Douglas Preston - Riptide

Neidelman listened, still looking at the ground.

"A few weeks later, on Michaelmas—St. Michael's Day—the merchant's ship was found drifting in the Mediterranean. The yard-arms were covered with vultures. All hands were dead. The box was shut, but the lead seal had been broken. It was brought to a monastery at Cadiz. The monks read the Latin inscription, along with the merchant's own log. They decided the sword was—and I quote from my friend's translation— a fragment vomited up from Hell itself. They sealed the box again and placed it in the catacombs under the cathedral. The document ends by saying that the monks who handled the box soon fell ill and died."

Neidelman looked up at Hatch. "Is this supposed to have some kind of bearing on our current effort?"

"Yes," said Hatch steadily. "Very much so."

"Enlighten me, then."

"Wherever St. Michael's Sword has been, people have died. First, the merchant's family. Then the monks. And when Ockham snaps it up, eighty of his crew die right here on the island. Six months later, Ockham's ship is found drifting just like the merchant ship, with all hands dead."

"Interesting story," Neidelman said. "But I don't think it's worth stopping work for me to listen to. This is the twentieth century. It has no bearing on us."

"That's where you're wrong. Haven't you noticed the recent rash of illnesses among the crew?"

Neidelman shrugged. "Sickness always occurs in a group of this size. Especially when people are becoming tired and the work is dangerous."

"This isn't malingering we're talking about. I've done the blood work. In almost every case, the white cell counts are extremely low. And just this afternoon, one of your digging team came into my office with the most unusual skin disorder I've ever seen. He had ugly rashes and swelling across his arms, thighs, and groin."

"What is it?" Neidelman asked.

"I don't know yet. I've checked my medical references, and I haven't been able to make a specific diagnosis yet. If I didn't know better, I'd say they were buboes."

Neidelman looked at Hatch with a raised eyebrow. "Black death? Bubonic plague, in twentieth-century Maine?"

"As I said, I haven't been able to diagnose it yet."

Neidelman frowned. "Then what are you rabbiting on about?"

Hatch took a breath, controlling his temper. "Gerard, I don't know exactly what St. Michael's Sword is. But it's obviously very dangerous. It's left a trail of death wherever it's gone. I wonder if we were right, assuming that the Spanish meant to wield the sword against Ockham. Perhaps he was meant to capture it."

"Ah," Neidelman nodded, an edge of sarcasm distorting his voice. "Perhaps the sword is cursed after all?" Streeter, standing to one side, sniffed derisively.

"You know I don't believe in curses any more than you do," Hatch snapped. "That doesn't mean there isn't some underlying physical cause to the legend. Like an epidemic. This sword has all the characteristics of a Typhoid Mary."

"And that would explain why several of our sick crew have bacterial infections, while another has viral pneumonia, and yet another a weird infection of the teeth. Just what kind of epidemic might this be, Doctor?"

Hatch looked at the lean face. "I know the diversity of diseases is puzzling. The point is, the sword is dangerous. We've got to figure out how and why before we plunge ahead and retrieve it."

Neidelman nodded, smiling distantly. "I see. You can't figure out why the crew is sick. You're not even sure what some of them are sick of. But the sword is somehow responsible for everything."

"It isn't just the illnesses," Hatch countered. "You must know that a big Nor'easter is brewing. If it keeps heading our way, it'll make last week's storm look like a spring shower. It would be crazy to continue."

"Crazy to continue," Neidelman repeated. "And just how do you propose to stop the dig?"

Hatch paused for a moment as this sunk in. "By appealing to your good sense," he said, as calmly as he could.

There was a tense silence. "No," said Neidelman, with a heavy tone of finality. "The dig continues."

"Then your stubbornness leaves me no choice. I'm going to have to shut down the dig myself for the season, effective immediately."

"How, exactly?"

"By invoking clause nineteen of our contract."

Nobody spoke.

"My clause, remember?" Hatch went on. "Giving me the right to stop the dig if I felt conditions had become too dangerous."

Slowly, Neidelman fished his pipe out of a pocket and loaded it with tobacco. "Funny," he said in a quiet, dead voice, turning to Streeter. "Very funny, isn't it, Mr. Streeter? Now that we're only thirty hours from the treasure chamber, Dr. Hatch here wants to shut the whole operation down."

"In thirty hours," Hatch said, "the storm may be right on top of us—"

"Somehow," the Captain interrupted, "I'm not at all convinced it's the sword, or the storm, that you're really worried about. And these papers of yours are medieval mumbo jumbo, if they're real at all. I don't see why you . . ." He paused. Then something dawned in his eyes. "But yes. Of course I see why. You have another motive, don't you?"

"What are you talking about?"

"If we pull out now, Thalassa will lose its entire investment. You know very well that our investors have already faced ten percent overrun calls. They're not going to cough up another twenty million for next year's dig. But that's exactly what you're counting on, isn't it?"

"Don't lay your paranoid fantasies on me," Hatch said angrily.

"Oh, but they're not fantasy, are they?" Neidelman lowered his voice further. "Now that you've gotten the information you need out of Thalassa, now that we've practically opened the front door for you, you'd love nothing more than to see us fail. Then, next year, you could come in, finish the job, and get all the treasure. And most importantly, you'd get St. Michael's Sword." His eyes glittered with suspicion. "It all makes sense. It explains why, for example, you were so insistent on that clause nineteen. It explains the computer problems, the endless delays. Why everything worked on the Cerberus but went haywire on the island. You had it all figured out from the beginning." He shook his head bitterly. "And to think I trusted you. To think I came to you when I suspected we had a saboteur among us."

"I'm not trying to cheat you out of your treasure. I don't give a shit about your treasure. My only interest is in the safety of the crew."

"The safety of the crew," Neidelman repeated derisively. He fished a box of matches from his pocket, removed one, and scratched it into life. But instead of lighting his pipe, he suddenly thrust it close to Hatch's face. Hatch backed off slightly.

"I want you to understand something," Neidelman continued, flicking out the match. "In thirty hours, the treasure will be mine. Now that I know what your game is, Hatch, I'm simply not going to play. Any effort to stop me will be met with force. Do I make myself clear?"

Hatch looked carefully at Neidelman, trying to read what was going on behind the cold expression. "Force?" he repeated. "Is that a threat?"

There was a long silence. "That would be a reasonable interpretation," said Neidelman, dropping his voice even lower.

Hatch drew himself up. "When the sun rises tomorrow," he said, "if you're not gone from this island, you will be evicted. And I give you my personal guarantee that if anyone is killed or hurt, you will be charged with negligent homicide."

Neidelman turned. "Mr. Streeter?"

Streeter stepped forward.

"Escort Dr. Hatch to the dock."

Streeter's narrow features creased into a smile.

"You have no right to do this," Hatch said. "This is my island."