The Deep

“But he’ll follow us.”

“Let him.”

“I’m all right.” She saw that the hand holding the glass of scotch was shaking, and she smiled. “I’ll be all right.”

Sanders paused. “I don’t think they’re kidding. Neither do you.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Then what’s the argument? It’s not worth the risk, not even the smallest chance that somebody really would rip your guts out. Treece said it: We’re here on holiday, our honeymoon, for God’s sake. We’re not here to get murdered by a maniac.”

“It’s not us you’re worried about, is it? It’s me.”

“Well, not—”

“You think you can take care of yourself.”

When he said nothing, she continued. “Don’t worry about me. We can’t spend the rest of our lives terrified. Besides, we have to stop Cloche from getting those drugs. He’ll use them to ruin lives, to kill innocent people; he doesn’t care. Well, I do. I’m going to do what I should have done all along: go to the government. I have to.”

“What do you mean? Treece told you: It won’t do any good.”

“Maybe not, but I can’t walk away from it.” Her hand still trembled, but there was a look of fierce intensity on her face. “It wasn’t you they threw on the bed; it wasn’t your crotch they painted.

I’m staying, at least until I talk to the government.”

Sanders looked away.

She went to him and touched his face. He put his arms around her and kissed her forehead.

“What did you find tonight?” she asked, her head against his chest.

“Ampules. Boxes of the damn things. They’re there, no question.”

“Any Spanish stuff?”

“A silver coin and a gold medallion.”

“What did Treece think about them?”

“He thinks there might be another ship. Underneath Goliath.”

Sanders recounted his conversation with Treece, and as he spoke, the enthusiasm he had felt on the boat returned.

Watching him, seeing his excitement at the prospect of a treasure, his delight in the newly learned minutiae of Spanish ships, she felt like smiling.

But, out of the corner of her eye, she could see the doll.

Treece looked tired; his eyes were red, and the skin beneath them was lined and puffy. He seemed subdued.

He led the Sanderses into the kitchen, where the dog lay curled by the stove, occasionally licking the bandage on her flank. On the kitchen table was a neat stack of papers comsome old and yellow, some photostats.

Gail told Treece about the visit from Cloche’s men and showed him the doll.

“He’s trying to spook you,” Treece said, “show you how powerful he is. Not that he’d hesitate to kill you. But at the moment it wouldn’t accomplish anything for him. All it’d do is raise a storm and seal it good you wouldn’t help him. But if he ever decides for himself that you really won’t go along, beware. The bastard’d cut your throat as soon as shake your hand.”

“We almost left,” Sanders said.

Treece nodded. “It’s not sure he’d get at you in New York.”

“Not sure?” Sanders said. “You think he’s serious about following us to New York?”

“Wouldn’t have to follow you. A phone call’d suffice. He’s a vengeful bugger and well connected. But no question, you’d be safer there.”

Gail said, “It seems like we’re safer here-at least as long as he thinks we’ll help.” She turned to Sanders. “You were right. I should have lied.”

“Sounds to me like you haven’t made up your minds yet,” said Treece. “Before you do, you might want to hear what I found out last night, or I should say this morning. I think I know-now hear me; I say I think—what ship is under Goliath.”

“You found E.f.,” Sanders said.

“No.” Treece pointed to the papers on the table.

“These are just the beginning, but they’ve got a couple of clues in ’em. You remember we talked about that 1715 fleet?”

“Sure.”

“This may have something to do with that fleet. Try to follow.” He picked up a piece of paper.

“The 1715 fleet was commanded by a general named Don Juan Esteban de Ubilla. He had wanted to set sail for Spain in late 1714, but there were delays, as there always were. Ships were late coming from the Far East, the Manila galleons that carried K’ang Hsi porcelain, ivory, jade, silk, spices, all manner of stuff. He waited in Vera Cruz for over a year for the cargo to arrive, be lugged across the jungle, and loaded onto his ships.

He set off for Havana, where all fleets gathered for last-minute preparations. There were more delays in Havana: ships had to be repaired, more cargo loaded, manifests made up. The early spring of 1715 slipped by, then late spring, then early summer. Pretty soon, it was the middle of July. Ubilla must have been going berserk.”

“Why?” Gail asked.

“Hurricanes. There’s a West Indian jingle that goes, ‘June, too soon; July, stand by; August, come they must; September, remember; October, all over.” A hurricane was the worst thing that could happen to one of those fleets. The ships were pigs. They couldn’t point closer than about ninety degrees to the wind, so in a big breeze they were helpless. They were always overloaded, wormy, and rotten. They leaked all day every day.

“Anyway, while Ubilla was waiting, he was approached by a fellow named Dare, master of a vessel that had once been French but now flew the Spanish flag and carried a Spanish name—El Grifon. Dare wanted to join Ubilla’s fleet, and with bloody good reason: His manifest listed more than fifty thousand dollars in gold and silver, and if he sailed alone there wasn’t a chance he’d get by the Straits of Florida. Jamaican pirates would get him. They had spies everywhere, and they’d know exactly when he left Havana. But Ubilla said no. He was all hot about the delays and the weather, and he didn’t want the headache of shepherding another vessel; ten ships was plenty to keep tabs on. Dare pressed; he hinted that there was something special about his cargo, something other than what the manifest said. Ubilla wouldn’t budge.”

“All that’s in there?” Gail said, indicating the papers on the table.

“Most of it. Everybody kept diaries in those days, and Spanish bureaucrats were fanatics about keeping detailed records, usually for self-protection. Anyway, under normal circumstances Ubilla’s word would have been law.

He was responsible for the fleet, and it was up to him to say who sailed with him and who didn’t. But evidently there was more to El Grifon than Dare was willing to tell. He went over Ubilla’s head, to the highest royal representative in Havana, and in jig time Ubilla was ordered to take El Grifon with him. So now there were eleven ships in the fleet.”

Sanders broke in. “You said last night there were ten ships in the fleet, and they all sank off Florida.”

“That’s what I thought. That’s what everybody thought.” Treece held up a sheet of paper. “This is Ubilla’s manifest. It lists ten ships and all their cargo. What must have happened is that Ubilla had made up his manifest, had done all his paper work, and he was impatient as hell to set sail. If he had gone by the book and presented his manifest for revision, to take into account the eleventh ship-one he didn’t want to bother with anyway-the bloody bureaucrats would have kept him in Havana for another month. They insisted on listing every farthing that went with a fleet, or at least every farthing they weren’t bribed to ignore-and that would have delayed the fleet’s departure until the middle of the hurricane season.”

Gail said, “How did you find out about El Grifon?”

Treece picked through the pile of documents and found a frayed, cracked, yellow piece of paper. He pushed it across the table to her. “Don’t bother to read it. It’s in Old Spanish, and the fellow couldn’t spell worth a damn. It’s a survivor’s account. About four lines from the bottom, there’s a word spelled o-n-c-e the number eleven. I must have read that bastard a hundred times before, and I never picked it up. He says there were eleven ships in the