The Nautical Chart

by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

  Coy veered sharply to avoid the pilot's launch approaching on the starboard beam, on its way to one of the tankers waiting off the Escombreras refinery. He had been distracted for a moment, and from the bow he could feel the inquisitive look of El Piloto. In truth he was thinking about Horacio Kiskoros. He could sense the dwarf's presence nearby. And he was thinking about Kiskoros's boss. With the emeralds on board, the curtain was about to fall on the last act, and Coy could not believe that Nino Palermo would allow the drama to end this way. He remembered the Gibraltar-ian's warnings, his determination not to be left out of the deal. And the bastard was someone who would carry out his threats. Coy looked at Tanger, still leaning against the companion, motionless, eyes turned in the direction they were heading. She did not seem worried, but far away, immersed in the green glow of her dream. Coy felt a growing uneasiness, as when the sea is calm and the sky clear but a black cloud appears on the horizon and the wind in the rigging rises suspiciously. With apprehension he scanned the gray mole where they would be docking. When it came to Palermo, the question was simply how and when.

  The lebeche was blowing at a right angle to the mole, so Coy approached slighdy forward and a litde windward in the direction of its far end. At three lengths he put her dead center as the anchor manned by El Piloto fell into the water with a loud splash. When he felt it hold the bottom, Coy accelerated a little, turning the wheel as hard to starboard as he could, so the Carpanta would turn back over her anchor, with the stern to the berth. Then he set the wheel at straight, and reverse, and as he listened to the links of the anchor chain running out over the bow sheave, he backed, paying out chain toward the point of the mole. Within a half-length from the point he killed the motor, went to the stern, picked up the end of one of the lines tied to the cleats and jumped ashore to halt the gentle drift of the Carpanta toward the dock. While El Piloto took in a little chain to hold the boat in place at the other end. Coy secured the mooring line to one of the bollards—a small, rusted, antique gun sunk to the trunnions in concrete—then brought a second line to another. Now the sailboat was immobile, surrounded by old half-scrapped hulls and abandoned superstructures. Tanger was standing in the cockpit, and as her eyes met Coy's, he saw they were deadly serious. "It's over," he said.

  Tanger didn't answer. She was staring into the distance, toward the other end of the mole, and Coy turned his head in the same direction to glance over his shoulder. There, sitting among the remains of a shattered lifeboat, looking at his watch as if congratulating himself for arriving punctually at a meticulously planned appointment, was Nino Palermo.

  "I have to admit," said the hunter of sunken ships, "you've done good work"

  The sun had just slipped behind San Julian, and shadows were lengthening in the ships' graveyard. Palermo had taken off his jacket and folded it carefully over one of the broken seats of the lifeboat, and he had turned the cuffs of his shirt back a couple of times, exposing the heavy watch on his left wrist. They formed an almost cordial-looking group, the five of them there beneath the bridge of the old packet, conversing like good friends. And the number was five, because in addition to Coy, Tanger, El Piloto, and Palermo himself, there was Horacio Kiskoros. In truth his presence was decisive, because had he not been among them it was unlikely that the conversation would have been conducted, as in fact it was, in such a civilized vein. An additional influence may have been the fact that for the occasion Kiskoros had exchanged his knife for a chrome pistol with a mother-of-pearl grip, a pretty little thing that might have appeared inoffensive had the inordinately large eye of its barrel not been pointed in the direction of the Carpanta's crew. At Coy in particular, for whose temperamental fits Kiskoros and Palermo seemed to harbor some resentment.

  "I never thought you'd get it done," Palermo continued. "Really, you... My, my... Amateurs, eh? Well, you're really something. Well done, I swear to God. Well done."

  He seemed sincere in his admiration. He bobbed his head to give emphasis to his words, shaking the gray ponytail and jingling the gold hanging around his neck. At times he turned to Kiskoros, calling on him as witness. Small, slicked-back hair, bandbox neat in his light checked jacket and bow tie, the Argentine seconded his boss while managing to keep an eye on Coy.

  "You deserve a lot of credit," the treasure hunter continued, "for finding that ship. With the means at your disposal, it's really ... Well. I underestimated you, senora. And this sailor here, too." He smiled like a shark circling live bait. "I myself... God almighty! I couldn't have done it better."

  Coy looked at El Piloto. The gray eyes were alert, with the fatalism of someone waiting for the right signal to act, one way or another; to throw himself on these guys, running the risk of taking a bullet, or stand there and watch the bullets come, waiting for someone to decide. You deal the cards, that look said. But Coy thought he'd got his friend in too deep already, so he slowly closed his eyelids. Play it cool. He watched El Piloto close his in turn, and when he looked back at Kiskoros, it was obvious that the dwarf had been observing them, and that the barrel of the pistol was tracing arcs that paralleled the movement of his eyes. The hero of the Malvinas, Coy decided, wasn't born yesterday.

  "I'm afraid," Palermo concluded, "Deadman's Chest is taking over the operation."

  Tanger stared at him impassively. Cold as a lemon snow cone, Coy could see. The iron of her eyes was darker and harder than ever. He wondered where she had hidden her revolver. Unfortunately, not on her. Not in those jeans and T-shirt. Pity.

  "What operation?" she asked.

  Coy watched with admiration. Palermo raised his hands a little, taking in the scene, the boat. He almost seemed to include the ocean.

  "The recovery operation. I've been watching you through my binoculars the last two days, from the coast. You get the picture? And now we're partners."

  "Partners in what?"

  "Come on. What do you think? The ship. You've done your part— You've done it splendidly. Now... God almighty. This is a matter for professionals."

  "We don't need any help from you. I told you that."

  "You told me, that's true. But you're wrong. You do need me. Either I'm... God almighty. Either I'm in or I blow the whole thing for you and your two trained seals."

  "That's no way to form a partnership."

  "I understand your point of view. And believe me, I regret all this business with the pistol. But your gorilla..." He hooked his thumb at Coy. "Well, I swore he wasn't going to surprise me a third time. Nor does Horacio have very fond memories of the gentleman ..." Automatically he turned his bicolored eyes on Coy with a mixture of rancor and curiosity. 'A little too aggressive, don't you think? Too aggressive."

  Kiskoros's mustache twisted into a smile that dripped vitriol. His sallow face still showed signs of the encounter at Aguilas beach, and it was perhaps for that reason that he seemed less sanguine than his boss. The pistol moved suggestively in his hand, and Palermo smiled at the gesture.

  "You see." Again that sharklike expression. "He's dying to put a bullet in your belly."

  "I'd rather," Coy parried, "he saved it for the whoring mother...."

  "Don't be crude," the Gibraltarian interrupted. He seemed truly scandalized. "Just because Horacio is pointing a pistol at you, that doesn't give you the right to insult him."

  "I'm talking about your mother. The whoring mother who brought you into the world."

  "Well. I confess that now I wouldn't mind shooting you myself. But the fact is... Well. That makes noise, you know?" It seemed as if Palermo was sincerely interested in having Coy understand. "Noise is bad for my business. Besides, it might upset the lady. And I'm tired of all this squabbling. All I want is to reach an agreement. For everyone to get his... Can we do that? End this thing peacefully?" Palermo had picked up his jacket and was inviting them to follow him. "Let's go get comfortable."

  He set off toward the hull of the half-scrapped bulk carrier without turning to see whether they were following. Kiskoros simply flipped the barrel of t
he pistol, indicating the direction they should take. So Tanger, Coy, and El Piloto began walking behind Palermo. They didn't have their hands in the air, and the Argentine's attitude was not particularly threatening. But when they reached the foot of the ladder that led to the quarterdeck and Coy paused a moment, hesitating, and looked at El Piloto, in half a second Kiskoros was holding the pistol to Coy's head.

  "You don't want to die young," he whispered very low, with intimations of the tango.

  They crossed wet, ruined passageways with cables hanging from the ceilings and semi-dismantled bulkheads, and then down between oxidized floor plates and the bare thick strakes as they descended the companionway into a hold.

  "Now we're going to have a long conversation," Palermo was saying. "We'll spend the night chatting, and in the morning we can... Yes. All go back there together. I have a boat with equipment waiting in Alicante. Deadman's Chest at your service. Absolute discretion. Guaranteed efficiency." He directed a mocking smile at Coy. "Oh, yes. My chauffeur is waiting there with the equipment. He sends his greetings."

  "Go back? Where?" Coy asked.

  Palermo laughed his canine snort.

  "Don't ask stupid questions."

  Coy stood with his mouth open. He looked at Tanger, who showed no expression at all.

  "Is there another option?" she asked as if Palermo was selling encyclopedias door to door. Her voice sounded about five degrees below zero.

  "Yes," Palermo replied as he switched on a flashlight. "But it would not be very pleasant for you. Watch your head. That's it. And put your feet here, please. Yes..." His voice rang hollow, echoing in the depths of the metal hold. "That option would be for Kiskoros to lock the three of you up here for an indefinite time "

  He paused as he shone the flashlight on Tanger's feet to help her reach the bottom. The hold smelled of rusted iron and dirt mixed with the faint aromas of wood, grain, rotted fruit, and salt, cargoes it once held.

  "Or," he added, "he can also put a bullet in your head."

  Once everyone was down, with Kiskoros and his pistol trained on the three guests, the seeker of sunken ships used his gold Dupont to light the wick of a paraffin lamp that flared into a stingy red flame. Then he turned off his flashlight, hung his jacket on a hook, and put the lighter back in his pocket before smiling around at the assemblage.

  "Move away from the ladder. Everyone over there toward the back. That's it. Make yourselves comfortable."

  In that instant, Coy understood everything. He doesn't know, he told himself. This asshole and his dwarf still don't know that the emeralds are already on the Carpanta, and that none of this monkey business is necessary, because all he has to do is go pick them up. Again he looked at Tanger, amazed at her cool. She looked annoyed at most, the way she would at the window of an incompetent clerk, waiting to make a deposit. This is ending, he thought bitterly. I don't know how the hell it will end, but it's ending. And here I am still admiring the stuff that woman's made of.

  "Now we will have our little talk," said Palermo.

  Coy saw that Tanger was doing something strange: looking at her watch.

  "I don't have time to talk," she said.

  The man from Gibraltar seemed nonplussed. For a count of three he was mute with surprise. Then he smiled artificially.

  "You don't say." The white teeth stood out in the greasy light of the paraffin lamp. "Well, I'm afraid..."

  His expression changed. He was studying Tanger as if seeing her for the first time. Then he looked at Kiskoros, El Piloto, and finally at Coy.

  "Don't tell me that..." he murmured. "It isn't possible." He took a few steps, put one hand on the ladder, and looked up at the small rectangle of fading light in the hatchway. "No, it isn't possible," he repeated.

  Again he turned to Tanger. His voice was so hoarse it didn't sound like him.

  "Where are the emeralds? Where?"

  "The emeralds don't concern you," said Tanger.

  "Don't be stupid. You have them? Don't tell me you already have them! That's... God almighty!"

  The treasure hunter burst out laughing, and this time, instead of snuffling like a weary dog, he let out a laugh that shook the iron of the bulkheads. An admiring, stupefied laugh.

  "I take my hat off, word of honor. And I have to think Horacio

  is taking his off, too. I'm so damn stupid I swear to you... How about that? Well done." He contemplated Tanger with intense curiosity. "My respects, sehora. Astonishingly well done."

  He had pulled a pack of cigarettes from his jacket and was lighting one. The flame of the gas lighter dilated the pupil of the brown eye more than the green one. It was obvious he was giving himself time to think.

  "I hope you won't take this the wrong way," he concluded, "but our partnership has just been dissolved."

  He exhaled smoke slowly and regarded the three of them through half-closed eyes, as if trying to determine what to do with them. Coy realized, with desolate resignation, that the moment had come. That this was the point at which he would have to make decisions before others made them for him, and that whether or not they were his it was possible that a few minutes from now he would be sprawled face down with a hole in his chest. In any case, he shouldn't let that happen without testing his luck, without asking for another card. Hit me. Hit me again. LLC: Law of the Last Card. Until the hull is split open on the rocks or water covers the deck, you're still afloat.

  "You can't win every time; you have to understand that," Palermo was commenting. 'And there are times you never win."

  Coy exchanged a glance with El Piloto, and saw the same resigned decision. I'm with you. We'll meet in La Obrera and toss down a few rums. Or somewhere. As for Tanger, from this point on there was nothing he could do except make it easier for her to get up the ladder to the deck. After that, everyone had to swim for himself. In the end she would have to manage without his hand when her turn came in the dark. He was going to cast off long before that. He was going to do that right now, backed by El Piloto, who he knew was waiting, ready for the fight.

  "Don't even think about it." Palermo had guessed his intention and shot a warning look at Kiskoros.

  Coy calculated the distance separating him from the Argentine, his pulse pounding and his stomach hollow. Two yards was two bullets, and he didn't know whether with all the ballast in his body he could reach the dwarf, or what condition he would be in if he did. As for El Piloto, Coy was sure Palermo wasn't carrying a weapon, but when the moment came, neither El Piloto nor Palermo would be his concern anymore. Tanger had said it beside Zas's body: We all die alone.

  "We've wasted too much time," Tanger said suddenly.

  To everyone's stupefaction, she started walking toward the companionway as if she had decided to leave a boring social gathering, ignoring Kiskoros and his pistol. Palermo's hand, which at that moment was raising the cigarette to his lips to take a drag, froze in midair.

  "Are you crazy? Don't you realize ... Wait!"

  By now Tanger was at the foot of the companionway, hand on the rail, and there was no question that she was ready to take her leave. She had half turned and was looking around, ignoring Palermo, as if wondering whether she'd forgotten something.

  "Stay right there or you'll regret it," said the Gibraltarian.

  "Leave me alone."

  Palermo raised the hand with the cigarette, motioning Kiskoros not to fire. The Argentine's face was a somber mask in the light of the paraffin lamp. Coy looked at El Piloto and got ready to make his move. Two yards, he remembered. Maybe, thanks to her, I can cover those two yards without getting shot.

  "I swear..." Palermo was saying.

  Suddenly the words stopped, and the cigarette dropped from his hand to the floor. And Coy, who was prepared to lunge forward, felt his muscles freeze. Kiskoros's pistol had described a precise semicircle and was now pointed at Palermo. Palermo was stuttering a few indistinguishable sounds, something in the vein of, What the hell are you doing? and What the fuck is going on? without com
pleting a single word, and then he stood inanely staring at the cigarette smoldering between his feet, as if it might provide an explanation, before looking back toward the pistol, prepared to confirm that it was all a trick of his senses, and that the weapon was pointing in the right direction... But the black hole of the barrel was still on a line with the belly of the treasure hunter, and he was looking at each of them in turn—at Coy, El Piloto, and last Tanger. One by one, taking his time, as if waiting for someone to clarify in detail what this was all about. Then he turned to Kiskoros.

  "May I ask what the fuck you think you're doing?"

  The Argentine did not change expression, elegant and fastidious as ever, not moving a hair, with the chrome and mother-of-pearl pistol in his right hand, his diminutive silhouette projected onto the bulkhead by the torch. His face was not that of an evil man, or a traitor or lunatic. Very decorous, very calm, with his slicked-back hair and his mustache, looking more dwarfish, more tango-world Buenos Aires, and more melancholy than ever, confronting his boss. Or, by all indications, his ex-boss.

  Palermo again looked down the row, but this time he stopped on Tanger.

  "Someone... God almighty. Can anyone tell me what's going on here?"