Sea of Greed

Paul sat tall and rigidly. He realized the fire was plainly visible in the ROV’s aft camera. Switching it off would be too obvious, but Reynolds might not be able to see past him if he sat up straight.

“I forgot to ask,” Reynolds said, paying no attention to the screens. “Can you forward me a copy of your report when you’re done examining the sediment samples? I just want to send it up to Washington with everything else.”

As Reynolds spoke, Paul brought the ROV down to the sediment layer once more, turning it so that the fires weren’t visible on camera.

“Sure thing,” Gamay said. “It’ll take a while, but I’ll send you a copy as soon as it’s done.”

“Thanks,” he said. “How many samples have you collected?”

Paul knew better than to blurt out an answer — in case Gamay was about to voice a different lie. He looked down at a paper with scribbled notes on it as if he’d been keeping track. “This is, umm…”

“We’re up to sixteen,” Gamay said.

To maintain the illusion, Paul vacuumed up another sample of sediment, which would be stored in a separate container. “Sixteen going on seventeen,” he said.

Reynolds sighed. “I admire your dedication. See you later.” With that, he backed out and shut the door once again.

“That was close,” Paul said. “At least the hard part is over.”

“For you,” Gamay said. “I have to write up a fake report detailing a hundred sediment samples. None of which will have anything in them because all of this takes place below the photic zone.”

Paul had to laugh. He knew Gamay would want his help, but, thankfully, he’d be too busy studying the gas.

He glanced at the instruments, checking on the sample. The gas was steady and holding stable at forty degrees. The sediment samples were…

“There’s a slight pressure build in the sediment tank,” he said.

Gamay leaned closer. “Only in the sediment sample you just collected. Did you suck in some of the gas?”

“No,” Paul said. “There was no cross-contamination.”

“The pressure is rising ever so slightly in the sealed chamber,” Gamay said, fine-tuning the instrument. “If I didn’t know better, I’d tell you there was bacteria in that barren soil.”

A system check told them the instruments were working perfectly. “It’s not a false reading,” Gamay said.

Paul grinned at her. “Looks like you’re going to have something to put in your report after all.”

20

HAMILTON, BERMUDA, BRITISH OVERSEAS TERRITORY

THE ISLAND OF BERMUDA runs diagonally from the airport in the northeast, down to a fishhook curve in the southwest. Situated within that curve is one of the finest natural harbors in the world, home for centuries to ships of the Royal Navy and now a favored port of call for cruise ships and the yachting crowd.

With a mild climate, British traditions and excellence in banking, Bermuda had become one of the wealthiest countries in the world. Its banks and financial institutions were filled with cash, bearer bonds, jewels and precious metals. Its hills were dotted with multimillion-dollar villas, many of which were bought just for investment purposes and often sat empty for months, or even years, at a time.

The arrival of the R3 Conference had changed that. This week the villas were full, the five-star hotels overflowing and the harbor crowded with yachts — each one larger and more ostentatious than the last. But none of them compared to the presence of the Monarch.

The hulking amphibious aircraft was the center of attention in Bermuda, making front-page news upon its return, even knocking the cricket championship to a spot below the fold.

Its majestic landing in the Great Sound had been attended like the arrival of a king or queen. The fact that the aircraft was based on the island was of little consequence. For one thing, it was rarely here. For another, there were thousands of tourists present who’d never seen the aircraft. They lined the docks as it taxied across the water toward a small island called Baker’s Rock, which sat in a sheltered section of the Great Sound.

Tessa Franco owned Baker’s Rock and had built a large estate on the high ground. To protect the aircraft, a stone wall had been added to the naturally curved bay, which acted as a berth for the great plane.

Pleasure boats passed by during the day, onlookers snapping photos. Cruise ships saluted the aircraft with blasts from their horns usually reserved for other ships, while a constant security presence was posted to keep the curious from getting too close or setting foot on the island.

For the most part, Tessa enjoyed the attention. It was publicity. Publicity meant money. And money was becoming a critical factor at this point in her operation. With Buran and the Consortium withholding her payments, Tessa was in desperate need of cash.

For a year, she’d been talking about an initial public offering, but for reasons she kept to herself she hadn’t moved forward with it yet. R3 gave a different opportunity, private money, the kind that came without attention and often without many strings attached.