With no further explanation, Keene placed two calls. The first was to Bruzual. All McKendry gleaned from the conversation was that his partner had asked the security minister to send them a fax care of their hotel.
The second call was to Frik on board the Assegai. Again, Keene asked that a fax be sent to them at the hotel, one that urged Captain Calisto to give them all possible assistance.
“Frikkie’s in Grenada,” Keene said, after he’d completed the call. “Simon’s flying in today.”
Chapter Thirteen
Peta was pleasantly surprised when Simon called her before tgleaving Miami to ask her to pick him up at Grenada’s Point Saline Airport and transport him and his equipment to the Assegai. Given the fact that she had made it so clear that she believed he was risking his life to dive again, now or ever, she had thought he would slip quietly onto and off the island.
Simon was one of the last people to debark. He looked pale and tired.
“How was your flight?” Peta asked.
“Fine until we landed. The pilot must have had a hot date the way he stopped short on the runway.”
“I guess he didn’t want to taxi very far. Lord knows there’s no lack of runway. The Cubans saw to that.”
Simon laughed. “As I recall, they were building it long enough to handle bombers. That’s one of the real reasons why our forces took the revolution seriously, no matter what the president said about the medical students.”
Nodding, Peta said, “Eventually they took it seriously, but not before a lot of good people were killed. Arthur was almost one of them.” She stopped talking and waited for the sudden wave of nausea to pass. Simon was respectful enough not to try to say anything more.
When his gear was loaded and they were pulling out of the airport, Peta said, “I’m going to keep trying to talk you out of this madness, you know.”
“I know, but I’m going to do it anyway, so you might as well stop nagging me about it.”
“If that’s how you feel, Simon, why did you let me know that you were coming?”
“Tell you the truth, I don’t know. Maybe I really did want you to talk me out of this.” He looked at her and sighed. “Or maybe I just wanted to have the most beautiful woman in Grenada chauffeur me around. Not doing too much else with women these days, not even the ugly ones.”
“That’s hard to believe,” Peta said, though in fact she did believe him.
Simon changed the subject. “I’d like to see the Rex Grenadian,” he said, referring to a large resort near the airport, one of the newest on the island. “Could we stop in for a drink?”
Peta hesitated. Simon’s color was awful. Positively gray. “You probably shouldn’t be drinking.”
“You’re not my nursemaid,” he said. He sighed again, loudly. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you.” He thankfully paused a moment while she negotiated one of the dangerous roundabouts along the two-lane strip of concrete called the Maurice Bishop Highway, and headed down the side road that would lead them to the nearby resort.
When they were safely driving through the small patch of palms and mahogany that separated the northern beaches of Point Saline from the airport, Simon said, “It’s about Arthur. I didn’t have a chance in New York to tell you how sorry I was, not really. We’re sailing tonight. I’d like to talk about him a little. Have a chance to—”
“You’ll have Frik around. You can do that with him.” Instantly she was angry with herself for her tone.
“Frik doesn’t believe in mourning the dead.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I guess it was my turn to get snippy.” Peta swerved to the left to avoid a water truck heading back to the main road, and turned onto the Rex Grenadian’s driveway.
The resort fronted on two beaches. One of them had no name that she could recall. The other was Parc a Boeuf Beach. Where they had found such an ugly name for so magnificent a stretch of sand was a mystery to Peta and everyone else. The hotel was frequented mainly by rich Americans; the Europeans preferred to be on Morne Rouge Bay or Grand Anse Beach. The Rex boasted a man-made, lushly landscaped three-acre lake, complete with aesthetically placed islands and waterfalls, as well as three restaurants, and an attentive staff.
All in all, it was an excellent facility, for the traveler who was looking for a place to enjoy the tropical climate without having to interact with the people who actually lived there. Because it was too expensive to be a local hangout, it was not so Grenadian that you couldn’t shut your eyes and imagine yourself on almost any tropical island.
Sitting at the resort’s poolside bar, staring out over the Caribbean, Peta listened to Simon talk about his memories of the man she loved. She didn’t nag him again about the dive or the drinking. It was obvious that he was feeling his own mortality very acutely.
A couple of hours later, she delivered a considerably more mellow Simon into Frikkie’s hands.
Chapter Fourteen
“Port of Spain is busier every time I see it,” Simon said, admiring how gracefully Frik eased the sleek, 120-foot Assegai into its berth at the private docks. Despite the residual effects of the lab accident to his left hand—and with the help of twin screws which made maneuvering easier—he operated the throttles with surgical skill.
Frik turned and grinned through the shade under the brim of his battered Panama hat. Barefoot, in white slacks and white shirt, he looked every inch the patrician yachtsman. “The busier the better,” he said.
“Do I take that to mean you own a piece of the action?”
Another grin. “A big piece.”
Just what Frikkie needs, Simon thought, looking around at the tankers and container-laden freighters that clogged the harbor and dwarfed the yacht. Another revenue stream.
In contrast to his host, Simon wore torn sneakers, raggedy cut-offs, and a profoundly ugly red-and-orange Hawaiian shirt—the uglier the better, was his rule. With his bull frame and short silver hair, he’d been mistaken all over the world for Brian Keith by people blithely unaware that the actor had killed himself back in 1997. Thanks in large part to satellite TV, old shows and old stars seemed to live forever. He never disabused these folk of their mistaken notion, especially if they were female. Amazing how free women became with their favors in the presence of celebrity.
Simon tipped up the brim of his olive drab boonie cap, a concession to the skin of his face and ears which was proving a gold mine for the dermatological profession, some of whose members were putting their kids through school as a result of all the little cancers they’d carved from his hide. Well, what could you expect after a lifetime in the tropical sun?
That sun hung hot and bright in the immaculate morning sky; the water lay calm below, a gentle briny breeze kept them cool on the afterdeck: a day to savor. But then, every day was a day to be savored when you’d been told time and again that you wouldn’t have too many left unless you changed your ways. And what changes were those? Oh, not much, simply eliminate everything that elevated daily life from mere existence to something worth looking forward to.
Simon caught the eye of Frik’s man Friday and held up his glass, rattling the cubes. “Another Bloody, if you please, Saaliim. There’s a good lad, and make this one light … on the tomato juice, if you get my drift.”
Saaliim grinned as he took the glass. “I hear you clear, Mr. Brousseau.”
“How many is that?” Frik said, staring at Simon.
“I haven’t been counting.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be cutting down?”
“Where’d you hear that?”
Frik pursed his lips. “I have my sources.”
“Find new ones,” Simon grumbled. “They’re full of shit.” He hid his annoyance by accepting the fresh Bloody Mary from the silver tray Saaliim proffered. He sipped, savoring the tang of the beef bouillon Saaliim always added to his pepper-laden tomato juice, and toasted the Honduran. “My compliments to the chef.”
Three doctors now, four if you counted Peta, had told him the
same thing: Take your prescriptions, cut the booze to two drinks a day, watch the saturated fats, drop thirty pounds, limit yourself to less energetic sex, and substitute snorkeling—which Simon had always thought of as snorekeling—for scuba.
In other words, live small.
Simon didn’t know how, nor did he wish to learn. Unless medical science took several giant leaps, he was going to die anyway, so why not go the way he had lived.
“Hell, Frikkie, just because I’m fifty-eight doesn’t mean I’m ready for a nursing home.”
“You’re sixty-two, Simon, and I didn’t mean—”
“I’m fine,” he said, taking another gulp of his drink. “Fit as a fiddle—a frigging Stradivarius.”
Yeah. One that’s been run over by a truck.
According to the docs, he might be in his early sixties but he had the heart of a man in his early eighties, and had to act accordingly; not run around like a guy in his thirties. He was suffering from a bad case of the ups and downs, with everything going in the wrong direction: his cholesterol, blood sugar, and blood pressure all up, his erections down. If he took his nitroglycerin on schedule, he could get through most activities, even sex, without chest pain; trouble was he couldn’t get it up for sex without a dose of Viagra, but mixing Viagra and nitro will kill you. So what he’d do was skip the nitro and pay for an orgasm with the sensation of a bull elephant camping on his chest.
Getting old sucked.
“At least you stopped smoking.”
Simon nodded. “Wasn’t easy, but it got so every time I lit up it felt like the Marlboro cowboy’s horse was taking a dump in my lungs, so I tossed them.”
Frik laughed. “Simon Brousseau, ever the epitome of earthy.”
“Yes, well, I’ve always believed in calling a spade a shit shovel,” Simon responded, though he wasn’t entirely sure how to take Frik’s comment. At times like this he wished he’d had a little more education. Not that he regretted for an instant dropping out of Florida State, but when he was around people like Frik and Arthur and even Peta, and they’d mention the title of a book or recite a line from a play or a poem that he’d never read, he felt left out. He’d been boning up on Shakespeare—had a book of the Bard’s plays in his duffel, in fact—but he was a long way from feeling comfortable with the strange sound of centuries-old English.
Maybe that was why he found the underwater world so alluring, and kept returning to it as often as he could. No subtexts with undersea life: if you’re not looking for a meal you’re trying to avoid becoming one.
He guessed growing up in Key West was a contributing factor, too. He’d spent his youth living half a dozen feet above sea level, surrounded by reefs teeming with a mind-boggling array of life in a dazzling variety of shapes and colors that drew people from all over the world. Graduating from snorkeling to scuba at age eight, he was guiding tourists on a dive boat by the time he was twelve. Working as a salvage diver between his frosh and sophomore year, he along with a buddy found the wreck of the Santa Clara. The long-forgotten galleon wasn’t a treasure ship, but Simon’s share of the salvaged jewelry and doubloons was enough to set him up in his own salvage business and make returning to college seem like a waste of time.
He’d kept going after deeper and deeper wrecks, and when the available equipment and gas mixes weren’t up to the job, he made his own modifications. Over the years the income from the patents on those innovations had left him a wealthy man. At age thirty he’d sold his business to become a scuba bum, hiring out for diving jobs that challenged his equipment and his nerve, and exploring the diving meccas of the world: off Yap, in the South Pacific, he’d gazed up in wonder from the sea floor at the schools of manta rays parading above, hitched rides on the whale sharks of Ningaloo Bay, and, until two years ago, held the deep sea depth and endurance record.
Along the years he’d done a number of extreme dives for Frik, which eventually led to his induction into the club.
“Okay, down to business,” Simon said, placing his empty glass on Saaliim’s silver tray. “What haven’t you told me about these doodads and the contraption they’re part of?”
“Not much. And I think you’ll better appreciate them if I show you rather than simply tell you.”
As Frik led the way down the dock toward the parking lot, Simon heard quick footsteps padding up behind him.
“Excuse me?”
He turned to find a thirtyish brunette wearing a well-stuffed CCNY T-shirt and a bikini bottom.
“Mr. Keith,” she said, smiling as she thrust her right hand forward; she held a pen and a cocktail napkin in her left. “I’m such a big fan of yours. Would it be too much to ask you for your autograph?”
Simon glanced around as he shook her hand. He leaned close and spoke in a half whisper. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t let this get around. I’m here scouting locations for a hush-hush project.”
She lowered her voice to his level. “Really?”
“And when Stevie gets here, he’ll want a little space.”
“Stevie Wonder?”
“No.” Simon lowered his voice further. “Spielberg.”
“Ohmygod!” Her pale blue eyes widened as her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh! My! God!”
“Shhh!” he whispered, glancing around again and taking the pen and napkin from her. “Mum’s the word.” He scribbled something that might pass for “Brian Keith” on the napkin and passed it back to her. “Here. Write your name and number on the corner there and I’ll give you a call when I get back in a couple of days.”
“Sure.” Her hand trembled as she wrote. She tore off the corner and handed it to him. “Really. Call me.”
He glanced at the scrap, then gave her a lopsided grin. “Will do, Lori. Talk to you soon.”
At the end of the dock he found Frik waiting by an idling dark green Hummer. “Who was that?”
“Just another of my many fans.” He feigned astonishment as Frik slipped behind the wheel. “What? No driver?”
“Like with my boats, I prefer to drive my own cars,” Frik said. “And besides, with no extra set of ears around, we can talk.”
“Can it wait? I’m not in the mood for talk right now.” The potent Bloodies had relaxed him into a deliciously dreamy haze.
The Afrikaner nodded and Simon leaned back into his seat to watch Port of Spain’s squares, parks, and surreal mix of Catholic churches, Muslim mosques, Hindu and Jewish temples slip past the window. By the time they drove into the wooded uplands, he had tugged his cap down over his eyes and leaned back in the seat for a little siesta.
He awakened with a start as a loud thump was followed by Frik’s shouted curses and the feel of the seatbelt cinching across his chest. The Humvee jerked to a stop.
“Goddamn bastards!”
Simon straightened himself and looked around. They were on the outskirts of a little village. The reason for the sudden braking was splattered all over the hood and windshield. At first he thought they’d hit a small animal, but he soon realized what the yellow-orange pulp dotted with black, BB-sized seeds really was. Someone had pelted them with an overripe papaya.
The Hummer’s heavy-duty wipers and windshield washers made quick work of the mess, and soon they were on their way again. As they roared through the village, Simon noticed an occasional raised fist and more than a few angry looks.
“I take it that piece of fruit didn’t drop from a tree.”
“Superstitious Trini clods,” Frik said, eyes straight ahead.
“May I also assume it’s not Humvees they’re superstitious about?”
“It’s the drill site. They’ve got some local legends about the Dragon’s Mouth. They think drilling into the bottom there will offend the Obeahman and bring bad luck to the island.”
Simon nodded. His years in the Caribbean had taught him a little about Obeah, though it was a much less well-known superstition than voodoo or Santeria. An Obeahman was a kind of sorcerer or shaman who controlled spirits which he could put into o
bjects, like fetishes, and make them do his will.
Simon’s one memorable encounter with an Obeahman was on Jamaica, where a buddy had almost hit one of them walking along the side of the road. The man threw something, which hit the car, and a moment later the engine sputtered and died. No matter what his friend did, the car wouldn’t start. He had a mechanic tear the damn thing apart and put it back together like new, but it still wouldn’t work. Finally, he tracked down the Obeahman and gave him two dozen chickens as penance. After that, the car never so much as backfired.
“Did you know this beforehand?”
“Of course.”
“But you went ahead and drilled anyway.”
“This is the twenty-first century, Simon. About time they moved into at least the twentieth, don’t you think?”
“And you’re going to move them?”
“My civic duty.”
Simon smiled and shook his head. Typical Frikkie logic. If he wanted something, he could always find a rationale for why he should have it. The rest of the picture was coming into focus.
“So that’s why you need me: the local boys say no way, José.”
“I could find somebody,” Frik said. “Haven’t met a superstition yet that’s proof against the right amount of cold hard cash. But I need someone comfortable in deep water. And most of all I need someone I can trust implicitly.”
Simon appreciated the last remark, but he was more interested in the one before it.
“How deep?”
“Not sure. The drill broke into the cavern about seventy feet below the floor, and the floor is an average of one hundred and twenty feet down.”
Simon nodded. That meant an operating depth of two hundred or more, at over eight atmospheres of pressure—just the kind of dive the docs had warned him against. But what did they know? They weren’t divers. He’d done it before.
“I’ll need mixed gases, a tri-mix.”
Frik glanced at him. “What’s that?”
“A deep-diving nitrox mix that lowers your oxygen for the bottom time, and raises the other gases. You have to know what you’re doing, lowering one gas, raising the other. You couldn’t breathe that mix at the surface … it would kill you.”
The Daredevils' Club ARTIFACT Page 9
