The Deep

“Aye,” Treece conceded. “I told you, I don’t kfioiv anything yet. The only decent evidence we have is time. For instance, the date on the coin fits. Most of the other evidence is negative: no one ever heard of Dare or El Grifon again; no other ships were reported sunk around here in those years. And I can’t find a likely candidate for ownership of the E.f. pieces, which means they were part of a secret cargo-or at least an unregistered one.”

“But Bermuda’s only one island,” Sanders said.

“Grifon could have gone down anywhere. Florida, the Bahamas…”

“Possible, but not probable. In the deep, maybe, but that was rare. We know Dare was a bloody good sailor. He’d not mess with Florida in bad season again. And the Bahamas channel was abandoned long before then as too dangerous. If he went down-and I’ll grant you, it’s an “if comhe went down here.”

“Why would he even come here?”

“As you’ll learn if you take the trouble,” Treece said, “he had no choice. The route to the New World was southerly, down the coast of Spain, across to the Azores, then over the ocean on the easterly trades. The route home was northerly, up the coast of the States, then a turn to the east. It was mostly eyesight navigation. They didn’t have proper instruments for determining longitude, so they used Bermuda as a signpost to tell them when to turn east. The weather didn’t have to be too bad for them not to be able to see Bermuda until they were on it. Christ, man, there are more than three hundred wrecks on this island. They didn’t all happen by coincidence.”

“What are the chances of getting it up?” Gail asked. “I mean, if it is El Grifon.”

“Getting the ship up? Not the faintest prayer. There’s nothing left of her. It’s getting what was on her that’s possible.”

“But nobody knows what that was.”

“True, but we’re a step beyond daydreams now. There is something down there.” Treece looked happy, excited.

“By rights, you found her. Whatever she is, you were the first to find her. You didn’t know it, and you still wouldn’t if I hadn’t told you, but that doesn’t alter the facts. What I’m telling you is, I don’t want you to go away from here and then get all hot later on if I find something. What’s there-a lot or a little-is half yours.”

Sanders was grateful, and he started to say so, but Gail cut him off.

“You should know one thing,” she said. “I’m going to the government about the drugs.”

“Oh Christ!” Treece smacked his hand on the table. “Don’t be stupid. The government won’t do a goddamn thing.”

Sanders was surprised at Treece’s sudden vehemence, confused as to whether Treece’s anger came from annoyance at the change of subject, the break of mood, or from genuine contempt for the government. Treece was glaring at Gail, and Sanders wished he knew how to help her.

But she seemed to need no help. She looked back at Treece and said evenly, “Mr. Treece, I’m sorry if I annoy you. But we’re not Bermudians; we’re tourists, guests of your government. I don’t know what you have against them, but I do know that we—David and I, anyway—have got to tell them about the drugs.”

“Girl, I can get those drugs, and I mean to. I don’t want Cloche to get ’em any more than you do. I’ve no love for that filth. I’ve seen what it can do.”

Gail’s expression did not change.

Treece stood up. “Tell ’em, then! Learn your own fool lesson.”

Sanders felt that Treece was ordering them to leave.

“What will you do?” he said.

“What I told you I’d do, and not a damn thing more. I’ll register the Spanish ship.”

“What’ll you call it?”

“Spanish ship. That’s all the bastards need to know.”

They had lunch sent to their room. While they waited for the food to arrive, Gail studied the Bermuda telephone directory. The listings for the various departments and agencies of the government took up nearly a whole column. “I don’t even know what I’m looking for,” she said. “There’s nothing like a bureau of narcotics control.”

“Narcotics is probably handled by the police,”

said Sanders, “which is just where you don’t want to go.”

He paused. “I can’t figure it: What the hell do you think Treece has against the government?”

“I don’t know. But something. Maybe it’s what the bell captain said-St. David’s Islanders don’t think of themselves as Bermudians.”

“It seems more than that. He was mad.”

“What about customs?”

“What?”

“The customs department.”

“Nobody’s trying to smuggle them in.”

“No, but Cloche wants to smuggle them out.” She asked the hotel operator to connect her to the customs bureau. When a voice answered, she said, “I’d like to make an appointment to speak to someone, please.”

The voice said, “May I ask what this is in reference to?”

“It’s…” Gail chastised herself for not having a ready-answer. “It’s about… smuggling.”

“I see. Something is being smuggled?”

“Yes. Well, not exactly. Not yet. But it will be.”

The voice became skeptical. “Exactly what? And when?”

“I’d rather not say over the telephone. Is there someone I can see?”

“May I ask who’s calling, please?”