me a cup of tea, and after briefly discussing the weather, sidled into a rant about the hotel business.

"It's not an easy business, Lara," she said. "We aren't like the big hotels that can handle planeloads of German tourists coming in every week. We rely a lot on word of mouth. Also we're small, but we still require plenty of staff to maintain standards. Not having our best suite in use for a few weeks is a real problem for us. Sometimes I wonder why Chantal and I came back. We don't own the hotel anymore, just run it for Khelifa. He's good to us, of course, but at times like this I think of going back to France and starting over again. Paris is so beautiful, and the south of France has a Mediterranean climate. It's not North Africa, but . . ."

Was there something in the air, I wondered, that was making everybody around me so introspective, and worse than that, so talkative? All these people getting in touch with their inner selves and then feeling compelled to share their feelings with me! When times are bad, I confess I take the opposite approach. I throw myself into my work and try not to think or talk about these kinds of things at all. This undoubtedly makes me a shallow person, but sometimes I think that's preferable to all this slobbering about. "Is there something specific that's bothering you that I could help with, Sylvie?" I said finally.

She handed me a piece of paper, a rather long list of phone numbers and charges. "Mme. Ellingham's phone bill," she said. "I am wondering who will pay for it. You know long distance charges here are very high."

"I guess I'll cover it, Sylvie," I replied. "How much is it?"

"Well, if you are paying it, I wouldn't add the hotel surcharge, of course, but even then, at just our cost, it is considerable. A few hundred dollars, in fact."

"My word!" I said. "Did she talk and drink gin at the same time?"

"Not exactly," Sylvie said. "She usually telephoned in the afternoon when she got back from whatever excursion you were on. But as you can see, she made a lot of calls, and some rather long ones at that. Then she drank."

"Okay," I sighed. "Add it to my bill. Can I keep this list as a receipt? I may try and collect it somehow, from her estate or something. It will be easier for me to do it from home, than for you to try."

"Of course," she said. "Let me make a copy for our records here. And thank you for this, Lara. We really appreciate it."

"What about Rick Reynolds? His phone bill must have been pretty spectacular, too. We might as well settle up on that one, while we're at it."

"He didn't make any calls," Sylvie said.

"You're joking. He was always rushing back to his room to call his office to check on the stock market. At least that's what he told us--ad nauseum, I'm sure Ben would say if he were here."

"If he did, it wasn't on our telephone. There wasn't a single long distance call, nor a local one, for that matter."

This was perplexing. "Oh, but there was a call for you while you were out," Sylvie said. "I almost forgot. He said it was urgent. A M. Loo, loo . . ."

"Luczka," I said, pronouncing it Loochka. "Thanks. I'll give him a call." It was Rob's work number, I noticed, as I headed up to my room to phone.

"L ARA," ROB SAID. "I'm really glad to hear from you. Look, after you called the other day, I got to thinking about those questions you asked me. I made a couple of inquiries. This situation may be worse than you thought."

"That would hardly be possible," I muttered.

"I checked to see if an autopsy had been done back here on Rick Reynolds. It was, and the results are disturbing. He didn't dive into that pool, Lara. His injuries are not consistent with that kind of accident. I'd be expecting a broken neck in that case, as I told you when you called. His neck is fine. But there is evidence of bruising and swelling on the back of his head--in other words, he sustained a blow to the head. Now the blow wasn't enough to kill him, maybe, but if he was dumped into the pool unconscious, then he would drown. He did drown, by the way; there was a fair amount of water in his lungs."

"You're saying he was murdered," I said.

"Not necessarily, I suppose," he replied. "He could have fallen--you know how slippery those pool areas can be--and hit his head on something. The top of the ladder, maybe. He then could just have rolled into the pool and drowned. But he'd have to have given himself an awful whack on the head not to come to when he hit the water. I think there's enough here to warrant a second look. I'm trying to see if we can reopen this one."

"Thanks for letting me know," I said.

"Wait, that's not all," he said. "Based on the autopsy on Reynolds, I made a couple of calls to some law enforcement contacts I have in the U.S. Kristi Ellingham died of smoke inhalation, just as you said. However, she was just loaded with alcohol and sedatives, not enough to kill her either, but enough to knock her out cold. She could have ingested them willingly or accidentally, but given the other situation, I think we have to assume there's at least a small possibility that somebody else gave the stuff to her."

"You mean somebody saw to it she was out, and then set the fire?"

"I know it sounds far-fetched. Do you know her drinking habits?"

"I certainly do. Gin, lots of it."

"Well, then, maybe I'm overreacting. Ever see her take pills?"

"No, but that doesn't mean anything."

"I suppose the one thing I can say for certain, then, is that regardless of how the pills and alcohol got into her, she didn't stand a chance of waking up and getting out of there when the fire started. You be careful, Lara. I think you should just get on a plane and come home right now."

"I can't do that, Rob," I said. "I have responsibilities here. What would they say about McClintoch and Swain, if I just packed up and left? What would these people do?"

"Please be very careful, then," he said. "I'm going to see what I can do from here."

"Thanks, Rob," I said. "I will be careful. Goodbye."

"Lara," he said. "Don't hang up. About this other thing, the other morning when you called. Can we talk about it?"

"No," I said. "Goodbye, Rob." I'd had quite enough handwringing confessions for one day.

Later, now burdened more than ever by suspicion and implied threat, I tried very hard not to find myself alone with any one person during the cocktail and dinner hour. Alas, I was not entirely successful.

"It's started again," Catherine said, cornering me by the staircase. "Someone's been into my belongings, again. I want to go home. You have to help me get out of here."

"Okay, Catherine," I said, as a wave of irritation swept over me. "There's nothing I can do this late tonight. We'll talk about it again tomorrow morning, and if you still want to leave, I'll see what I can do." She sobbed, and then ran upstairs to her room. Following her, I heard the safety chain slide into place, and then a scraping sound as what I assumed was a large piece of furniture was moved against the door.

Realizing rather belatedly that the events of the last couple of days had thrown me into a vile and unkind mood, I, too, headed for my room just as soon as I could.

The trouble was, I couldn't sleep. The truth, when I'd calmed down enough to consider it, was that despite all my efforts that day to persuade myself otherwise, I was growing rather fond of my little band of travelers, foibles and all. The responsibility I felt for them, as the leader of the tour, had begun to weigh heavily on me. I had some serious agonizing to do after the conversation with Rob, on the subject of what to do about the rest of the tour. It had been all very well to carry on when there was nothing more substantial than a bad dream of mine to indicate we might have a problem. It was quite another to continue when Rob thought there was enough evidence to reopen the investigation into Rick's death and possibly even Kristi's as well. Should we just keep going, as if nothing had changed, or should I pack everybody up and send them home before somebody else got murdered, no matter what Clive thought?

I needn't have lost any sleep over any of it. In the end, the matter was out of my hands entirely.

10

"Y OU MUST TELL me once more exactly what you have seen, Carthalon," Hasdrubal said, "that we may reach some conclusions. You observe well, but that in itself is not enough. One must interpret what he sees. You are young, but you will learn. So you hid in the cargo hold, and then . . ."

"I saw Mago, Safat, and Malchus all come down into the hold."

"Together?"

"No. Malchus came first, but soon he was joined by the others. They talked of checking that the cargo was stable. The storm. All three left together. I was leaving my hiding place to check on the ingot, when I heard someone else coming. It was Mago, again. I don't like Mago."

"He is difficult to like," Hasdrubal said. "So both Malchus and Mago were down there alone. Go on. What did he do?"

"He checked the cargo one more time. He opened an amphora of coins, and a pithos which contained very beautiful gold jewelry. I thought he was going to steal the coins or the gold, but he didn't, at least I don't think he did. He held a beautiful necklace of gold and lapis lazuli up to the light from above the hold, but then he put it back in the pithos. The coins, too, he returned. I checked the seals on these containers, and they had been resealed. The silver ingot was back in its place, but I regret I did not know which one had left it."

"And how do you interpret what you saw, Carthalon?"

"Perhaps the seal on the amphora and the pithos was broken or defective, and he was repairing them so that they might come to no damage in the storm," Carthalon said doubtfully.

"That is one possible interpretation of what you have seen," Hasdrubal said. "But not, I think, the most likely."

"A H, MADAME MCCLINTOCH," Ahmed Ben Osman said, gesturing to a chair. "I thank you for taking the time to come and see me again." My visit to the police station was in no way voluntary, but I decided to regard it as a good sign that Ben Osman was being so polite about it. I set my carry-on bag to one side, and sat down.

"I have been asked by my superiors to have another look at the circumstances surrounding the death of Rick Reynolds. Apparently the Canadian authorities feel that the local police force was not as diligent, perhaps, as they should have been in investigating the death. You may know this already. The matter has now been referred to the National Guard, specifically to me.

"I have asked you here for two reasons. First of all, would you indulge me by recounting again the events leading up to your discovery of the body of Rick Reynolds?"

"Of course. Where should I start? That morning?"

"That will be satisfactory. Tell me all you did, whom you saw, and then exactly the disposition of the body when you found it. I will be taping this if you don't mind," he said. Not waiting for a reply, he pushed the Record button.

I told him about the people I'd seen in the lounge when I went out, about talking briefly to Briars and Hedi, meeting Aziza, then seeing Nora jogging, and talking to Susie. I left nothing out. Except, of course, my ill-considered toss of Kristi's notebook into the bushes. That would have required far too much of an explanation, and I couldn't see that it was relevant. At least that's what I told myself. He made no comment until I came to the part about finding the body.

"There was a kind of haze of blood in the water over his head," I said.

"And the wound? Did you see the wound?"

"I would say it was on the back of his head," I replied.

Ben Osman riffled through some papers on his desk. "That would be consistent with the autopsy findings, yes," he said.

"So I gather you don't get that kind of wound diving into the shallow end of the pool," I said.

"Apparently not. Mr. Reynolds died from drowning, but he also sustained a blow to the back of the head. He was hit with something, then most likely tossed into the pool. Unfortunately the whole pool area has been cleaned several times since, no doubt. Any evidence that might have been there will be long gone."

I reached for my carry-on bag, and started to open it.

"I trust you were searched before you came in," Ben Osman said.

"No," I said.

"No! Then I sincerely hope you don't have a weapon in there."

"Not in the way you're thinking," I said. "You are quite safe with me."

"There is a message here from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police attesting to your good character," Ben Osman said.

Rob did have his good points, even if he was a philandering cad. "So is it okay if I open this bag?"

"I suppose so," he sighed.

"There," I said, laying the croquet mallet out on his desk.

"What is this?" he said.

"A croquet mallet," I said. I felt a surge of relief now that I'd handed it over.

"Ah," he said. "A vestige of European colonialism. Do you want to play croquet?"

"No, I want you to analyze the little bit of blood and hair on it," I replied.

"Ah, I see," he said, peering at the mallet. "You touched this, several times, no doubt," he said severely.

"The handle, yes. Several of us did," I said. "I didn't see any point in worrying about fingerprints anymore."

"Are you going to tell me how you came upon this?" he asked.

"Yes, of course. I have to warn you it sounds improbable, but it is the truth." Then I told him about Catherine, the theft of her necklace and the complaints about someone messing about in her stuff, and how she'd showed me the mallet in her luggage. "She even says someone pushed her down a flight of stairs."

"This woman is quite, uh, well, is she?" Ben Osman said.

"She's very high-strung," I replied. "But have I seen any signs of rampant insanity? No. And her necklace was stolen, we know that. I was able to buy it back from a dealer in the Souk des Orfevres in Tunis."

"Do you have any suspects in mind for this theft?"

"I know who stole it," I replied. "It was Rick Reynolds."

"You blame a dead man? This might be difficult to prove, would it not?"

"Oh, I can prove it," I said. "I couldn't until this morning, but now I can. You see I'm in Rick's former room at the auberge. When Catherine wanted to have her own room, she got mine, and I moved into Rick's. The drawer in the bathroom, the one with the hair dryer in it, has been sticking. It doesn't open and close smoothly. I was in a rush this morning, so I gave it a real yank, and what do you know, out pops this piece of paper." I laid it in front of him. "It's a receipt. Rick signed here for the money in return for the necklace." There'd been something else with it, a note in Kristi's handwriting, suggesting that Rick and she needed to have a little chat. I wasn't going to mention that just yet. After all, Rick didn't kill her, because he was already dead. I couldn't help but wonder, however, how many of the others on her list had received a similar note.

"You can't prove this is for Mme. Anderson's necklace, can you? People do buy and sell lots of jewelry in the Souk des Orfevres."

"Maybe I can't prove it conclusively, but the circumstantial evidence is pretty convincing. First of all, I saw Rick leaving the store. That's why I went in there. The necklace was still sitting on the counter. Secondly," I said, placing another piece of paper in front of Ben Osman, "this is my receipt for buying the necklace. See, same store, same date--I'd say the same handwriting. The proprietor has even described the necklace in the same way."

"The price is quite different," he said, smiling. " Either M. Reynolds did not receive a good price for it, or you paid too much."

"I noticed that," I said. "Irritating, of course. Actually, I got the necklace for a reasonably good price. Rick was either a very poor bargainer, or he was desperate for money."

"So Mme. Anderson realizes Rick stole the necklace and hits him very hard, twice in fact, with a croquet mallet to punish him?"

"Unlikely," I said. "I certainly didn't tell her my suspicions, because that was all they were."

"You told other people?"

"No one," I said. "Except my business partner. But he's back home. Have you heard anything about Kristi Ellingham's autopsy?" While I was having a hard time thinking why anyone would want to murder Rick, I thought Kristi had been practically crying out for it, if anyone else knew about her list.

"No. Am I going to?"

"I don't know. Apparently she had a lot of alcohol and sedatives in her blood."

"You mean she tried to kill herself, or no, you're surmising that someone drugged her and then set fire to the mattress. Rather far-fetched, don't you think?"

"Probably."

"Now I have something else to discuss with you," he said, dismissing my ruminations. "What I require from you is assurance that neither you, nor any member of your party, will leave the country without my permission."

"Yes."

"Yes, what?" he said.

"Yes, I promise that neither I nor any of the members of the tour presently here will leave the country before the tour is over without telling you about it," I said, choosing my words very carefully.

"Why do I feel that your words are--what is the word I am looking for in English?--is it "˜elusive'?"

""˜Evasive' might be better," I said. "Or even "˜misleading.'"

"Now why would you wish to mislead me, Madame McClintoch?" he said, with a slight smile.

"I'm not trying to do that. I'm attempting to be absolutely accurate. In the first place, the tour ends in six days. I have absolutely no control over these people after that, if I have any control over them now. What would I say? The tour is over, but you can't leave, and by the way, you're on your own for your expenses after this? At the end of the tour, if you don't want them to leave, you're going to have to tell them, not me." We stared across the desk at each other for a few moments.

"You said in the first place. Is there a second place?" he asked, breaking the silence.

"There is a small problem. One of our party is gone. I think she has left for home already."

"And she is?" he said, checking the list again.

"Catherine Anderson."

"Not the one with the croquet mallet!" he exclaimed.

"I'm afraid so."

"Then where is she?" he said. "When did she leave?" He looked annoyed now.

"I don't really know. She checked out of the hotel very early this morning, paid her incidental charges, and asked them to call her a taxi. They tried to reach me, but I guess I was in the shower when they called, because I didn't hear the phone. By the time they got me, she was gone. She was very upset last night. She said that the problem with her clothes, you know, someone moving her belongings around and so on, had started again, even though we'd changed her room, and that she wanted my help to go home immediately. I was in a bad mood yesterday, and although I told her I'd help her today, I know I didn't sound sympathetic enough. She was genuinely frightened, I realized later. She was moving furniture to block her door. In any event, she seems to have taken matters into her own hands, and taken off."

"Did she leave a note for you or anything?"

"No."

"What do you think she would do?"

"Assuming she was serious about wanting to go home, I think she'd go straight to the airport. Either Monastir, to get a flight to Tunis or even somewhere in Europe, or by taxi right to the international airport in Tunis. I think she'd try and get on the first flight out of here that was going anywhere that would get her home. My guess would be, since she has a return ticket on Lufthansa via Frankfurt, that she would exchange that ticket, pay whatever penalty there is, and if there was a seat on the flight out early this afternoon, she'd be on it."

Ben Osman picked up the telephone, spoke rapidly in Arabic, then slammed the receiver down. "We'll see about that," he said.

I looked at my watch. "She may be on her way, by now."

"Then we'll have to get her back."

"I wouldn't worry about it," I said. "I don't think she killed anybody."

"That may or may not be the case, but she's the closest thing to a suspect we have. This is damned inconvenient," he said. "Let me make one thing very clear to you, madame. I will solve this case. The Ministry of Tourism has also expressed an interest in this matter. Needless to say, they do not wish this investigation to harm the tourism industry in this country in any way. Quite frankly, we would all prefer that M. Reynolds' death was an accident, due to his own negligence. However, I am determined that if he met his death as a result of foul play, then the perpetrator will be brought to justice. If that requires keeping your group here after the tour is over and antagonizing the Ministry of Tourism, then so be it."

"Who's going to pay for their expenses, hotel bills and everything in that case?"

"We are not," he said firmly. "You may go now."

"W HAT ARE YOU trying to tell me, Lara?" Clive bellowed.

"You don't have to shout, Clive. The line is quite clear. What I'm saying is that if the police don't find out who killed Rick Reynolds in six days, then our group is going to find itself under house arrest, so to speak. We won't be able to leave the country."

"This is a disaster!" he exclaimed. "Our worst nightmare. We'll be ruined. We'll be on every newscast. Everybody in the whole world will know about the catastrophe called the McClintoch and Swain tour."

"I thought you told me there's no such thing as bad publicity, Clive," I reminded him.

"That is unkind, Lara," he said.

"You're right. I'm sorry."

"Who'll pay their expenses if they have to stay longer?"

"The police have made it pretty clear they won't."

"This is even worse than I thought," he said. "A financial disaster as well."

"Yes," I said. "It may well be."

"Six days!" Clive repeated.

"I'm afraid so."

"Do something, Lara," he said, as he hung up the phone.

Do something, I muttered over and over to myself. Six days, I told myself: Think, and think fast. Irritating though Clive might be--and who could know better than I what self-reproach and regret lay beneath his peremptory tone?--I knew he was right. I had to do something. Nobody else would, or could. Focus, I said. That, I decided, meant putting Briars and the shipwreck and the terrible events associated with them, totally out of my mind. There was no reason that I could think of, other than that I rather liked Briars, to get myself involved in what appeared to be, whatever the truth of the matter, a fight to the death, literally, over a two-thousand-year-old shipwreck. Let the police seesaw back and forth between Briars and Groves, questioning each about what had happened to the other one's boat. I had McClintoch Swain to worry about.

For a minute or two I tried to convince myself that some outside menace was responsible for what had happened to Rick and possibly Kristi, but it didn't work. There were no other guests in the hotel; the staff had not shown any previous inclination to kill off the tourists, and I couldn't think of any reason why they'd start with my troop; and there was no question that at least one or two of our team members had been behaving in a manner that was peculiar at best.

Given that, after a period of reasonably quiet contemplation I reached one conclusion, which was that I perhaps had been a little too much the shopkeeper, of late. It's difficult to make a good living in the antiques business. You really have to work at it. I've moved mountains to deliver purchases where and when I said I would. I try to call as many of my customers as I can by name, and not only remember what they collect, but keep my eyes open on their behalf when I'm on buying trips or at auctions. Now that I find myself, much to my surprise, in my forties, and my memory does not seem to be quite as sharp as it used to be, I keep index cards on my customers' likes and dislikes. And most of all, I keep in mind the cardinal rule of customer service: The customer is always right. When someone returns a purchase that is damaged in some way, do I say something like "any idiot can see you dropped this and then backed your sport utility vehicle over it"? I do not, even when I personally inspected the object, and wrapped it, before it left the store. What I do say is that I want to make it right, either by repairing it, replacing it, or refunding their money.

As much as I wish the various plumbers, appliance salesmen, air-conditioning repair people, and others of that ilk I am forced to deal with, would espouse this philosophy when I am the customer, it seemed to me that this attitude had put me at something of a disadvantage in the situation in which I now found myself.

I was treating all of the people on the tour as customers of McClintoch Swain, which undoubtedly they were, but such deference was surely more than one of them deserved. All I had felt I needed to know before we left was that they could pay for the trip, and were of sufficiently good character to have a passport. I'd only known one of them, Emile, and him only casually, and with the exception of Aziza and Curtis, had never heard of the rest of the group. Unlike Susie, I'd been too polite to ask a lot of questions. Aziza had told some unconvincing story about wandering around in the middle of the night and just happening into Kristi's bedroom. I knew she was lying, but hadn't pressed her on it. While she was in hospital, that was understandable, but I'd never gone back to it.

With six days to go, I was going to have to be more aggressive, customers or not. I had a very good idea where to start, even though the thought of it made me queasy, as if I were about to throw myself headfirst into a vat of slime. I was desperate. I dug out the copy I'd made of Kristi's list. If anybody knew what was going on here, it was she, and any one of the items on her list might just have led to murder, Rick's or her own.

"A ZIZA," I SAID later. "How about a little walk around the grounds?"

"Certainly," she said, looking surprised.

"I just wanted to warn you that the police are reopening their investigation into Rick's death," I said, as we paused for a moment to enjoy the view.

"How so?" she asked.

"They think there's a possibility he was murdered," I said. "The autopsy results didn't support the notion of a careless dive into the pool."

"That's dreadful!" she exclaimed.

"Yes," I agreed. "There is also a possibility they'll take another look at Kristi's death."

She stopped abruptly and turned to look at me. "I was wondering if there's anything you'd like to tell me, Aziza," I prompted.

"No," she said. "I mean, what would I have to tell you?"

"What really happened that night you were in Kristi's room?"

"It was exactly as I told you," she said, but her hands were shaking.

"No, it wasn't," I said. "Look, Aziza. This is not going to go away."

"No," she whispered. "Let's sit down somewhere private. Promise me you will not tell the others, the media, anybody, what I'm going to tell you."

"I won't, Aziza, but I can't promise you the police won't ask you or me about it."

"I understand, but no one else." I nodded. "All right, then. First of all, I want you to know that Kristi Ellingham was a truly evil person. She was blackmailing me. I don't know how she did it, but she found out about some . . . indiscretions . . . when I was young, and just starting in modeling."

"And she sent you a note suggesting you and she needed to talk," I said.

"She did."

"And?"

"I suppose now that I've mentioned them, I'll have to tell you what these indiscretions were," she said, with a catch in her voice. "I signed a contract with a big international agency when I was only fifteen. They sent me to Europe. My parents thought everything was fine. I was supposed to be chaperoned, and I was to stay with other girls my age in a dorm of some sort. The agency supplied a chaperone, all right, or at least what they called a chaperone. Others, more interested in accuracy, would call this person a drug supplier and pimp.

"After six months, I was heavily into drugs, cocaine mostly, and I'd taken up with a string of truly unsuitable men. I think I was almost lost, but one day one of the other girls I was staying with OD'd and died. I cannot tell you how shocked I was by her death, but I owe her a lot. I ran away--they'd never have let me go--got myself home with some help from my parents, and into rehab, and eventually made my way back. I was really lucky not to end up in a body bag, I know.

"I have no idea how Kristi found out about this. I thought that part of my past was long gone and buried. But she did, and she was going to make me pay, big time. Half a million dollars, can you believe it? You know she gave me the impression that she'd been looking into my background for some time, and had actually signed up to cover the trip when she heard Curtis and I were going."

And here Clive thought it was his persuasiveness that got Kristi to Tunisia. Wouldn't he be disappointed? "Couldn't you just tell her to go ahead and print it? You're really successful, Aziza, and you could probably even turn the story to your advantage. You know, "˜model who overcomes a terrible addiction goes on to become huge success,' that sort of thing."

"First of all, I may be a successful model, but I am not wealthy. Curtis has, we have, made some very bad investments, and virtually lost everything in the past year or two. Curtis is a really terrible businessman, I have to admit it. He got into a fight with my manager, and the guy told him to stuff it. Curtis said no problem, he'd be my manager. I love him, but he's a disaster with money. Luckily, I got a very good offer recently, a clothing manufacturer. There's going to be a new line of classy evening wear with my name on it. I even had some say in the design, and I'm happy about the quality. I get well paid for the use of my name, but I also get to model the line everywhere. It'll be worth six figures almost right away."

"That's terrific. Are you going to tell me sex and drugs isn't good for business?"

"Exactly. It's even in my contract that I have to be squeaky clean, and if there is any hint of trouble with drugs or alcohol or anything like that, the deal is off. The company prides itself on being socially responsible. They make much of the fact they don't use child labor, and always pay fair prices to their workers, that kind of thing. If Kristi broke this story, I'd be out on my fanny so fast, you wouldn't even see me go by. We need the money, but Kristi seemed to think we had lots.

"I told her I was broke, but that I'd pay her off over a period of time. The wretched woman said she'd take postdated checks, can you believe it? That's how confident she was I wouldn't go to the police about her. Next thing we know, she's blackmailing Curtis, too. Says she's writing an article for First Class about how he's taken all my money and blown it on some really dicey ventures--part of a feature on successful women who take up with the wrong man, it pains me to say. The worst of it was that she was using information we had given her about our financial state.

"I waited until Curtis was asleep that night, and then went to try to reason with her. I was going to tell her that if she wrote this story about Curtis, she wouldn't be getting any money from us, because we'd be ruined.

"I did not kill her, though, if that's what you're thinking. I knocked, and then tried the door. Just as I told you, it was not shut tight, just pulled so it looked closed, but the lock hadn't engaged, if you understand what I'm saying. I just gave it a little push and it opened. The hallway was dark, so I stood there for a minute, to let my eyes adjust. I think that must have been when I pushed the door closed behind me, and this time it latched. I saw what I thought was a light in the bedroom, although it was flickering--that I did notice. And there was a funny smell," she said.

"What kind of funny?" I interrupted.

"Smoke, of course, but something else. It smelled a little the way your house does when it's being painted. Not the paint, though. The other materials they use, to clean the brushes, things like that."

"Lighter fluid," I said. "She had that fancy lighter--no cheap disposables for her, of course. I watched her fill it more than once. She had a little tin of it."

"Could be," Aziza said. "If I could have a sniff, I'd know for sure. Anyway, all of a sudden, there is this sound, a whooshing, sort of, just like I said before, and the smoke gets really bad. I rushed in and tried to wake her, but she didn't move. I tried to pull her off the bed, but the smoke was terrible, and she just fell to the floor. I suddenly realized I had to get out of there. I was feeling dreadful. I couldn't breathe. So I made a run for it, although I didn't get very far, did I? I know you're probably thinking that I was saying good riddance, let her burn. But quite honestly I didn't think about that until later. Did I mourn her passing? Certainly not. In fact it was a great weight off my shoulders. But I wouldn't have left her there to die, if I'd had a choice. I couldn't live with myself if I had, no matter how vile I thought she was.

"I'm quite prepared to tell the police exactly what happened in the room. The story I told you in the hospital was true. I just didn't tell you why I was there. I hope that unless it becomes absolutely necessary, you will keep that part strictly confidential."

"I will," I said. "But tell me, what are you doing in Tunisia?

"We took the trip to celebrate the signing of the contract. We didn't know Kristi was coming, of course, nor did we know she'd be checking up on us. We get a lot of media attention, and I suppose eventually it would have to come out. My past, I mean. Perhaps I was being terribly naive to think it wouldn't. But we didn't know."

"But why Tunisia?"

"˜It sounded like fun, and we could afford it."

"Who picked it, you or Curtis?"

"Curtis, I think. I voted for Paris, but he thought this would be more interesting and different."

"Why didn't you pack up and go home after the fire?" I asked.

"I wanted to, not because of the trip, you understand. I want you to know that if it weren't for Kristi, I'd really be enjoying this trip. It's a beautiful country, and I've learned a lot, too. It's not your fault this hasn't been exactly the trip I dreamed of. Curtis said we should keep going, not let this get us down, so here we are. And I didn't kill her."

"H ELLO, BRIARS," I said, beginning my second interview of the day. While I was determined not to get involved in the subject of the shipwreck again, there was still the question of the relationship between Briars and Rick. "I'm glad to see you're out of hospital. Should you be staying all alone in this house, do you think? Where are the others?"

"Hedi's still around. He's a terrific guy. He has a place in town, already, so he stays there. He came by to see me and brought me something to eat, though. Gus and Sandy are taking a break. They've gone to Tunis for a few days. I can hardly blame them. There's nothing doing here, and frankly, I'm not much fun to be around. It's nice of you to come and see me," he said, getting up off the sofa to give me a hug. As we pulled apart, his lips brushed my ear. "Here," he said patting the seat beside him. "Sit down and talk to me awhile."

"I can only stay a few minutes," I said, "I've got lots to do today. I just wanted to make sure you're okay."

"That's nice of you," he said, stretching one arm along the back of the sofa behind me. "Tell me all the things you have to do."

"You don't want to know all the boring stuff I have to do with this trip," I said.

"On the contrary, I'd like to hear about nice, boring, normal stuff," he said. "Anything other than ships and shipwrecks." His hand slid down on to my shoulder and I felt a slight pressure to move me closer to him. Something told me he was feeling a lot better.

"I have to check on arrangements for the excursion out into the desert . . ."

"I don't think you need me for that portion of the trip, do you?"

"No. It would be nice to have you along, but we'll be fine."

"What else are you up to?" he asked.

"Oh, Clive has something he wants me to do in the next day or so," I said. "Have you heard any more from that policemen, Ben Osman?"

"No, and I hope I never have to talk to him again," he said. "Can we talk about something more pleasant?"

"Sure, what?" I said.

"Something like this," he said, leaning over and kissing me. It felt very good, and I realized this was something missing from my life, to put it politely. Pretty soon, the atmosphere was getting quite warm in the room. I was enjoying the feel of the skin on his back, and the touch of his mouth on my neck, when an unbidden thought crossed my mind.

Don't think about it, I told myself, but it was too late.

Leaving aside for a moment the question of why he is doing this, a little voice in the back of my head said, why are you doing this? Is it because you're feeling sorry for Briars, who is having such a rough time right now? You're not his mother, you know. Or is it because you're ticked off at Rob?

"Shut up," I said.

"What?" Briars said, pausing for a moment. "Did you say something?"

You're annoyed with Rob, the little voice droned on, because he has a new pal. Well, won't he be pleased to hear that you're involved with Briars! I mean, do we see a pattern here? This should put any possibility of a relationship back in the freezer for another year or two.

"Lara," Briars murmured, pulling me down on top of him.

Decision time, the wretched little voice said.

"Briars," I said, sitting up and straightening my blouse. "I think I'm going back to the hotel."

"Oh no," he groaned. "Stay. Please."

"I'm flattered you'd like me to stay," I said, "but I think it would best if I went back."

"I'm not doing this to flatter you," he said, wrapping his arms around me again.

"No," I said. "This won't work. There's someone at home I think I'm attached to, in a way I'm not yet sure I understand. Maybe some other time, for both of us."

"Okay," he said, letting go of me. "I'm sorry, though."

"Me, too," I said, and I meant it. "Oh, Briars," I said, turning back at the door. It's amazing how fast one can forget what one came for. "I saw Ben Osman again this morning. He's thinking about having another look at what happened to Rick. He thinks Rick's death might not have been accidental."

"Do you mean he committed suicide? By diving into a pool? Wouldn't that be difficult to do?"

"Murder, Briars," I said. "About your argument with Rick--Is there anything you'd like to tell me about it?"

"There's nothing to tell," he said, but he looked agitated. "I thought we were done with that topic of conversation."

"Okay," I said. He'd gone really pale, and looked feverish. I didn't think it was his newfound passion for me that was doing it. "Are you feeling all right?"

"I'll be okay," he said. "I'm just tired." I decided I'd have to come back to this one at a later time.

"C LIFF," I SAID, back at the hotel."I know this is very presumptuous of me, but would you have a look at this tooth of mine?"

"Well, sure," he said. "I have my mirror in my room. I don't have anything else with me, of course, so I couldn't do anything . . ."

"Oh, it's just a second opinion I want. It's the front tooth on the bottom. You probably don't need any equipment to look at it."

"Ah yes, I see it," he said, peering into my mouth. "You've sheared off some of the enamel on the back of that tooth. Does it hurt at all?"

"No. I was just wondering whether to leave it or get it capped."

"If I were you, I'd leave it," he replied. "If it's scratching your tongue, you could have the rough edges filed off. Unfortunately I don't have the tools to do that here."

"Thanks, Cliff. Sorry to bother you with this. I just wanted to make sure I didn't need to find a dentist right away." I'd ascertained with some certainty that Cliff really was a dentist. He'd given me exactly the same advice I'd received from my own dentist before I left. What that did for me, I didn't know.

"People do that all the time." He smiled. "In your case it's the least I can do, what with your help with the gift for my daughter. Have you had any luck finding that puppet?"

"No, I haven't yet," I replied. "But I haven't forgotten. I'll keep looking." But I had forgotten, completely, in the rush to get to the bottom of this mess in six days--forgotten both Cliff and my film star. So much for the self-serving pap about customer service I keep telling myself. I was as bad as the next guy. I rushed into town.

"Madame Lara," Rashid Houari said. "I'm glad you dropped by. I was going to call you at the hotel later. Your brass and copperware went off today. It should arrive shortly after you get back."

"You're too efficient, Rashid," I said. "There's something else I'm looking for. I'm hoping you can help me. I thought perhaps if you did, I'd just add it to the shipment, but you're way ahead of me."

"Don't worry," he said. "I've found something I know you are going to want, anyway. You won't be able to resist."

"Okay, you've got me hooked already. What is it?"

"I will keep you in suspense. First, what are you looking for?"

"One of those lovely old puppets. Not the tourist ones, the real ones."

"I have two or three," he said. "From the old French theater in Sfax. I don't have them here. There isn't much call for them. Most people like these," he said with a shrug, gesturing to new, and not particularly good, copies.

"Can I see them?" I asked him. "And if so, when? I'm a little pressed for time these days."

"The day after tomorrow? I'm closed until then. I must go to Tunis on business."

"That's cutting it a bit fine," I said. "Not any sooner?"

"Perhaps what we could do is go and see them at my warehouse this evening. It's not far from here, down on the harbor road. I close here just before sunset, go to the mosque for prayers, and then go home to see my little girl before she goes to sleep. I could meet you at say, seven-thirty?"

"No, that doesn't work for me," I said. "I have dinner with my group about then, and I have to talk to them about packing smaller bags for the trip to the desert. It's also an opportunity to deal with any problems or questions they have, so I don't like to skip out early. I don't think I could be there until pretty close to nine."

"That would be all right. I have to go there anyway, at some point this evening, to get something for another customer. Here, I'll draw you a map."

"That's right down near the pier the fishing boats use, isn't it?" I said.

"Just a few yards north of it," he said. "There is a small factory there. I use it to warehouse the goods for my shop here, and the one my brother-in-law runs for me in Hammamet. I also have a few people making the new puppets there, and some leatherwork. It has a green door. You can't miss it. Take a taxi, why don't you? and I'll drive you back to town when we're through."

"You're sure you don't mind?"

"For you, this is no problem. Not all my customers are as gentille as you. Now, are you ready?" He took me by the hand and led me to a back corner of the store, and pulled a canvas away with a flourish. "It's good, yes? Perfect for your movie star."

"Rashid! It's gorgeous." It was a beautiful little table of inlaid wood, ten-sided, North African style. Old, maybe late 1800's, by the look of it. "You're right. I have to have it. And it's so good, my Rosedale film star may never see it. I may just have to keep it for myself." Falling in love with the merchandise is an occupational hazard for me.

We argued in a friendly fashion about price, but in the end, we had a deal. I told him if the puppets were as good as he said they were, I'd take whatever he had. "See you later, Rashid," I said.

"Nine o'clock," he said. "I have some other merchandise there you might be interested in, very old, very special."

"You never stop, do you, Rashid?" I laughed. "See you at nine."

At about quarter to nine I was in a taxi heading north on the harbor road. I could see the Elissa Dido tied up at the pier. As we got closer, I could have sworn I saw a light in the wheelhouse. It's your imagination, Lara, I told myself, or the reflection of car headlights from the road. But I saw it again. "Pull over," I said to the taxi driver. "I'm getting out here."

"You shouldn't be down here by yourself at night," the driver cautioned.

"It's okay," I told him. "I'm meeting someone over there, at the warehouse with the light over the door."

"Be careful," he said and drove off.

I walked as quietly as I could along the pier, and edged my way toward the wheelhouse. The light came and went, as if someone was moving about with a flashlight. I crouched low and made my way along the length of the boat until I was even with the wheelhouse, then, counting to three to get my nerve up, I straightened and took a look.

It took me about one second to realize I had made a serious miscalculation in thinking I could separate the tour from the shipwreck. Ben Miller was there, sifting through papers. As I watched, he picked up a piece of paper, looked at it carefully, and smiled. A moment later he switched off the flashlight. I ducked down and moved away as fast as I could. At the road, I ran for the warehouse, just a hundred yards away. It was dark inside, but I pushed open the door. The lamp outside shed some light through a tiny window in the door. I found a switch and flipped it on.

"Hello," I called into the interior gloom. No one answered. I suddenly felt vulnerable standing there in a pool of light, with the warehouse dark around me. I could see a passageway leading toward the back, and, when I stepped into the relative darkness, I saw another light farther along. I walked toward it, past rows and rows of puppets, perhaps hundreds of them, soldiers with red faces and white, their armor and boots, swords and shields of metal, occasionally catching a little of the light from farther on, hanging over long work benches from two long rails on each side of the passageway. At the back of the warehouse was another room with the door partially open, and it was from there that the light emanated. I pushed the door open to find myself in an office of sorts. Under the light was a small table, and on it lay three magnificent old puppets, exactly what I was looking for. Rashid was obviously there somewhere. He'd put out the puppets for me to see. I felt myself relax as I held each of them up in turn, admiring the folds of the old textiles, and the artistry of the painting on the faces. They were absolutely perfect. Cliff could have one, and the other two would look fantastic in the film star's living room. I'd get Clive to design display stands for them. Things were looking up.

Thinking Rashid would return at any moment, I took a seat and looked about me. This was obviously where he kept the good stuff. Over in one corner, four large amphorae sat in stands. I wondered if it would be possible to get them home safely. They'd make great decorative items. I speculated on how old they might be. I remembered Briars telling me about Dressel amphora forms, but of course, didn't know enough about them to even guess. They looked vaguely like Zoubeeir's graveyard amphorae, but I'd need an expert opinion.

The room was lined with shelves, some fronted with wooden doors and locked. One cabinet was ajar, the key still in the lock. Curiosity piqued, I went to look. There were a few bronze coins scattered about, along with some broken pieces of terra cotta. But there were some lovely intact pieces as well, one of which particularly caught my eye. I looked at it carefully. Was it possible it was Zoubeeir's wine jug, the one that had gone missing? I'd have to tell Briars that there was a possibility it had turned up. Perhaps the family sold it to Rashid. On closer examination, however, I saw that I was wrong. Lifting it very carefully, I brought it over to the light. Zoubeeir's jug had a piece missing out of the rim, which had been quite distinct in the photograph. I consider that I have a good eye for repairs, no matter how well done, and this piece had been repaired all right, but on the handle, not the rim. Still it was interesting. Two jugs in the same design would no doubt mean something in historical terms, and Briars would be very keen, I was certain, to see this one. I put the jug back in the cupboard, and had a look at the remaining objects.

There was what I believed was a short-sword, bronze probably, given the look of it. It was in very bad condition, and would be in serious need of conservation. Several pieces of gold jewelry, quite lovely, about a dozen gold rings, and an outstanding gold necklace with lapis lazuli had held up rather better. These objects made me just a little bit uncomfortable. They were clearly very old and would certainly qualify as antiquities as opposed to antiques. The antiquities market can be dicey, and it's one in which I try to be cautious. Very often it is illegal to possess, and particularly to take out of the country, objects as old as these. When I do purchase something like this, I insist on the proper export permits and other documentation. I'd rather not spend time in jail, either at home, or, even more so, in many of the countries I visit. I found myself wondering whether Rashid should have these objects at all. Hadn't Briars told me that objects that could conceivably have come from his precious ship were coming on the market? Could Rashid possibly be the source of the antiquities that were causing him so much concern?

Then I heard it: a sound, almost a rustle, or even, perhaps, a shiver. The little puppet soldiers moved, almost imperceptibly at first, then with a louder rattle, swaying on the rails, as if they were all marching to war, sent by some invisible general. "Hello," I said again, but again no one answered. I could feel panic taking over. The shadows became ominous. I was certain someone was down by the front door. In a second the light there went out. Trapped, I moved away from the light of the office, waited until my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, and then edged my way toward a window to my right.

The little soldiers were still for a moment, and then started swaying again. I ducked under one of the worktables. Were those footsteps I heard, or was it just my imagination? If someone's there it's only Rashid, I kept telling myself. I'll have a great time explaining to him what I was doing crouched under one of his benches. But I was too frightened to stand up and call his name. I wondered if I could crawl along the length of the worktables, thereby making my way back to the door. But it was apparent this wasn't going to work. Just a few feet along, large boxes were piled under the tables, blocking my way.

The pale beam from the office light flickered for a moment, as if someone had passed in front of it. That gave me an idea of where the person, assuming he existed, was situated. I decided to make my move. I slid out from under the bench and started toward the door. The puppets in this row were larger, some as big as three or four feet. In a way, they gave me some cover, and they didn't rattle the way the smaller ones did. I kept close to them and as quietly as I could, eased my way back to the door. Near the end of the row, I came upon a much bigger puppet. About five feet eight inches, I'd say, hanging from the pipe with a noose around its neck. I lunged for the door, almost knocking Ben over as I burst through it.

11

"Y OU LACK COURAGE, Hasdrubal," the stranger said. "What is a little storm to a sailor of Qart Hadasht?"

Hasdrubal chafed at the ropes that bound his arms and feet.

"Mago here will assume command of the ship. Safat will assist him. We are sailing to our destination with all good speed. You have no backbone," the stranger repeated. "And I have taken what measures I must."

Mago leaned so close to Hasdrubal that the captain almost retched from the smell of the man. "You are a fool," Mago said. "And now all the money is mine." Mago grabbed the captain's money bag and emptied it. Abdelmelqart's pendant, he put once more around his neck, laughing as he did so. "I'll have yours soon and Abdelmelqart's, too."

"You'll have to live to spend it, traitor," Hasdrubal said quietly. Mago kicked him, then pulled an empty sack over his head. "Enjoy the voyage," he hissed.

He knew his ship so well, even lying in the dark and trussed like an animal readied for the slaughter, he could sense what was happening. He heard the groans as his ship hit the troughs, then struggled to rise for the next wave. "We're doomed," he thought. "All of us."

The ship lurched sharply, and he was thrown against something sharp. In pain, he almost missed the touch of a hand on his shoulder. "Hush," Carthalon whispered. "I'm behind you." He felt the boy working away at the ropes at his wrists.

His arms were free. He whipped the sack off his head as the boy tackled the ropes at his ankles. "Quickly," the boy said.

"What is that you are using to cut the cords?" Hasdrubal said.

"Abdelmelqart's short-sword," the boy replied. "It seemed just, somehow, to use it for this purpose."

"Then put it to further good use. Release the slaves, then come up on deck as fast as you can," the captain said.

Mago tried to turn the little ship into the wind as the gale howled, whipping the sea into a frenzy. At the crest of a wave, Hasdrubal looked to the west and, for a brief moment, thought he saw landfall. Perhaps there was some hope. "Drop the sail," Hasdrubal yelled to the men, some of them huddling in terror by the mast. "Now!"

Too late. The mast came down with a terrible crack, the large sail falling like a huge bird onto the deck, trapping many of the men beneath. It smashed through the cedar box as if it were the finest glass. All eyes turned to the cargo revealed, and a collective gasp went up. Mago and Safat moved toward it, hypnotized by what they saw.

The ship lurched again and a wave crashed over the side, carrying a screaming Mago into the sea. Below, the amphorae of oil and wine began to roll. The ship foundered, then righted itself once again. It was the last time. With a sigh, it rolled precariously to starboard. "Jump," Hasdrubal yelled, grabbing the boy.

F IVE DAYS. DO something. I just wanted to spend the day in bed, sucking my thumb. No, what I really wanted to do was get on the first plane home, to my little house, my cat, my friends, and my shop. Catherine had done it. She would have a lot of conversations with the police there, certainly. But she was home, and I wasn't.

Rashid had hung himself. As unlikely as it seemed to me, given our conversation earlier in the day, and the fact that he'd taken out the puppets--why would you go to the trouble of laying out puppets before you killed yourself?--there was no question the signs were there: the overturned chair, and a note in his pocket in Arabic that apparently said simply "please forgive me." I told myself to get a move on. There'd be time for a nervous breakdown later.

"Give me plenty of coins," I said to the attendant at the taxiphone, slapping down several bills in front of him. "I've got a lot of talking to do." Almost as much as Kristi Ellingham herself. I began making my way through her phone bill.

Many dinars and some time later, I knew that Kristi had called Rick Reynold's employer, a Montreal newspaper, a Paris news magazine's offices, and the public prosecutor's office in California. She'd also called the research department of First Class magazine many times.

"First Class library, Helen Osborne speaking. How may I help you?" the lovely voice on the end of the phone asked.

"Hello, Helen," I said, wondering whether the phone was answered that way everywhere there: First Class advertising, First Class sales, maybe even First Class cafeteria. I was beginning to understand how inspired the magazine's name was, despite my initial tendency to sarcasm. "My name is Eliza Dwyer," I said, making it up on the spot. "I'm the lucky individual who's been assigned to finish up some of the work that Kristi Ellingham was doing before she died. I'm feeling at a disadvantage here, because I don't have all the material she asked for. I sure hope you can help me."

"I'll certainly try. Are you working on Prattle or the travel story on that antiques tour to Tunisia?" she asked.

"Both, in a way. I'm in North Africa right now, doing the tour, but I think she was also gathering material for Prattle on some of the people who are on it, if I'm not mistaken." If I was guessing right, Prattle had to be the gossip column. "Aziza and Curtis Clark and so on. I'm having some difficulty piecing all her notes together."

"North Africa. Aren't you lucky. Yes, Kristi was doing some research for Prattle on Aziza. You have the name of the modeling agency Aziza was with when she was young, don't you?"

"Yes," I said. "That I've got."

"I think that's all she needed on her."

"Emile St. Laurent?" I asked. "Anything on him?"

"I gave her the number for a publication in France. I know he's a coin dealer and he went bankrupt a few years ago, but he's back in business: ESL Numismatics. I can get that number for you again. Here it is," she said, giving me one of the numbers on Kristi's bill.

"Great, thanks. Was there anyone else she was looking into that you know of? I should probably follow up on that, too."

"Some fellow by the name of Reynolds. I didn't have anything on him. Are you going to be doing Prattle from now on?"

"No, I don't think so. I just want to make sure I've tied up all of the loose ends, you know."

"That's too bad. You seem much nicer than Kristi, I must say. Although I suppose nice doesn't cut it in a gossip columnist, does it? She also asked me to check on a dentist by the name of Cliff Fielding, and a Nora Winslow. I couldn't find anything interesting there, either. He's a dentist, or he was. I found him on the list of the professional association in Texas. I couldn't even find a phone number for this Winslow person. That's it, I think. No, wait. Just before Kristi died, she asked me to look into someone with a funny name. Hold on a sec, I'll get it. Briars Hatley. Nothing too exciting about him, either."

"Right, got it. By any chance did Kristi ask for anything on a company called Star Salvage?"

"No, I don't think so. I'm sure I'd remember if she did. Do you want me to do some digging on them for you?" That didn't surprise me.

"Thanks, Helen, but that won't be necessary." As tempting as it might be to have First Class magazine doing my research for me, I didn't think it was a good idea. "I appreciate your help with all of this, though. Now I'd better get back to the McClintoch and Swain tour."

Helen snickered. "Kristi called them McQuick Talk and Swank," she said.

"Wasn't Kristi hilarious?" I said, sticking my tongue out at the telephone. "We'll certainly miss her sense of humor." It's always edifying when someone does to you what you do to everybody else, in this case making up names for people.

Next call: Montreal. "Rick Reynolds, please," I said.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Reynolds is no longer employed here," the voice said. "Could someone else help you?"

"Sure," I said. The call was transferred, and I was treated to a few moments of elevator music.

"Alex Mathias," the man said.

"I was looking for Rick Reynolds," I said. "I had some dealings with him a while back."

"It must have been a while," Mathias said. His tone was guarded. "He hasn't been with us for over a year. But what can I do for you? Are you looking for some investment advice, or--"

"Yes, I am," I said. "Where did Rick go, do you know?"

"I don't know where he's gone. I don't think you'd want to be dealing with him, though, wherever it is," he said carefully. Either Alex Mathias didn't read obituaries or he had a rather macabre sense of humor.

"Left under a bit of a cloud, did he?" I said brightly.

"I probably shouldn't say," Mathias said. "But I'd be happy to help you with your investment needs."

"Great. Thanks. Oh, dear, there's someone on the other line. Can I call you right back?"

Well, Rick was a total fraud, wasn't he? Feigning employment, pretending to call his office every ten minutes. No doubt Kristi thought so, too. She'd gone and checked with the Montreal newspaper right after the call to Rick's former employer. I planned to do the same, but I had other ways of getting at that one that wouldn't require quite so much lying.

I got nowhere with the public prosecutor's office in California, and nowhere with the Paris publication. Even tossing First Class magazine and Kristi's name into the conversation didn't get me anywhere. It was time to try the Internet. That was something of a problem, there being no jacks in the hotel room for my laptop. It was not insurmountable, however. I persuaded Sylvie to let me use their Internet account after promising to pay for the time.

I checked the online archives of the Montreal paper for any mention of Rick Reynolds. He was there, all right, suspended from the company pending an investigation into some of his activities. According to the clips, he had invested personally in stock offerings his firm was responsible for selling--a no-no in that business, or at least in the company he worked for--and he seemed to have misrepresented the firm. It looked to me as if he'd been trying to get people to invest in certain schemes by making it sound as if he were doing it on behalf of the company that employed him, when he was, in fact, doing it on the side. That got him suspended and then sacked. I could find no evidence, however, that there had been any formal charges brought against him. If he'd managed to find employment elsewhere, I could find no indication of that, either. He was a con man and a thief, of that I had absolutely no doubt. He'd made himself out to be a big-time operator, phoning all the time, checking the markets, when clearly he wasn't. What I couldn't figure out was at whom the whole performance had been directed. Was it a general attempt to dupe everybody on the tour, or was it for the benefit of one particular individual? I also found myself wondering how he'd managed to pay for the trip, given that he'd most likely been unemployed for a while. I doubted that under the circumstances there'd have been much of a severance package, if any. I knew what he was doing for pocket money, though: stealing valuable necklaces and selling them in the Souk des Orfevres, and picking Jimmy's wallet.

Next I checked the archives of some French publications, including the one Kristi had called. I found a little more detail about what I knew already. Emile had been a very successful coin dealer, got out of the business about eight years earlier, invested in a big development outside of Paris that had huge cost overruns, and he went bankrupt, along with the project. Nothing illegal in that, or our jails would be even more packed than they already are. He disappeared from view for a while, and then he came back to what he knew, I suppose, and started up a new business, ESL Numismatics. There was no indication of fraud of any sort.

I found a Web site for ESL Numismatics that listed coins for sale through an online auction. Hundreds of coins were listed with descriptions of quality and prices in U.S. dollars. If you wanted to pay the list price for a particular coin, you could buy it on the spot, if your credit card was up to it--mine wouldn't have been for several of the coins listed--or you could put in a lesser bid and wait until the deadline, when you'd find out whether or not you had been the successful bidder. The site was excellent. It appeared to be updated daily, and had a nifty little search feature. You could go back through three years of online catalogues, and there were nice photos of the coins, and a section on the history of money, and so on. Just for fun, I looked up Carthaginian coins, and found three of them under the current listing. The most expensive one was $12,000. I decided not to look further, or envy would definitely get the better of me.

I then checked out Star Salvage. Where ESL had taken the more serious educational approach, Star went for glitz, with links to various underwater organizations and lots of photos of the Susannah and of Peter Groves in diving attire: Groves studying charts and looking very serious, he and others looking at some of the loot they'd found. Star claimed to have found numerous wrecks in several places, including the Great Lakes, the Eastern seaboard of the U.S., and the Caribbean, and it was noted that the company was now in the Mediterranean. The company was touted as a great investment opportunity. There were references to the gold on the Margarita, and so on. People interested in further information on the company could leave an address for a prospectus. It was all pretty convincing, until I remembered that Maggie had told me that Groves had been screwed, to use her term, over the treasure on the Margarita. Somehow I rather doubted that Star was quite the sterling investment its Web site trumpeted it to be.

I was running out of time, however, so I did a quick check on Harvard and UCLA. Both Briars and Ben were what they said they were, professors of archaeology and classics, respectively.

I logged off, and thought for a few minutes. I still hadn't firmly established a link between the shipwrecks and the tour. There had to be one. Ben had been on the ship, and had not even tried to deny it. He'd been absolutely unflappable, though. He'd gone with me to the police, and had stayed right at my side until we got back to the hotel. He'd even bought me a drink in the bar, as if this were a perfectly normal evening. Questioned, he said he'd gone over to the warehouse to see if he could find a phone to call a taxi to take him back to the hotel. When I asked him why he was going through papers on the Elissa Dido, he'd said he was just curious about what Briars was doing.

"I'll apologize to him when I see him," he said, sphinxlike. "I hope he'll forgive me." And that's all he'd say. Was there another possible connection between the two? I thought back on all I'd found out, not much in and of itself. But there was Rick and his fraudulent claims about investment opportunities, and there was Star Salvage looking for investors. It was a long shot, but the only one I had.

"Aziza! Can I have another minute of your time?" I said shortly thereafter. "Privately."

"Not on the same subject, I hope," she replied, as I took her aside.

"Related. This may sound a bit obscure, but do you think Curtis might have invested in something really speculative recently?"

"He better not have," she said. "He promised me. How speculative?"

"Very. Something like an expedition to find buried treasure on a shipwreck in the Mediterranean."

"Oh please, I hope not," she said. "I'll kill him."

On that less than positive note, I went to check on Briars. "How are you doing today, Briars? Feeling okay? Got enough to eat here?"

"I'm better, thanks," he said. "I suppose I should apologize for my behavior yesterday. I was feeling a little sorry for myself. Not that it wouldn't have been magic, of course, if you'd taken me up on it. But maybe I was a little pushy."

"That's okay," I said. "I didn't find the idea offensive."

"I've been thinking I'd like to come with the group on the desert trip, if you'd let me. It would get me out of here, and I think I could contribute something. I have done some work on Roman Africa."

"Fine with me if you feel up to it."

"Great," he said. "I promise to behave myself. If you agree, it might be a good idea to take Hedi along as well. He grew up in the desert, you know. He hasn't got much to do right now, and he could share a room with me."

"Okay. Sure. I know I've asked you this before, but I'm asking again. What was your conversation with Rick about? I'm sorry, but what you've been telling me just doesn't ring true."

He looked pained. "God, you're persistent. What possible difference could it make now that he's dead?"

"I have no idea what difference it would make, but I'd really appreciate the truth. Quite frankly I feel as if I've been lied to by just about everybody, or at the very least, that people on this tour have other agendas completely unrelated to sightseeing and antiques that they haven't felt the need to mention to the tour leader. As I told you yesterday, the police are reopening the investigation into Rick's death, and I just want to make sure I know what there is to know about the people I'm associating with here."

"Okay, okay. I get your point. It's true, that story about Rick bugging me to invest with him was pure fabrication. The guy was dead by the time you and I got around to discussing it, and I just didn't see the point of bothering you with it, or for that matter, speaking ill of the dead. At that point I just thought he'd done something really dumb by diving into that pool, so there didn't seem any harm in fibbing. I'm trying to convince you I had good intentions in not being too forthcoming on this subject. Am I succeeding?"

"Maybe," I said. I wanted to believe this guy, but he did make it difficult.

"I guess that'll have to do. The truth, then, is that he tried to bribe me not to go on looking for the shipwreck. The little runt offered me ten thousand dollars. At least that's what he worked up to eventually. He started at five, but apparently he took my response as meaning I wanted more."

"And your response was?"

"I'm sorry you feel you had to ask. I told him to fuck off, in those very terms. They say everyone has a price, but mine happens to be just a little more than ten thousand dollars!"

"Just as well. I have a feeling he wouldn't have been able to pay you, anyway. Why do you think he did this?"

"I have no idea. The only reason I could think of is that he invested in Star Salvage, and was worried about losing his money if we found the ship first. I told him to stay away from me, the boat, the shipwreck, and everything else. When the boat got trashed that very night, it did cross my mind that he might have done it, although you know, he was such a little wimp, despite all his posturing, I rejected that idea. Given what's happened lately," Briars said, pausing for a moment, "I'm sure I was right to do so. The weight of evidence definitely points to Groves. Now can we talk about something more pleasant? What time do I have to be ready to leave? Oh, and where are we going to stay? I'll have to tell that fellow Ben Osman where I'll be; otherwise, he'll be sending in the troops for me."

"It might have to be on camels," I said.

He laughed. "Thanks for cheering me up," he said. "And not being too hard on me about Rick. Or for that matter, my rather outrageous behavior yesterday. You wouldn't care to change your mind on that subject, would you?"

"No," I said, heading out the door and back to the hotel.

"T ELL HER," AZIZA demanded, hands on hips and eyes blazing. "Tell her what you told me."

It was a deflated Curtis who stood between the two of us. Gone was his air of confidence and well-being. Instead he looked uneasy, even defeated. Even his tan looked as if it had faded.

"Please, Roz," he said. It took me a minute to figure out who he was talking to, but of course, Aziza's name was Roslyn Clark.

"Curtis!" she said.

"I met Rick almost a year ago," he said. "I was in Montreal doing some promotion for an upcoming tournament. I can't recall who introduced us. It may just be we struck up a conversation at one of the cocktail parties the ad agency had arranged. In any event, he got in touch with me at my hotel, suggested we get together for drinks. I was on my own, and glad to have the company. He took me to the old part of Montreal. We had dinner, some nice wine. Now that I think about it, I paid for it. That should have told me something. Somehow the conversation got around to investments. He told me he was with a big firm in town. I don't know if Roz told you, but we're a bit strapped financially these days. My fault, I know that. I was looking for a way out. Rick told me about this great opportunity, a salvage company that had some real success finding underwater treasure."

"Oh, Curtis," Aziza said. "I can't believe this."

"I'm sorry, Roz," he said. "I really am."

"Continue," I said.

"There's not much else to say. I looked this Star Salvage company up on the Internet. They have a pretty impressive Web site, and looked legit. I called the Montreal firm that Rick said he was employed by, and he was, in fact, there. He told me I'd be getting in on the ground floor on this one, that his firm was having a look at the company right then, and I could get in before the public offering. Not true, I guess," he said, looking at me.

"Probably not, but if it's any comfort to you, you're not the only one who was taken in by Rick. His firm eventually fired him for misrepresentation. And, you know, all of us on the tour thought he was legit, didn't we, if a little bit boring about it? We all believed he was an investment dealer."

Curtis winced. "I found him far from boring. I told him I'd think about it. A month or so later I got a call from him, and I gave him five hundred thousand to invest."

Aziza looked as if she didn't know whether to cry or strangle him. "After a few months, I was beginning to get a little worried about this investment," he went on. "After all, surely the summer would be the right time to do the salvage work, but I had trouble tracking Rick down. I did talk to him once and he said he'd left the company because he wanted to set up on his own. The company was way too conservative, he told me, and there was lots of money to be made for those with vision." Curtis paused. "I know what you're thinking, both of you," he said. "I've been a fool.

"When I saw your tour advertised, Lara, it seemed a great way to check up on Star Salvage. I didn't know Rick would be on the tour, too, and I was none too pleased to see him. I guess he was doing the same thing I was. That's when I found out that not only had Star not yet found the ship--Rick had given me the impression it was just a matter of waiting for the right sea and weather conditions to bring the treasure up--but someone else was looking for it, too.

"Rick told me that everything would be taken care of. When I asked what that meant, he said he was going to discourage the other party. By this time I was in so deep, I actually thought this was a good idea. He didn't succeed, of course. That's all there is."

"No, it isn't," I said. Aziza looked first at me, then at Curtis.

"I don't know what you mean," he said.

"Yes, you do. What were you and Rick doing on the path down to the harbor that night?" He looked wary. "You know, the time you told Rick that he was an incompetent little twit and if he couldn't look after things, you would."

"Curtis!" Aziza exclaimed again. "What night? What path? If you don't tell us everything, absolutely everything, you and I--"

"You were asleep, Roz. It was one of the nights you took a sleeping pill because you were so upset about Kristi. Rick said he was going to take care of the other party looking for the shipwreck. I figured out by then that Rick had money in the scheme, too. He told me Star would find the ship first, but just to make sure, he was going to go down and mess up the other boat a little to slow them down, because he'd made them an offer of some kind which he wanted to reinforce. I think the idea was they'd like his offer a lot more afterwards. I was furious, and I knew if I lost more money, you would maybe never forgive me. I told him to get on with it. He asked me for twenty thousand dollars more to protect my investment!"

"Where did you go after that conversation?" I asked. "It wasn't straight back to the hotel. Down the hill to the harbor? Was it actually you who did the damage to Briars' boat?"

"No, I swear I didn't. I intended to, though. I went down there, to the pier, I mean. I knew the name of the boat: Elissa Dido. I didn't know it was Briars at the time, you know. He's a great guy. I mean, I just had no idea. But the boat wasn't at the pier, it was at anchor. I had no way of getting out to it. So I went back to the hotel. Rick was in the bar, even though it was closed already. I told him to pull himself together, figure out some way of getting out to the boat. I told him to swim if he had to. Then I went to bed. Roz says that the police think he might have been murdered. I didn't do it. The last time I saw him he was in the bar."

"Ever gone scuba diving, Curtis?"

"Sure," he said. "I do all kinds of sports, not just golf. I learned years ago. I don't do it much anymore, just out for a day when Roz and I are on holiday in the Caribbean. Why?" I said nothing. "You think I tampered with the tanks on Briars boat? No way! After Rick died, I just decided to hope for the best, that the right guy would find the treasure, and I'd be home free. After all, Roz had a new contract, so money wasn't going to be a problem if we could just get through this bad patch. I'm sorry, Roz," he said. "I really and truly am. I won't do anything like this again, I promise."

"Do you know how many times you've made that promise, Curtis?" Aziza said.

"I know," he replied miserably. "This time . . ."

"Maybe this is a sickness," she said. "Like compulsive gambling. We could get you help, Curtis. I did when I had a drug problem."

"I don't need help," he said. "I'll stop. I promise."

"You have a choice, Curtis," she said. "You get help, I'll stick with you. You don't, and I'm gone."

"Roz!" he cried. "I got taken in by a crook, that's all. You heard Lara. The guy fooled a lot of people."

"You have a choice, Curtis," she said firmly. She nodded to me and left. In a minute, Curtis went after her.

Later that night, I took out Kristi's list again. So far the woman wasn't batting a thousand, exactly, but she didn't have it all wrong, either. Emile, as far as I'd been able to ascertain, hadn't been charged with fraud. On the other hand, Aziza might not be on drugs now, but she had been. Curtis wasn't blackmailing anyone, but he was being blackmailed by none other than Kristi herself. Rick, too, had been worth checking up on. Kristi most certainly had been right about our little Lolita, Chastity. But there didn't seem much more to be said about that, other than that someone needed to take the young woman in hand, something her mother seemed to be incapable of.

So far Cliff seemed to be pretty much what he said he was, a former dentist with an investment company. I suppose he could have invested in Star Salvage, too, and the best way to find out would be to ask him. That left the trailer-park trash: Nora Winslow. Kristi had hinted that she was manipulating Cliff, which maybe she was. She was certainly overly solicitous about his health. But Kristi had also implied there was something more. Maybe Nora, too, could bear some looking into.

What was interesting about these revelations from Briars and Curtis is that logically it would seem that damage would be done to only one party, that is the Elissa Dido project. But someone had set fire to the Susannah. Curtis wouldn't have done it. He wanted Star Salvage to find the shipwreck first. Did Briars do it? Or did he have someone on his side, someone who was just as determined to make sure that Groves didn't find it, as Rick and Curtis were that he did. The only other possibility was that there was someone out there who didn't want either of them to find the shipwreck.

All of this presupposed that Rick had been killed because of the shipwreck. Maybe he'd been killed because he was a con man and a thief. There were a lot of maybes here, a lot of information was coming together, but on the conclusion side, we were a little light. All I had to go on was gut instinct. As inconceivable as it might seem that all of this could have happened because thousands of years ago a ship had gone down at sea, my intuition was now telling me it was the shipwreck.

I didn't think I'd go to sleep, but I did. Soon I was standing in the sanctuary of Baal Hammon in a white dress, a sifsari covering my head and face. Everyone on the tour was there with me, although it was hard to tell who was who, because even the men wore robes with hoods.

A great fire was burning there, and its light flickered across the features of a golden god who sat, hands on his thighs, palms facing each other.

We were there for a great and sacred ceremony, although I didn't yet understand what it was. Somehow it became apparent to me that a child was to be sacrificed to the golden god. I wanted to stop it happening, but I couldn't move.

The child, whose face I couldn't see, was wrenched from its mother's arms and carried toward the statue and the fire. A howl so intense it could surely be heard in heaven, went up from the mother.

"Doesn't she know she's not supposed to cry," Jimmy said. "Can't she read?"

As Betty turned her back on her husband and walked away, I noticed an enormous sign that said NO CRYING! DEFENSE DE PLEURER! TRAENEN SIND VERBOTEN!

"Incompetent little twit," Curtis agreed.

"Tragic," said Chastity. She was standing directly behind Emile. If he moved to the right, she did, too. If he turned and walked a few steps, she followed. As she spoke, he turned and looked at her, then flicked his cigarette into the flames. She made the same motion, without the cigarette, and he frowned.

"Mors certa, hora incerta," Ben said. "Although given this is a sacrifice, perhaps it really should be hora certa, too, in this particular instance. Will we get dinner after?"

"You and I need to get in shape, Ben," Susie scolded "It's possible, you know. We can jog. Nora's done it."

A snake slithered over the golden god, then turned its eyes, demonic red, toward me. The mouth opened to reveal its fangs. The head swayed closer and closer.

I was back in my room. I looked at my alarm clock. Three in the morning. Four days to go. Who was the snake?