Riptide (22 page)

Neidelman was at the radio. “This is the Captain speaking.” His voice echoed across the island and out over the dark water.
“I am hereby exercising my right as acting commander of this venture. All nonessential personnel may have the afternoon off.”

Another cheer went up, general across the island. Hatch glanced over at Magnusen, wondering what she was studying so intently.

“Captain?” Rankin said, staring at his own screen once again. Seeing his expression, Bonterre moved toward him, pressing her
own face close to the monitor.

“Captain?” Rankin said in a louder tone.

Neidelman, in the midst of pouring more champagne, turned toward the geologist.

Rankin gestured toward the screen. “The water’s no longer dropping.”

There was a silence as all eyes turned to the glass floor.

A faint but continuous hissing began to rise from the Pit. The dark surface of the water swirled as bubbles came streaming
out of the black depths.

Neidelman stepped away from the glass window. “Increase the pump rate to thirty,” he said in a quiet voice.

“Yes, sir,” Magnusen said. The roar from the southern end of the island grew stronger.

Without a word, Hatch joined Rankin and Bonterre at the geologist’s screen. The blue band of water had dropped midway between
the ten- and the twenty-foot marks. As they watched, the band wavered on the screen, then began creeping slowly, inexorably
upward.

“The water’s back to fifteen feet,” Magnusen said.

“How can that be?” Hatch asked. “The flood tunnels have all been sealed. No water can get into the Pit.”

Neidelman spoke into the radio. “Streeter, what’s redline on those pumps?”

“Forty thousand is the rating, sir,” came the response.

“I didn’t ask what they were rated to. I asked where the redline was.”

“Fifty thousand. But Captain—”

He turned to Magnusen. “Do it.”

Outside, the roar of the pump engines became almost deafening, and the tower shook violently from their effort. Nobody spoke
as all eyes were locked on the monitors. As Hatch watched, the blue line steadied once again, and wavered, almost seeming
to drop a bit. He exhaled gradually, realizing he had been holding his breath.

“Grande merde du noir,”
Bonterre whispered. In disbelief, Hatch saw the level in the Pit begin to rise again.

“We’re back at ten feet,” Magnusen said implacably.

“Give me sixty on the pumps,” Neidelman said.

“Sir!” the voice of Streeter crackled over the radio. “We can’t push the—”

“Do it!”
Neidelman barked at Magnusen, his voice hard, his lips compressed into narrow white lines. The engineer resolutely turned
the dials.

Once again, Hatch found himself drawn to the observation port. Below, he could see Streeter’s team, bolting additional metal
straps around the pump hose, which was twitching and thrashing like a live thing. Hatch tensed, aware that if the hose burst,
the water pressure at sixty thousand gallons per minute could cut a person in two.

The roar of the pumps had become a howl, a bansheelike cry that seemed to fill his head with its pressure. He could feel the
island shuddering under his feet. Small bits of dirt shook free from the mouth of the Pit and dropped into the dark roiling
water below. The green line wavered, but did not sink.

“Captain!” Streeter cried again. “The forward seal is beginning to fail!”

Neidelman stood motionless, staring into the Pit as if transfixed.

“Captain!” the voice of Streeter cried over the radio, struggling above the noise. “If the hose blows, it could take out Orthanc!”

As Hatch opened his mouth to speak, Neidelman turned abruptly toward Magnusen. “Kill the pumps,” he said.

In the descending silence that followed, Hatch could hear the groans and whispers of the Water Pit beneath them.

“Water level returning to normal, sir,” Magnusen said without turning from her console.

“This is bullshit, man,” Rankin muttered, snapping through sonar readings. “We sealed all five tunnels. This is going to be
one hell of a problem.”

Neidelman half turned his head at this, and Hatch could see the chiseled profile, the hard glitter in the eyes. “It’s not
a problem,” he said in a low, strange voice. “We’ll simply do what Macallan did. We’ll cofferdam the shore.”

A
t quarter to ten that evening, Hatch emerged from the boarding hatch of the
Cerberus
and walked across the gangway to his own boat. At the end of the working day, he’d motored over to the big ship to inspect
the CBC machine he’d be using if blood work was needed for any of the expedition members. While on board, he’d struck up a
conversation with Thalassa’s quartermaster, and in short order had been invited to stay for dinner in the ship’s galley and
to meet the half-dozen occupants. At last, full of vegetable lasagna and espresso, he’d said his farewells to the easygoing
crewmen and lab technicians and headed back through the white corridors toward the exit hatch. Along the way, he’d passed
the door to Wopner’s stateroom. For a moment, he’d considered checking in with the programmer, but decided the unpleasant
reception he was sure to get outweighed the benefits of a status report.

Now, back on the
Plain Jane,
he powered up the engine, cast off the lines, and pointed the boat into the warm night. The distant lights of the mainland
were strung out across the dark, and a nearer cluster on Ragged Island glowed softly through the mantle of mist. Venus hung
low over the western horizon, reflected in the water as a wavering thread of white. The motor ran a little roughly, but eased
as Hatch moved the throttle forward. A glowing trail of phosphorescence sprang from the boat’s stern: sparks swirling from
a green fire. Hatch sighed contentedly, looking forward to the placid journey ahead despite the lateness of the hour.

Suddenly the roughness returned. Quickly, Hatch cut the motor and let the boat drift.
Feels like water in the fuel line,
he thought. With a sigh, he went forward for a flashlight and some tools, then returned to the cockpit and pulled up the
deckpads, exposing the engine beneath. He licked the beam about, searching for the fuel-water separator. Locating it, he reached
in and unscrewed the small bowl. Sure enough, it was full of dark liquid. Emptying it over the side, he bent forward again
to replace it.

Then he stopped. In the silence left by the killing of his engine, Hatch could make out a sound, coming toward him out of
the nocturnal stillness. He paused and listened, uncomprehending for a moment. Then he recognized it: a woman’s voice, low
and melodious, singing an enchanting aria. He stood up and turned involuntarily in the direction of the voice. It floated
across the dark waves, bewitchingly out of place, ravishing in its note of sweet suffering.

Hatch waited, listening as if transfixed. As he looked across the expanse of water, he saw it was coming from the dark form
of the
Griffin,
its running lights extinguished. A single point of red glowed out from Neidelman’s vessel: through his binoculars he could
see it was the Captain, smoking his pipe on the forward deck.

Hatch closed the deckpads, then tried the engine again. It sprang to life on the second crank, running sweet and clear. Hatch
eased the throttle forward and, on an impulse, moved slowly toward the
Griffin.

“Evening,” said the Captain as he approached, the quiet voice unnaturally clear in the night air.

“And to you too,” said Hatch, putting the
Plain Jane
into neutral. “I’d bet my eyeteeth that’s Mozart, but I don’t know the opera.
The Marriage of Figaro,
perhaps?”

The Captain shook his head. “It’s ‘Zeffiretti Lusinghieri.’”

“Ah.
From Idomeneo.
”

“Yes. Sylvia McNair sings it beautifully, doesn’t she? Are you a fan of opera?”

“My mother was. Every Saturday afternoon, the radio would fill our house with trios and
tuttis.
I’ve only learned to appreciate it these last five years or so.”

There was a moment of silence. “Care to come aboard?” Neidelman asked suddenly.

Hatch tied the
Plain Jane
to the rail, killed the engine, and hopped over, the Captain giving him a hand up. There was a glow from the pipe, and Neidelman’s
face was briefly illuminated with a reddish aura, accentuating the hollows of his cheeks and eyes. A wink of precious metal
shone from the pilothouse as the curl of gold reflected the moonlight.

They stood at the rail, silent, listening to the final dying notes of the aria. When it ended and the recitative began, Neidelman
breathed deeply, then rapped out his dottle on the side of the boat. “Why haven’t you ever asked me to quit smoking?” he asked.
“Every doctor I’ve ever known has tried to get me to quit, except you.”

Hatch considered this. “It seems to me I’d be wasting my breath.”

Neidelman gave a soft laugh. “You know me well enough, then. Shall we go below for a glass of port?”

Hatch shot a surprised glance at the Captain. Just that night, in the galley of the
Cerberus,
he’d heard that nobody was ever invited below on the
Griffin;
that nobody, in fact, even knew what it looked like. The Captain, although personable and friendly with his crew, always
kept his distance.

“Good thing I didn’t start lecturing you on your vices, isn’t it?” Hatch said. “Thanks, I’d love a glass of port.”

He followed Neidelman into the pilothouse, then down the steps and under the low door. Another narrow half-flight of metal
stairs, another door, and Hatch found himself in a large, low-ceilinged room. He looked around in wonder. The paneling was
a rich, lustrous mahogany, carved in Georgian style and inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Delicate Tiffany stained glass was set
into each porthole, and leather banquettes were placed against the walls. At the far end, a small fire glowed, filling the
cabin with warmth and the faint, fragrant smell of birch. Glass-fronted library cabinets flanked either side of the mantelpiece;
Hatch could see bound calfskin and the gleam of gold stamping. He moved forward to examine the titles: Hakluyt’s
Voyages,
an early copy of Newton’s
Principia.
Here and there, priceless illuminated manuscripts and other incunabula were arranged face outward; Hatch recognized a fine
copy of
Les Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry.
There was also a small shelf devoted to original editions of early pirate texts: Lionel Wafer’s
Batchelor’s Delight,
Alexander Esquemelion’s
Bucaniers of America,
and
A General History of the Robberies and Murders of the most notorious Pyrates,
by Charles Johnson. The library alone must have cost a small fortune. Hatch wondered if Neidelman had furnished the boat
with earnings from prior salvages.

Beside one of the cabinets was a small seascape in a gilt frame. Hatch moved in for a closer look. Then he drew in his breath
sharply.

“My God,” he said. “This is a Turner, isn’t it?”

Neidelman nodded. “It’s a study for his painting,
Squall Off Beachy Head, 1874.
”

“That’s the one in the Tate?” Hatch said. “When I was in London a few years back, I tried sketching it several times.”

“Are you a painter?” Neidelman asked.

“I’m a dabbler. Watercolors, mostly.” Hatch stepped back, glancing around again. The other pictures that hung on the walls
were not paintings, but precise copperplate engravings of botanical specimens: heavy flowers, odd grasses, exotic plants.

Neidelman approached a small baize-covered dry sink, laid with cut-glass ship’s decanters and small glasses. Pulling two tumblers
from their felt-covered moorings, he poured a few fingers of port in each. “Those engravings,” he said, following Hatch’s
gaze, “are by Sir Joseph Banks, the botanist who accompanied Captain Cook on his first voyage around the world. They’re plant
specimens he collected in Botany Bay, shortly after they discovered Australia. It was the fantastic variety of plant specimens,
you know, that caused Banks to give the bay its name.”

“They’re beautiful,” murmured Hatch, accepting a glass.

“They’re probably the finest copperplate engravings ever made. What a fortunate man he was: a botanist, given the gift of
a brand-new continent.”

“Are you interested in botany?” Hatch asked.

“I’m interested in brand-new continents,” Neidelman said, staring into the fire. “But I was born a little too late. All those
have been snapped up.” He smiled quickly, covering what seemed like a wistful gleam in his eyes.

“But in the Water Pit you have a mystery worthy of attention.”

“Yes,” Neidelman replied. “Perhaps the only one left. That’s why I suppose setbacks such as today’s shouldn’t dismay me. Great
mysteries don’t yield up their secrets easily.”

There was a long silence as Hatch sipped his port. Most people, he knew, found silence in a conversation to be uncomfortable.
But Neidelman seemed to welcome it.

“I meant to ask you,” the Captain said at last. “What did you think of our reception in town yesterday?”