The Deep

“Inside,” Ronald said. He followed them through the door, saying to the man with the scar, “What’s doin’?”

“Waitin’ on you, man.”

It was the inflection on the word “man” that made Sanders realize who the bearer of the scar was: Slake, the waiter from Orange Grove.

Reflexively, Sanders turned to look at him, but he was pushed forward into the store.

Stepping into the darkness of the store, David could see nothing. There seemed to be rows of merchandise on both sides of an aisle. Gradually, as his pupils adjusted, he saw a faint light shining under a door at the rear of the store. “Where?”

Ronald brushed past him. “You follow me.” When he reached the door, he rapped once, then twice.

A voice inside said, “Come.”

Ronald opened the door and motioned Gail and David through. He followed them, shut the door, and leaned against it.

On the far side of the room was a desk, and behind it sat a young man-in his late twenties or very early thirties, Sanders guessed. The sweat on his forehead caught the light and made his black skin shine. He wore gold-rimmed spectacles and a starched white shirt. There was no jewelry on his hands, but around his neck was a thin gold chain that held an inch-long gold feather. Two burly men comolder than the ones outside the store-flanked him in formal symmetry, arms folded, beside the desk. The room was cluttered with cartons and boxes and file cabinets, and smelled of fish and dirt and sweat and overripe fruit. Two bare light bulbs hung from the ceiling.

The man behind the desk stood up. “Mr. and iVI-RS. Sanders,” he said, smiling. “I am glad you agreed to come.”

Sanders recognized the man’s accent; he had heard it in Guadalupe; the accent of one whose native language is Caribbean French and who has learned English in a church school.

“We weren’t exactly invited,” Sanders said.

“No. But I’m glad you chose not to resist. I am Henri Cloche.” He paused, expecting the Sanderses to recognize

the name. When they did not react, he went on. “The name means nothing? So much the better.” He looked at Gail. “Forgive me, madam. You would like a chair?”

“No.” Gail looked directly at Cloche, hoping he would not see she was afraid. “Why are we here?”

“Of course,” said Cloche. He held out his hand.

“The ampule.”

Sanders said, “We don’t have it.”

Cloche looked back and forth, from David to Gail, smiling, holding out his hand. He snapped his ringers.

Sanders felt strong hands grip his arms and pin his elbows back. One of the men beside the desk stepped over to him, grabbed the collar of his shirt, and tore it open, stripping the buttons away. The hands behind him pulled the shirt off his back.

The other man made a move toward Gail, but Cloche stopped him with a wave of his hand. “Take your clothes off,” he said. “Both of you. Now.”

Gail forced herself to keep looking at Cloche.

Slowly, she unbuttoned her blouse and dropped it to the floor. One of Cloche’s men picked it up and examined it, feeling along the seams, bending the built-in collar stays. She unhooked her short, wrap-around skirt. The man held out his hand for it, but she dropped it on the floor at his feet. Still looking at Cloche, her eyes locked on his, she undid her bra and dropped it. The man caught it before it hit the floor, and he picked through the cups, checking the thin padding.

Sanders undressed less meticulously, shedding his clothes and letting the hands behind him take them from him.

It was not until he was naked that he noticed Gail staring at

Cloche. Her thumbs were hitched in her bikini underpants. He tried not to look at her, but the palpable excitement of the gawking men was contagious, and he sensed heat rushing into his groin. He closed his eyes, fighting the absurd tumescence.

Cloche had not taken his eyes off Gail’s face.

“Nothing,” said the man behind Sanders.

The word broke the trance, and Cloche’s eyes dropped down Gail’s body. He looked away.

“Put your clothes on,” he said.

Gail bent over to gather her clothes.

“I could conduct a proper examination of you both,”

Cloche said testily, “but never mind. I assume Romer Treece has the ampule. One alone is of no importance.”

“Then why all this cloak-and-dagger stuff?” Sanders said as he pulled on his trousers.

“Do you know Bermuda, Mr. Sanders?”

“Some.”

“Then you will recall, perhaps, the ex-governor—the late governor, I should say—the one who was so fond of great Danes.”

Sanders remembered. On a warm night in 1973, Sir Richard Sharpies, the British governor of Bermuda, had gone for a late-night stroll with his pet Dane. Man and dog were found slaughtered in the gardens of Government House. “What does that have to do with us?” he said.

“He was a meddler. He refused to do business. I don’t like it when someone I approach refuses to do business.”

“Business?”