This I gotta see. That’s what the old man was thinking.
Which, Davis decided, meant that his answer was yes.
It was fully dark when Antonelli and Davis made their way to the house where he’d be staying. He looked up and saw a matte-black sky that was impossibly full of stars, what you saw when you got away from the places where most people lived. There was no moon, and Davis realized he should have known this already — the precise phase, whether it was waxing or waning. He should have worked that cycle in reverse to discover what had existed on the night of the accident. An investigator had to have all possible information, and that was a freebie. Right there in the Farmer’s Almanac. But Davis hadn’t, because he’d been distracted by other things. Right now he was distracted by the very attractive woman who was leading him into a sandstone building.
She stopped at the front entrance to address him. “This is the home of one of the village elders, but he is away right now. He keeps a room for guests in back. Don’t expect much, it’s rather small.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
Davis followed her inside. It really was small, just enough space for a bed and a nightstand. Right now the bed was only a naked mattress, but at the foot was a stack of sheets and a blanket — a blanket for God’s sake — resting on top of a pillow.
“You can make the bed?” she queried.
“As long as you promise not to check my square corners.”
She laughed. “There is indeed something I am beginning to like about you, Jammer.”
“My rapier wit?”
She shook her head. “More, I think, your directness. I feel as if I always know what you are thinking.”
“No. You don’t.”
Antonelli’s smile turned coy and she went to the door. “Perhaps for the better. I’ll be staying in the home to the right. It’s a good thing we stopped drinking when we did because I must wake early to open the clinic.”
Davis was feeling the wine, but not so sure they should have stopped. “I’m afraid I won’t be much help in your clinic tomorrow.”
“I understand. Pay the old man a good wage, and the money will make its way around town. Everyone will approve.”
“That’s a good way to look at it. Oh, and I was wondering — any idea where a guy could get a pair of shorts around here?”
“Shorts?”
“I may get wet tomorrow, and all I have is what’s on my back.”
Antonelli stood there thinking about shorts. He stood there thinking about her. She was positively stunning. Stunning in a pair of loose khaki work pants and a stained shirt, her long dark hair tied back in a big knot.
She said, “It might be difficult to find something in your size, but I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks.”
She turned to go, and called over her shoulder, “Good luck tomorrow, Jammer.”
“Thanks.” He hesitated, then said, “Hey, Contessa.”
She stopped and turned.
“Are you free for dinner tomorrow?”
She made him wait. Pretended to think about it. “Perhaps.”
And then she was gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
It was a chamber of commerce morning, or would have been if al-Asmat had a chamber of commerce. He found breakfast — a chunk of bread, some dates, and a small pot of coffee — on a tray near the door. There was also a pair of old shorts, folded once, and a tattered old T-shirt, XXL. On top of it all was a note written in a loopy cursive:
Davis held up the shorts. They were full of holes. Moths, bullets. No way to tell. They looked like a tight fit, but for what he had in mind that might be a good thing. He went to work on breakfast. The bread was stale, the dates fresh. He ate it all. The coffee was magnificent, not because it was any kind of fancy brew, but because he hadn’t expected any at all.
When he stepped outside the sun was already up. Seven o’clock, maybe seven thirty. He doubted precision timekeeping was a priority here. The air was still and dry, which seemed at odds with being adjacent to the sea. The temperature differential between the two should have manufactured some kind of air movement. There should have been alternating onshore and offshore breezes, cycling with day and night. There was nothing.
Davis looked for a path that led to the water, and quickly discovered that all paths led to the water. He supposed that was how it worked in a fishing village. He found the old man at his boat, coiling a line, and when he saw Davis coming he smiled a smile that put two rows of yellow, broken teeth on display.
Davis stopped right in front of him, and said, “Good morning.”
The old man nodded blankly.
It struck Davis right then how hard this was going to be. He didn’t speak a word of Arabic. His skipper probably knew “fish” and “dollar.” Maybe, “Down with America” or, “I am not a pirate.” That was the best he could hope for. So they’d have to do everything by pantomime. Pointing and nodding and waving off mistakes.
The old man finished coiling his rope. It was at least a hundred feet long, and he held up one end to show Davis the modification he’d been working on. The old guy had clearly put some thought into their mission, and Davis recognized it as just what he needed. He nodded approvingly, and thought, Okay, maybe this little expedition will work out after all.
The boat was beached amid an outcropping of rock that was etched with tide pools. Around the freeform ponds, smooth shelves of stone were covered by gray lichens and green algae, and barnacle-like shells clung for their lives as an easy morning surf sputtered over everything again and again. Davis looked over the boat for the first time in the light of day. It was no more than twenty feet long, but the short waterline was compensated for with thick, tall gunnels. At the back, screwed onto the blunt transom, was a Yamaha outboard so small it seemed comical. Davis eyed the gas tanks. There were two, both pretty good size. Davis pointed to the gas supply and stretched out his arms to suggest measurement, adding an inquisitive face. Do we have a lot?
The old man pointed to the sun, then arced his arm all the way across the sky until it landed on the western horizon. That will last all day.
Okay, Davis thought, so far so good. He saw a chart on the seat, an old nautical print that covered the local waters, everything within fifty miles of the village. That was probably the old man’s limit, as far as he would take the little boat, which was fine with Davis because the area he wanted to search was well inside. The chart had two dozen Xs scribbled randomly across the reefs, which made it look like a pirate’s treasure map. More likely his hot fishing holes. Or maybe his father’s — the chart was dated in one corner, 1954. Is anything in this country new? Davis wondered. The depths on the chart were listed in fathoms, and Davis decided that at least those measurements couldn’t have changed much in the last sixty years.
The old man watched Davis use a finger to roughly sketch the area they’d need to search. It was near something called Shark Reef. Davis sighed. The depth went from two fathoms — twelve feet — to over a hundred, the outer reef giving way to a blue-water abyss. That being the case, they were going to need some luck to find anything. If the wreckage had gone over the precipice, it would never see the light of day again.
Davis reached for the mask and snorkel. He’d seen it last night, tucked under the wooden bench. He put the mask to his face, and it seemed to fit. The snorkel was like any other — not much could go wrong there.
The old man was clearly done with the preliminaries, because he went to the bow and started pushing the boat out to sea. An official crew member now, Davis went alongside, got a good grip, and things went faster. The boat looked smaller once it was in the water. It began moving on waves that barely registered to the eye. The old man held out a hand, inviting him to climb aboard.