Gradually, the grayish water brightened as the beam of Hannah's light pierced down, probing into the depths of the cargo hold where I was entombed. She was giving me a signal. The six giller was gone.
Grateful is hardly adequate to describe my feelings for Hannah Holbrook. It was her air supply, her light and her diving experience that were responsible for getting what was left of one slightly dented diving partner to the surface. When we hit the top, I ripped off the mask and gulped in the fresh Caribbean air like a man who hadn't seen the clear light of day in years. Along with Maggie's help, we scrambled aboard the Sloe Gin only to find ourselves standing face to face with a thin black man in a crisply starched khaki uniform. He had perched himself on the freegate near the wheelhouse, out of the sun. He was wearing a military hat that was squarely situated the width of two fingers above the prominent ridge that separated his face into two distinct halves. Behind him, undulating lazily in the water, was a dubious looking craft of even more dubious vintage. For the most part, it was badly in need of loving care and a good paint job. The only thing that didn't need attention was the identification. Big, boldly painted black letters emblazoned across the bow proclaimed it to be Westmore Patrol Unit 774, BWI. One man stood on the foredeck cradling an ominous looking automatic in his arms. Another stood aft with his arms folded around an antique-looking machine gun. Collectively they looked both surprised and slightly annoyed at finding us in the restricted zone.
I was still sputtering, but Queet's eyes locked on mine and gave me one of those "I-don't-know-where-the-hell-they-came-from" looks. I gave Sarge a dirty look but it was too late. He hadn't done his job, and the patrol had already caught us.
The thin man jerked to his feet, squared himself and gave me his version of a stiff half-military, half-Jamaican salute. "You are Mr. Wages?" he asked.
I nodded. At that moment I had no idea whether the admission was going to earn me a quick confrontation with the district magistrate in Negril or the questionable distinction of being one more mysterious disappearance in the Cluster's long and storied history.
"I am Lieutenant Poqulay," he announced. The proclamation was partly arrogant and partly informative.
At times like this, a man has any number of options, most of them of dubious merit. Cooperation seemed to be the prudent course for the moment. As far as I was concerned, it could very well end up being a test of Bearing Schuster's clout versus Alonzo Zercher's influence. "What can I do for you, Lieutenant?"
Poqulay had Robert Mitchum eyes; you couldn't tell what the hell was going on in them. In the brief span of time that we had been standing there, the Lieutenant had catalogued Hannah and Maggie and probably assessed just how much static he could expect from both Queet and Sargent. Huntington wasn't on deck, and even if he had been, he probably wouldn't have figured in the equation one way or the other.
"You are aware, are you not, Mr. Wages," Poqulay began in a remarkably clipped and articulate manner, "that you have violated the borders of a restricted zone." It was obvious Poqulay wasn't one of those unfortunates who had had his education interrupted by the necessities of Jamaican life, like getting enough to eat or keeping a roof on the house.
I tried screwing up my face into what I hoped was a puzzled look. "No… we were told that Deechapal was off limits, but nobody said anything about the reef."
Poqulay and I had built up an audience. Maggie, Hannah, Queet and Sarge had clustered around the two of us. For the record, Poqulay's men looked more than passingly interested in the proceedings as well. I had the feeling my squad was getting their first chance to evaluate whether or not Bearing Schuster had made the right choice for team leader. It was probably the same for Poqulay, his men knew he was standing up to a white guy.
For the moment, however, I figured I had the advantage. Unless Poqulay had searched the Sloe Gin, which I figured wasn't likely, he had no way of knowing that I had the captain's log from the Bay Foreman. Consequently, he couldn't know that I knew he was on the take. The bottom line, as Gibby loved to say, was that Poqulay's game wasn't one of confrontation. In fact, more than likely, it was just the other way around. From the look of his uniform and the clipped British way his words snapped at me and his bearing, Poqulay's survival instincts were built on a green foundation called money. The little man wasn't here to haul us into some magistrate's court for the relatively minor crime of trespassing, a chore for which he would receive a meaningless citation not worth the paper it was printed on. Poqulay was obviously here to negotiate, and I suspected that the principal recipient would be the Lieutenant Poqulay Fund Limited.
In some ways, he was still sizing me up. When he turned and stared down at the far end of the reef toward the shrouded island and the graveyard of the Bay Foreman, I knew the battle was about to begin, with him being a little confused.
"When did you arrive, Mr. Wages?"
"Late yesterday."
"May I inquire as to what kind of salvage you and your associates are looking for?"
"It's a salvage mission," I answered carefully.
Poqulay looked a little disappointed with my answer. It was honest but just a shade too vague. "Should I assume, Mr. Wages, that it is the kind of salvage my own government might be interested in?"
I made a sweeping gesture with my hand. "What you see, Lieutenant, is a group of people assembled here to try to find the remains of a scientific experiment that was conducted more than forty years ago. Our best information indicates that the experiment was aboard a freighter that went down right here off of Tiger Reef."
Poqulay's taut little face betrayed him. There was something in his eyes that gave him away. He unsnapped his shirt pocket and produced a stylishly engraved gold cigarette case. The way he tamped the thing reminded me of a pipe smoker, thoughtfully tamping his pipe while stalling for time. Poqulay was measuring out his next question. All the while his eyes were searching the misty grayness at the far end of the reef. The Bay Foreman wasn't there, and I knew he was concerned about that. A source of income had disappeared. My own barrage of questions was starting to formulate. He knew about the Bay Foreman and he knew about the dead crew — and dead men don't get up and sail off. Why wasn't he inquiring if we knew about the Foreman?
The little man leaned up against the wheelhouse, folded his arms and locked his penetrating eyes on mine. "Please elaborate, Mr. Wages."
It was the signal to elevate our little cat and mouse game a notch or two. "On the contrary, Lieutenant, you tell me. What's going on around here? I've salvaged in these waters for years, and this is the first time I've ever been told that this area is restricted. Why is your government interested in a scientific expedition like ours?"
''Scientific," the little man repeated flatly, sounding like he was rejecting the word. He paused to light his cigarette, black and wrinkled and sweet-smelling. "Being a scientific group then, you've no doubt heard about the terrible disaster that has befallen our lovely islands."
"Obviously we've heard about it, but we know very little about it. The fact that the Westmore police established a blockade around Deechapal has kept us from learning more."
Poqulay had a curious way of wadding his face up so that all his expression happened in the eyes and the narrow area between them.
"We had a most curious phenomenon, Mr. Wages. Several weeks ago, our lovely central island was beset by a strange and powerful storm. For days we endured high winds, heavy seas and wide fluctuations in temperature. What little commerce there is between our islands ceased. Since this caused undue hardship on the inhabitants, our provincial authority monitors the situation."