The workers laid aside their tools and began climbing the ladder toward the lift. Streeter remained where he was, silent. The large suction hoses fell silent, and the half-filled bucket rose toward the surface, bobbing on its heavy steel cable. Streeter remained, standing silently to one side. Neidelman turned back to Hatch. "You've got five minutes, maybe ten."
"A couple of days ago," Hatch began, "I came across a stash of my grandfather's papers, documents he'd gathered about the Water Pit and Ockham's treasure. They were hidden in the attic of the family house; that's why my father never destroyed them. Some mentioned St. Michael's Sword. They hinted that the sword was some kind of terrible weapon the Spanish government planned to use against Red Ned Ockham. There were other disturbing references, too. So I contacted a researcher I know in Cadiz and asked her to do some more digging into the sword's history."
Neidelman looked toward the muddy ground at their feet, his lips pursed. "That could be considered proprietary information. I'm surprised you took such a step without consulting me."
"She found this." Hatch reached into his jacket and handed Neidelman a piece of paper.
The Captain looked at it briefly. "It's in old Spanish," he said with a frown.
"Below is my friend's translation."
Neidelman handed it back. "Summarize it for me," he said curtly.
"It's fragmentary. But it describes the original discovery of St. Michael's Sword, and what happened afterwards."
Neidelman raised his eyebrows. "Indeed?"
"During the Black Plague, a wealthy Spanish merchant set out from Cadiz with his family on a barque. They crossed the Mediterranean and put ashore along an unpopulated stretch of the Barbary Coast. There they found the remains of an ancient Roman settlement. They settled down to ride out the plague. Some friendly Berber tribesmen warned them not to go near a ruined temple that lay on a hill some distance away, saying it was cursed. The warnings were repeated several times. After a while, when the plague started to abate, the merchant decided to explore the temple. Maybe he felt the Berbers had hidden something of value, and he didn't want to depart without taking a look. It seems that among the ruins he found a slab of marble behind an altar. Underneath was an ancient metal box that had been sealed shut, with an inscription in Latin. In effect, the inscription stated that the box contained a sword, which was the deadliest of weapons. Even to look upon it meant death. He had the box carried down to the ship, but the Berbers refused to help him open it. In fact, they drove him from the shore."
Neidelman listened, still looking at the ground.
"A few weeks later, on Michaelmas—St. Michael's Day—the merchant's ship was found drifting in the Mediterranean. The yard-arms were covered with vultures. All hands were dead. The box was shut, but the lead seal had been broken. It was brought to a monastery at Cadiz. The monks read the Latin inscription, along with the merchant's own log. They decided the sword was—and I quote from my friend's translation—a fragment vomited up from Hell itself. They sealed the box again and placed it in the catacombs under the cathedral. The document ends by saying that the monks who handled the box soon fell ill and died."
Neidelman looked up at Hatch. "Is this supposed to have some kind of bearing on our current effort?"
"Yes," said Hatch steadily. "Very much so."
"Enlighten me, then."
"Wherever St. Michael's Sword has been, people have died. First, the merchant's family. Then the monks. And when Ockham snaps it up, eighty of his crew die right here on the island. Six months later, Ockham's ship is found drifting just like the merchant ship, with all hands dead."
"Interesting story," Neidelman said. "But I don't think it's worth stopping work for me to listen to. This is the twentieth century. It has no bearing on us."
"That's where you're wrong. Haven't you noticed the recent rash of illnesses among the crew?"
Neidelman shrugged. "Sickness always occurs in a group of this size. Especially when people are becoming tired and the work is dangerous."
"This isn't malingering we're talking about. I've done the blood work. In almost every case, the white cell counts are extremely low. And just this afternoon, one of your digging team came into my office with the most unusual skin disorder I've ever seen. He had ugly rashes and swelling across his arms, thighs, and groin."
"What is it?" Neidelman asked.
"I don't know yet. I've checked my medical references, and I haven't been able to make a specific diagnosis yet. If I didn't know better, I'd say they were buboes."
Neidelman looked at Hatch with a raised eyebrow. "Black death? Bubonic plague, in twentieth-century Maine?"
"As I said, I haven't been able to diagnose it yet."
Neidelman frowned. "Then what are you rabbiting on about?"
Hatch took a breath, controlling his temper. "Gerard, I don't know exactly what St. Michael's Sword is. But it's obviously very dangerous. It's left a trail of death wherever it's gone. I wonder if we were right, assuming that the Spanish meant to wield the sword against Ockham. Perhaps he was meant to capture it."
"Ah," Neidelman nodded, an edge of sarcasm distorting his voice. "Perhaps the sword is cursed after all?" Streeter, standing to one side, sniffed derisively.
"You know I don't believe in curses any more than you do," Hatch snapped. "That doesn't mean there isn't some underlying physical cause to the legend. Like an epidemic. This sword has all the characteristics of a Typhoid Mary."
"And that would explain why several of our sick crew have bacterial infections, while another has viral pneumonia, and yet another a weird infection of the teeth. Just what kind of epidemic might this be, Doctor?"
Hatch looked at the lean face. "I know the diversity of diseases is puzzling. The point is, the sword is dangerous. We've got to figure out how and why before we plunge ahead and retrieve it."
Neidelman nodded, smiling distantly. "I see. You can't figure out why the crew is sick. You're not even sure what some of them are sick of. But the sword is somehow responsible for everything."
"It isn't just the illnesses," Hatch countered. "You must know that a big Nor'easter is brewing. If it keeps heading our way, it'll make last week's storm look like a spring shower. It would be crazy to continue."
"Crazy to continue," Neidelman repeated. "And just how do you propose to stop the dig?"
Hatch paused for a moment as this sunk in. "By appealing to your good sense," he said, as calmly as he could.
There was a tense silence. "No," said Neidelman, with a heavy tone of finality. "The dig continues."
"Then your stubbornness leaves me no choice. I'm going to have to shut down the dig myself for the season, effective immediately."
"How, exactly?"
"By invoking clause nineteen of our contract."
Nobody spoke.
"My clause, remember?" Hatch went on. "Giving me the right to stop the dig if I felt conditions had become too dangerous."
Slowly, Neidelman fished his pipe out of a pocket and loaded it with tobacco. "Funny," he said in a quiet, dead voice, turning to Streeter. "Very funny, isn't it, Mr. Streeter? Now that we're only thirty hours from the treasure chamber, Dr. Hatch here wants to shut the whole operation down."
"In thirty hours," Hatch said, "the storm may be right on top of us—"
"Somehow," the Captain interrupted, "I'm not at all convinced it's the sword, or the storm, that you're really worried about. And these papers of yours are medieval mumbo jumbo, if they're real at all. I don't see why you . . ." He paused. Then something dawned in his eyes. "But yes. Of course I see why. You have another motive, don't you?"
"What are you talking about?"
"If we pull out now, Thalassa will lose its entire investment. You know very well that our investors have already faced ten percent overrun calls. They're not going to cough up another twenty million for next year's dig. But that's exactly what you're counting on, isn't it?"
"Don't lay your paranoid fantasies on me," Hatch said angrily.
>
"Oh, but they're not fantasy, are they?" Neidelman lowered his voice further. "Now that you've gotten the information you need out of Thalassa, now that we've practically opened the front door for you, you'd love nothing more than to see us fail. Then, next year, you could come in, finish the job, and get all the treasure. And most importantly, you'd get St. Michael's Sword." His eyes glittered with suspicion. "It all makes sense. It explains why, for example, you were so insistent on that clause nineteen. It explains the computer problems, the endless delays. Why everything worked on the Cerberus but went haywire on the island. You had it all figured out from the beginning." He shook his head bitterly. "And to think I trusted you. To think I came to you when I suspected we had a saboteur among us."
"I'm not trying to cheat you out of your treasure. I don't give a shit about your treasure. My only interest is in the safety of the crew."
"The safety of the crew," Neidelman repeated derisively. He fished a box of matches from his pocket, removed one, and scratched it into life. But instead of lighting his pipe, he suddenly thrust it close to Hatch's face. Hatch backed off slightly.
"I want you to understand something," Neidelman continued, flicking out the match. "In thirty hours, the treasure will be mine. Now that I know what your game is, Hatch, I'm simply not going to play. Any effort to stop me will be met with force. Do I make myself clear?"
Hatch looked carefully at Neidelman, trying to read what was going on behind the cold expression. "Force?" he repeated. "Is that a threat?"
There was a long silence. "That would be a reasonable interpretation," said Neidelman, dropping his voice even lower.
Hatch drew himself up. "When the sun rises tomorrow," he said, "if you're not gone from this island, you will be evicted. And I give you my personal guarantee that if anyone is killed or hurt, you will be charged with negligent homicide."
Neidelman turned. "Mr. Streeter?"
Streeter stepped forward.
"Escort Dr. Hatch to the dock."
Streeter's narrow features creased into a smile.
"You have no right to do this," Hatch said. "This is my island."
Streeter stepped forward and grasped Hatch's arm.
Taking a step to the side, Hatch balled his right hand into a fist and shot his knuckles into the man's solar plexus. It was not a hard blow, but it was placed with anatomical exactness. Streeter dropped to his knees, mouth gaping, the wind knocked out of him.
"Touch me again," Hatch said to the gasping figure, "and you'll be carrying your balls around in a cup."
Streeter struggled to his feet, violence in his eyes.
"Mr. Streeter, I don't think force will be necessary," said Neidelman sharply, as the team leader moved forward menacingly. "Dr. Hatch will return to his boat peaceably. He realizes there is absolutely nothing he can do here to stop us, now that we've smoked out his plan. And I think he realizes how foolish it would be to try."
He turned back to Hatch. "I'm a fair man. You took your best shot, and you failed. Your presence is no longer required on Ragged Island. If you leave, and allow me to finish as we agreed, you'll still get your share of the treasure. But if you try to stop me..." Silently, he swept his hands back and placed them on his hips, pulling his slicker aside in the process. Hatch could clearly see the handgun snugged into his belt.
"Well, what do you know," Hatch said. "The Captain's strapped."
"Get going," said Streeter, stepping forward.
"I can find my own way." Hatch backed up to the far wall, and then—without taking his eyes off the Captain—he climbed out of the excavation to the base of the array, where the lift was already depositing the first diggers of the next shift.
Chapter 41
The rising sun tore free of a distant bar of cloud and cast a brilliant trail across the ocean, illuminating a crowd of boats packing Stormhaven's small harbor from channel entrance to piers.
Chugging slowly through a gap in the center of the crowd was a small dragger, Woody Clay standing at its wheel. The boat veered and almost brushed the peppercan buoy at the head of the channel before steadying and resuming its outward course; Clay was an indifferent sailor.
Reaching the harbor entrance, he turned the boat and cut the motor. Raising a battered megaphone, he shouted instructions to the surrounding crowd, his voice full of such conviction that even the ancient, buzzing amplification could not distort it. He was answered by a series of coughs and roars as numerous engines came to life. The boats at the front of the harbor cast off their moorings, pulled through the channel, and throttled up. They were followed by more, then still more, until the bay filled with long spreading wakes of the fleet as it headed in the direction of Ragged Island.
Three hours later and six miles to the southeast, the light struggled down through the mist into the vast, damp labyrinth of braces and cribbing that made up the Water Pit. It threw a dim, spectral illumination over the complex workings that filled the Pit's mouth.
At the lowest depths of the Pit, 180 feet down, neither day nor night had any relevance. Gerard Neidelman stood beside a small staging platform, watching the crew dig feverishly beneath him. It was a few minutes short of noon. Faintly, above the grumble of the air ducts and the clank of the winch chain, Neidelman could just make out a clamor of air horns and boat cannon on the surface.
He listened for a moment. Then he reached for his portable telephone.
"Streeter?"
"Here, Captain," came the voice from Orthanc, 200 feet above, faint and gravelly through a wash of static.
"Let's have your report."
"About two dozen boats in all, Captain. They've formed a ring around the Cerberus, trying to set up a blockade. Guess they think that's where everyone is." There was a further crackle of static that might have been a laugh. "Only Rogerson's on board to hear them. I sent the rest of the research team ashore last night."
"Any signs of sabotage or interference?"
"No, Captain, they're pretty tame. A lot of noise, but nothing to worry about."
"Anything else?"
"Magnusen's picking up a sensor anomaly at the sixty-four foot level. It's probably nothing, the secondary grid shows nothing unusual."
"I'll take a look." Neidelman thought for a moment. "Mr. Streeter, I'd like you to meet me there."
"Aye, aye."
Neidelman climbed up the ladder from the dig site to the base of the electric lift, his movements lithe and fluid despite his lack of sleep. He took the lift up to the sixty-foot level, then moved out onto the platform and climbed carefully down the spars to the errant sensor. He verified the sensor was operational and returned to the platform just as Streeter completed the descent down the far side of the array.
"Any problems?" Streeter asked.
"Not with the sensor," Neidelman reached over and switched off Streeter's comm link to Orthanc. "But I've been thinking about Hatch."
There was a squeal of gears, then a mechanical groan from below, as the powerful winch pulled another load of dirt and mud up from the dig site. The two men watched as the large iron bucket rose from the depths, condensation gleaming under the harsh lights.
"Only eight more feet to the treasure chamber," Neidelman murmured as he watched the bucket recede into the circle of light overhead. "Ninety-six inches."
He turned to Streeter. "I want all nonessential personnel off the island. Everyone. Say whatever you want, use that protest or the storm as excuses, if you like. We don't want a lot of extra bodies around rubbernecking during the actual extraction. When the shift changes at two, send the diggers home, too. This next shift should see the job finished. We'll winch the treasure up in the bucket, and I'll carry the sword myself. We need to get it out as soon as possible. Can Rogerson be trusted?"
"He'll do what I tell him, sir."
Neidelman nodded. "Bring the Cerberus and my command vessel close to the island, but keep them well clear of the reef. We'll use the launches and split the treasure between the two boats, as a precautio
n." He fell silent a moment, his eyes far away.
"I don't think we're through with him," he began again in a low voice, as if his thoughts had never left Hatch. "I've underestimated him all along and I may be underestimating him now. Once he gets home, he's going to start thinking. He'll realize it might take days, even weeks, to get a legal injunction against us. And possession is nine tenths of the law. He could cry clause nineteen until he's blue in the face. But by that point, everything would be academic."
He touched Streeter's lapel. "Who would have thought a billion dollars wouldn't be enough for the greedy bastard? He's going to think of a plan. I want you to find out what that plan is, and stop it. We're only hours away from Ockham's treasure, and, by God, I don't want any nasty surprises before we get to it." He gripped the lapel suddenly. "And for Chrissake, whatever you do, don't let Hatch set foot on this island again. He could do a lot of damage."
Streeter looked back impassively. "Any particular way you want him handled?"
Neidelman released the lapel and took a step back. "I've always found you to be a creative and resourceful seaman, Mr. Streeter. I leave the matter to your discretion."
Streeter's eyebrows rose momentarily in what might have been anticipation, or perhaps merely a muscle spasm.
"Aye, aye, sir," he said.
Neidelman leaned forward and switched the comm set back on. "Keep in touch, Mr. Streeter."
Then he was back on the lift and descending once again. Streeter turned back toward the ladder array. In a moment, he, too, was gone.
Chapter 42
Hatch stood on the wide old porch of the house on Ocean Lane. What had been merely a weatherman's threat the day before was fast becoming reality. To the east, a heavy swell was coming in over the sea, creating a torn line of breakers on the reefs of Breed's Point. On the opposite side of the harbor, beyond the channel buoys, the surf flung itself again and again up the granite cliffs beyond Burnt Head Light, the boom of the rollers carrying across the bay in measured cadences. The sky was slung across with the ugly underbelly of a massive foul-weather front, the clouds churning and coiling as they raced across the water. Farther offshore, an evil patch of surf seethed about Old Hump. Hatch shook his head; if the swell was already smothering the bald rock, it was going to be a hell of a blow.
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