Riptide

by Douglas Preston

  Claire fell silent, looking at the ground. "I've told you this much," she said after a moment. "Don't ask me to spy on my husband."

  "I'm sorry," Hatch said. "I didn't mean that. You know that's the last thing I'd want."

  Suddenly, Claire hid her face in her hands. "You don't under- understand," she cried. "Oh, Malin, if only I could. . ." Her shoulders sagged as she began to sob.

  Gently, Malin pulled her head to his shoulder. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "I'm acting like such a child."

  "Shhh," Malin whispered quietly, patting her shoulders. As her sobs died away, he smelled the fresh apple scent of her hair, felt the moistness of her breath through his shirt. Her cheek was smooth against his and as she mumbled something indistinct he felt the hot trickle of a tear touch his lips. His tongue came forward to it. As she turned toward him he pulled his head back just enough to let his lips graze hers. He kissed her lightly, feeling the smooth line of her lips, sensing the looseness in her jaw. He kissed her again, tentatively, then a little harder. And then, suddenly, their mouths were locked together and her hands were tangled in his hair. The strange noise of the surf, the warmth of the glade, seemed to recede into nothingness. The world was instantly bounded by themselves. His heart raced as he slid his tongue into her mouth and she sucked on it. Her hands were clutching his shoulder blades now, digging into his shirt. Dimly, he was aware that, as kids, they had never kissed with this kind of abandon. Or was it just that we didn't know how? He leaned toward her hungrily, one hand gently teasing the fine hairs of her neck while the other slid almost involuntarily down the curve of her blouse, to her waist, to her loosening knees. A moan escaped her lips as her legs parted. He felt the narrow line of sweat that creased the inside of her knee. The apple-heavy air became tinged with a scent of musk.

  Suddenly she pulled away from him. "No, Malin," she said huskily, clambering to her feet and brushing at her dress.

  "Claire—" he began, reaching out one hand. But she had already turned away.

  He watched her stumble back up the path, disappearing almost immediately into the green fastness of the glen. His heart was pounding, and an uncomfortable mixture of lust, guilt, and adrenaline coursed through his veins. An affair with the minister's wife: Stormhaven would never tolerate it. He'd just done one of the stupidest things he had ever managed to do in his life. It was a mistake, a foolish lapse of judgment—yet as he rose to his feet and moved slowly down a different path, he found his hot imagination turning to what would have happened if she had not pulled herself away.

  Chapter 35

  Early the next morning, Hatch jogged up the short path toward Base Camp and opened the door to St. John's office. To his surprise, the historian was already there, his aged typewriter pushed to one side, a half dozen books open before him.

  "I didn't think I'd find you here so early," Hatch said. "I was planning to leave you a note asking you to stop by the medical hut."

  The Englishman sat back, rubbing weary eyes with plump fingers. "Actually, I wanted a word with you anyway. I've made an interesting discovery."

  "So have I." Wordlessly, Hatch held out a large sheaf of yellowed pages, stuffed into several folders. Making space on his cluttered desk, St. John spread the folders in front of him. Gradually, the tired look on his face fell away. In the act of picking up an old sheet of parchment, he looked up.

  "Where did you get these?" he asked.

  "They were hidden in an old armoire in my attic. They're records from my grandfather's own research. I recognize his handwriting on some of the sheets. He became obsessed with the treasure, you know, and it ruined him. My father burned most of the records after my grandfather's death, but I guess he missed these."

  St. John turned back to the parchment. "Extraordinary," he murmured. "Some of these even escaped our researchers at the Archivos de los Indios in Seville."

  "My Spanish is a little rusty, so I wasn't able to translate everything. But this was the thing I found most interesting." Hatch pointed to a folder marked Archivos de la. Ciudad de Cadiz. Inside was a dark, blurry photograph of an original manuscript, much soiled by handling.

  "Let's see," St. John began. "Records from the Court of Cadiz, 1661 to 1700. Octavo 16. Hmm. Throughout the reign of the Holy Roman Emperor Carolus II—in other words Charles II—we were sorely troubled by pirates. In 1690 alone, the Royal Plate Fleet—or the silver fleet, although the Flota de Plata also carried a great deal of gold ..."

  "Go on."

  "... Was seized and plundered by the heathen pirate, Edward Ockham, at a cost to the crown of ninety million reales. He became our greatest plague, a pestilence sent by the very devil himself. At length, upon much debate, privy counselors allowed us to wield St. Michael's Sword, our greatest, most secret, and most terrible treasure. In nomine patre, may God have mercy on our souls for doing so."

  St. John put the folder down, his brow furrowed in interest. "What does this mean, our greatest, most secret, and most terrible treasure?"

  "No idea. Maybe they thought the sword had magical properties. That it would scare away Ockham. Some kind of Spanish Excalibur."

  "Unlikely. The world was poised at the Age of Enlightenment, remember, and Spain was one of the most civilized countries in Europe. Surely the emperor's privy counselors would not have believed a medieval superstition, let alone hung a matter of state on it."

  "Unless the sword was truly cursed," Hatch murmured facetiously, widening his eyes dramatically.

  St. John did not smile. "Have you shown these to Captain Neidelman yet?"

  "No. Actually, I was thinking of e-mailing the transcriptions to an old friend who lives in Cadiz. Marquesa Hermione Concha de Hohenzollern."

  "Marquesa?" St. John asked.

  Hatch smiled. "You wouldn't know it to look at her. But she loves to bore you with her long and distinguished pedigree. I met her when I was involved with Medecins sans Frontieres. She's very eccentric, almost eighty but a top-notch researcher, reads every European language and many dialects and archaic forms."

  "Perhaps you're right to look outside for assistance," St. John said. "The Captain's so involved with the Water Pit I doubt he'd spare the time to look at this. You know, he came to me yesterday after the insurance adjuster left, asking me to compare the depth and width of the Pit to various cathedral spires. Then he wanted to sketch out more bracing that could act as the internal support system of a cathedral, re-creating the stresses and loads of Macallan's original spire. Essentially, defuse the Pit."

  "So I understand. Sounds like a hell of a job."

  "The actual construction won't be very involved," St. John said. "It was the background research that was so complex." He spread his hands at the flurry of books. "It took me the rest of the day and all night just to sketch things out."

  "You'd better rack out for a while, then. I'm headed down to Stores to pick up Macallan's second journal. Thanks for your help with the translation." Hatch gathered the folders and turned to go.

  "Just a moment!" St. John said.

  As Hatch looked back, the Englishman stood up and came around the desk. "I mentioned I'd made a discovery."

  "That's right, you did."

  "It has to do with Macallan." St. John played with his tie knot self-consciously. "Well, indirectly with Macallan. Take a look at this." He took a sheet of paper from his desk and held it out. Hatch examined the single line of letters it contained:

  ETAONISRHLDCUFPMWYBGKQXYZ

  "Looks like gibberish," Hatch said.

  "Look more closely at the first seven letters."

  Hatch spelled them out loud. "E, T, A, O ... hey, wait a minute. Eta Onis! That's who Macallan dedicated his book on architecture to." He paused, looking at the sheet.

  "It's the frequency table of the English language," St. John explained. "The order that letters are most likely to be used in sentences. Cryptanalysts use it to decrypt coded messages."

  Hatch whistled. "When did you notice this?"

  St. John gre
w even more self-conscious. "The day after Kerry died, actually. I didn't say anything about it to anyone. I felt so stupid. To think it had been staring me in the face all this time. But the more I thought about it, the more it seemed to explain. I realized Macallan had been much more than just an architect. If he knew about the frequency table, it means he was probably involved with London's intelligence community, or at the very least some secret society. So I did some wider background checking. And I stumbled across some bits of information too intriguing to be coincidental. I'm now sure that, during those missing years of Macallan's life, he worked for the Black Chamber."

  "The what?"

  "It's fascinating, really. You see—" St. John stopped suddenly and looked over his shoulder. Hatch realized, with a sympathetic pang, that St. John had been looking in the direction of Wopner's room, anticipating a caustic remark about what the dusty old antiquarian found fascinating.

  "Come on," Hatch said. "You can explain as I walk down to Stores."

  "The Black Chamber," St. John continued as they stepped out into the morning mist, "was a secret department of the English post office. Their duty was to intercept sealed communications, transcribe the contents, then reseal them with forged seals. If the transcribed documents were in code, they were sent to something called the deciphering branch. The plaintext was eventually sent on to the king or certain high ministers, depending on the communication."

  "That much cloak-and-dagger stuff went on in Stuart England?"

  "It wasn't just England. All European countries had similar setups. It was actually a popular place for highly intelligent, well-placed young aristocrats to work. If they made good cryptanalysts, they were rewarded with high pay and positions at court."

  Hatch shook his head. "I had no idea."

  "Not only that. Reading between the lines of some of the old court records, I believe Macallan was most likely a double agent, working for Spain because of his Irish sympathies. But he was found out. I think the real reason he left the country was to save his life. Perhaps he was being sent to America not only to construct a cathedral for New Spain, but for other, clandestine, reasons."

  "And Ockham put a stop to those plans."

  "Yes. But in Macallan, he got much more than he ever bargained for."

  Hatch nodded. "That would explain why Macallan was so adept at using codes and secret inks in his journal."

  "And why his second code was so devilish. Not many people would have the presence of mind to plan a double cross as elaborate as the Water Pit." St. John fell silent a moment. "I mentioned this to Neidelman when we spoke yesterday afternoon."

  "And?"

  "He told me it was interesting, and that we should look into it at some point, but that the priority was stabilizing the Pit and retrieving the gold." A pale smile moved quickly across his features. "That's why there's little reason to show him those documents you uncovered. He's simply too involved with the dig to think of anything that isn't directly related."

  They arrived at the storage shed. Since the initial finds at the pirate encampment, the shed had been beefed up from its original ramshackle appearance. Now, bars had been placed at the two small windows, and a Thalassa guard sat inside the entrance, logging everything that went in and out.

  "Sorry about this," St. John said with a grimace as Hatch requisitioned Macallan's decrypted journal and showed Neidelman's note to the guard. "I'd be happy just to print you off a copy, but Streeter came by the other day and had all the cryptological material downloaded onto disks. All of it, including the log. Then everything was erased from the servers, and the backups wiped. If I knew more about computers, I might have—"

  He was interrupted by a shout from the dim interior of the shed. A moment later Bonterre emerged, a clipboard in one hand and a curious circular object in the other. "My two favorite of men!" she said with a wide smile.

  St. John, suddenly embarrassed, fell abruptly silent.

  "How are things down at Pirateville?" Hatch asked.

  "The work is almost done," Bonterre replied. "This morning we finish the last grid. But, as with lovemaking, the best comes at the end. Look at what one of my diggers unearthed yesterday." She held up the object in her hand, grin widening.

  Hatch could see it was intricately worked, seemingly made of bronze, with numbers etched finely into the outer edge. Two pointed lengths of metal ran out from its center like the hands of a clock. "What is it?" he asked.

  "An astrolabe. Used to determine latitude from the altitude of the sun. Worth ten times its weight in gold to any mariner in Red Ned's day. Yet it too was left behind." Bonterre ran her thumb caressingly along its surface. "The more I find, the more I am confused."

  Suddenly, a loud cry sounded nearby.

  "What was that?" St. John said, starting.

  "Sounded like a howl of pain," Hatch said.

  Bonterre pointed. "I think it came from the hut of the geologiste."

  The three sprinted the short distance to Rankin's office. To Hatch's surprise, the blond bear of a man was not collapsed in agony, but was instead sitting in his chair, looking from a computer monitor to a lengthy printout, then back to the screen again.

  "What's up?" Hatch cried.

  Without looking at them, Rankin held out a palm, commanding silence. He checked the printout again, his lips moving as if counting something. Then he set it down. "Checks out both ways," he said. "Can't be a glitch this time."

  "Has the man turned fou?" Bonterre asked.

  Rankin turned toward them. "It's right," he said excitedly. "It's got to be. Neidelman's been ragging me to get data on what was buried at the bottom of the Pit. When the thing was finally drained, I thought maybe all the weird readings would vanish. But they didn't. No matter what I tried, I kept getting different readings every run. Until now. Take a look."

  He held up the printout, an unintelligible series of black blobs and lines along with one fuzzy dark rectangle.

  "What is it?" Hatch asked. "A Motherwell print?"

  "No, man. It's an iron chamber, perhaps ten feet on a side and fifty feet below the cleared part of the Pit. Doesn't seem to have been broached by water. And I've just managed to narrow down its contents. Among other things, there's a mass of perhaps fifteen, maybe twenty tons of dense, nonferrous metal. Specific gravity just over nineteen."

  "Wait a minute," Hatch said. "There's only one metal with that specific gravity."

  Rankin's grin widened. "Yup. And it ain't lead."

  There was a brief, electrifying silence. Then Bonterre shrieked with glee and bounded into Hatch's arms. Rankin bellowed again and pounded St. John's back. The foursome tumbled out of the hut, shouting and cheering.

  As more people heard the commotion and came running, word of Rankin's discovery quickly spread. Immediately, a spontaneous celebration erupted among the dozen or so Thalassa employees still working on the island. The oppressive aftermath of the Wopner tragedy, the continuous setbacks, and brutally hard work were forgotten in a frantic, almost hysterical, jubilation. Scopatti capered around, removing his boat shoes and tossing them into the air, clutching his diving knife between his teeth. Bonterre ran into Stores and emerged with the old cutlass excavated from the pirate encampment. She ripped off a strip of denim from the base of her shorts and tied it around her head as an eyepatch. Then she pulled her pockets inside out and tore a long gash in her blouse, exposing a dangerously large swath of breast in the process. Brandishing the cutlass, she swaggered around, leering horribly, the image of a dissolute pirate.

  Hatch was almost surprised to find himself shouting with the rest, hugging technicians he barely knew, cavorting over proof— at last—of all that gold lying beneath them. Yet he realized this was a kind of release everyone desperately needed. It's not about the gold, he thought to himself. It's about not letting this damned island defeat us.

  The cheering faltered as Captain Neidelman strode quickly into Base Camp. He looked around, his tired eyes cold and gray.

  "What
the hell is going on here?" he said in a voice tight with suppressed rage.

  "Captain!" Rankin said. "There's gold, fifty feet below the bottom of the shaft. At least fifteen tons!"

  "Of course there is," the Captain snapped. "Did you all think we were digging for our health?" He looked around in the sudden hush. "This isn't a nursery school field trip. We're doing serious business here, and you are all to treat it as such." He glanced in the direction of the historian. "Dr. St. John, have you finished your analysis?"

  St. John nodded.

  "Then let's get it loaded into the Cerberus computer. The rest of you should remember that we're on a critically tight schedule. Now get back to work."

  He turned and strode down the hill toward the boat dock, St. John at his heels, scurrying to keep up.

  Chapter 36

  The following day was Saturday, but there was little rest on Ragged Island. Hatch, uncharacteristically oversleeping, dashed out the door of 5 Ocean Lane and hurried down the front walk, stopping only to grab Friday's neglected mail from the box before heading for the pier.

  Heading out through Old Hump Channel, he frowned at the lead-gray sky. There was talk on the radio of an atmospheric disturbance forming over the Grand Banks. And it was already August 28, just days away from his self-imposed deadline; from now on, the weather could only get worse.

  The accumulated equipment failures and computer problems had put work seriously behind schedule, and the recent rash of illnesses and accidents among the crew only added to the delays: when Hatch showed up at the medical office around quarter to ten, two people were already waiting to see him. One had developed an unusual bacterial infection of the teeth; it would take blood work to determine exactly what kind. The other, alarmingly, had come down with viral pneumonia.

  As Hatch arranged transportation to a mainland hospital for the second patient and prepared blood work on the first for testing on the Cerberus, a third showed up; a ventilation pump operator who had lacerated his shin on a servo motor. It wasn't until almost noon that Hatch had time to boot up his computer, access the Internet, and e-mail his friend the marquesa in Cadiz.