Riptide

'You call yourself Captain,' Hatch said. 'Were you in the navy?'

'Yes,' came the measured response. 'Captain of a minesweeper cruising off the Mekong Delta. After the war I bought a wooden dragger out of Nantucket and worked Georges Bank for scallops and flounder.' He squinted out to sea. 'It was working that dragger that got me interested in treasure hunting.'

'Really?' Hatch checked the compass and corrected course. He glanced at the engine hour meter. Ragged Island was six miles offshore; they'd be there in twenty minutes.

Neidelman nodded. 'One day the net brought up a huge bolus of encrusted coral. My mate struck it with a marlin spike, and the thing fell apart like an oyster. There, nestled inside, was a small, seventeenth-century Dutch silver casket. That started my first treasure hunt. I did a little digging through records and figured we must have dragged over the wreck site of the Cinq Ports, a barque commanded by the French privateer Charles Dampier. So I sold the boat, started a company, raised a million in capital, and went from there.'

'How much did you recover?'

Neidelman smiled slightly. 'Just over ninety thousand in coins, china, and antiquities. It was a lesson I never forgot. If I'd bothered to do my research, I'd have looked up the manifests of the Dutch ships that Dampier attacked. They were mostly carrying lumber, coal, and rum.' He puffed his pipe meditatively. 'Not all pirates were as skillful as Red Ned Ockham.'

'You must have been as disappointed as the surgeon who hopes for a tumor and finds gallstones.'

Neidelman glanced at him. 'I guess you could say that.'

Silence fell as they headed seaward. The last wisps of fog disappeared and Hatch could clearly make out the inner islands, Hermit and Wreck, green humps thickly covered with spruce trees. Soon, Ragged Island would become visible. He glanced at Neidelman, looking intently in the direction of the hidden island. It was time.

'We've been chitchatting long enough,' he said quietly. 'I want to hear about the man who designed the Water Pit.'

Neidelman remained silent for a moment, and Hatch waited.

'I'm sorry, Dr. Hatch,' Neidelman said. 'I should have made myself clear on that point in your office. You haven't yet signed the agreement. Our entire twenty-two-million venture stands on the information we've obtained.'

Hatch felt a sudden surge of anger. 'I'm glad you have so much faith in me.'

'You can understand our position—' Neidelman began.

'Sure I can. You're afraid I might take what you've discovered, dig up the treasure myself, and cut you out.'

'Not to put too fine a point on it,' Neidelman said. 'Yes.'

There was a brief silence. 'I appreciate your directness,' said Hatch. 'So how's this for a reply?' He swung the wheel, heeling the boat sharply to starboard.

Neidelman looked at him inquiringly as he gripped the gunwale for support.

Coming about 180 degrees, Hatch pointed the Plain Jane back toward port and throttled up.

'Dr. Hatch?' Neidelman said.

'It's quite simple,' said Hatch. 'Either you tell me all about this mysterious find of yours, and convince me you're not just another nut, or our little field trip ends right now.'

'Perhaps if you'd be willing to sign our nondisclosure agreement—'

'For Chrissakes!' Hatch cried. 'He's a damn sea lawyer as well as a sea captain. If we're to be partners—an ever-receding possibility—we'll have to trust each other. I'll shake your hand and give you my word, and that will be sufficient, or else you lose all hope of ever digging on the island.'

Neidelman never lost his composure, and now he smiled. 'A handshake. How quaint.'

Hatch held the boat steady as she roared ahead, eating through the remains of wake laid down just minutes before. The dark bluff of Burnt Head came gradually into focus again, followed by the rooftops of the town.

'Very well then,' Neidelman said mildly. 'Turn the boat around, please. Here is my hand.'

They shook. Hatch eased the engine into neutral and let the Plain Jane coast for a long moment. At last, engaging the throttle again, he nosed her seaward, gradually accelerating once more toward the hidden rocks of Ragged Island.

A period of time passed in which Neidelman gazed eastward, puffing on his pipe, seemingly in deep contemplation. Hatch stole a glance at the Captain, wondering if this was some kind of delaying tactic.

'You've been to England, haven't you, Dr. Hatch?' Neidelman said at last.

Hatch nodded.

'Lovely country,' Neidelman went on, as coolly as if he was reminiscing for pleasure. 'Especially, to my taste, the north. Ever been to Houndsbury? It's a charming little town, very Cotswolds, but all in all rather unremarkable I suppose, if it weren't for its exquisite cathedral. Or have you visited Whitstone Hall in the Pennines? The Duke of Wessex's family seat?'

'That's the famous one, built like an abbey?' Hatch said.

'Exactly. Both delightful examples of seventeenth-century ecclesiastical architecture.'

'Delightful,' echoed Hatch with a trace of sarcasm. 'So what?'

'They were both designed by Sir William Macallan. The man who also designed the Water Pit.'