The Deep

get less of the pie than the whites. For my money, they get more as they merit more, and they’re getting more all the time. But a chap like Cloche can rile them, convince them that they’re oppressed, that numbers alone are enough to merit more.

Manipulate them for his own purposes. He’s a persuasive speaker, and they’re scared of him. Besides, there’s no trick to convincing people that they deserve more than they’ve got.

“Is he a communist?” Gail asked.

“Hell, no. He spouts a good Marxist line—‘from each according to his abilities, to each according to his needs,’ and all that. I think what he really wants is to set up some sort of island kingdom. He won’t call it that, of course. It’ll be the People’s Republic of some goddamn thing.”

“And the drugs?”

“Money. Power. I imagine he’ll try to sell the drugs in the States.” Treece paused. “I don’t want him to get them.” He looked at Sanders. “A million dollars? He is anxious. were you tempted?”

Sanders looked at Gail. “No,” he said.

“Though God knows we could use the money.”

“It’s a decent amount of cash, no doubting it,” Treece said, slapping the photostats in front of him. “But if I can find some parts to this puzzle and we really get lucky, there might be a like amount of real goodies down there.”

“Do you think there may really be a treasure?” Gail said.

“No. But I’m not convinced there isn’t. You never know till you’ve had a good look.”

“What do we do about Cloche?” Sanders said. “Is there a way to get around him? I don’t like the thought that he might follow us to New York.”

“For the moment, there’s nothing to do. You’re stuck either way, until we know what’s really down there.

We’ll have a look around tonight. If we don’t find any more ampules—and it’s possible these two are a fluke —you can deliver the two you found to Cloche and wish him well. If there’s nothing else there, I don’t think he’ll bother with you any more. With luck, that’s what’ll happen. But before we go down again, I want to talk to Adam Coffin.”

“Who’s he?”

“The Goliath survivor. I imagine he’s still chary about talking about the drugs, but perhaps the sight of a couple of ampules will jar his memory.” Treece put the two ampules in his pocket. “Leave your bikes here. You’ll be coming back later to dive. We can all fit in Kevin’s car.”

“About the diving,” Gail said. “My nose has been bleeding since yesterday.”

“Bad?”

“No.”

“Not to worry. When you haven’t been wet in a while, a day or two of ups and downs will irritate the tissues in your sinuses. Stay out of the water for a bit, and it’ll clear up.”

“What about tonight?”

“I wouldn’t. There’s no sense pushing it. The two of us can manage.” Treece opened the kitchen door for them. “You go ahead on your bikes, then. I’ll come by the hotel, and you can follow me down to Coffin’s.”

The house was tiny—a limestone cottage perched on a neatly tended patch of weeds overlooking Hamilton Harbour. There was no driveway, only a dirt shoulder wide enough to permit one car to pull off the road and stop without risking a rear—end collision with the passing traffic. Treece nosed the Hillman into the brush beside the shoulder, leaving room behind for the two motorbikes. His immense frame looked ridiculous in the car: he was hunched forward so his head wouldn’t jam into the roof, and his legs were so long and so cramped that he could not put them out of the car first. The only way he could get out was to open the door and fall to the right, supporting himself with his hands on the ground, dragging his legs after him.

“Damn fool things,” he said as he wiped his hands on his pants. “Built for bloody midgets.”

“If you ever had an accident in that car,” Sanders said, “they’d have to cut you out with a torch. Why don’t you ride a motorcycle?”

“Suicide machines. Only good thing about them is they keep the black population down.” Treece looked at Gail and smiled. “Forgive me. I’m a relentless bastard.”

They walked up the dirt path to the house. A small man was on his hands and knees, digging in a flower bed beside the front door.

“Adam,” Treece said.

Coffin’s head snapped around. “Treece!” he said, surprised. With a nimble motion he pushed himself backward and rolled to his feet.

He wore nothing but a tattered pair of denim shorts. His body was tan, lean, and sinewy, without a trace of fat. Strands of aged muscle coursed along his arms and chest as visibly as a drawing in an anatomy text. His eyes were fixed in a permanent squint that had cut deep grooves in the dry brown skin on his cheeks and forehead. A shaggy mane of white hair hung down the back of his neck. He smiled at Treece, displaying abused gums spotted here and there with chipped and yellowed teeth. “It’s good to see you; been awhile.”

“Aye, it has.” Treece enveloped Coffin’s bony fingers in his enormous fist and pumped once briskly up and down. “We stopped by to chat you up.” He introduced the Sanderses to Coffin.

“Come in, then,” said Coffin, leading them into the dark house.

The one-room house was divided by furniture into three sections. On the right there was a hammock, suspended catty-corner by two steel rings embedded in the stone wall. Behind a half-open curtain David saw a toilet and a sink. In the middle of the room was a single stuffed chair, facing a i95os-vintage television set. On the left were a sink, a hot plate, a refrigerator, a cabinet, and a card table, around which were two chairs and two stools.

“Sit,” said Coffin. He opened the cabinet and waved at an array of bottles. “Have a charge? I’m on the tack myself. Old guts can’t take the fury of the juniper berries.”

Confused, Sanders looked at Treece and saw that he was grinning at Coffin.

“I’ll have a spot of rum,” Treece said. “How long’ve you been on the tack?”

“A good while now,” Coffin said. “It’s not hard if you have a disciplined soul.” He looked at Sanders. “For you?”

“A gin and tonic would be fine,” Sanders said.

Gail nodded. “The same. Thank you.”

“Comin’ up.” Coffin took four glasses from the cabinet, filled two of them with Bombay gin-no ice, no tonic- and passed them to David and Gail. The other two he filled with dark Barbados rum. He gave one to Treece, took a long swallow from the other, and sat down.

“I thought you were on the tack,” Treece said.

“I am. Haven’t had a drop of gin in months.

Rum isn’t drinking; it’s survival. Without it, your blood doesn’t circulate proper. That’s a fact.”

Sanders took a sip of the warm gin and suppressed a grimace as the harsh liquid burned his throat.

“Tell an old man what brings you by.” Coffin smiled. “Or is this just your day to visit the elderly and infirm?”

Treece reached in his pocket and, without a word, placed the two ampules on the table.

Coffin did not touch them; he simply stared at them and said nothing. He looked up, first at Treece, then at the Sanderses. His face showed no emotion, but there was something different about his eyes, a shininess that Sanders could not diagnose-excitement, perhaps, or fear. Or both.

Coffin jerked his head toward the Sanderses and said to Treece, “How much do they know?”

“All still know. They found the pieces.” Then Treece told Coffin about Cloche’s proposal to the Sanderses.

“Cheeky bastard,” Coffin said when Treece had finished. “He should have come to me with his million dollars. They’re mine.”

“You’re supposed to be a fool, Adam. Keep it that way. It’s safer. Besides, Goliath isn’t registered to you any more. I checked. Now-truth. How many were there?”

Coffin hesitated. “Truth is a pain in the ass,” he said, holding one of the ampules to the light. “I told the truth once, and damn near got killed for my trouble.”