The Nautical Chart Part 6

"The ocean covers two-thirds of the planet," Palermo said unexpectedly. "Can you imagine all the stuff that has ended up on the bottom in the last three or four thousand years? Five percent of all the s.h.i.+ps that ever sailed... I'm telling you. At least five percent is under water. The most extraordinary museum in the world. Ambition, tragedy, memory, riches, death__ Objects that are worth lots of money if we can bring them to the surface, but also... Understand? Solitude. Silence. Only a person who's felt a s.h.i.+ver of terror when he sees the dark silhouette of a sunken hull... I'm talking about that green murkiness below, if you know what I mean.... You know what I mean?"

The green eye and the brown one were fixed on Coy, lit by a sudden gleam that seemed feverish, or dangerous, and maybe both at once.

"I know what you mean."

Nino Palermo favored Coy with a vague smile of appreciation. He had spent his life, he said, getting into the water, first for others and then for himself. He had inspected coral-encrusted wrecks in the Red Sea, he'd discovered a cargo of Byzantine gla.s.s off Rhodes, he'd searched for gold sovereigns on the Carnatic, Carnatic, and off Ireland brought up two hundred doubloons, three gold chains, and a crucifix of precious stones from the galleon and off Ireland brought up two hundred doubloons, three gold chains, and a crucifix of precious stones from the galleon Gerona. Gerona. He had worked with the salvage team that recovered mercury from the He had worked with the salvage team that recovered mercury from the Guadalupe Guadalupe and the and the Tolosa, Tolosa, and with Mel Fisher on the and with Mel Fisher on the Atocha. Atocha. But he had also dived amid the ghostly s.h.i.+ps of a sunken fleet at two hundred sixty feet in Martinique, near Mount Pelee, dived to the hull of the But he had also dived amid the ghostly s.h.i.+ps of a sunken fleet at two hundred sixty feet in Martinique, near Mount Pelee, dived to the hull of the Yongala Yongala in the Sea of the Serpents, and of the in the Sea of the Serpents, and of the Andrea Doria Andrea Doria in the watery tomb of the Atlantic. He had seen the Royal in the watery tomb of the Atlantic. He had seen the Royal Oak Oak belly up at the bottom of Scapa Flow and the propeller of the corsair belly up at the bottom of Scapa Flow and the propeller of the corsair Emden Emden on Los Cocos atoll. And at sixty-five feet, in a phantasmal gold and blue light, the collapsed skeleton of a German pilot in the cabin of his Focke-Wulf, downed over Nice. on Los Cocos atoll. And at sixty-five feet, in a phantasmal gold and blue light, the collapsed skeleton of a German pilot in the cabin of his Focke-Wulf, downed over Nice.

"You won't deny," he said, "that's some resume."

He paused and, signaling the waiter, ordered another whisky for himself and a new tonic for Coy, who still hadn't touched the first. Lukewarm by now, Palermo said. Underwater searches were his life and his pa.s.sion, he continued, staring at Coy as if he defied him to prove the contrary. But not all wrecks were important, he explained. Greek divers were already recovering treasure in ancient times. Which was why the best s.h.i.+pwrecks were ones with no survivors, because for lack of information about where they went down, they remained hidden and intact Now Palermo had found a new lead. A good and beautiful and virgin lead in an old book. A new mystery, or challenge, and the possibility of looking for an answer.

"Then"-he raised his gla.s.s as if he were looking for someone whose face he could dash it in-"I made the mistake of... You know what I mean? The mistake of going to that b.i.t.c.h."

Fifteen minutes later the second tonic was untouched, as lukewarm as the first. As for Coy, the vapors of the Centenario Terry had dissipated a little more and he was getting the drift of the other side of the drama. Or at least the version held by Nino Palermo, a British subject residing in Gibraltar, owner of Deadman's Chest: Undersea Exploration and Maritime Salvage.

Six months earlier, Palermo had gone to the Museo Naval in Madrid, as he had other times, looking for information. He hoped to confirm that a brigantine that had sailed from Havana and disappeared before reaching its destination had sunk somewhere near the Spanish coast. The s.h.i.+p was not carrying cargo known to be valuable, but there were interesting hints: the name, Dei Gloria, Dei Gloria, for example, was in one of the letters seized when the Society was broken up during the reign of Charles III, which Palermo had found mentioned in the San Fernando librarians book on the s.h.i.+ps and maritime activity of the Jesuits. The quote, "but the justice of G.o.d did not allow the for example, was in one of the letters seized when the Society was broken up during the reign of Charles III, which Palermo had found mentioned in the San Fernando librarians book on the s.h.i.+ps and maritime activity of the Jesuits. The quote, "but the justice of G.o.d did not allow the Dei Gloria Dei Gloria to reach her destination with the people and secret she was carrying," was cross-checked by him with catalogues of doc.u.ments in the Archivo de Indias in Seville, in Viso del to reach her destination with the people and secret she was carrying," was cross-checked by him with catalogues of doc.u.ments in the Archivo de Indias in Seville, in Viso del Marques, and the Museo Naval in Madrid____ Bingo! In the catalogue of the museum's library he found a report dated February, 1767, in Cartagena, "on the loss of the brigantine Dei Gloria Dei Gloria in an encounter with the xebec corsair presumed to be the in an encounter with the xebec corsair presumed to be the Chergui" Chergui" That had led him to get in touch with the Museo Naval, and with Tanger Soto, who-curse the day and curse her and hers-was in charge of that department. After a first exploratory meeting, they had gone to That had led him to get in touch with the Museo Naval, and with Tanger Soto, who-curse the day and curse her and hers-was in charge of that department. After a first exploratory meeting, they had gone to have dinner at Al-Mounia, an Arab restaurant on calle Recoletos. There, over lamb couscous and vegetables, he had set out his case in a convincing manner. Not opening his heart to her, of course. He was a wise old dog and he knew the risks. He had mentioned the Dei Gloria Dei Gloria among other matters, just the slightest offhand allusion. And she, polite, efficient, a pleasant G.o.dd.a.m.n witch, had promised to help him. That's what she had said, help him. Look up a copy of the doc.u.ments for him if they were still in the papers entrusted to the inst.i.tution, et cetera, et cetera. I'll call you, the b.i.t.c.h had promised. Without blinking an eye, by G.o.d. Not one blink. That had been months ago, and not only had she not called, she had used the influence of the Navy to block any access to the museum's archives. Even to doc.u.ments pertinent to the cargo manifest of the brigan-tine in Havana, which he finally had located in the catalogue of the naval archives in Viso del Marques. He had not been able to consult them, however, because they were-he was told-under official examination by the Ministry of Defense. Palermo had kept moving ahead, of course. He knew the drill and he had money to spend. His parallel inquiry was progressing well, and now he was reasonably sure that the brigantine had sunk near Cartagena, and that it was carrying something-objects or people-of major importance. Perhaps the attack by the corsair among other matters, just the slightest offhand allusion. And she, polite, efficient, a pleasant G.o.dd.a.m.n witch, had promised to help him. That's what she had said, help him. Look up a copy of the doc.u.ments for him if they were still in the papers entrusted to the inst.i.tution, et cetera, et cetera. I'll call you, the b.i.t.c.h had promised. Without blinking an eye, by G.o.d. Not one blink. That had been months ago, and not only had she not called, she had used the influence of the Navy to block any access to the museum's archives. Even to doc.u.ments pertinent to the cargo manifest of the brigan-tine in Havana, which he finally had located in the catalogue of the naval archives in Viso del Marques. He had not been able to consult them, however, because they were-he was told-under official examination by the Ministry of Defense. Palermo had kept moving ahead, of course. He knew the drill and he had money to spend. His parallel inquiry was progressing well, and now he was reasonably sure that the brigantine had sunk near Cartagena, and that it was carrying something-objects or people-of major importance. Perhaps the attack by the corsair Chergui Chergui-an English Chergui Chergui with Algerian registry that had been lost in the same waters and same time frame-was not entirely coincidental. Palermo had tried many times to talk with Tanger Soto, to ask for explanations. To no avail. Total silence. She was very clever about ducking the issue, or she had luck, as she had in Barcelona when Coy walked up to them. By G.o.d, she had luck. In the end, Palermo had realized, idiot that he was, that she had not only played him along, but had been moving her own pieces on the sly. Suspicion became certainty when he saw her at the auction, bidding for the Urrutia. with Algerian registry that had been lost in the same waters and same time frame-was not entirely coincidental. Palermo had tried many times to talk with Tanger Soto, to ask for explanations. To no avail. Total silence. She was very clever about ducking the issue, or she had luck, as she had in Barcelona when Coy walked up to them. By G.o.d, she had luck. In the end, Palermo had realized, idiot that he was, that she had not only played him along, but had been moving her own pieces on the sly. Suspicion became certainty when he saw her at the auction, bidding for the Urrutia.

"Little Miss Innocence," Palermo concluded, "had decided... G.o.d almighty. You get it? The Dei Gloria Dei Gloria was hers." was hers."

Coy shook his head, although in truth he was digesting what he had just heard.

'As far as I know," he interjected, "she works for the Museo Naval."

Palermo's laugh was a snort.

"That's what I thought. But now... She's one of those women who can take a big chunk out of you without ever opening her mouth."

Coy touched his nose, still confused.

"In that case," he said, "get in touch with her superiors and blow the lid off her operation."

Palermo rattled the ice in his new whiskey.

"That would blow the lid off mine as well______ I'm not that stupid."

Again he smiled that quick smile that exposed a couple of teeth. This guy, Coy thought, smiles like a shark sighting a tasty squid.

"It's like a cross-country race, you know?" added Palermo. "I have better... G.o.d almighty. She gained the advantage because of my carelessness. But that kind of effort... I've gained ground. I'll gain more."

"Well, I wish you luck," Coy said.

"Some of that luck depends on you. I just have to look a man in the eye once to know...." Palermo winked the brown eye. "You get what I mean, no?"

"Wrong. I don't get what you mean."

"To know what it takes to buy him."

Coy didn't like the look he was getting. Or maybe he was annoyed by the intimate, complicitous tone of Palermo's last words. "I'm out of it," he said coldly. "You don't say."

The bantering tone did not improve matters. Coy felt his antipathy revive.

"Well, mat's how it is. You'll have to deal with her." Coy tried to twist his lips into the most insolent sneer possible. "You two haven't tried to join forces? Apparently you're from the same litter."

Palermo did not seem the least offended. Instead, he was considering the idea with total calm.

"That's a possibility," he replied. "Though I doubt that she... She thinks she holds all the aces."

"She just lost a couple. Well, at least one joker."

Again, the shark smile. Now flavored with hope, which did not make it any more pleasant.

'Are you serious?" Palermo reflected, interested. "I mean about not working for her anymore."

"Of course I'm serious."

"Would it be indiscreet to ask why?"

"You said it a minute ago; she doesn't play fair. More or less like you___ " Suddenly he remembered something. "And you can tell your melancholy dwarf he can relax. Now I won't have to beat him to a pulp if I run into him."

Palermo, about to take a sip of his drink, stopped, looking at Coy over the rim of the gla.s.s.

"What dwarf?"

"Don't you be clever, too. You know who I'm talking about."

The gla.s.s was still poised; the bicolor eyes narrowed, astute.

"Don't get the wrong..." Palermo started to say something, but thought better of it and stopped, using the pretext of taking a sip. As he put the drink on the table, he changed the subject.

"I can't believe you're leaving her, just like that."

Now it was Coy's turn to smile. Of course I couldn't smile like this p.r.i.c.k even if I tried, he thought He felt swindled by everyone, including himself.

"I don't completely believe it myself," he said.

'Are you going back to Barcelona? What about your problem?"

"How about that." Coy shook his head, annoyed. "I see that now you're interested in my resume, too."

Palermo raised his left hand, as if he'd been struck by an idea. He took a calling card from a thick billfold stuffed with credit cards, and wrote something on it. Lights from the window with the mannequins glinted off his rings. Coy glanced at the card before slipping it into his pocket: "Nino Palermo. Deadman's Chest Ltd. 42b Main Street. Gibraltar." Palermo had written the telephone number of a hotel in Madrid on the bottom.

"Maybe I can compensate you in some way." Palermo paused, cleared his throat, took another swallow, and looked at Coy. "I need someone close to this Senorita Soto."

He left that sentence in the air. Coy sat quietly for a minute, observing Palermo. Then he leaned forward, placing his palms on the table.

"Shove it up your a.s.s."

"I beg your pardon?"

Palermo had blinked, having expected something different. Coy started to get up, and with secret pleasure saw that the other man sat back a little in his chair.

"Just what I said. Up your a.s.s. Up your bunghole. Shove it where the sun don't s.h.i.+ne. You want me to draw you a picture?" Now the hands on the table had closed into fists. "That is, screw you, the dwarf, and and the the Dei Gloria. Dei Gloria. And don't forget her." And don't forget her."

Palermo kept staring. The green eye seemed colder and more attentive than the brown one, wider, as if half his body was expressing fear and the other half was on guard, calculating.

"Think it over," said Palermo, and grasped Coy's arm at the cuff, as if attempting to convince him, or keep him from leaving. It was the hand with the gold coin ring, and to his displeasure Coy could feel it pressing on the tense muscles of his forearm.

"Get your hand off me," he said, "or I'll rip your head off."

5.

Zero Meridian.

With the first meridian established, situate all princ.i.p.al places by lat.i.tudes and longitudes. MENDOZA Y Y Rios, Rios, Tratado denavegacion Tratado denavegacion H e slept all night and part of the morning. He slept as if his life were draining away in sleep, or as if he wanted to hold life at a distance, as long as possible, and once he waked he stubbornly burrowed back toward sleep. He twisted and turned in his bed, covering his eyes, trying not to see the rectangle of light on the wall. Barely awake, he had observed that rectangle with desolation; the pattern of light appeared to be stable and varied in position almost imperceptibly as the minutes dragged by. To the uncritical eye it seemed as fixed as things tend to be on terra firma, and even before he remembered that he was in the room of a boarding-house two hundred and fifty miles from the nearest coast, he knew, or felt, that he was not waking that day on board s.h.i.+p, there where light that comes through the portholes moves, gently oscillates up and down and side to side, while the gentle throb of the engines is transmitted through the metal hull, and the s.h.i.+p rocks in the circular sway of the swell.

He took a quick, torturous shower-after ten in the morning the taps provided only cold water-and went out without shaving, wearing jeans and a clean s.h.i.+rt, his jacket thrown over his shoulders, to look for an agency where he could buy a return ticket to Barcelona. He drank a cup of coffee and bought a newspaper, which he threw into a trash bin nearly unread, and walked through the city center with no fixed goal until he ended up sitting in a small plaza of old Madrid, one of those places where the trees of age-old convents line the far side of an adobe wall, and the houses have balconies with flowerpots and large entries with a cat and a maid at the gate. The sun was mild and lent itself to a pleasant sloth. He stretched out his legs, and pulled from his pocket the dog-eared paperback edition of Traven's The Death s.h.i.+p The Death s.h.i.+p that he finally had bought on Moyano hill. For a while he tried to concentrate on reading, but when he got to the place where the ingenuous sailor Pip-Pip, sitting on the dock, imagines the that he finally had bought on Moyano hill. For a while he tried to concentrate on reading, but when he got to the place where the ingenuous sailor Pip-Pip, sitting on the dock, imagines the Tuscaloosa Tuscaloosa on the open seas and making her way back to home port, Coy closed the book and put it back in his pocket. His mind was too far from those pages. It was filled with humiliation and shame. on the open seas and making her way back to home port, Coy closed the book and put it back in his pocket. His mind was too far from those pages. It was filled with humiliation and shame.

After a while he got up and, not in any hurry, started back toward the Plaza de Santa Ana, his gloomy expression accentuated by a chin darkened with a day and a half's growth of beard. Suddenly he was aware of discomfort in his stomach, and remembered that he hadn't eaten anything in twenty-four hours. He went to a bar and ordered a potato-and-egg omelette and a gla.s.s of rum. It was after two o'clock when he reached the inn. The Talgo was leaving an hour and a half later, and Atocha station was nearby. He could walk there and take the train to the Chamartin station, so he took his time packing his few effects-the Traven book, a clean s.h.i.+rt and a dirty one he slipped into a plastic bag, also some underwear and a blue wool jersey; his shaving gear was rolled up in a pair of khaki work pants. All of it went in his canvas seabag. He put on his sneakers and packed the old deck shoes. Each of these movements was carried out with the same methodical precision he would have used to chart a course, although d.a.m.n his eyes if he had any course in mind. He was focusing all his concentration on not thinking. He paid the bill downstairs, and went out with his bag slung over his shoulder. His eyes squinted in the sun beating straight down on the plaza as he rubbed his queasy stomach. The omelet had settled like lead. After looking to the right and left he started walking. A quick trip, he thought. By an ironic a.s.sociation of ideas, the rhythms of "Noche de samba en Puerto Espana" "Noche de samba en Puerto Espana" came to mind. First a song, the words said. Then getting drunk, and in the end only the sob of a guitar. He had whisded half a chorus before he realized it, and stopped short. Remember, he told himself, never to whistle that again in all your f.u.c.king life. He stared at the ground, and the shadow that stretched out before him seemed to shake with laughter. Of all the fools in the world-and there had to be quite a few-she had chosen him. Although that was not exactly the case. After all, he was the one who had approached her, first in Barcelona and then in Madrid. No one forces the mouse, he'd read once somewhere. No one forces a dumb rodent to go nosing around, acting like hot s.h.i.+t and poking into mousetraps. Especially knowing full well that in this world there's more often a head wind than a following one. came to mind. First a song, the words said. Then getting drunk, and in the end only the sob of a guitar. He had whisded half a chorus before he realized it, and stopped short. Remember, he told himself, never to whistle that again in all your f.u.c.king life. He stared at the ground, and the shadow that stretched out before him seemed to shake with laughter. Of all the fools in the world-and there had to be quite a few-she had chosen him. Although that was not exactly the case. After all, he was the one who had approached her, first in Barcelona and then in Madrid. No one forces the mouse, he'd read once somewhere. No one forces a dumb rodent to go nosing around, acting like hot s.h.i.+t and poking into mousetraps. Especially knowing full well that in this world there's more often a head wind than a following one.

He hadn't reached the corner yet when the clerk from the inn came running down the street after him, shouting his name. "Senor Coy Senor Coy. You have a phone call."

"SONS of b.i.t.c.hes," said Tanger Soto. of b.i.t.c.hes," said Tanger Soto.

She was a reserved woman, and he could barely discern the slight tremor in her voice, a note of insecurity she tried to conceal as she spoke the appropriate words. She was dressed for going out, in a skirt and jacket, and was leaning against the wall of the small sitting room, arms crossed, her head tilted a little, staring at the corpse of Zas. On the stairs Coy had pa.s.sed two uniformed policemen, and he found a third putting the equipment used to dust for fingerprints into a small case. His cap was on the table, and the radio transmitter clipped to his belt was emitting a quiet hum. The detective moved gingerly among scattered objects, though the disarray was not excessive-an open drawer here and there, books and papers scattered on the floor, and the computer with its screen detached and cords and connections exposed.

"They took advantage of my being at the museum," Tanger murmured.

Except for that slight tremble in her voice, she seemed more somber than fragile. Her skin had turned pale, her eyes were dry and her expression hard; her fingers were gripping her arms so tightly that her knuckles were white. She never took her eyes from the dog. The Labrador was lying on his side on the rug, his eyes gla.s.sy; a thread of whitish foam trickled from his half-open mouth. According to the police, the door had been forced, and before entering the intruders had tossed the dog a piece of meat laced with a rapidly acting poison, maybe ethyleneglycol. Whoever they were, they knew what they were looking for and what they were going to find. They hadn't done any serious damage, limiting themselves to stealing a few doc.u.ments, and taking all the diskettes and the computer hard drive. They were undoubtedly people who knew the ropes. Professionals.

"They didn't have to kill Zas," she said. "He wasn't a watch-dog__ He played with anyone who came in." Her voice cracked with a note of emotion she immediately repressed.

The policeman with the case had finished his work, so he put on his cap, saluted, and as he was leaving mumbled something about city employees coming by to pick up the dog. Coy closed the door-the lock still worked-but after another quick glance at Zas, he opened it again and left it ajar, as if closing the door with a dead dog inside the house was somehow wrong. Tanger, still leaning against the wall, hadn't moved a hair. He went into the bathroom and came back with a large towel. Then he bent over the Labrador looking with affection into the dead animal's eyes, remembering the friendly licks the day before, the tail happily wagging in antic.i.p.ation of being petted, the intelligent, loyal gaze. He felt a deep sadness, a compa.s.sion that made him shudder: the distressing, almost childish feelings that every man believes he has forgotten. It felt as though he had lost a silent new friend, the kind you don't seek out because they choose you. Perhaps such sadness was uncalled for, he thought; after all, he had seen the dog only a couple of times, and had done nothing to earn his loyalty or mourn his death. Yet he found himself feeling an unwarranted grief, as if the forsakenness, the desolation, the paralysis of the unfortunate animal were his own. Maybe Zas had greeted his murderers with a happy bark, asking for a friendly word or pat. "Poor dog," he murmured.

For a moment he stroked the Labrador's golden head, then covered him with the towel. As he stood up he saw that Tanger was watching him, somber and motionless.

"He died alone," said Coy.

"We all die alone."

HE stayed all that afternoon and part of the night. First, sitting on the sofa, after the city employees took away the dog, watching her restore order, stacking papers, putting books back on their shelves, closing drawers, standing in front of the gutted computer, hands on her hips as she evaluated the destruction, pensive. Nothing that can't be repaired, she'd said in answer to one of the few questions he had asked. She kept busy until everything was back in place. The last thing she did was kneel down where Zas had lain and, with a brush and water, clean up the remains of the foam that had dried on the carpet. She did it all with a disciplined, gloomy obstinacy, as if each task might help her control her emotions, hold at bay the darkness that was threatening to spill across her face. The tips of her golden hair swung at her chin, offering glimpses of her nose and cheeks. Finally she stood and looked around to see if everything was as it should be. Then she went to the table, picked up the Players and lit one. stayed all that afternoon and part of the night. First, sitting on the sofa, after the city employees took away the dog, watching her restore order, stacking papers, putting books back on their shelves, closing drawers, standing in front of the gutted computer, hands on her hips as she evaluated the destruction, pensive. Nothing that can't be repaired, she'd said in answer to one of the few questions he had asked. She kept busy until everything was back in place. The last thing she did was kneel down where Zas had lain and, with a brush and water, clean up the remains of the foam that had dried on the carpet. She did it all with a disciplined, gloomy obstinacy, as if each task might help her control her emotions, hold at bay the darkness that was threatening to spill across her face. The tips of her golden hair swung at her chin, offering glimpses of her nose and cheeks. Finally she stood and looked around to see if everything was as it should be. Then she went to the table, picked up the Players and lit one.

"I saw Nino Palermo last night," Coy said. saw Nino Palermo last night," Coy said.

She did not seem the least surprised. She stood by the table, cigarette between her fingers, hand slightly raised, elbow resting in the other hand.

"He told me you deceived him," Coy continued. 'And that you will try to deceive me."

He was hoping for apologies, insolence, scorn. All he got was silence. The smoke from the cigarette rose straight to the ceiling. Not even a spiral, he observed. Not a twitch, not a s.h.i.+ver.

"You are not working for the museum," he added, leaving a deliberate pause between each word. "You're working for yourself."

It occurred to him suddenly that she resembled those women who look out from certain paintings: impa.s.sive gazes that sow uneasiness in the heart of any man who looks at them. The certainty that they know things they're not telling, things that you can gather from their unwavering pupils if you stand before them long enough. Hard, wise arrogance. Ancient lucidity. Some young girls looked like that, without having had the years to justify it, he thought, without having lfved enough to learn it. Penelope must have had that look when Ulysses reappeared after twenty years, claiming his bow.

"I didn't ask you to come to Madrid," she said. "Or to complicate my life and yours in Barcelona."

Coy observed her a second or two, his half-open mouth giving him a somewhat stupid expression.

"That's true," he admitted.

"You're the one who wanted to play the game. All I did was establish a few rules. Whether they suit you or not is up to you."

Finally she had moved the hand that held the cigarette, and the tip glowed as she brought it to her lips. Then again she was motionless, and the smoke rose in a fine and perfect vertical line.

"Why did you lie to me?" Coy asked.

Tanger sighed softly. Barely a breath of annoyance.

"I haven't lied to you," she said. "I told you the version it suited me to tell. Remember that you b.u.t.ted in, and that this is my adventure. You can't demand anything of me."

"Those men are dangerous."

The perfect line of smoke broke into small spirals. Her laugh was quiet and restrained.

"You don't have to be very intelligent to deduce that, do you?"

She laughed again, but stopped abruptly, her eyes on the damp spot on the carpet. The deep blue of her eyes had become more somber.

"What are you going to do now?"

She did not answer immediately. She had walked over to put out the cigarette in the ashtray. She did it deliberately, not smas.h.i.+ng it, but tamping it gradually until it was extinguished. Only then did she make a movement with her head and shoulders. She did not look at Coy.

"I'm going to keep doing what I was doing: looking for the Dei Gloria" Dei Gloria"

She walked around the room slowly, checking to see that everything had been returned to its original order. She lined up a Tintin with others on the shelf, and adjusted the position of the framed snapshot Coy had studied-the blond teenager beside the tan, smiling military man in his s.h.i.+rtsleeves. She was behaving, he thought, as if she had ice water in her veins. But as he watched, she stopped, drew a deep breath and exhaled, less a moan than a rumble of fury. Then she slapped the table with the palm of her hand, brusque, quick, with an unexpected violence that must have surprised her, or even hurt, because she froze and again filled her lungs, staring with puzzlement at her hand. "d.a.m.n them," she said.

She had regained control, and Coy could see the effort it cost to achieve. The muscles at her jawline were tense, her lips pressed tightly together as she breathed deeply through her nose and looked for something else to set in order, as if what had occurred ten seconds earlier hadn't happened.

"What did they take?"

"Nothing that can't be replaced." She kept looking around. "I took the Urrutia back to the museum this morning, and I have two good reproductions of the nautical chart to work with. They left all the contemporary charts except for the one with notes penciled in the margins. There was also some information on the hard drive, but it wasn't important."

Coy stirred, uncomfortable. He would have been more at ease were there a few tears, some indignant complaints. In those cases, he thought, a man knows what to do. Or at least he thinks he does. Everyone plays his role, the way they do in the movies.