Guard got to him, and he's registered in Liberia. We tried to cover
cases like that in the set of proposals I put up to the last maritime
conference. Nick joined the conversation for the first time. He told
them of the difficulties of legislating on an international scale, of
policing and bringing to justice the blatant transgressors; then he
listed for them what had been done so far, what was in process and
finally what he believed still should be done to protect the seas.
He spoke quietly, succinctly, and Samantha noticed again, with a swell
of pride, how all men listened when Nicholas Berg talked. The moment he
paused, they came at him from every direction, using their bright young
minds like scalpels, tearing into him with sharp lancing questions. He
answered them in the same fashion, sharp and hard, armed with total
knowledge of his subject, and he saw the shift in the group attitude,
the blooming of respect, the subtle opening of ranks to admit him, for
he had spoken the correct passwords and they recognized him as one of
their own number, as one of the elite.
At the head of the table, Tom Parker sat and listened, nodding and
frowning, sitting in judgement with his arm around Antoinette's slim
waist and she stood beside him and played idly with a curl of thick wiry
hair on the top of his head.
Tom Parker found fish forty miles offshore where the Gulf Stream was
setting blue and warm and fast into the north.
The birds were working, falling on folded wings down the backdrop of
cumulonimbus storm clouds that bruised the horizon. The birds were
bright, white pinpoints of light as they fell, and they struck the dark
blue water with tiny explosions of white spray, and went deep. Seconds
later they popped to the surface, stretching their necks to force down
another morsel into their distended crops, before launching into flight
again, climbing in steep circles against the sky to join the hunt again.
There were hundreds of them and they swirled and fell like snowflakes.
Anchovy/grunted Tom Parker, and they could see the agitated surface of
the water under the bird flock where the frenzied bait-fish churned.
Could be bonito working under them. No' said Nick. They are blues. You
sure? Tom grinned a challenge.
The way they are bunching and holding the bait-fish, it's tuna, Nick
repeated.
Five bucks? Tom asked, as he swung the wheel over, and Tricky Dicky's
big diesel engine boomed as she went on to the top of her speed.
You're on/ Nick grinned back at him, and at that moment, they both saw a
fish jump clear. It was a brilliant shimmering torpedo, as long as a
man's arm. It went six feet into the air, turned in flight and hit the
water again with a smack they heard clearly above the diesel.
Blues/ said Nick flatly. Shoal blues - they'll go twenty pounds each.
Five bucks/ Tom grunted with disgust. Son of a gun, I don't think I can
afford you, man/ and he delivered a playful punch to the shoulder which
rattled Nick's teeth, then he turned to the open window of the
wheelhouse and bellowed out on to the deck, Okay, kids, they are blues.,
There was a scramble and chatter of excitement as they rushed for lines
and tagging poles. It was Hank's show, he was the blue-fill tunny
expert, he knew as much about their sex habits, their migratory routes
