Benchley, Peter (9 page)

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?”

“I wanted to see the ampule solely to confirm my suspicions about it. The fact that you don’t have it, that you have entrusted it to Romer Treece for safekeeping-I assume that is what you have done-confirms those suspicions quite adequately. How many more ampules are there?”

“I don’t know.”

“How many did you find?”

Sanders looked at Gail, but her

impassive expression did not change. “Two.”

“Do you know what they contain?”

“Not for sure, no.”

“But you know the legend. Or, rather, the story, since the legend seems to be coming true.”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Sanders, I am determined to acquire every ampule down there. Every last one of them.”

“Why?”

“They are valuable. We need them.”

“For what?”

“Never mind. It’s no concern of yours.”

Gail said, “Who are you going to sell them to?

Kids?”

Cloche smiled. “How nice to see your interest finally piqued. But that, too, is no concern of yours.

In fact, the less you know, the better for you.”

“Then why bother us? You don’t need us,” Sanders said.

“You dive. And you know exactly where they are.”

“No. We know where two of them

were.

There’s no saying that there are any more. Besides, there are divers who know this area a hell of a lot better than we do.”

“Perhaps. But it is testimony to British foresight that very few of those divers are black. Just as they have successfully

kept the blacks from the professions, so they have kept most of them from becoming first-rate divers. I could import someone, but any qualified diver who came through customs-any black diver, that is-would come under immediate suspicion. You are here, you are tourists, you are white. You are above suspicion.”

Gail said, “We’re not pushers.”

“Pushers?” Cloche was unfamiliar with the word.

“Ah,

vendeurs de mort.

Nor am I. I am first a politician, and politics is the business of using means to achieve ends. I am also a businessman, and I am aware that in dealing with people unacquainted or unsympathetic with one’s political ends, one must appeal to different desires. Therefore, I am prepared to deal with you.”

He paused and looked at Sanders. “You will discover how many ampules there are. If there are only a few-if the legend is, indeed, a legend-you will tell me and no one else. Your reward will be continued good health and a carefree Bermuda holiday.

If, on the other hand, there is a

multitude of ampules, you will recover them. We will, of course, provide you with whatever assistance you need.” Cloche turned toward Gail. “Once the ampules are in our hands, you will leave Bermuda.

You will go to New York and you will call a telephone number I will have given you. You will leave instructions as to where in the world, six months from that date, you would like to collect one million dollars in the currency of your choice.”

Gail drew a quick, startled breath.

Cloche smiled, then looked at Sanders, who gazed back at him without expression.

“No,” said Sanders.

“Don’t be hasty, A’Ir. Sanders. I see by your lip that you have a tendency to be hasty.”

Sanders ran his tongue over his lower lip. A tender lump had risen, and the saliva made it sting.

“Think about it,” Cloche said. “Think about freedom, about the freedom you can buy … with a million dollars.” He gestured to Ronald.

“Where are their mobilettes?”

Ronald made a throwing motion. “The brush.”

Cloche said to Sanders, “They will be returned in the morning. A final word: Make no mistake about it-should you still be inclined to be … hasty .

. . and go to the authorities, you will find that, officially, I do not exist. And should you try to get out of this by leaving Bermuda, you will also discover that, in reality, I exist everywhere.” His back stiffened.

“There will be no haven.” He turned to Ronald.

“Take them home.”

There was no conversation in the car during the thirty-minute ride to the Orange Grove Club. Ronald and the driver sat in front, David and Gail in back. As they pulled onto the main road, Sanders rolled down his window. When Ronald did not object, Gail rolled hers down, too.

The only sounds on the deserted road, other than the wind and the engine noise, were the calling of tree frogs and the chirruping of cicadas. The driver stopped the car at the entrance to Orange Grove.

He did not offer to drive them to their cottage; they did not ask. They walked silently up the driveway, stopping where the footpath to their cottage turned off to the right.

“You hungry?” said Sanders.

“Hardly.”

“We can order a sandwich from the room. I could sure use a drink.”

Inside the cottage, Sanders tossed the key on the dresser and walked toward the bathroom, where there was a refrigerator. “Scotch?” he said.

“Fine.”

He went into the bathroom, opened the refrigerator, pried some cubes loose from an old-fashioned ice tray, and dropped them into the two bathroom glasses. He heard Gail pick up the

telephone, and he called, “I’ll have a turkey on white with lettuce and mayonnaise.”

Gail did not answer.

As he poured whiskey into the glasses, he heard Gail say into the phone, “Get me the police, please.” There was a pause. “Yes, that’s right.

No, there’s nothing wrong.” She sounded annoyed.

“Just get the police.”

Sanders set the scotch bottle on the sink and hurried into the bedroom. “What are you doing?” he said.

“What’s it sound like?” She spoke into the phone.

“What’s my room number have to do with anything? I assume this is a local call.”

“Hang up,” Sanders said. “Let’s talk about it.”

“What’s to talk about? We were kidnaped, for God’s sake! Threatened.”

“Hang up!” Sanders ordered. “Or I’ll hang up for you.” He held his index finger above the phone cradle.

Gail looked at him.

“I’m not kidding. Hang up!”

Gail hesitated for a moment, then said into the phone, “That’s all right, operator. I’ll try again later.” She hung up. “Okay. So talk.”

“Calm down,” Sanders said. He put his hand on her shoulder.

She brushed the hand aside. “I won’t calm down! Don’t you realize what we were asked to do?”

“Sure!” Sanders said as he went back into the bathroom to get the glasses. He handed one to her.

“But calling the cops is no answer. What are they going to do?”

“Arrest him.”

“For what? How are we going to prove anything? You heard what he said: He doesn’t exist. At least not officially. Didn’t you see that cop wave at the driver? He’s probably got the whole damn police force in his pocket.”

“Then let’s call the government. He sure as hell doesn’t have the British Government in his pocket.”

“And tell them what?”

“We were kidnaped. That’s-was

“For an hour. By a phantom. We’d have a hell of a time making a case out of that.”

“Assault, then. You can’t go around sticking knives at people and tearing off their clothes. And what about what he wants us to do? Sell him

narcotics.”

“Not exactly. More like

find

them for him.”

Gail looked at him for a long moment without speaking.

Then she shuddered. “You think he’d really follow us?”

“I don’t know. We’ll have to find out if he could.

Maybe Treece’ll have an idea.”

“And maybe you’ll end up dead.”

“C’mon, let’s not…”

Gail sneezed. As she folded her handkerchief, she noticed a smear of blood. “I’ve still got a bloody nose,” she said.

“What do you mean, “still”?”

“There was blood in my mask when I came up today.”

They left Orange Grove after breakfast the next morning. Sometime during the night, as promised, their motorbikes had been returned and parked in front of their cottage. When she saw the motorbikes, Gail shivered involuntarily.

“What’s the matter?” Sanders said.

“They were here.”

“Who was?”

“Those men. While we slept.”

“Sure they were. How else would they get the bikes back to us?”

“I know. But it’s creepy.”

When they arrived at Treece’s house, they waited outside the gate and called to Treece. When he told them to come in, the dog bounded down the path and escorted them to the kitchen door.

The kitchen table was covered with photostats of old documents. Treece saw Sanders looking at the papers, and he said, “Research.”

“What are they?”

“Logs, manifests, bills of lading, diaries, letters. A dividend of my study in Europe. I spent my holidays in the archives of Madrid, Cadiz, and Seville. Friends send me new papers as they surface.”

“What do they tell you?” Gail asked.

“What ships went to what ports, what they were carrying, who was on board, where they sank if they sank, how many people survived. They’re indispensable tools. Without them, you can dilly around on a wreck for months and not know what you’re looking at.”

Sanders picked up one of the pieces of paper. The writing was in Spanish, and he could decipher only a few words-like

artilleria

and

canones—

and the date: 1714. “What are you looking for?”

“I’m indulging myself in a bit of nonsense.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m trying to figure out if it’s possible that another ship did sink out there. That it went down with everything on it, and that it was never salvaged.”

Gail said, “Is that possible?”

“It’s happened before. Two storms, a hundred or two hundred years apart, spring up from the same quarter, catch two ships in the same circumstance, making for the same shelter, and drive them up on the same reefs.” Treece shook his head.

“What a mess.”

“I think it sounds fantastic,” said Gail.

“You do, do you? Take a nice clean wreck-nothing else around, fairly well contained, maybe even find a coin or two that’ll date her for you. You can spend a year mucking about in the sand and still not find a bloody thing. Now add to that another whole ship, all busted to pieces, andwitha cargo of live ammunition. That’s some way to get your jollies.”

“Have you found anything?” said Sanders.

“No. Not sure I will.” Treece patted the pile of papers. “All I’m doing with this stuff is rooting around to see if I can find someone with the initials E.f. Probably a waste of time, but you have to start somewhere, and E.f.8ness all we’ve got. Now … tell me what brings you all the way out here this early. We’re not going anywhere till tonight.”

They told him about their meeting with Cloche. At the first mention of Cloche’s name, Treece started, as if a long-awaited piece of bad news had finally arrived. “Oh, Jesus,” he said. Otherwise, he sat, tense and quiet, and did not interrupt.