Dangerous Waters

by Laurey Bright

  "Brass fittings, a few pieces of wood, broken china. I can't do another deep dive today. I'll map what I saw and try again tomorrow. All I need this trip is enough to prove the wreck is the Maiden's Prayer and that the cargo is still there and worth salvaging. Any major salvage has to be done carefully, with regard to the archeological value of the wreck, and everything should be recorded."

  She was glad to hear that, knowing what valuable historical data might be hidden down there. Her reading had revealed that in the past wrecks had been blown apart by divers intent on recovering valuable cargo, and poachers had never been particularly scrupulous. It wasn't in their interests to record details of where they'd found their ill-gotten gains.

  When Rogan was suiting up the next day she said, "I want to come with you."

  "I told you—"

  "You said you wouldn't leave me again." Any danger she faced underwater would be better than the nightmare of apprehension she'd suffered yesterday. "Surely I'm entitled, as a part owner. You've seen the site, and it doesn't sound dangerous. So it's deeper than I've dived before, but you know I can do it. You taught me yourself."

  "This isn't a teaching exercise!"

  "I know. I won't hinder you, I promise."

  About to strap his dive computer to his arm, he stood with it in his hand, regarding her dubiously. "You'll do everything I tell you," he growled finally. "No arguments."

  "Haven't I always," she said, "underwater?"

  "Stick close unless I signal otherwise. Let me know immediately if you have a problem. Surface when I say so, no matter what, take it slowly and remember the decompression stops are absolutely vital on the way up."

  Camille nodded. "I'll get my gear."

  * * *

  Remembering Rogan's instruction to stick by him, as they swam down the shot line she tore her gaze from the coral wall of the reef, fans of bright orange against a backdrop of white studded with blue and red, pink and purple, and farther on, huge formations like acres of giant green petals. A great, grumpy-looking, fat-lipped head poked from a hole in the reef and her heart skipped a beat. Large grouper were theoretically capable of swallowing a diver, but Rogan had assured her that had never been known to happen.

  Brilliant fish—butter-yellow, cerise, electric blue, deep orange, many striped or spotted, sometimes both—darted by in hundreds, dazzling and disorienting her.

  Rogan grabbed her hand, signaled Okay? She returned the signal, and he nodded.

  The seafloor was strewn with shells and lumps of coral. Rogan pointed to what seemed just another coral outcrop, until she made out the shape of it. An empty porthole lying on the seabed, encrusted with coral and other sea creatures, the brass frame dulled with verdigris.

  Soon they swam alongside something long and slightly curved—and with a clutch of excitement she recognized the timber outline of the upper part of a ship's side, amazingly almost intact, most of it buried under the sand, the ghostly remains of a long-ago tragedy. Touching the heavily encrusted wood, she was engulfed by the same bittersweet emotion that always assailed her when she handled mementos of people who had once lived and breathed and now were gone.

  Rogan stopped and turned a lump of coral, and another, then picked up a third and paused to examine it. When he held it up for her she could just discern a series of small half-round shapes like a stack of…coins!

  Silver coins, stuck together by verdigris and a hundred and fifty years of coral growth. Rogan placed the lump into the mesh bag at his waist, and gently fanned an area of sand with his hand, stirring it up and away from the seafloor.

  Camille tentatively did some fanning of her own, and after several minutes of trying in various spots she saw the unmistakable gleam of gold. Pushing aside the concealing sand, she scooped up the object and nearly lost her mouthpiece, choking back a cry of sheer astonishment. It was unmistakably a sovereign, twin to the one Barney had buried with the logbook. Rogan came to her side and held out the bag for her to place the piece inside it. He had several more things in the bag, that looked like coral lumps to her, but she caught a gleam of gold, a glimpse of color.

  Burrowing into the sand, she felt something round and small, and found a gold ring with some kind of stone, and triumphantly held it up. Rogan gave a thumbs-up, then pointed to his dive computer, signaling that they were to surface.

  Reluctantly she followed him to the shot line, finning up toward the light. They were pausing for their last decompression stop when a disturbance sent fish darting in all directions, and a throbbing noise assailed her ears, becoming so loud and close it was frightening.

  Rogan's head jerked up, and she too peered anxiously toward the surface. The hull of the Sea-Rogue was a dark shape some distance away. Now another shape joined it, and the noise abruptly stopped.

  Rogan looked at the computer on his wrist. She sensed his impatience, but he counted down the minutes until it was safe to ascend before signaling her upward.

  They broke into the dazzle of sunlight together, and it was seconds before Camille's eyes could make out the Sea-Rogue and beside her another boat—a high, white, seagoing motor cruiser. The Catfish.

  Chapter 15

  Rogan's fist tightened on the shot line he still held. Inwardly he cursed. Drummond—or his henchman—had tracked them down. The Catfish probably had the latest radar-tracking gear known to humankind, able to spot even a wooden-hulled boat from miles away. Maybe the metal masts had given them away. Once or twice he'd thought the Sea-Rogue was being followed but he'd hoped the storm had taken care of it.

  He'd been right on the first count, wrong on the second. And he and Camille couldn't stay in the water forever.

  When he hoisted himself onto the Sea-Rogue's deck he wasn't surprised to see Drummond waiting for them, dressed like an ad for casual menswear in a knit cream shirt, beige cotton trousers and boat shoes, his face more pasty white than ever. And beside him, the Catfish's skipper.

  Ignoring them, Rogan turned to help Camille, knowing how heavy the air tank would feel out of the water.

  "James!" Camille said. "What are you doing here?"

  "You cheated me," he said. "Disappearing with this…pirate."

  Rogan said, "She didn't come willingly." He was helping Camille get her harness off before removing his own.

  Drummond stared at Camille. "Not willingly? What did he do to you?"

  "Nothing. I'm all right." She moved closer to Rogan.

  Drummond's cold gaze moved with her, then went to the buoy some distance away that marked the wreck. "You found the sunken ship?"

  Rogan said, "A wreck. The reef's probably caught hundreds of vessels over the years."

  "But you've got something there you thought worth recovering." James's eyes lighted on the bag at Rogan's waist. "May I see?"

  "No." Rogan gave him a steady stare, readying every muscle for Drummond's next move, conscious of Camille's soft, unsteady breathing beside him. He wouldn't give a fig for their lives once Drummond was sure he'd located the treasure.

  Drummond laughed quietly, and jerked his head at the Catfish's skipper. "Evan?"

  The man snaked a hand behind his back and it reappeared holding a very business-like black pistol. Camille gasped.

  "May I see now?" Drummond asked, a polite mockery.

  Rogan stood his ground, calculating how far away the gunman was. Drummond he was sure he could deal with, so long as the slimy bastard didn't produce a gun too, but it was hard to see where he'd conceal one in his perfectly-fitting outfit. Rogan's hunch was he'd keep his own nose clean and let his skipper do the dirty work. But Evan handled the gun as though he knew how to use it—perhaps had used it. Maybe forced his deckhand to choose between being shot or going overboard in the deep ocean.

  "Camille signed that agreement," he said. "I gave it to a friend for safekeeping." He hoped like hell Camille wasn't showing surprise at that untrue statement. "If she doesn't come back from this trip you have no legal claim to the Sea-Rogue or anything we found."

&
nbsp; "You think that matters now?"

  It had been a forlorn hope at best. At a guess, Drummond had wanted the boat because he believed Barney had hidden the log or something equally important on board. Now he didn't need it. "My father owned the salvage rights," Rogan said. "You'd have trouble disposing of anything you find."

  Contemptuously Drummond said, "I've been disposing of…difficult items from New Zealand for years. It's not a problem when you have the right contacts."

  The hairs on the back of Rogan's neck prickled. That was close to an admission of illegal trading. It would be easy enough to smuggle stuff out on the Catfish when the boat didn't have passengers, to rendezvous with yachts—even bigger foreign trawlers or commercial vessels—on their way to Asia, Europe or America, and transfer stolen antiques or prohibited cultural items. Like historic carved wooden or jade ornaments and weapons, treasured by Maori and rarely available now to collectors.

  "I'm not here to explain my business to you," Drummond said impatiently. "Give me the bag. Or…Camille, perhaps you might do it for him." His eyes dared Rogan to resist.

  Camille hesitated, then went to Rogan and, sending him a glance that held a message he couldn't read, unclipped the bag from his waist.

  She turned quickly, the bag swinging in her hand, and flung it straight at Evan's head.

  Rogan pitched himself after it as the gun went off and he felt a searing heat in his left arm. Then he had the man on the deck and grabbed his wrist, bringing it down hard on the nearest iron cleat.

  He heard the man's yelp of pain and the gun spun away and splashed overboard.

  Where was Camille? Was she all right? What was Drummond doing?

  Evan's fist caught him on the side of the head, and he saw stars. Blindly clenching his own fist and scarcely feeling the further blows that Evan landed, he pounded at the man's face like a maniac until he felt him go slack.

  Scrambling to his feet, he swung round with his heart in his mouth, then almost laughed. Drummond was backed up against the mainmast, his face the same sickly color as his shirt, and Camille had her diving knife at his throat.

  "You wouldn't," Drummond was saying. "Camille…"

  Camille said, "I will if you don't call off your dog." She moved the knife until it pricked the skin under his jaw, a trickle of blood flowing down his neck.

  Rogan said, "No need, honey. I'm okay."

  Her rigid shoulders relaxed a trifle. She said, "We'd better tie them up. You're good at knots…"

  Rogan did it efficiently. He noted with detached relief that Evan was coming round. The man winced and moaned when the rope went about his bruised wrist, but Rogan hardened his heart and made sure the knot was secure. He lashed both men back to back with the mainmast between them and straightened, feeling strangely light-headed.

  Camille was pale too, struggling out of her wet suit. "You're bleeding!" she said.

  Blood was seeping down the arm of his suit and onto his hand. A ragged tear in the sleeve showed a raw wound that throbbed now. "I don't think it's serious," he said. "I've had coral cuts deeper than this. Bring the first-aid kit up here. We don't want blood all over the saloon."

  He stripped off his suit and Camille cleansed the wound. The bullet must have glanced by, but she said, "You ought to see a doctor. If that plane came back maybe we could signal them."

  "Plane?"

  "There was one yesterday when you were underwater. It circled a couple of times and then went away."

  Rogan grunted. "Probably belonged to our friends over there," he said. Evan had drawn his knees up and was resting his head on them. Drummond sat with his legs outstretched, looking furious and white-faced. "My guess is Drummond sent Evan chasing after us when they saw the Sea-Rogue was gone, but they lost us in the storm. So then he hired a plane, and when they found us Evan picked him up from some island with an airstrip and they homed in."

  Catching Rogan's eyes on him as Camille began to bandage the wounded arm, Drummond spat, "You can't do this! You'll never get away with it."

  Rogan's brows lifted. "You came on board my boat and threatened me with a gun."

  "I was worried about Camille—you admit you kidnapped her. I came to help her."

  Rogan gave a crack of laughter. "Some white knight!"

  "Camille…?" Drummond appealed to her. "You know I wouldn't harm you," he coaxed, and when she didn't respond he said on a higher note, "If you die, the Brodericks get the lot, don't they? Do you think he'll resist that temptation? It's a small step from kidnapping to murder."

  Rogan said, "Maybe you'd know." Camille was concentrating on fastening the bandage, her mouth tight, her cheeks very pale. She ignored Drummond.

  He raised his voice further. "You can't trust him, Camille. You'd be safer with me. Don't let them cheat you of your legacy…it's worth a fortune, and I have the money to help you recover it."

  Camille took the first-aid box and still without looking at him went below.

  When Rogan followed she was sitting on the banquette, her hands tightly clamped in front of her as if she were praying—or trying to hold herself together.

  "Are you okay?" he asked.

  "Yes." Her voice was barely audible. "Shouldn't we radio the police or something? And you need medical attention. Evan might too. He doesn't look good."

  Anything Evan got he deserved, in Rogan's opinion. Still, things could get awkward if the man died. It was all very well in films and TV programs for people to get knocked out and be up and running about in ten minutes. But concussion could be serious—and Rogan had been so intent on quickly finishing off the fight and making sure Camille wasn't hurt he hadn't been exactly careful of how much injury he was inflicting on the man. Self-defense, but he didn't fancy having to prove it in court.

  "I suppose," he said, looking at her worriedly. Was she in shock? Not surprising after what they'd been through.

  She seemed remote, detached. He wanted to comfort her, but instinct told him she would repudiate that. Feeling helpless and angry, he went to the VHF and called up the nearest authorities, several hundred kilometers away.

  It wasn't easy explaining, but eventually he got a promise to send a naval vessel that was more or less in the area to assess the situation.

  When Rogan had thanked the operator and signed off, Camille said quietly, "I was wrong about James. I'm sorry I didn't believe you."

  Rogan shrugged. "I suppose it sounded pretty weird." He flexed his arm, finding it painful but not unusable. "I'll get those two onto their own boat where they'll be out of the way."

  "I'll help." She resolutely got up.

  "I don't need help." He guessed she didn't want to have to touch either of them. "They're trussed like chickens, it shouldn't be a problem." Especially since their unwelcome visitors had thoughtfully roped the boats together.

  Drummond was positively green now, his forehead beaded with sweat. When Rogan unhitched him from the mast and hoisted him up he said, "What are you doing?" his voice high with fear, and Rogan was tempted to say, Throwing you overboard.

  That gave him an idea. He turned his head and called, "Camille? Bring your tape recorder here, will you?"

  He hauled his prisoner to the taffrail and pushed him back against it, precariously balanced. "I'm going to ask you a few questions."

  Drummond's eyes rolled back. "I'm about to be sick!" he muttered, and Rogan twisted him round just in time to avoid being sprayed with vomit.

  By the time Drummond had finished, lying across the rail panting and spitting, Camille was standing alongside Rogan with the tape recorder in her hand.

  She'd rummaged it out of the drawer, wondering what Rogan wanted it for. Now she watched as he manhandled James around to face them both. Knowing how it felt to be seasick, she couldn't help a pang of pity at the man's pallor and obvious misery. His lips trembled and there were new stains on his designer shirt, along with some red spots she knew with guilty horror she was responsible for. The pinprick wound she'd made had stopped bleeding, but a trai
l of dried blood ran down his neck into the collar of the shirt.

  Rogan's face was an implacable mask. "Mr. Drummond is about to tell us something."

  "I'm not…" James gasped.

  "Oh, I think so," Rogan said, in a voice that sent a shiver down Camille's spine and made James blink apprehensively. "Your discarded breakfast will bring the sharks around. And if I throw you after it the smell of blood will send them into a frenzy."

  "You wouldn't…"

  "I promise, it won't take much." Rogan, his hand bunching the collar of the shirt, pushed him against the rail. Feeling sick herself, Camille bit her tongue and started the tape running.

  "Who beat up my father?" Rogan demanded.

  "I've no idea—"

  Rogan's hand tightened. "Yes, you do. Was it Evan?"

  Evan's slurred voice came from the mast. "Not me."

  Without looking toward Evan, Rogan gave James a shake. "Who?" He bent the man farther over the rail.

  "Let me go!"

  "Who was it?"

  Camille saw the movement of James's Adam's apple. "It wasn't my idea. I knew nothing about it until…after."

  "Whose idea, then? Who did it?"

  "Gary!" James gasped. "Evan's deckhand. He…heard Broderick's drunken boasting and thought I'd be interested…I'm in the antique business."

  "And he knew you weren't fussy about where your stuff came from…or where it went," Rogan said grimly. "Go on."

  James licked his lips. "Gary walked him back to his boat. Broderick was in a confiding mood, said he'd found the Maiden's Prayer and its treasure. Gary pooh-poohed that, and Broderick told him he had proof, the drunken fool even described where he'd put the safe holding the evidence."

  "And?" Rogan prompted as James stopped. There was splashing in the water below, and James gulped, his eyes rolling sideways. He said quickly, "Gary was stupid—he asked one question too many and the old goat got suspicious and turned belligerent. Gary downed him and took his keys. He emptied the safe, and on the way back found Broderick was dead. He put the keys back on the body and brought the stuff he'd found to me. He was in a panic about killing the old man."