Tsar

Russian. He rolled over and grabbed the Bizon, shoved in a fresh magazine, and racked the slide. He waited until he could see the eyes of the snarling dogs tearing through the woods right toward him, and then he started firing at everything that moved, his eyes blurred with tears.

EPILOGUE

The treasure hunter had been down too long; the air in his lungs was nearly exhausted. He’d been diving the wreck most of the day. Free diving, without tanks, since the wreck lay in fairly shallow water, only down about twenty feet or so. Besides, he’d never much cared for canned air. The water was pellucid this time of day, and shafts of sunlight streaked down through the blue, dappling the sand and coral.

The wreck, what was left of it, was lying on its side, surrounded by tunnels and small caves, home to parrotfish and grouper, all of them come out to dine. They hovered nearby, hoping for any delicious morsels, worms or tiny crustaceans, that might float their way in the clouds of sand stirred up by his digging.

There are more than three hundred fifty documented wrecks ringing the island of Bermuda, and he’d visited a few, the Hermes, the Iristo, and the Mary Celestia. This one was undocumented and not much prized by tourists or historians, but there was treasure here, there had to be. He’d begun the exploration earlier in the day, with high hopes and great enthusiasm.

But he was tired now, early hopes had faded, and this would be his last dive. He thought he saw something, a brief glimmer, but a school of bright blue-and-yellow surgeonfish fluttered by his mask, obscuring his view. When he looked again, nothing. A fluke of light, perhaps, that’s all it had been.

Moments earlier, kicking his way along the hull, he’d been keenly aware of a rather large barracuda. The fish, sleek as a blade, was hanging motionless, staring at him with one white-rimmed black eye, his jaw agape and filled with ragged, needle-sharp teeth. Barracudas always gave him the creeps, and he was relieved when the big fellow moved on.

His lungs burning for air, the diver willed himself to stay down longer. There was one area at the bow he’d not yet searched, and he was just pushing along the bottom in that direction when he saw a flash, something protruding from the sand, out of the corner of his eye. Feeling a tingle of excitement, he pushed off the bottom and swam to his right.

The treasure he sought was partially hidden. The only reason he’d spied it at all was a random streak of sunlight. It lay beneath a long, thick timber, half buried in sand. He shot his hand forward toward the glitter, and his fingers closed around it.

He kicked hard for the surface, lungs afire.

A FEW SECONDS later, his clenched fist broke the surface. His head followed, and he pushed his dive mask back on his forehead. Grinning widely, he raised his balled fist aloft in triumph. After many long hours of free-diving the wreck, by God, he’d bloody well got his treasure.

He looked around, eyes squinting in the fiery afternoon sun. His small sloop, Gin Fizz, was bobbing at anchor fifty yards away. He swam for her, deep, powerful strokes through the chop, the treasure still clenched in his tight fist. When he reached his boat, he kicked his flippers and hauled himself aboard at the stern.

The wind had freshened considerably and was filling in from the southwest. He hauled down on the halyard raising his mainsail, and a few moments later, the Gin Fizz had her lee’ard rail down, her course set north-nor’east for St. George’s Harbor. He saw Nonsuch Island off his port beam and shortly thereafter a tall white tower with a broad red band, St. David’s Light. The sky was darkening to the west, and he tapped the glass on his cockpit-mounted barometer. The needle dropped quickly to 29.5. In the distance, high, thin cirrus clouds crept across the sky.

At Gunner Bay, the first fat drops of rain struck him in the face. Although he couldn’t have told you why, he made a decision. Rather than put into St. George’s Harbor and head for the yard on the southern tip of Ordnance Island, where the Gin would undergo some much-needed work on her old gasoline engine, he would continue on around the eastern tip of St. George’s. His Norton was parked at the town docks, so he had no worries about getting home later, even after dark.

Half an hour on, he’d sailed through two short, blinding rain squalls, and another black mass of cloud was moving in from the southwest. He deliberated something inside himself for a moment and then reached into the lazerette and pulled out a cork-stoppered bottle of Gosling’s black rum. Keeping one hand on the tiller, the mainsheet wound tightly round his wrist, he plucked out the cork with his teeth and took a healthy swig. It was almost five o’clock, and anyway, what the hell?

As his old chum Harry Brock was wont to say, “Any poor bastard who doesn’t drink, when he wakes up, he knows that’s the best he’s going to feel all day.”

AFTER HIS RECOVERY, the first two months of which had been spent at a private hospital outside Stockholm, he’d headed back to Bermuda and Teakettle Cottage. He simply couldn’t face another cold, wet spring in London.

The sea and the sunshine had gradually worked their way back inside his bones, if not his heart. For a while, he actually thought he’d gotten everything back to plumb, level, and square. But an odd thing had happened. He couldn’t sleep. He’d wake up suddenly at all hours of the night, sit straight up in bed, drenched in sweat, panting, a flaming orange glow imprinted on his retinas. He’d try to go back to sleep, lie there for an hour or more, but it was useless.

He’d pad out to the bar, have a seat, and pour himself a stiff one. Sometimes one, sometimes two, sometimes more. And then, somnolent at last, he’d go back to his bed, sometimes sleeping until dawn. But sometimes not. The odd thing was, he’d grown rather fond of his insomnia. Sitting alone at his carved monkey-wood bar, some scratchy old Cole Porter disc on the Victrola, drinking rum in the dark, all of the ghosts banished to the dark corners and recesses above the rafters.

A few mornings, Pelham would find him, head down on the bar, snoring loudly, an empty bottle standing guard over him. And once or twice lately, he was pained to admit, Pelham had found him sprawled on the floor.

He was sailing nor’west now, around the eastern tip of Bermuda, coming up on Tobacco Bay. And beyond that pretty little bay, he thought, taking another swig, easing the Gin’s mainsheet, was another pretty lagoon called Half Moon Bay. It was well hidden, tucked inside the mangroves that ringed the island called Powder Hill.

He tied the Gin up at the dock and walked ashore in the hard rain, bottle to hand.

Looking up at her house, he noticed that the pink bougainvillea on the upstairs verandah was badly in need of a good pruning. And the front door was hanging open, swinging back and forth in the strong wind, the rain gusting inside. The wooden shutters, faded and peeling, were banging in the breeze.

He entered the dark house and closed the door behind him. He climbed the familiar stairs like a sleepwalker, surprised to find himself standing inside her shadowy studio, listening to the rain beat a steady tattoo on the tin roof.

He let his eyes grow accustomed to the square, high-ceilinged room-the easels, paint pots, and stacked canvases, the fan-shaped wicker chaise that looked like an emperor’s throne. He felt lightheaded and collapsed into the nearest chair, a deeply upholstered one facing the fireplace. It was getting very dark in the studio now; the sun was low. He found a match and lit a small oil lantern on the table. It threw a flickering light on the walls.

After a moment, he looked up at the painting hanging over the mantel and heard a voice.

I’ve always reserved that spot for the man I love. That’s my father.

Anastasia had spoken to him. Yes. She’d been sitting over there on a blue stool, working at her easel, just before she’d dematerialized.