Peter Benchley - The Deep

They rode their motorbikes along South Road toward Hamilton. The rush hour had not yet begun, but, even so, the traffic leaving Hamilton was much heavier than the traffic going into town.

Businessmen, dressed in knee socks, shorts, short-sleeved shirts, and neckties, sat sedately on their 125-cc. motorcycles, briefcases strapped behind them. Women, finishing the day’s shopping, carried their children in wire baskets on the rear fenders of their motorbikes. Wicker baskets hung down both sides of the rear wheel, full of groceries.

The Department of Tourism shared offices with the Bermuda News Bureau on the second floor of a pink building on Front Street, overlooking Hamilton Harbour. A cruise liner was moored at the Front Street dock, and the milling tourists choked the traffic to a standstill. The Sanderses parked their motorbikes between two cars on the left side of the street, locked the front wheels, and waited for a break in the traffic to let them cross the street.

“I wonder…,” Gail said.

“What?”

“I’m ashamed to say it. But it’s true. What if this man turns out to be black?”

“I know. I thought of that, too.”

“I feel like I’m getting to be a racial paranoid. Every time I see a black face, I’m convinced Cloche has sent someone to get me.”

The receptionist was a pretty, young black woman.

As they approached her desk, Gail said, “I’m the one who called before.” She looked at a clock on the wall: it was 4:10. “I’m sorry we’re a little late. The traffic was terrible.”

“May I have your name… now?” said the receptionist.

“Of course. Sanders. Mr. and Mrs. Sanders.”

“The director is unavailable. There’s a convention of travel agents at the Princess, and he’s in meetings all day. I made an appointment for you with his assistant.” She rose and said, “Follow me, please.” She went to an office in the rear of the room and spoke through the open door. “Mr. and Mrs. Sanders.” She showed the Sanderses through the door and said, “Mr. Hall.”

The man stood to shake hands. He was white, about forty, tan, and lean. “Mason Hall,” he said.

“Please come in.”

Sanders shut the door behind him, and he and Gail sat in chairs facing the desk.

Hall smiled and said, “What’s the problem?” His accent was East Coast American.

Sanders said, “What do you know about a shipwreck off Orange Grove— Goliath ?”

Hall thought for a moment.

“ Goliath . Mid-forties, right? British ship, I think.”

They told Hall their story, eliminating both the clinical details of the assault on Gail and Treece’s suspicions about the existence of a Spanish ship. As they were finishing, Gail looked at David and said, “Treece was against our coming to the government.”

“I’m not surprised,” Hall said. “He’s had some run-ins with the government.”

“What kind?” Sanders asked.

“Nothing serious. And it’s all pretty long ago.

Anyway, I’m glad you did come. Even if nothing else happens, you’ve had more than your share of unpleasantness. I’m sorry, and I know the director would want me to extend his apologies, too.”

“Mr. Hall,” Sanders said, “that’s very nice. But we didn’t come here for apologies.”

“No, of course.”

“What can you do?”

“I’ll talk to the director this evening. I’m sure he’ll want to confer with the Minister, when he returns.”

“Where is he?”

“Jamaica… a regional conference. But he’ll be back in a few days. Meanwhile, we’ll check with the police and see if they know anything about this fellow Cloche.”

“The police?” Sanders said. “I told you, Cloche said he has friends in the police. I know he does.”

“We’ll do it all very quietly. I’ll call you as soon as we know anything.” Hall stood up.

“I do want to thank you for coming by. How long will you be here?”

“Why?”

“Because if it will make you more comfortable, I’ll be happy to have a policeman assigned to you.”

“No,” Sanders said. “Thanks. We’ll be all right.”

They shook hands, and the Sanderses left Hall’s office.

Outside, they walked along Front Street. The sidewalk was crowded with window shoppers from the Sea Venture,

who peered at the Irish linen and Scottish cashmere and French perfume in the window of Trimingham’s, and calculated the savings on the duty-free liquor advertised in the spirit shops.

“Do you think he believed us?” Gail said.

“I think so, but I think if we wait for him to do anything, we’ll die of old age.”

A few doors ahead, Sanders saw the Pan American ticket office. When they were abreast of the door, he touched Gail’s arm and pointed.

She stopped and looked at the foot-high blue letters “Pan Am” painted on the window. “We’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t,” she said. “I don’t know if I could live with the pressure at home; the threat, the not knowing, always wondering: What if…?”

David gazed at the lettering for a few seconds more, then said, “Let’s go see Treece.”

“I’ll not say ‘I told you so,” Treece said. “Bloody fools have to be scorched before they’ll admit there’s a fire.”

Sanders said, “Did you register the Spanish ship?”

“Aye. You didn’t tell the noble Mr. Hall about it, did you?”

“No.”

“He was pretty… reserved… about you,” said Gail.

“Reserved?” Treece laughed. “That’s not the word for it. Paper-pushers can’t figure me out. All they understand is bullshit and politics, which amount to the same thing.”

“You think they’ll do anything?”

“Maybe, around the turn of the century.” Treece shook his head, as if to dismiss the government from his mind. “So,” he said, “now that you’ve a half interest in what may turn out to be nothing, what are you going to do?”

“Stay,” Gail said, “we don’t really have a choice.”

“You’ve figured your risks?”

Sanders said, “We have.”

“All right. A few ground rules, then. From this moment on, you’re to do what I tell you. You can question all you want, when there’s time. But when there’s not, you jump first and ask questions later.”

Gail looked at David. “Leader of the pack.”

“What’s that?” Treece said.

“Nothing, really. When we were diving, David got annoyed at me for not obeying him.”

“And rightly, too. We could get through without a bruise, but there’ll be times when getting through at all may depend on how quick you respond. Any time you’re tempted to buck me, know this: I’ll kick your ass out of here in a trice. I’ll not have you getting killed on my account.”

“We’re not out to fight you,” Sanders said.

“Fine. Now”—Treece smiled—“bad-ass decision number one: Go back to Orange Grove and turn in your mobilettes. Pack your gear, check out, and call a cab to bring you out here.”

“What?”

“See? You’re bucking me already. If we’re going to get into this mess, I want you where I can keep an eye on you, and where Cloche’s people can’t. Back there, Christ knows who-all will have you in their sights.”

“B…,” Gail protested. “This is your—was—”

“It may not have all the amenities of your hundred-dollar-a-day bungalow, but it’ll do. And you won’t have to worry about some tomcat planting voodoo dolls in your bed.”

When the taxi had departed, leaving the Sanderses and their luggage outside Treece’s house, Gail said, “You think we’ll sleep in the kitchen?”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s the only room in the house we’ve ever seen.