Serpent's Kiss

by Alex Archer

  After swimming slowly through the area in a pattern that mimicked the one followed by the Casablanca Moon, Annja found the bulbous shape she’d seen on the side-sonar screen. She signaled to Paresh, then pointed.

  He nodded and signed that he would go down for a look.

  Annja tried to wave him off so she could go instead, but he ignored her and finned down. Irritated but knowing that one of them had to stay up to keep lookout, she finned herself to a holding position ten or fifteen feet above the object.

  It wasn’t brain coral. Annja knew that straight away because the object was encrusted with concretion. Usually, but not always, concretions formed around iron objects.

  That’s not good, Annja told herself. The ship you’re looking for isn’t going to have much iron on it.

  Paresh knew what he was doing, though. He swam around the object without touching it. Cracking the concretion underwater often resulted in a pall of black “smoke” pouring out of the break. Even though the concretion took place, so did the iron oxidation.

  A quick wave of his hands and movements of his flippers turned Paresh back to look up Annja. He shrugged his shoulders and showed her his empty hands. What do you want to do?

  Annja held up a finger. Wait one.

  She finned to the surface, took a quick GPS reading and wrote it down on a waterproof pad that she carried in a watertight pouch wrapped around her left wrist. Then she took a visual sighting on the coastline about three hundred yards away and sank into the water again.

  Paresh hadn’t waited. He’d evidently decided to follow up on the same idea Annja had. He swam with loose, natural ease farther out to sea. They were beyond the edge of the pattern the Casablanca Moon was following.

  A quick glance to Annja’s right confirmed that the boat was turning around to take up a fresh tack. She kicked her fins and followed Paresh.

  GORAKSH GOT HIS FOOD from the window when his number was called and carried it to one of the mismatched tables along the street. The small eatery didn’t do much tourist business because it was obviously rundown, but Goraksh liked to eat there.

  As he’d grown up, his father had provided him with money to eat out so there was no need to hire someone. For a long time Goraksh had simply thought his father too cheap to hire a woman to cook and clean. Then Goraksh had realized the illegal nature of his father’s business and that not hiring a woman to care for him also meant not having someone snooping around his house.

  He ate quickly, almost inhaling the food because he was so hungry. The cell phone at his waist hung on him like an anchor. He knew his father was watching the woman archaeologist and that he might be called upon at any moment to carry out a task.

  The man who approached Goraksh stood out at once. He was so obviously British, or at least European, in his khakis and light jacket despite the heat. Wraparound sunglasses hid his eyes.

  “Hello, Goraksh,” the man said. “Mind a little company?” The man sat across the small table from Goraksh without waiting for an answer.

  Goraksh blotted his lips on a napkin. “I don’t know you.”

  “But I know you. More than that, I know who your father is.”

  “Then you should also know how dangerous it is to trouble me.” Goraksh grabbed his paper plate and started to get up.

  The man reached out and caught Goraksh’s forearm. “No trouble,” he said. A cold smile curved his lips. “Unless you decide not to listen to me.”

  Pain pulsed in Goraksh’s arm. The man’s grip was surprisingly strong. Panic welled in Goraksh. He was certain he could outrun the man, and was even more certain that he could lose him in the twists and turns of the alleys. The man wasn’t a local. The slight sunburn showing on his face offered mute testimony to that.

  All Goraksh had to do was convince the man to release him, then he could be gone. “All right,” he said. “I’ll listen.” He returned to a seated position.

  “Good,” the man said, but he didn’t release his grip. With his other hand, he placed a file on the table. He left the file closed and reached inside his jacket pocket for his wallet. “I’m James Fleet. A special operative for the International Maritime Bureau.”

  Goraksh looked at the ID.

  “Do you know what that agency is?” the man asked politely.

  “Yes.” Goraksh was vaguely aware of it and knew it had something to do with law enforcement.

  Fleet put the ID away. “A few days ago, an attack took place on a yacht. Maybe you’ve heard about it.” The suggestion was polite and quiet.

  “No,” Goraksh replied.

  A grin split Fleet’s face. “Don’t ever play poker, Goraksh. You can’t lie well enough to bluff.”

  Goraksh’s cheeks flamed in embarrassment, but cold fear drizzled through him. “I could call the police.” He was pretty sure the Englishman didn’t have any true authority inside the city.

  “Go ahead. Ask for Inspector Ranga.” Fleet shrugged good-naturedly. “Perhaps I should call him myself. He might like to be part of this.”

  Trying to hold on to the panic filling Goraksh was like trying to hold on to sand. Every time he shifted, some of it spilled loose. “What do you want?” he asked in a voice that cracked.

  Fleet opened the folder and showed Goraksh the faces of the dead people in the glossy pictures. Goraksh knew them at once. The woman’s face looked worse than he remembered. For a moment he thought he was going to be sick.

  “Have you seen these people before?” Fleet asked.

  “No.” Goraksh knew the man could tell he was lying. Embarrassment and fear burned the tips of Goraksh’s ears.

  “You’re sure about that?”

  Panic tightened Goraksh’s chest and he didn’t know if he could breathe. “Yes. I’m sure.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Goraksh didn’t know how to respond.

  “I know your father had something to do with what happened to the people aboard that yacht,” Fleet said. “Inspector Ranga’s crime-scene investigators found where the blisters had been affixed to the yacht. That vessel was smuggling, and I’m betting your father knew that.”

  Barely drawing a breath, Goraksh sat in his chair and waited. Either the man would let him go or he would arrest him. Whichever it was, it would be a relief.

  Quietly, Fleet released Goraksh’s arm. For a moment Goraksh continued to sit still, certain that this was a trick. He glanced over his shoulder to see if there were any other agents or policemen waiting to take him into custody.

  “I know you’re going to tell your father about this,” Fleet said. He smiled. “Feel free to. Let him know I’m here, and that he’s already made one mistake too many. Now that I’m on to him, he’ll make others.”

  A mistake? Goraksh didn’t know what the man was talking about. But he had tied the people on the yacht to his father. There was no mistaking that. Someone had made an error or left a trail.

  “You can run along now, Goraksh,” Fleet said. “I just wanted to introduce myself. We’ll get to know each other better over the next few days.”

  Slowly, Goraksh got up from the table. Only a few men were at the other tables. All of them were working men—from the docks, the warehouses, or the stores and shops in the area—and some of them knew who he was. Or, at least, they knew who his father was.

  Without a word, his heart pounding, Goraksh walked down the street. He glanced back once and saw Fleet still sitting at the table as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

  Goraksh lengthened his stride and wondered what it all meant. Then he wondered if telling his father about the encounter would be worse than the encounter itself. Which would lead to more misery for him? That was something he didn’t know.

  AN HOUR INTO THE DIVE, still loosely following Paresh, Annja was almost lost in the surreal world that existed under the waves. When she saw the wavering shape off to the left, barely visible due to the depth and the distance, she thought at first it was an illusion, something dreamed up by her anxious m
ind.

  Curiosity got the better of her. She finned forward and caught up to Paresh. He didn’t know she was there until she reached out and put a hand on his leg.

  Paresh pulled his legs in close to his body instantly and flipped over onto his back with his left arm across his body. The reaction might have been humorous if his right hand hadn’t been filled with a vicious saw-toothed diver’s knife.

  Annja fanned her hands and swam back out of his reach until he realized it was her. His cheeks flexed on either side of the regulator and merriment shone in his dark eyes.

  He turned his open hands palm up toward her.

  Annja pointed two fingers at her own eyes, then back in the direction where she’d seen the motion.

  Without waiting to see if he was going to follow, Annja flexed her legs and swam. She slid through the water and checked her compass. The compass still worked underwater. Less than thirty yards in that direction, she detected the movement again. It was along the sea floor. This time she saw what it was—a length of sailcloth trapped amid coral reefs.

  Paresh started down immediately.

  Annja checked her depth gauge and found that they were already at a depth of 125 feet. Anything deeper for any length of time would require a different mix in their tanks.

  She grabbed Paresh’s ankle and hampered his movements. His efforts also took her deeper. She could feel the depth now. She knew if they stayed down too long, they’d have to decompress on the way back up. And there was always the possibility of oxygen toxicity affecting the central nervous system.

  Annja had a healthy respect for the sea.

  Paresh turned around in the water. His irritation showed plainly in his short, jerky movements. He held his palms up.

  Annja tapped her depth gauge.

  Paresh blinked at her through his face mask, then rolled his arm over and checked his own depth gauge. He held a finger up signaling her to wait. He mimed going down and coming back up, then pointed at his eyes. Quick look.

  The murk and the diffraction of the water made it hard to judge the depth. Annja knew it could be anywhere from ten to fifty more feet, possibly deeper, because they had no real frame of reference.

  Evidently unconcerned, Paresh swam down.

  Annja hung back, but her own curiosity pushed at her. She twisted her body and followed.

  24

  The increased pressure of the ocean closed in around Annja. She focused on the sailcloth and thought about what might be hidden in the folds. Still, she made herself check her dive watch.

  No more than two minutes, she told herself.

  Paresh reached the folds first. Fish that had taken up temporary residence in the loose canvas fled. A hermit crab scuttled sideways across the ocean floor and stirred up sand.

  Annja reached into the equipment bag tied at her waist and took out the underwater camera. As Paresh swam around the perimeter of the canvas, head down to peer under the folds, Annja took several pictures.

  A skeleton lay half-submerged in the loose sand. This one was nearly intact, although the left arm was missing. A gold chain encircled the neck, and a ruby pendant lay inside the chest cavity.

  Paresh pointed at the necklace but didn’t try to take it.

  Annja signaled that she could see it, too.

  With a quick flick of his fins, Paresh swam along the length of the sailcloth. He used one hand to gently lift the edge from the sand.

  After taking a few pictures of the skeleton, the necklace and the sailcloth, Annja swam along the other side. Small fish darted in her vision. Her excitement grew and she knew she was going to have trouble leaving.

  Ignoring her, Paresh swam farther out into the open ocean. An eel slid away from him in a susurration of coiled muscle.

  Annja put the camera back in the equipment bag and swam after Paresh. When she caught up to him, she pointed toward the surface.

  Paresh shook his head, tapped his dive watch and held up three fingers.

  Adamantly, Annja shook her head and pointed toward the surface more emphatically.

  Looking upset, Paresh nodded. Then he caught himself and pointed farther out.

  Carefully, Annja rotated in the sea and stared in the direction Paresh had indicated. There, mired in the sand, lay a ship’s timber. It was long and ancient-looking.

  Annja’s heart raced. A ship’s timber meant a ship was nearby.

  Unless someone lost one during a storm, Annja told herself. Calm down. Everything is one step at a time.

  She tapped Paresh’s shoulder. Together, they swam up.

  Once she surfaced, Annja took the GPS coordinates and marked them in her book.

  Paresh came up only a few feet away. He pushed his face mask up and spit out his regulator. He stared at her and grinned.

  “You saw it?” he asked.

  “I did,” she said, grinning back.

  “The ship’s timber.”

  “A ship’s timber. Keep this in perspective. That could have fallen off a ship just a few years ago,” Annja said.

  “No.” Paresh wiped his face. “That’s part of the ship we’re looking for. The canvas and the skeleton are there, too.”

  “We do this one thing at a time,” she said.

  “But the shipwreck is here,” Paresh insisted.

  “A piece of it may be here. We need to recover that first and see what we have,” Annja said, forcing herself to be clinical.

  Paresh slapped the water in frustration. “We’re wasting time.”

  “No,” Annja said sternly as she faced the man. “We’re doing a site recovery. This is how it’s done.”

  “Someone could come by and try to take everything we’ve found.”

  “We haven’t found everything yet. That’s the point.” Annja squinted on the bright sunlight beating against the waves. “And if someone tries to dive this spot, we call the coast guard.”

  Clearly not happy, Paresh looked away and swam on his back.

  Annja got her bearings and saw the Casablanca Moon coming back toward them for another pass. She waved both hands above her head, then swam for the dhow. She knew how Paresh felt. Impatience chafed at her, too.

  AT THE BOAT, Annja caught hold of the ladder a crewman put over the side. The diesel engines throbbed loudly. She hauled herself out of the water.

  “You found something,” Shafiq said as he offered his hand.

  “We did,” Annja said. She accepted the towel the captain handed to her and began drying herself. Out of the water now, a momentary chill flashed over her, but the sun quickly started warming her.

  Lochata sat at the terminal and stared at the sonar image on the screen.

  “We found sailcloth and a body. Close to 150 feet down. We’re going to need the Trimix tanks.” Annja shrugged out of her scuba gear. One of the crewmen took her tank from her.

  “You’ve worked with Trimix before?” Shafiq asked.

  Annja nodded. Trimix was a blended gas made up of oxygen, nitrogen and helium that was intended for deeper dives. The helium supplemented the nitrogen-and-oxygen mix to make it easier to breathe at that depth.

  “You know about the problems with using it during shallow dives?” Shafiq asked.

  “It’s not safe. I know. That’s why we’ll be using re-breathers for that dive. They adjust the air mix automatically.”

  “We could work the dive with you.”

  “No. We’d only lose time.” Annja glanced at Paresh.

  The young diver stood among his peers. From the way he was gesturing at his neck and pointing out to sea, Annja knew he was talking about the necklace. It was the wrong thing to talk about. They weren’t there about the gold or the possibility of treasure.

  But now it wouldn’t leave the minds of the other divers or the crew.

  “We’ll take one of the lifeboats,” Annja said. “We can work the recovery area from it. Let’s stick with the search pattern. The tsunami could have scattered that shipwreck all over the ocean floor.”

  ALL THE WAY B
ACK to his father’s warehouse, Goraksh felt unfriendly eyes on him. He’d looked around as he made his way back, but he hadn’t seen any sign of Fleet.

  There were many other Europeans and Americans in Kanyakumari these days, though. Then he remembered the IMB agent’s comment about Inspector Ranga. Goraksh realized if spies were lurking about, there was no guarantee they were white.

  Inside the warehouse, Goraksh felt a little more secure. Then he recalled that the IMB man was actually after his father. Whatever protection remained here was fading quickly.

  At the top of the stairs, he knocked on his father’s office door.

  “Enter.”

  Goraksh went in and closed the door behind him.

  Rajiv Shivaji squinted at his son through a haze of cigarette smoke. His right hand had dropped to the desk drawer and pulled it open. He made no move to reach inside where he kept the big revolver he’d used to kill the woman aboard the yacht.

  The image of the woman’s slack face in the autopsy photo ran through Goraksh’s mind, but it only triggered the memory of the woman’s head snapping to the side as his father shot her to save him.

  “Something is wrong,” Rajiv stated.

  Goraksh tried to speak, but his throat was too tight. Instead, he nodded.

  “What?” Rajiv pressed.

  “There is a man,” Goraksh said. “An International Maritime Bureau agent named Fleet. He talked to me at lunch.”

  Wary interest flickered in Rajiv’s dark eyes. “Where is this man?”

  “I don’t know. I left him there. He had pictures of those people on the yacht.”

  Rajiv relaxed a little. “What did this man want?”

  “He said you’ve made one mistake too many.”

  A sneer tightened Rajiv’s features. “If I’d made mistakes, he would be here now. He would be talking to me, not you.” He shook his head. “He doesn’t have anything on me.”

  “Then why did he show me the pictures of those people aboard the yacht?”

  “To get a reaction from you. You’re afraid. He was hoping to instill the same fear in me.” Rajiv leaned back in his chair and blew smoke at the stained ceiling.