Riptide (41 page)

The small icon of a closed airmail envelope had appeared in the lower right corner of his laptop, indicating new e-mail. But
when he’d tried to access it, Hatch found his Internet connection kept dropping. Deciding to take a short break, he trotted
down to the pier and motored the
Plain Jane
away from her berth. Clear of the island and its perpetual fog bank, he connected the laptop’s modem to his cell phone and
retrieved the marquesa’s message without difficulty.
What is it with computers and this island?
he thought.

Firing up the diesels again, he swung the
Plain Jane
back toward Ragged Island. The prow of the boat cut through the glassy swell, startling a cormorant, who disappeared into
the water. It reappeared several dozen yards farther off, paddling furiously.

A weather report crackled on the marine radio: The disturbance over the Grand Banks had developed into a strong low-pressure
system, currently headed toward the coast of northern Maine. If the storm kept to its present course, a small craft advisory
would go into effect at noon the next day.
A classic Nor’easter,
thought Hatch grimly.

He could see an unusual number of lobster boats spread along the horizon, pulling their traps. Perhaps it was in preparation
for the storm. Or perhaps there was another reason. Though he had not seen Claire since Squeaker’s Cove, Bill Banns had called
Sunday evening to let him know that Clay had scheduled the protest for the last day of August.

Back in his office, he drained the dregs of his coffee and turned to his laptop, eager to read the marquesa’s message. In
typical fashion, the wicked old lady began by talking about her latest young conquest.

He is terribly shy, but so sweet and eager to please that I find myself just doting upon him. His hair lies across his forehead
in small brown ringlets that turn black from sweat when he has been exerting himself. And there is much to be said for enthusiasm,
is there not?

She went on to discuss past lovers and husbands, and to more specific details of her anatomical preferences in men. The marquesa
always approached electronic mail as if it were a medium for gossipy confessions. If the woman held true to form, her message
would turn next to her chronic shortage of ready money, and to a family ancestry that dated back through the Holy Roman emperors
to Aleric the Visigoth himself. This time, however, she proceeded with uncharacteristic speed to the information she had unearthed
in the archives of Cádiz Cathedral. Reading, then rereading her message, Hatch felt a chill course through him.

There was a knock on the door. “Come in,” Hatch said as he sent the marquesa’s message to the nearby printer. He glanced up
at the workman who stood in the doorway, then froze.

“My God,” he breathed, pushing back from his desk. “What the hell happened to you?”

F
ifty minutes later, Hatch was quickly climbing the path toward the Water Pit. The rays of the lowering sun blazed over the
water, turning the island’s fogbank into a fiery swirl.

Orthanc was empty save for Magnusen and a technician operating the winch. There was a grinding noise, and a massive bucket
emerged from the Water Pit, hooked to a thick steel cable. As Hatch watched through the glass porthole, a crew at the edge
of the Pit swung the bucket off to one side and tilted it into one of the abandoned tunnels. There was a loud sucking sound,
and countless gallons of mud and dirt poured out in a rush. The crew righted the now-empty bucket and swung it back toward
the mouth of the Water Pit, where it once again descended out of sight.

“Where’s Gerard?” Hatch asked.

Magnusen was monitoring a wireframe grid of the base of the Water Pit. She turned to look at him for a moment, then returned
to her screen. “With the digging team,” she replied.

On the wall near the winch technician was a bank of six red phones, hardwired to various points on the island network. Hatch
picked up the phone labeled
WATER PIT, FORWARD TEAM.

He heard three quick beeps. In a moment, Neidelman’s voice came over the channel. “Yes?” Hatch could hear loud hammering in
the background.

“I need to speak with you,” Hatch said.

“Is it important?” Neidelman asked, irritation in his voice.

“Yes, it’s important. I have some new information about St. Michael’s Sword.”

There was a pause during which the hammering grew louder. “If you must,” Neidelman replied at last. “You’ll have to come down
here. We’re in the midst of setting some braces.”

Hatch returned the phone to its cradle, buckled on a safety helmet and harness, then stepped outside and climbed down the
tower to the staging platform. In the gathering dusk, the Pit looked even more brilliant, projecting a shaft of white light
into the mists above. One of the crew members at the Pit’s mouth helped him onto the electric lift. He pressed a button on
the housing and the small platform lurched and descended.

He passed through the gleaming web of titanium struts and cables, marveling despite himself at the complexity. The lift descended
past a team checking a set of braces at the forty-foot level. Another ninety seconds and the bottom of the Water Pit became
visible. Here, activity was more pronounced. The muck and mire had been removed, and a battery of lights erected. A smaller
shaft now extended down from the base of the Pit, braced on all sides. Several small instruments and measuring devices—belonging
to Magnusen, or maybe Rankin—dangled from slender wires. The winch cable descended into one corner, and in the opposite corner
a titanium ladder had been fitted. Stepping off the lift, Hatch went down the ladder into a roar of sound: shovels, hammers,
the rush of air-filtration units.

Thirty feet below, he reached the actual floor of the excavation. Here, under the gaze of a lone closed-circuit camera, workmen
were digging out the sodden earth and dumping it into the large bucket. Others were using suction hoses to vacuum up the mud
and water. Neidelman stood in one corner, a construction helmet on his head, directing the placement of the supports. Streeter
hovered nearby, a set of blueprints in his hand.

Malin came toward them, and the Captain nodded. “I’m surprised you haven’t been down here to see this before,” he said. “Now
that the Pit is stabilized, we’ve been able to proceed with the final digging at full speed.”

There was a pause in which Hatch made no answer.

Neidelman turned his pale eyes toward him. “You know how pressed for time we are,” he said. “I hope this is important.”

A great change had taken place in the man in the week since Wopner’s death. Gone was the look of calm certainty, the equanimity
that had surrounded him like a mantle from the very first day he’d sat in Hatch’s office and looked out over the Charles River.
Now, there was a look Hatch found hard to describe: a haggard, almost wild, determination.

“It’s important,” said Hatch. “But private.”

Neidelman looked at him a moment longer. Then he glanced at his watch. “Listen up!” he said to the men. “Shift ends in seven
minutes. Knock off, get topside, and tell the next team to come down for an early start.”

The workers laid aside their tools and began climbing the ladder toward the lift. Streeter remained where he was, silent.
The large suction hoses fell silent, and the half-filled bucket rose toward the surface, bobbing on its heavy steel cable.
Streeter remained, standing silently to one side. Neidelman turned back to Hatch. “You’ve got five minutes, maybe ten.”

“A couple of days ago,” Hatch began, “I came across a stash of my grandfather’s papers, documents he’d gathered about the
Water Pit and Ockham’s treasure. They were hidden in the attic of the family house; that’s why my father never destroyed them.
Some mentioned St. Michael’s Sword. They hinted that the sword was some kind of terrible weapon the Spanish government planned
to use against Red Ned Ockham. There were other disturbing references, too. So I contacted a researcher I know in Cádiz and
asked her to do some more digging into the sword’s history.”

Neidelman looked toward the muddy ground at their feet, his lips pursed. “That could be considered proprietary information.
I’m surprised you took such a step without consulting me.”

“She found this.” Hatch reached into his jacket and handed Neidelman a piece of paper.

The Captain looked at it briefly. “It’s in old Spanish,” he said with a frown.

“Below is my friend’s translation.”

Neidelman handed it back. “Summarize it for me,” he said curtly.

“It’s fragmentary. But it describes the original discovery of St. Michael’s Sword, and what happened afterwards.”

Neidelman raised his eyebrows. “Indeed?”

“During the Black Plague, a wealthy Spanish merchant set out from Cádiz with his family on a barque. They crossed the Mediterranean
and put ashore along an unpopulated stretch of the Barbary Coast. There they found the remains of an ancient Roman settlement.
They settled down to ride out the plague. Some friendly Berber tribesmen warned them not to go near a ruined temple that lay
on a hill some distance away, saying it was cursed. The warnings were repeated several times. After a while, when the plague
started to abate, the merchant decided to explore the temple. Maybe he felt the Berbers had hidden something of value, and
he didn’t want to depart without taking a look. It seems that among the ruins he found a slab of marble behind an altar. Underneath
was an ancient metal box that had been sealed shut, with an inscription in Latin. In effect, the inscription stated that the
box contained a sword, which was the deadliest of weapons. Even to look upon it meant death. He had the box carried down to
the ship, but the Berbers refused to help him open it. In fact, they drove him from the shore.”

Neidelman listened, still looking at the ground.

“A few weeks later, on Michaelmas—St. Michael’s Day—the merchant’s ship was found drifting in the Mediterranean. The yard-arms
were covered with vultures. All hands were dead. The box was shut, but the lead seal had been broken. It was brought to a
monastery at Cádiz. The monks read the Latin inscription, along with the merchant’s own log. They decided the sword was—and
I quote from my friend’s translation—
a fragment vomited up from Hell itself.
They sealed the box again and placed it in the catacombs under the cathedral. The document ends by saying that the monks
who handled the box soon fell ill and died.”

Neidelman looked up at Hatch. “Is this supposed to have some kind of bearing on our current effort?”

“Yes,” said Hatch steadily. “Very much so.”

“Enlighten me, then.”

“Wherever St. Michael’s Sword has been, people have died. First, the merchant’s family. Then the monks. And when Ockham snaps
it up, eighty of his crew die right here on the island. Six months later, Ockham’s ship is found drifting just like the merchant
ship, with all hands dead.”

“Interesting story,” Neidelman said. “But I don’t think it’s worth stopping work for me to listen to. This is the twentieth
century. It has no bearing on us.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. Haven’t you noticed the recent rash of illnesses among the crew?”

Neidelman shrugged. “Sickness always occurs in a group of this size. Especially when people are becoming tired and the work
is dangerous.”

“This isn’t malingering we’re talking about. I’ve done the blood work. In almost every case, the white cell counts are extremely
low. And just this afternoon, one of your digging team came into my office with the most unusual skin disorder I’ve ever seen.
He had ugly rashes and swelling across his arms, thighs, and groin.”

“What is it?” Neidelman asked.

“I don’t know yet. I’ve checked my medical references, and I haven’t been able to make a specific diagnosis yet. If I didn’t
know better, I’d say they were buboes.”

Neidelman looked at Hatch with a raised eyebrow. “Black death? Bubonic plague, in twentieth-century Maine?”

“As I said, I haven’t been able to diagnose it yet.”

Neidelman frowned. “Then what are you rabbiting on about?”

Hatch took a breath, controlling his temper. “Gerard, I don’t know exactly what St. Michael’s Sword is. But it’s obviously
very dangerous. It’s left a trail of death wherever it’s gone. I wonder if we were right, assuming that the Spanish meant
to wield the sword against Ockham. Perhaps he was
meant
to capture it.”

“Ah,” Neidelman nodded, an edge of sarcasm distorting his voice. “Perhaps the sword is cursed after all?” Streeter, standing
to one side, sniffed derisively.

“You know I don’t believe in curses any more than you do,” Hatch snapped. “That doesn’t mean there isn’t some underlying physical
cause
to the legend. Like an epidemic. This sword has all the characteristics of a Typhoid Mary.”

“And that would explain why several of our sick crew have bacterial infections, while another has viral pneumonia, and yet
another a weird infection of the teeth. Just what kind of epidemic might this be, Doctor?”