The Admiral's Mark

Two more were required before his nerves stabilized.

He shared the air, then watched as Dubois reached around him. He felt something being turned, then noticed the air gauge move from zero to more than 2,000 pounds.

The son of a bitch had turned the valve off at the tank.

He replaced his regulator in his mouth, and Dubois motioned for them to surface. They made it to the boat and Malone climbed aboard first, quickly releasing his waist belt and dropping the tank to the deck. Dubois came up and, before he could do a thing, Malone pounced, slamming the Haitian to the deck. Dubois remained still—as if he’d expected an attack—calmly releasing his own belt and freeing himself from the harness.

“What in the hell just happened?” Malone yelled.

Dubois stood. “Scotty not drown. He be killed. Just like I show you.”

It was true, he’d never felt his air valve being closed. Never seen it coming. If Dubois hadn’t been there, he’d be dead.

“That’s what I tell police.”

“He was down there alone. Who the hell killed him?”

“The other man.”

“The police report said nothing about another man.”

“I tell them. They don’t want to hear. I know something wrong with that policeman. Something wrong with all of them here.”

Which was one reason why United Nations peacekeepers were all over the country. Corruption had long been a way of Haitian life.

“I don’t mean to kill you,” Dubois said. “But I want you to know truth. You said Scotty your relative. So you need to know. The other man kill Scotty.”

“Was he on this boat?”

Dubois shook his head. “He come in another, anchor over there.” He pointed east. “Not far away. Diver go down. I don’t think much. Lots of divers around here every day. Next thing I know he comes up and boat leaves. But Scotty never comes up. So I go down.”

“You get a look at the other guy?”

Dubois nodded. “Good one.”

Playing a hunch, he stepped over to his travel bag and found the copies of the two passports he’d obtained in Atlanta. He showed them to Dubois.

“That’s him,” Dubois said, pointing at Rocha.

“Sure?”

“Real sure.”

Murder changed everything.

“Scotty was good to me,” Dubois said. “I bring him here several times. He pay me good, always nice to me. He come to my house and eat with my wife and children. I like him.”

That had been Scott. A liar. A thief. But a friendly soul.

“What was Scott after?”

“He tell me he find Santa Maria.”

That shocked him.

He knew the tale.

On his first voyage Columbus anchored somewhere in these waters. But on Christmas Day, 1492, his flagship, the Santa Maria, lodged on a reef. With no way to free the keel, the ship was dismantled, its timbers and cargo hauled ashore and used to construct a settlement. Three weeks later Columbus sailed away in the Nina, leaving 39 of his crew behind in what he called La Navidad, the first settlement of Western Europeans in the New World. He charged those men with exploring the island and finding gold. But when he returned in November 1493 with 17 ships and 1,200 men on his second voyage, La Navidad lay in ashes. All 39 crew members were dead, slaughtered by the Tainos. What remained of the Santa Maria settled on the sea bottom and had been sought by archaeologists for decades.

And Scott had found it?

“He tell me it is there,” Dubois said. “In that rock. He dive several times. Always alone. Until last time.”

“You could have just told me this. You didn’t have to try to kill me.”

“You look like man who can handle things. Not like Scotty.”

He caught something in the man’s voice. “You don’t like what happened to him?”

Dubois shook his head. “He not deserve that. But there be nothing I can do. Police have the power here.”

He’d heard enough. “Take me back to shore.”

“You going after man in picture?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you need help. That man is here, in Cap-Haitien. I know where. I have car. You need to get around. I