Cutting Edge

Dear Mr. Greeves,

After giving it every consideration, I must regretfully inform you that I cannot approve your request for permits to conduct an inspection of the offshore site where Messrs. Dupain and Bouchard lost their lives. Please rest assured that my judgment by no means reflects a negative conclusion about your very reputable firm but is rather a matter of having to perform my governmental duties in good conscience.

A complete review of all data surrounding the incident done in consultation with Nautel Submarine Maintenance, and specifically Captain Pierre Gunville, leaves me certain that any manned deepwater procedures would be of great physical hazard to those operating in the area, while yielding no further information that would be helpful to your agency. As you know, Captain Gunville has already completed a postaccident inspection of the site using a remote underwater vehicle, and his report is quite exhaustive.

Though I hesitate to exceed my authority knowing the disappointment this refusal of application shall cause you, it is my personal recommendation that Nautel’s findings be taken as definitive insofar as any claims of indemnity that have resulted from the grievous occurrence of 4 May. I am aware that The Fowler Group is the trusted insurance underwriter of many prominent companies doing business in Gabon, especially those involved in petroleum and mineral prospecting. These enterprises fall directly under my ministerial auspices, and I would be saddened if their relationships with you were to suffer from the impression that appropriate compensations for losses incurred during their explorations might be unduly challenged, however erroneous that notion might be.

I am enclosing a copy of Nautel’s recommendation to me and will, of course, be happy to provide any other material you may need for your records.

Yours Very Truly,

Etienne Begela

Nimec took a moment to digest everything, then looked up at Scull again.

“Gunville was lying outright at the club,” he said. “He told us Nautel didn’t conduct an accident inspection, meanwhile the truth is that it did.”

“That he did,” Scull said. “Himself. Personally.”

“He also told us nobody else wanted to check out the site, when this Fowler Group was pushing the government for permission.”

“And he helped stop them.” Scull was nodding. “I knew it, Petey. That songbird’s chirping was meant to lead us straight into the deep, dark woods. Fucking blindfolded.”

Nimec was thoughtful. He started rubbing his forehead out of habit, touched the bandage over his eye, felt the wound smart. Later, at the hospital, there would be more tests. He hoped they came with painkillers.

“What about Begela?” he said, jerking away his hand. “You think he was being straight with the insurance man about why he nixed the permit apps?”

Scull shrugged.

“Maybe yes, maybe no,” he said. “Could be he’s just a careful guy. But the thing that sticks out at me is how strong he went at Fowler. Real heavy-handed. Begela couldn’t’ve made it any clearer he’d be spreading bad word about their coverage if they didn’t back off, which to me sounds like political blackmail.”

“Agreed,” Nimec said. “That’s pretty sleazy for somebody who writes about his good conscience. Don’t know what kind of fair play laws they have in this country, but in ours, he’d have been pushing toward a serious breach.”

Scull nodded.

“Big time, Petey,” he said. “Big time.”

They rode along in silence a while. The Rover took a sharp turn and swung Nimec to one side, making him a little dizzy as he braced himself in his seat.

DeMarco flicked a glance at him in the rearview.

“Sorry, chief, almost missed our exit,” he said. “Guess I was too busy thinking about what Vince said to you a minute ago.”

Scull leaned forward over the backrest. “About what?”

DeMarco shrugged, his eyes on the road again.

“Gunville trying to lead us into the woods,” he said. “Because I have to admit, it sounds to me like there are more big bad wolves running around in them than we can count.”

* * *

“Are you going to come out and say this is the last time, or does it have to be me?”

Roger Gordian paused silently over an open valise on the bed, a starched, pressed, and folded dress shirt in his hands. His wife’s question was not altogether a surprise, and he had no wish to avoid it. While Gordian had trouble sharing his innermost thoughts even with those dearest to him, the days when he’d kept them in a lockbox were long past. The sharing wasn’t always comfortable, but he did it for those he loved, and because in his heart he acknowledged it was important for him, too. With Ashley, now, especially, he tried. Their marriage had suffered too much when he hadn’t.

Sometimes, though, he still needed urging. And if Ashley had intentionally posed her question as an ultimatum to grab his attention, she’d succeeded.

Gordian put the shirt into the valise, then turned to face her. She stood over by the dresser across the room, packing items into a new luggage accessory she’d bought him in one of the designer shops down at the Stanford Shopping Center whose names he could never quite remember. No doubt, the thing was overpriced. Admittedly, it was handy and useful. He wasn’t sure what to call it… a deluxe travel kit, maybe. Black with two clear-plastic zipper pockets and an opaque nylon pouch below them, it was designed to look like a downscaled garment bag, hanger hook and all, when unrolled. Roll it up, buckle the strap, and the bag turned into something that resembled a cross between a standard shaving kit and SWAT fanny pack. Clever.

“Don’t you think we ought to discuss this before either us makes any declarations?” he said.

She gave him a look, her large eyes penetrating.

“We can,” she said. “But whether or not you care to admit it, we both know the way it should be.”

Gordian was quiet again. Ash’s orderliness and thoroughness were, as ever, impressive. She had laid the newfangled travel kit atop their dresser and loaded it with enough personal hygiene supplies to keep him clean and scrubbed for months if he wound up cast adrift on a remote tropical island, assuring he would make an impeccable presentation of himself when rescuers arrived… or the resident cannibals took him to their leader, whichever came first. Filling the upper pocket were a soap bar in a lidded plastic dish, nail clippers, cotton swabs, a deodorant stick, a scissors and tweezer set, a roller-type lint remover, a comb, a hairbrush, a toothbrush, toothpaste, toothpicks, a pack of Kleenex, and a washcloth folded into a perfect compact square. The pocket underneath held similar contents — sunblock, insect repellent, disposal razors, a styptic pencil, a small can of shaving gel, and a Ziploc bag containing smaller bottles of mouthwash, antiseptic, shampoo, and conditioner. In the open nylon pouch under the two clear pockets, Gordian could see an assortment of vitamin, aspirin, and prescription drug containers, including a vial of antimalarial tablets he had begun taking a week ago in preparation for his trip, and the nebulizer he used whenever his breathing gave him difficulty.

He watched Ashley in silence a moment longer, noticing she was holding yet another little glass bottle in one hand. On it was a homemade sticker he could tell had come out of her label maker, the word printed across it in red capitals partially covered by her fingers. In her other hand was a round, dime-size piece of aluminum foil she had cut from a sheet beside the rest of the items on the dresser.

“What have you got for me there?” he said.

“Let’s not change the subject.”

“I wasn’t trying,” he said honestly. “It’s just that I’m curious.”

Ashley shrugged.

“The bottle was a sample giveaway of moisturizing lotion,” she said. “I finished all the lotion and hung onto it.”

Gordian nodded.

“I suppose there’s no sense throwing out good bottles,” he said.

“None,” she said. “That’s a complete waste.”