The Nautical Chart

by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

  "What's the plan?" Coy asked.

  There wasn't any plan, she replied. They were going to drive up to Old Willis viewpoint to hear what Nino Palermo had to say. They would do exactly that, and then go back to the port, leave the car in the parking lot and the keys in the Avis mailbox, and shove off as planned.

  "And if there are complications?"

  Coy was thinking of Horatio Kiskoros and the Berber. Palermo wasn't the type who would be satisfied with offering a proposal and having them say, Well, we'll see, and See you later. With that in mind, before he left the boat he had picked up a Wichard bosun's knife, very sharp, with a four-inch blade and marlinspike, which El Piloto kept to sever halyards in an emergency. He could feel it in the back pocket of his jeans, between his right buttock and the seat. It wasn't a big deal, but it was better than making a social call empty-handed.

  "I don't think there will be any complications," she answered.

  At the cemetery, Tanger stood for a long time in front of one of the tombstones: for Captain Thomas Norman, RM, who died December 6,1805, of wounds received aboard the Mars, at Trafalgar. Then they went up to the viewpoint to study the place they were to meet Palermo at nightfall. Coy watched as she walked over the old concrete mounts, now empty of guns. She studied everything carefully: the access road and the one that climbed toward the tunnels of the Great Siege, the empty whitewashed military barracks, the British flag flying over Moorish Castle, the isthmus where the airport was located, and the broad Atunara beach that stretched northeast to Spanish territory. She brought to mind an officer studying the terrain before a battle, and Coy found himself doing the same—calculating possibilities, safe havens and dangers, the way you study charts and courses of a treacherous coast you want to reach by night.

  Back at the cemetery gate, Tanger said, "Whatever happens, I don't want you to interfere."

  That's easy to say, Coy thought. So he said nothing. He'd thought about asking El Piloto to come with them. In such situations three was a better number than two. But he didn't want to involve his friend too deeply. Not yet.

  Tanger consulted her watch again, opened her purse, and took out a pack of Players. He hadn't seen her smoke since Madrid, and it may well have been the same pack because there were only four cigarettes left. She flicked the lighter and slowly drew on the Player, holding the smoke a long time before exhaling.

  'Are you sure everything's all right?" he wanted to know.

  She nodded. On her right wrist, the minute hand passed 8:45. The glowing tip of her cigarette had burned down to her short fingernails. She rolled down the window and threw the butt into the street.

  "Let's go."

  Just like those films she liked, Coy concluded admiringly. Henry Fonda leaning against the fence below a black-and-white sunrise, readying himself for his walk to the O.K. Corral. And yet there was something so damnably real in her attitude, so strong in the way she restarted the motor and drove up the hill, passing the Hotel Rock and dropping to half speed as the grade of the road became steeper, that it stripped the situation of any possible artifice. This was totally real, and Tanger was not playing a role for his sake. She wasn't trying to impress him. She was the one who was driving, who was concentrating on keeping the car away from the curb and the dangerous precipices, who took the tight curves with cold purpose, confident, one hand on the wheel and the other on the gearshift, glancing from time to time toward the top of the mountain with a frown of concentration. When they arrived at the small turnoff to the viewpoint, she maneuvered the car until it was headed toward the road, downhill. Ready to speed away, Coy thought uneasily, as she opened the car door and got out, her sweater knotted around her waist, and her bag in her hands.

  A ROVER was parked nearby, next to the wall of the old bastion. That was the first thing Coy saw when he got out of the car, along with the Berber chauffeur leaning against the hood. Then his eyes followed a semicircle to the left, the road to the tunnels, the rise toward the rugged peak of the Rock, the abandoned casemates and the balcony overlooking the airport, with the isthmus and Spain in the background, dark mountains, dark sky, gray ocean to the west and black to the east, and the lights of La Linea coming on below in the twilight. A bad place for a talk, he told himself. He looked to the railing of the viewpoint, where Nino Palermo was waiting for them.

  Tanger was already there. He followed her, breathing in the aromas of salt, thyme, and resin on the breeze that stirred the shrubs and treetops. Another look around but no sight of Horacio Kiskoros anywhere. Palermo stood leaning against the railing, hands in the pockets of a light, collarless hunting jacket, a garment that made him seem even more corpulent than he was.

  "Good evening," he said.

  Coy murmured an automatic "Good evening," and Tanger said nothing. She stood stone still before the treasure hunter. "What is your proposition?" she asked.

  As if she weren't there, Palermo spoke to Coy.

  "Some women get right to the point, don't they?"

  Coy didn't answer, refusing to accept the complicity Palermo was offering. He stood back a little, at a distance but alert, listening. She was the boss, and that night he was acting more as bodyguard than anything else. He felt the weight of the knife in his back pocket; the Berber wasn't all that efficient, after all, watching from so far away. He frisked you when you were clean and didn't frisk you when he should have. Maybe he was following orders from Palermo, who wanted to appear diplomatic.

  The treasure hunter turned to Tanger. The fading light was beginning to obscure the features of her face.

  "This hide-and-seek game is ridiculous," he said. "We're wasting powder in salvos, when in the end we're all going to end up at the same place."

  "What place is that?" Tanger asked.

  Her voice was absolutely serene, neither provocative nor insecure. Palermo laughed briefly.

  "At the wreck, of course. And if I'm not there, the police will be. Current law.

  "I know the current law."

  Palermo gestured as if to say, Well, if that's the case I have little to add.

  "You have a proposition," said Tanger.

  "I do. I have_____ God almighty. Of course I have a proposition.

  We're starting with a clean slate, senorita. You have fucked me and I have fucked you." He paused. "Speaking metaphorically, of course. We're even."

  "I don't know where you get the idea that we're even."

  She had spoken in such a low voice that Palermo moved forward slightly, bowing his head to hear better. The gesture gave him an unexpectedly courtly air.

  "I have resources you two will never have," he said. "Experience. Technology. The right contacts."

  "But you don't know where the Dei Gloria is."

  This time she had spoken loudly and clearly. Palermo snorted.

  "I would if- you hadn't put so much time and effort into throwing tacks in my path. Blocking access to that mafia of archivists and librarians... Damn it to hell. You took advantage of my good faith."

  "You haven't had good faith since they took away your pacifier." The hunter of wrecks turned to Coy.

  "You hear her?" he asked. "I could get to like this woman, I swear. I... God almighty. Have you... ? Damn!" He was being sarcastic, panting like a bloodhound after a long run. "You'd better get yours, my friend, before she squeezes you like a lemon and tosses you aside too."

  Stars were beginning to turn themselves on in the sky, as if someone were hitting a light switch. Shadows were closing in over the treasure hunter's face, and now it was the glow of the lights from La Linea, below and behind him, that made his silhouette darker against the railing.

  "Emeralds, don't forget." Palermo was still addressing Coy. "The treasure of the Jesuits. I suppose she hasn't had any choice but to tell you about it by now.... A cargo of emeralds worth... God... a fortune anywhere, including the black market. That is, of course, if she can handle the job and get them out of Spanish waters before the State swoops in on her."

  The same brigh
tness that silhouetted Palermo's broad shoulders lighted Tanger's face. It hardened her features, sharpening her profile against the light curtain of her hair.

  "If she can," Coy said arrogantly, "she has no reason to share anything with you."

  "You forget that I set her on the trail," Palermo protested. "And that I have been working on this for a long time. You forget

  I have ways of setting up a cooperative arrangement that will benefit us all— And you forget that ambition did in the wise little mouse."

  Overhead, like a stage curtain perforated with luminous pinholes, the sky was now black. The sun had to be about fifteen degrees below the horizon, Coy calculated. He watched Ursa Minor take form above Palermo's head and Ursa Major over his right shoulder.

  "Listen, both of you," the seeker of sunken ships was saying. "I want to propose something—Something reasonable. Finding

  treasure isn't just a matter of getting there and opening the chest.

  It took Mel Fisher twenty years to find the Atocha— I contributed my resources and my contacts. That includes connections and bribes so no one interferes______ I even have a market for the emeralds. That means... Do you realize?" Now he was speaking only to Tanger. "A lot of money for us. For all of us."

  "On what terms?"

  "Fifty percent. Half for me and half for you." She motioned with her head toward Coy. 'And him?"

  "He's... Well. Your affair, isn't he? It isn't up to me to reward him for his time."

  He was being sarcastic again, speaking in a low voice, again with the snuffling laugh of a huge, hard-run dog. He hadn't moved from the railing.

  'All you have to do is give me two pieces of information: the latitude and longitude, so I can locate them on Urrutia's nautical

  charts___ And, of course, the cargo manifest and official report of the sinking."

  Tanger took her time answering. She seemed to consider the proposition.

  "You can find all that in the archives," she said. Palermo swore without the least embarrassment.

  "You know that_____ goddamn you______ You have boxed me out of the archives, the same way you stole the Urrutia in Barcelona from under my nose. Even so, I was able to find a reproduction of the chart. I also went to check the goddamn archives and they told me___ " He took a deep breath and let it out noisily. "You know what they told me. Those documents aren't there. They've been requested for research. End of story."

  "What a shame."

  Palermo was far from appreciating her condolence. "No," he said, irritated. "It's a dirty trick that you're responsible for."

  "Is that what you were looking for in my house?"

  "That's what Horacio was supposed to get." The treasure hunter hesitated a few seconds. "As for the dog, I swear to you_________ "

  "Forget the dog."

  Every syllable was like ice. Coy saw Palermo shift uncomfortably. Now the light from below shone on serious feces. One push, Coy thought. One push and that so-and-so would take a walk straight down, one or two hundred yards onto the rocks below. Splat. Something you could call LOG: Law of Opportune Gravity. Then he remembered the Berber posted by the car and considered the possibility that they might be the ones doing the pushing. LDG: Law of Disquieting Gravity.

  "If we add what you know to what I know," Palermo was saying, "and if we stop trying to give each other a hard time, I'll

  promise to put this wreck through a sieve m less than a month___________

  Deadman’s Chest has a specially fitted boat—sonar with a lateral sweep, fathometer, echo sounders, magnetometers, metal detectors, diving equipment... everything we need. Then, once we're down, we have to work with the plans, mark, measure, lay out a grid, suck off sand and mud_________ You don't have a clue what's involved. Besides, emeralds are fragile_______ Imagine_____ centuries of crap to be removed, proper cleaning... You don't even know what an electrolytic bath for cleaning a simple silver coin is. I don't want to think what the damage might be. You two would muck it up. You're amateurs."

  He laughed, without a trace of humor. Suddenly an unexpected flash of light blinded Coy, who was still absorbed in thoughts of pushers and pushees. The light startled him.

  "Besides, you don't have the contacts." Palermo held the lighter to his cigarette. "I know the underground market where this kind of find has to be handled. And I control..." The cigarette between his lips blurred his words. "God almighty. Eighty percent of the world's emerald traffic is under the counter, overseen by the Jewish mafias of Belgium and Italy. You think I don't know why you went to Antwerp?"

  Antwerp. Coy had been to that enormous port, with its miles of cranes and sheds and ships. That Tanger had been there was another surprise—although suddenly he remembered the postcard beside the silver cup in the apartment on Paseo Infanta Isabel. So he determined to listen carefully, but with a low level of expectation. When it came to this woman there was no news that turned out to be soothing, or pleasant.

  "Don't tell me she didn't talk to you about Antwerp." The glowing ember shone like an ironic eye pointing at Coy from the treasure hunter's mouth. "Really... Well, hear this: before you two met in Barcelona, she made a discreet little trip. A few calls that..." He lowered his voice so the chauffeur couldn't hear. "Including a certain address on Rubenstraat—Sherr and Cohen. Specialists in cutting stones to change their appearance and obliterate distinguishing marks... I have people who tell me things, too."

  Coy smelled the aroma of the tobacco. The light gray smoke spiraled against the light before it broke up and drifted away from Palermo's silhouette.

  "So she didn't tell you that either. Incredible."

  I have sold my soul, Coy thought. I have sold my soul to this Lorelei, and they're all going to work me over and leave me like a rag doll. Her. This guy. Even the Berber. This is like thinking you can swim with sharks at feeding time. If I were half clever, and at this point it's clear that I'm not, I would start running as fast as I can down this mountain, jump onto the Carpanta, tell El Piloto to cast off and get out of here post-haste.

  The red eye was again pointing at Coy.

  "She hasn't talked to you yet about emeralds? She hasn't told you that they're the most valuable of all precious stones? I've seen plenty. I brought up several when I was with Fisher. And I can tell you that in Antwerp they will pay anything for a bagful of those old, uncut stones. Your little friend here... she's well aware of that,"

  'And if I don't agree?"

  Tanger pressed her handbag to her breast and the darkness snipped out a mannish profile. I wouldn't be a bit surprised, thought Coy, if she's carrying a pistol in that fucking purse.

  "We'll be sticking to you two like your own shadows." The ember rose and fell as Palermo gave that information in an objective tone, as if he were reciting a manual of instructions. "The area between Cabo de Gata and Cabo de Palos... All right. That isn't too much ground to cover, and as soon as I identify your boat, I can use a helicopter.... Find you, you understand? Precisely as you locate the prize. And if we are unsuccessful I'll see to it that you get a visit from a coast guard patrol boat."

  Coy heard that canine snuffle for the third time. Shooting stars were streaking through the sky like Men angels, or souls in pain, or spent missiles. That's me up there, Coy thought. Leave room for me.

  "If you don't count me in," Palermo added, "you won't have a chance. Quite aside from certain physical risks."

  A long silence, and then Tanger said, "You frighten me."

  She didn't seem frightened in the least. On the contrary, her words sounded arrogant. They sounded cold as a sliver of ice, and also very dangerous. Palermo took the cigarette from his mouth and spoke to Coy.

  "She has class, doesn't she? She's a bitch with a lot of class. I'm not surprised she has you by the balls."

  He drew on his cigarette and the red grew more intense. This guy, Coy reflected, almost with gratitude, has the rare virtue of providing an escape valve just when you need one. He was feeling that wave of gratitude as he moved for
ward to deliver his first punch. To make sure it was a good one, because Palermo was considerably taller, Coy raised his elbow slightly and swung with all his might, upward, and slightly on the diagonal, smashing the tip of Palermo's cigarette into his lips. To his right, he heard a muted cry from Tanger, who tried to contain it, but in that same instant Coy had hit the Gibraltarian with a second punch that slammed him kidney-first against the railing. I don't need you to fall over, Coy thought with a thread of lucidity. I don't want to kill you, so don't do something fancy and lose your balance. Which was why he tried to grab Palermo's coat, to pull him toward him and to get in the third punch without having him fall over the railing and yell aaaaaaahl all the way down like the bad guys in the movies. But in the interval Palermo seemed to recover; he raised his fists and Coy felt something explode by his left ear. The stars overhead mixed with the ones his abused senses generated. He staggered back a few steps.

  "Mover fucker!" Palermo grunted. "Mover fucker!"

  The v indicated that the treasure hunter must have the cigarette ground into his gums. That was some small consolation for Coy, but while he was trying to keep his balance he heard the footsteps of the Berber racing toward him over the concrete surface, and realized that his chances were approaching zero, and that he'd be lucky ever to pronounce anything again. LSHF: Law of Shit Hits the Fan. So when all is lost_______ He took a deep breath, ducked his head, and, being low and compact anyway, charged Palermo with the fury of a blinded bull. If I get there before your homo Moor, he thought, you'll be over the railing with me, as sure as there's a God in Heaven.

  He didn't get there. He who gets in the first blow gets two; but what the old saying didn't make clear was that after those two you can get two hundred in return. The Berber caught him from behind. Coy heard his jacket tear down one seam, and- by then Palermo already had his fist cocked, so that in a matter of seconds Coy found himself on the ground on his knees with the breath knocked out of him, his head buzzing, his eardrums vibrating, and one eye that wouldn't open. He was furious with himself, and wondered why his knees and his arms didn't obey his orders to get up and fight. He tried again and again but failed. Paraplegic, he thought. These sons-of-bitches have left me paralyzed. His mouth had the taste of old iron. He spit, knowing it would be blood. They're beating the living shit out of me, he told himself.