Leaving the ship's workhorse—a twenty-foot panga with a 60-hp Johnson outboard—on the surface unattended was also a no-no, so we figured Po Thang left on guard got us around that one.
Chino had carefully photographed the vase, then reburied it, but we knew where it was, and the GPS coordinates told us where to anchor the panga so as not to drop ten pounds of steel smack on top of our future fortune.
"So, the way I figure it, a vase that size, packed with sand, has got to weigh a lot, but with the basket and net, bringing it up should be no problem. I'm not even going to try carrying it to the surface. We'll haul it in with the net's line once we get back into the panga."
"Good plan. You got the package ready?"
"You betcha."
"Okay, then, let's do it."
Po Thang whined and paced when we went over the side, but I told him to stay, and by some miracle, he did. We also attached and floated his raft nearby, just in case his little doggie mind forgot he was supposed to stay put. Getting himself over the water-slicked gunwales of the panga was beyond even his magical canine talents, even though he'd tried over and over, only to slide back into the water.
We just followed the twenty-foot panga's anchor line down, as I was afraid we'd dislodge the anchor if we pulled ourselves to the bottom using the rope. The water was clear, and Jan and I were comfortable by now with the equipment, if not the idea that we were out here on our own for the first time on a sixty-foot dive.
I heard Jan make a noise and turned to see her pointing to a large school of sardines, their silver sides whirling in the blue as if in a kaleidoscope. We hovered and watched for a few seconds before remembering we were international artifact thieves on a mission.
We located the vase site easily, since the small white flag Chino planted was still there. Digging the vase out was harder and took more time than we thought it would, as the sand kept collapsing back into the hole. Finally we managed to run two lines under it, lifted one end and began working the net around the base, one inch at a time.
I was burning air like the amateur diver I am, and if the water hadn't been, according to my dive computer, sixty-eight, I'm sure I'd be filling my suit with sweat. One thing's for certain, I was tiring rapidly, and Jan probably was, as well.
After what seemed like an eternity, but was probably only thirty minutes, the vase was in the net and into the basket. It took another ten minutes to plant the vase I bought at a local store that was blue and white, but otherwise in no way resembled the original except in color and shape. We covered it well, replanted the flag, and pointed to the surface, leaving the basket on the bottom.
We knew we didn't have to do stops on the way up, but we followed the rules set by Chino and only ascended to thirty feet before taking a rest, and catching our breath. Once again, the sardines caught our attention and while my breathing returned to somewhere near normal, I enjoyed the view.
Jan tugged on my hand, grunted, and pointed to our left. A school of dolphin attacked the sardine ball, cutting through and herding them. Then cormorants began diving, rocketing straight down into the melee, and further panicking the sardines. I'd seen these bait boils on the surface many times, but watching it from below was both exhilarating and a little scary. I also knew the commotion up there had to be sending Po Thang into a frenzy.
Sure enough, another burst of bubbles and red fur near the surface announced Po Thang's entry into the kerfuffle. I heard what was probably a giggle from Jan and we headed up.
Po Thang was dog paddling madly toward one sea gull, then another, barking to beat the band. When he saw us, he headed for me and I prepared to fend him off. Being hugged in the water by a large dog is not the best thing for someone trying to stay afloat. I moved the raft between us and he launched himself on it, torn between snagging a bird that sat there, and climbing onto my head.
Jan was already in the panga when I used my last bit of strength to pull myself in and remove my mask. We were right in the middle of the boil now, with frenzied sardines actually launching themselves into the panga. Po Thang managed to snag one in midair, then got the funniest look on his face when he realized he had a mouthful of slimy, wiggling, fish.
As he spit out the sardine, we collapsed into a giggle-fit bordering on hysteria, a combination of fatigue, stress, and excitement. It was then that I saw the large fin headed for Po Thang's flimsy, rocking raft.
"Oh, crap! Jan, look!"
She turned and shrieked, getting Po Thang's attention. He cocked his head, then launched himself from the raft into the panga just as a sailfish the size of a taxi cab broke the surface in pursuit of lunch.
The huge fish went airborne, snagged a sardine, and dove, sending a wall of water over us.
Po Thang yelped and dove under my legs, Jan yelped as well as the big fish's wake rocked the boat. We held on tight as the panga, always seaworthy, settled out. It was then I felt a tug on my wrist. I checked to make sure the line to our vase was still attached.
The sailfish suddenly reversed direction, and came straight at us again in pursuit of more sardines. This time, when he breeched, I saw piece of yellow polypropylene line trailing from his mouth.
"Jan, that big mother has our vase!"
"Holy crap, what are—"
She froze in mid-sentence as her eyes widened and dropped to my wrist.
The wrist I'd wrapped several times with yellow polypropylene line.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
I stared dumbly at the line tightening around my wrist, but Jan sprang into action, reached into her dive scabbard, and slid out a razor-sharp, titanium bladed knife. As she reached for the line, I yelled, "No! If you cut it we'll lose the vase."
"If I don't, you're either going to lose that hand, or go on a water-skiing trip. He'll drown you."
The sailfish's sail appeared on the surface nearby, but he was rapidly swimming away from us. It was only a matter of seconds until he hit the end of his rope, so to speak.
I lunged for the bow of the panga and took a wrap on a cleat with what slack I had left before letting Jan sever the line near my arm. Less than ten seconds later the panga pitched forward so wildly, we were all three thrown into a heap, then the boat settled and the fish pulled us fifty feet, until the anchor did its job.
Jerked backward, he reacted to the hit, and, fighting for his life, once again soared skyward, throwing his huge head and sword-like beak from side-to-side as he jumped. Maybe he'd been hooked before and managed to throw the hook, or maybe it's just what they instinctively do, but one thing was obvious: that basket was lodged somewhere inside him, and it wasn't coming loose easily.
With the line taut, he began circling the panga. Something was gonna have to give. I'd fought a three-hundred-pound marlin once, and remembered the boat captain's instructions for what I should do, and his handling of the boat in order to fight him.
"Jan, cut the anchor loose, and standby for a boat ride! We have to tire him out."
The minute the sailfish felt some slack, he took off like a flash, and we braced ourselves for when he hit the end of the line and started towing us again. If we could wear him down, we might have half a chance of dragging him into shallow water and getting our basket. Okay, so we probably didn't have a chance in hell, but we had to try.
He towed us for a couple of miles without showing any sign of tiring, so I started the outboard and put it in reverse, increasing the critter's drag. Another two miles later, he still didn't lag, and now he was headed for the bay's entrance, and open ocean.
"Hetta, we gotta do something. We can't let him take us out to sea."
"Why not? We have to wear him down somehow."
"And then what? What if he just dies and sinks?"
"Then we'll drag him back in behind us. He's not getting away with our vase."
"Maybe it's...we stopped!"
"Feel the line."
She reached over the bow and grabbed the line. "It's loose."
"Is it hanging straight down?"
<
br /> She leaned over. "No, it's under us. Hetta! Kill the...."
I reached to shut down the outboard, but it was too late. It ground to a stop, the propeller fouled with yellow rope. "At least we didn't cut the line, thank goodness. But now we'll have to wait this fish out, and when he dies, clear our prop before motoring back inside the bay. Or maybe we'll get lucky and the tide will turn and float us back in." We had oars but paddling a panga is akin to herding cats.
"Uh, we're moving sideways."
The big guy had us bow and stern, and if he pulled us crossways into the waves outside the protection of the bay, we could easily take on water and sink. It was time to face facts and cut him—and my vase—loose.
Jan took her knife out again and was moving to the panga's aft when we heard, "Ohayo, Cohee! We come fast!"
Kazoo and Moto were headed our way rapidly, and Jan and I cheered them on. I tried not to think about how much 'splainin' we had in our future.
Our Japanese saviors were so excited about that sailfish, they didn't question that we'd caught him on a piece of polypropylene line. They tied to us and began pulling our panga, and the fish, back into the bay with the powerful dual 100hp motors on their thirty-foot boat. The sailfish, already worn down by us, hardly fought and by the time we were near the beach, gave up the fight completely.
"Can we set him free somehow?" Jan asked.
Not with my vase inside him, we can't. How I was going to get to it, if it was indeed still in the fish, right under the noses of Kazoo and Moto, I had no idea.
Kazoo shook his head. "No, Jan-san, he will not live. He fought bravely, but now he will make delicious sashimi, and soup." As if on cue, the fish gave one last gasp and went still.
I felt a sadness that must have showed, for Moto asked, "Do you wish us to take him now?"
I shook my head. "No, we caught him, we'll take him in. Can you clear my prop and help tie him alongside? We'll meet you at the fishing pier in Puerto San Carlos. You two can clean him there where they have a hoist, and a large concrete cleaning table, okay?"
"As you wish," he said with a bow, and a look that said, "If this crazy broad wants to haul in a nine-foot fish with a twenty-foot boat, so be it."
We still didn't know for sure that the basket and vase were in the fish, but I couldn't check for my treasure until we got rid of Kazoo and Moto. The minute they motored away toward Puerto San Carlos, I pulled all loose yellow line into the boat until it went taut. The rest was still inside the fish, whose beautiful silvery skin was fading, and his large, accusatory, black eye clouding. I tugged on the tight line and took a wrap on a cleat. Jan and I then put our combined weight into pulling on the line, and the fish's head raised.
Peering down into his open mouth, I said, "Okay, Jan, you stick your arm down his throat and see if that vase is still there."
"How about you stick...never mind, no way. You do it."
"Jeez, I have to do everything myself. First though, let's try tugging more on the line, see if something comes loose. Grab your end, and we'll pull on three. One, two—"
We both fell backward into the bow of the boat, but when we did the heavy basket flew out of the fish, bounced on the gunwale and back into the water, but we had, thankfully, tied off the end of the line.
I flinched as the basket hit the solid fiberglass hull, hoping the sand packing the interior protected it from shattering. It took everything we had left in us to hand over hand the net into the boat, and again, when it finally rolled over the gunwale, I was afraid we'd break our hard earned treasure.
We hid the basket under some towels and beat feet for the quay, as promised. A promise I wish I hadn't made, because if left to me, we'd cut the damned fish loose and head for Nao de Chino, but it was not to be.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Jan and I were experiencing an Earnest Hemingway kind of day.
By the time we motored into the harbor with that poor fish tied to our panga, word was out—I still don't know how it happens so fast in Mexico—of our catch and a small crowd was gathered, mostly men, as the women were still in church.
Unlike what happened to the unfortunate Santiago in The Old Man and the Sea, our catch was not eaten by sharks on the way in. During the entire trip, however, scenes from the movie, with Spencer Tracey fighting off the sharks as they attacked his prize over and over, plagued my mind. I didn't care so much about the fish, but Po Thang's reaction to sharks worried me, so as a precaution I tied him tightly to a cleat.
When we pulled alongside the wharf, a couple of strapping young Mexican men climbed into our panga, fastened our sailfish's tail to a hoist, and others on the dock hauled him up.
He weighed in at eighty nine kilos—around two hundred pounds—and was a little over nine feet in length. One local fisherman said it was close to a record, as far as he could recall. Several residents whipped out their phones and asked Jan, me, and Po Thang to pose with our fish, which would yield lots of sashimi material for Kazoo and Moto, with plenty left to share with the Mexicans on the dock. I just wanted to head for the dive ship and check out our vase. As soon as we could gracefully depart, we did, leaving Kazoo and Moto to the dirty work of fish cleaning.
Out of ear shot of the crowd, Jan said, "Ya know, Hetta, we're gonna have to come up with a story of some kind."
"I know. I've been thinking about that. How about we were anchored somewhere looking at reef fish and somehow the sailfish got tangled in our anchor line, and then the anchor was lost sometime during the melee?"
"Sounds good to me, but we know for sure Kazoo and Moto saw the yellow polypropylene line coming out of that fish's mouth, and our anchor line is white." To make her point she reached over and held up the end of what was left of the severed anchor line.
"I have a feeling they aren't going to be saying much of anything."
Jan cocked her head. "Why do you say that?"
"Because they know I saw what was in their panga."
"Abalone? Okay, it's illegal for them to take them, but so what? Who on Nao de Chino would even care? I mean, we're talkin' fried abalone steaks for dinner here."
"Abalone, smabalone. They had handheld metal detectors with them. Last I recall, abalone ain't made of metal."
"I've eaten some that tasted like it."
I grinned. "Me too. Not everyone knows how to cook it, but you can bet Rosa will."
"So, what do you think they're looking for?"
"No idea, but I'm planning to find out. They're out all the time by themselves and I now suspect they have a hidden agenda aside from finding a few artifacts from a sunken galleon. Maybe they're here on a secret mission somehow tied to that hundred thousand dollar investment by some folks back in Japan."
"Surely you don't think they were involved in Ishikawa's death, do you?"
I shook my head. "I doubt it. Hell, they might not even know he's dead. Tomorrow night, at dinner, I'm gonna rattle their cage and see what falls out."
"Speaking of what's falling out, if we're gonna get a look at that vase, we'd better haul butt for the boat. Our Japanese buds will be back way too soon."
"I don't think we can risk it yet. Maybe we should rebury the vase in shallow water near Po Thang's beach and get back to it when no one is around."
"Dang, the curiosity is killing me."
"Me, too, but we have to be so careful now. You take Po Thang on a walk at the beach so he won't see me burying the vase. All we need is for him to dive down and get it."
Po Thang, who was dozing after all the excitement, heard his name and perked up. When he saw we were heading for his beach, he rushed to the bow and when we were still twenty feet out, dove in and swam the rest of the way, then disappeared behind a sand dune. Jan sighed and followed him.
We were both exhausted, but I still had to bury the vase. I checked the tide line. Good, low tide. I found a large rock in four feet of water, tied it to the panga with what yellow line didn't get chewed up by the prop, put the panga motor in reverse, and pulled the rock a
few feet, creating a hole. I planted the vase in the hole, covered it with sand and returned the rock next to it. Then I went ashore and carefully placed stones above the high water mark, making them look randomly scattered, but actually forming an arrow pointing to my treasure. By the time Po Thang came racing back, I was collapsed on the beach.
Behind every fortune lies a great crime. Honore de Balzac
Behind every great crime lies a whole lot of work. Hetta Coffey
We had our full contingent back on board Nao de Chino by Monday evening, with everyone rested and ready to tackle our tough work ahead. Even Jan and I had recovered from our hard weekend of what we hoped was grand larceny.
As expected, Rosa's abalone steaks were melt-in-your mouth delicious, and Jan and I made a contribution of homemade French custard ice cream. Everyone was in good spirits, laughing at our tale of the wild ride behind our sailfish. And, just as I surmised, Kazoo and Moto didn't blink an eye when we blamed the whole thing on our snagged anchor line.
"Oh, by the way Chino," I said casually, nudging Jan with my knee as a signal to watch the Japanese divers for a reaction, "have you heard anything more from Mrs. Ishikawa regarding her husband's disappearance?"
Kazoo only blinked, but Moto's head shot up from the bowl he was holding near his mouth. The chopsticks he was using to shovel rice into his mouth froze in mid-shovel. He stared at Chino as if anticipating his answer, then I caught a movement that was probably a knee-nudge from Kazoo, and Moto went back to his rice shoveling.
Chino swallowed abalone and put down his fork. "I called her this afternoon, to see how she is doing. After the family stayed with us for so long, I felt I owed her at least a courtesy call. She sounded well, but as you know, her English is limited. We mostly communicated through Ishikawa's secretary. Still no news of the missing Airliner, as everyone in the entire world know from so much media coverage, but he was listed as a passenger, so I guess as long as the plane remains missing, she's still hopeful."
Just Needs Killin' (Hetta Coffey Series, Book 6) Page 15
