Douglas Preston - The Obsidian Chamber

Filipov stared. It took him a moment to process this. “Big talk coming from some shit-encrusted piece of flotsam we dragged out of the drink.”

The figure smiled with a mirthless and ghastly stretching of the lips.

“Okay.” Filipov put down the bowl. “Here’s your dinner.” He started to go, then paused. “And here’s your dessert.” He turned back and kicked the man viciously in the gut. Then he climbed out of the hold and let the grate slam down behind him.

Rocky Filipov stood at the helm of the F/V Moneyball , guiding it through a cross sea. The rising sun was just breaking through a dirty scrim of clouds on the eastern horizon, the remains of the storm that had swept through during the night. Off the port side of the vessel, the low dark shore of Crow Island slid past, and ahead Filipov could see the winking beam of the Exmouth Light, standing on a bluff with the keeper’s house beside it, touched with gold by the rising sun — a fine sight. The crew not on watch were sleeping in the cabin below. Martin DeJesus was standing next to him in the pilothouse, drinking coffee, eating a stale doughnut and playing a game on his cell phone.

Filipov was in a dark mood. They had finished delivery of product to their contact in Maine. The trip from Canada had gone without a hitch. They were now sitting on seven figures of cash, locked up in the hold. And they had a month to kill before the next pickup and delivery. It should have been a moment of triumph… except for the problem of Arsenault.

The feds had picked him up with a suitcase of money from the Canadian job a week ago — a hundred grand, enough to pique their interest. No drugs, no evidence, just a shitload of money. Now they had Arsenault in custody, and Filipov had no doubt they were working on him. He hadn’t cracked yet — otherwise they’d all have gone down. While he believed Arsenault would be a hard man to break, the guy did have a wife and two kids, and that was always a man’s weakest point. Also, he was stupid — he should have laundered his share of the money along the lines Filipov had carefully worked out, rather than be caught with it on his person.

The other problem was that the crew had voted to take the boat to Boston and dock it for the month while they enjoyed the fruits of their labor. Filipov was not happy with the plan: he did not like the idea of the crew, suddenly rich, going into the city, spending money, getting drunk, hiring prostitutes, and — possibly — talking too much. After all, look what had happened to Arsenault, who’d opted to leave the boat early. But, realistically, he had to go along with it. He couldn’t just say no after how hard they had worked on the delivery, the risks they’d taken, and how well they’d pulled it off. He simply had to trust them not to get into trouble.

For his part, he was going to spend the month quietly laundering as much of the drug money as he could through the successful antiquities gallery he owned on Newbury Street, eating out at fine restaurants with his several girlfriends, going to Bruins games, and adding a few rare bottles to his wine cellar.

“Whoa,” said Filipov suddenly, staring forward into the choppy water. “You see that?” He throttled down.

DeJesus looked up from his game. “Holy shit, it’s a floater.”

Filipov briefly slid the throttle into reverse, slowing the boat’s headway. The body was lying faceup, arms splayed, pale in death.

“Get a boat hook,” he told DeJesus.

DeJesus exited the pilothouse, grabbed a boat hook, and went forward while Filipov maneuvered the Moneyball to a standstill, bringing it alongside the body. When he saw that DeJesus had snagged it he put the vessel in neutral and exited the pilothouse as well, joining DeJesus at the port rail.

Filipov stared down at the body. It was male, about forty, pale hair plastered to the skull, black suit, pale-gray skin. A watch gleamed on the left wrist.

“Bring it aft and haul it on board,” Filipov told DeJesus.

“Are you shitting me? If we report this we’re going to get all messed up with an investigation.”

“Who said we’re going to report anything? You see that watch? Looks like a Rolex.”

DeJesus issued a low chuckle. “Rocky, you always looking for an angle.”

“Ease him around to the stern and haul him in over the stern ramp.”

Having lost its forward motion, the trawler was rolling pretty good, but DeJesus managed to pull the body aft and around the stern, then dragged it on board with the hook fixed to the floater’s belt. The body slid easily up the stern ramp, draining water. Filipov knelt and grasped the wrist, turning it over.

“Look at this. Platinum Rolex President Sant Blanc. Worth forty grand at least.” He unbuckled it and slipped it off, holding it up for DeJesus to see.

DeJesus took the watch and turned it over. “Fucking A, Cap. It’s still running.”

“Let’s see what else he’s got on him.”

Filipov made a quick search of the body. No wallet, no keys, nothing in the pockets. A strange medallion around the neck that looked worthless, and a gold signet ring with an engraved crest or symbol on it. He tried to take it off, and finally had to force it free, breaking the knuckle as he did so.

He let the hand drop, examining the ring. The value was in the gold, of course: maybe three, four hundred bucks.

“What do we do now?” DeJesus said. “Dump it back? We sure don’t want to be caught with a dead body on board.”

Filipov stared at the body. He reached back toward it and grasped the wrist again. It was not as cold as it should be. In fact, it was slightly warm. He pressed his thumb into it, trying to find a pulse, but couldn’t detect anything. He reached over to the neck and checked the carotid artery. Once again, he was startled at the warmth. As he pressed his index and middle fingers in, he picked up a faint throb. And now he could see the body was in fact breathing — very shallow, almost imperceptible breaths. He put his ear to the chest and picked up a faint gurgling wheeze, along with a slow feeble thump of the heart.

“He’s alive,” he said.

“All the more reason to dump him.”

“Absolutely not.”

Filipov found DeJesus staring at him with a blank look on his face, his bald crown surrounded by a tuft of black wiry hair, his hammy hand gripping the watch. DeJesus was a reliable man, but about as intelligent as a side of beef. “Martin, look. Here’s a guy with a forty-thousand-dollar watch. We just saved his life. Now… don’t you think there might be a money play in this situation?”

“Like what?”

“Go wake up the crew.”

DeJesus went below, shaking his head, while Filipov grabbed a heavy wool blanket from a storage locker. He glanced around to make sure there were no other boats in sight, then hauled the man farther up the stern deck, laid the blanket down, and wrapped him tightly. He had to warm the guy up fast or he’d die anyway, of hypothermia. The water temperature was about fifty-five degrees, and according to the tables Filipov knew by heart, a healthy man in water like that had about ninety minutes of consciousness, then another hour before death, assuming he didn’t drown first.

The guy wasn’t worth a shit dead, but he might be worth a lot alive.

Once he’d wrapped the guy up, Filipov thought about what to do with him. If he came to, he’d be confused. Maybe cause trouble. Best to lock him in one of the holds. The aft lazarette, the biggest hold, would be the place; it had light and some electrical outlets high up into which they could plug a space heater.

Now the crew was coming out on deck, wiping the sleep out of their faces, gathering around the unconscious man. Filipov stood up and looked around. “Martin, show them the watch.”