Douglas Preston - Riptide

Hatch said nothing.

"One of those young divers was my son."

Hatch looked at the dark figure. "I'm very sorry," he said. "I had no idea . . ." He stopped. I had no idea you were a father. Or a husband. In fact, he really knew next to nothing about Neidelman's personal life.

"Jeff was our only child. The death was very hard on both of us, and my wife, Adelaide—well, she couldn't quite forgive me."

Hatch fell silent again, remembering the stark outline of his own mother's face that November afternoon they learned of his father's death. She had picked up a china candlestick from the mantelpiece, polished it absently with her apron, replaced it, then picked it up and polished it again, over and over, her face as gray as the empty sky. He wondered what Kerry Wopner's mother was doing at that moment.

"God, I'm tired." Neidelman shifted again in his chair, more briskly this time, as if to force himself awake. "These things happen in this business," he said. "They're unavoidable."

"Unavoidable," Hatch repeated.

"I'm not trying to excuse it. Kerry was aware of the risks, and he made that choice. Just as we all did."

Despite himself, Hatch found his eyes straying involuntarily to the misshapen form under the sheet. Dark stains had seeped through the material, ragged black holes in the moonlight. He wondered if Wopner really had made the choice.

"The point is"—the Captain lowered his voice— "we must not let this defeat us."

With an effort, Hatch pulled his eyes away. He sighed deeply. "I suppose I feel the same way. We've come this far. Kerry's death would be even more pointless if we abandoned the project completely. We'll take the time we need to review our safety procedures. Then we can—"

Neidelman sat forward in his chair. "The time we need? You misunderstand me, Malin. We must move forward tomorrow."

Hatch frowned. "How can we, in the wake of all this? For one thing, morale is rock-bottom. Just this afternoon I heard a couple of workers outside my window, saying the whole venture's cursed, that nobody will ever recover the treasure."

"But that's exactly why we must press on," the Captain continued, his voice now urgent. "Stop the malingering, make them lose themselves in their work. It's not surprising people are rattled. What would you expect after such a tragedy? Talk of curses and supernatural folderol is a seductive, undermining force. And that's really what I'm here to discuss."

He moved his chair closer. "All these equipment troubles we've been having. Everything works just fine until it's installed on the island, then inexplicable problems crop up. It's caused us delays and cost overruns. Not to mention the loss of morale." He picked up his pipe. "Have you thought about a possible cause?"

"Not really. I don't know much about computers. Kerry didn't understand it. He kept saying there was some kind of malevolent force at work."

Neidelman made a faint sound of derision. "Yes, even him. Funny that a computer expert should be so superstitious." He turned, and even in the dark Malin could feel his stare. "Well, I have been giving it a lot of thought, and I've come to a conclusion. And it's not some kind of curse."

"What, then?"

The Captain's face glowed briefly as he relit his pipe. "Sabotage."

"Sabotage?" Hatch said incredulously. "But who? And why?"

"I don't know. Yet. But it's obviously someone in our inner circle, someone with complete access to the computer system and the equipment. That gives us Rankin, Magnusen, St. John, Bonterre. Perhaps even Wopner, hoisted on his own petard."

Hatch was secretly surprised that Neidelman could talk so calculatingly about Wopner with the programmer's broken body lying only six feet away. "What about Streeter?" he asked.

The Captain shook his head. "Streeter and I have been together since Vietnam. He was petty officer on my gunboat. I know you and he don't see eye-to-eye, and I know he's a bit of an odd duck, but there's no chance he could be the saboteur. None. Everything he has is invested in this venture. But it goes deeper than that. I once saved his life. When you've been at war, side by side in combat with a man, there can never be a lie between you."

"Very well," Hatch replied. "But I can't think of a reason why anyone would want to sabotage the dig."

"I can think of several," said Neidelman. "Here's one. Industrial espionage. Thalassa isn't the only treasure hunting company in the world, remember. If we fail or go bankrupt, it would open the door to someone else."

"Not without my cooperation."

"They don't know that." Neidelman paused. "And even if they did, minds can always be changed."

"I don't know," Hatch said. "It's hard for me to believe that..." His voice trailed off as he remembered running into Magnusen the day before, in the holding area where artifacts were catalogued. She had been examining the gold doubloon found by Bonterre. At the time, he'd been surprised: the engineer, normally so controlled and devoid of personality, had been staring intently at the coin, a look of raw, naked desire on her face. She'd put it down quickly when he entered, with a furtive, almost guilty movement.

"Remember," the Captain was saying, "there's a two-billion-dollar fortune to be won here. Plenty of people in this world would shoot a liquor store clerk for twenty dollars. How many more would commit any crime, including murder, for two billion?"

The question hung in the air. Neidelman stood up and paced restlessly in front of the window, drawing heavily on his pipe. "Now that the Pit's been drained, we can reduce our workforce by half. I've already sent the sea barge and the floating crane back to Portland. That should make the job of security easier. But let us be clear about one thing. A saboteur may well be at work. He or she may have tampered with the computers, in effect forcing Kerry to join our team this morning. But it was Macallan who murdered Kerry Wopner." He turned suddenly from the window. "Just as he murdered your brother. The man has reached across three centuries to strike at us. By God, Malin, we can't let him defeat us now. We will break his Pit and take his gold. And the sword."

Hatch sat in the dark, a host of conflicting feelings welling up in him. He had never quite looked at the Pit in those terms. But it was true: Macallan had, in a way, murdered his innocent brother and the almost equally innocent computer programmer. The Water Pit was, at base, a cruel, cold-blooded engine of death.

"I don't know about any saboteur," he said, speaking slowly. "But I think you're right about Macallan. Look at what he said in his last journal entry. He's designed that Pit to kill anyone who tries to plunder it. That's all the more reason to take a breather, study the journal, rethink our approach. We've been moving too fast, way too fast."

"Malin, that's exactly the wrong approach." Neidelman's voice was suddenly loud in the small office. "Don't you realize that would play right into the saboteur's hands? We have to move ahead with all possible speed, map out the interior of the Pit, get the support structures in place. Besides, every day we delay means more complications, more hindrances. It's only a matter of time before the press gets wind of this. And Thalassa is already paying Lloyd's $300,000 a week in insurance. This accident is going to double our premiums. We're over budget, and our investors aren't happy. Malin, we're so close. How can you suggest we slow down now?"

"Actually," said Hatch steadily, "I was suggesting we knock off for the season and resume in the spring."

There was a hiss as Neidelman sucked in his breath. "My God, what are you saying? We'd have to take down the cofferdam, re-flood the whole works, disassemble Orthanc and Island One— you can't be serious."