Riptide

'No, Captain, they're pretty tame. A lot of noise, but nothing to worry about.'

'Anything else?'

'Magnusen's picking up a sensor anomaly at the sixty-four foot level. It's probably nothing, the secondary grid shows nothing unusual.'

'I'll take a look.' Neidelman thought for a moment. 'Mr. Streeter, I'd like you to meet me there.'

'Aye, aye.'

Neidelman climbed up the ladder from the dig site to the base of the electric lift, his movements lithe and fluid despite his lack of sleep. He took the lift up to the sixty-foot level, then moved out onto the platform and climbed carefully down the spars to the errant sensor. He verified the sensor was operational and returned to the platform just as Streeter completed the descent down the far side of the array.

'Any problems?' Streeter asked.

'Not with the sensor,' Neidelman reached over and switched off Streeter's comm link to Orthanc. 'But I've been thinking about Hatch.'

There was a squeal of gears, then a mechanical groan from below, as the powerful winch pulled another load of dirt and mud up from the dig site. The two men watched as the large iron bucket rose from the depths, condensation gleaming under the harsh lights.

'Only eight more feet to the treasure chamber,' Neidelman murmured as he watched the bucket recede into the circle of light overhead. 'Ninety-six inches.'

He turned to Streeter. 'I want all nonessential personnel off the island. Everyone. Say whatever you want, use that protest or the storm as excuses, if you like. We don't want a lot of extra bodies around rubbernecking during the actual extraction. When the shift changes at two, send the diggers home, too. This next shift should see the job finished. We'll winch the treasure up in the bucket, and I'll carry the sword myself. We need to get it out as soon as possible. Can Rogerson be trusted?'

'He'll do what I tell him, sir.'

Neidelman nodded. 'Bring the Cerberus and my command vessel close to the island, but keep them well clear of the reef. We'll use the launches and split the treasure between the two boats, as a precaution.' He fell silent a moment, his eyes far away.

'I don't think we're through with him,' he began again in a low voice, as if his thoughts had never left Hatch. 'I've underestimated him all along and I may be underestimating him now. Once he gets home, he's going to start thinking. He'll realize it might take days, even weeks, to get a legal injunction against us. And possession is nine tenths of the law. He could cry clause nineteen until he's blue in the face. But by that point, everything would be academic.'

He touched Streeter's lapel. 'Who would have thought a billion dollars wouldn't be enough for the greedy bastard? He's going to think of a plan. I want you to find out what that plan is, and stop it. We're only hours away from Ockham's treasure, and, by God, I don't want any nasty surprises before we get to it.' He gripped the lapel suddenly. 'And for Chrissake, whatever you do, don't let Hatch set foot on this island again. He could do a lot of damage.'

Streeter looked back impassively. 'Any particular way you want him handled?'

Neidelman released the lapel and took a step back. 'I've always found you to be a creative and resourceful seaman, Mr. Streeter. I leave the matter to your discretion.'

Streeter's eyebrows rose momentarily in what might have been anticipation, or perhaps merely a muscle spasm.

'Aye, aye, sir,' he said.

Neidelman leaned forward and switched the comm set back on. 'Keep in touch, Mr. Streeter.'

Then he was back on the lift and descending once again. Streeter turned back toward the ladder array. In a moment, he, too, was gone.

Chapter 42

Hatch stood on the wide old porch of the house on Ocean Lane. What had been merely a weatherman's threat the day before was fast becoming reality. To the east, a heavy swell was coming in over the sea, creating a torn line of breakers on the reefs of Breed's Point. On the opposite side of the harbor, beyond the channel buoys, the surf flung itself again and again up the granite cliffs beyond Burnt Head Light, the boom of the rollers carrying across the bay in measured cadences. The sky was slung across with the ugly underbelly of a massive foul-weather front, the clouds churning and coiling as they raced across the water. Farther offshore, an evil patch of surf seethed about Old Hump. Hatch shook his head; if the swell was already smothering the bald rock, it was going to be a hell of a blow.

He gazed down toward the harbor, where a few vessels from the protest flotilla were already returning: smaller boats, and the million-dollar craft of the more cautious trawler captains.

Closer to home, movement caught his eye: he turned to see the familiar stubby form of a Federal Express van nosing into the lane, wildly out of place as it bumped down the old cobbles. It stopped in front of his house, and Hatch came down the steps to sign for the package.

He stepped back into the house, tearing open the box and eagerly removing the thick plastic packet inside. Professor Horn and Bonterre, standing beside one of the pirate skeletons, stopped talking when they saw the package.

'Straight from the Smithsonian's Phys Anthro lab,' Hatch said as he broke the plastic seal. Pulling out the bulky computer printout within, he laid it on the table and began flipping pages. There was a heavy silence as they leaned over the results, disappointment palpable in the air. Finally Hatch sighed and flung himself into a nearby chair. The professor shuffled over, eased himself down opposite Hatch, rested his chin on his cane, and eyed Hatch meditatively.

'Not what you were looking for, I take it?' he asked.

'No,' Hatch said, shaking his head. 'Not at all.'