The links of heavy chain were still wrapped around the little chest and secured with padlocks. This hadn't been in the original plan, but a squall on their third day out from Tenerife had worried him about the possibility of the ship going down before he'd guided it to its destination. So he and Eusebio had weighted it to assure that if the Sombra did go down, the relic would go down with it. And stay down, never to wash up on any shores.
Assured that it was secured, he climbed back to the main deck and reclaimed the helm.
His instructions were to bring the ship through the reefs to the shore of the Isle of Devils, carry the relic inland, and there bury it deep in the earth.
Despite the use of only two sails, the Sombra was making good time in the cool, strong wind from the northeast. Francisco wished it weren't quite so strong. It had raised a chop that would make it more difficult to navigate the Isle of Devils' notorious reefs. The lateen gave them more maneuverability than a square sail, and passages existed, he was sure of that. Finding them under any conditions could be difficult. But with all these whitecaps…
He tapped Eusebio on the shoulder.
"Is the longboat ready?"
The older man nodded and pointed. "Food, water, sail, and all our belongings—ready and waiting."
"Excellent. Why don't you—"
Francisco pitched forward against the wheel and Eusebio was hurled against a railing as the ship bottomed against a reef. But it didn't stop. Propelled by the stiff wind it shuddered forward amid a deafening cacophony of grinding coral and splintering, smashing wood.
"She's breaking up!" Eusebio cried.
Francisco pointed to the cargo hatch in the deck below.
"The relic! We have to free it!"
The deck shook beneath their feet as they staggered toward the hatch. The Sombra shook as if in an attack of ague but continued to plow ahead, though more slowly now.
Eusebio knelt and peered into the hold, then looked up at Francisco.
"It's half full already!"
Panic squeezed Francisco's throat. "To the boat!"
With the deck tilting under them—listing to port as the bow sank and the stern rose—they undid the longboat's securing lashes and climbed in. Moments later they floated off the sinking deck. Eusebio rowed them away from the roiling water as the Sombra rolled onto its side and sank beneath the waves.
Francisco had been shocked at how fast it was going down, but then he saw the gaping rent where the keel had been.
Soon all that remained were a few loose timbers and the floating bodies of the crew. He made the sign of the cross and recited the Litany for the Dying—for them and for himself.
Then he thanked God for inspiring him to weight the chest. It wouldn't be buried on the Isle of Devils as planned, but even so, it would never again be seen by the eyes of man.
The water within the reef was calmer than beyond. He unpacked his astrolabe and made as accurate a measurement as possible on the rocking craft.
That done, the next task was to sail to the Isle, find a landmark, and measure the distance and degrees from there to this spot.
After that, he and Eusebio would anchor off the reef and search the horizon for the two lateens of the Vatican caravel that had been following a day behind the Sombra.
TUESDAY
1
Land ho.
Bermuda's brightly colored, beckoning shores lay ahead. Beyond the pastel splotches of houses with glaringly bright roofs, Jack couldn't make out much in the way of detail. Everything he'd read said it was a beautiful, cultured, civilized place.
Great.
But Jack wouldn't have cared if it was a barren lump of rock, or the relocation of Sodom and Gomorra. It was land. He'd started to believe he might never see land again.
After the supertanker incident, the remainder of the trip had proved unremarkable.
Jack had climbed from belowdecks the following morning to find Tom sipping a beer and acting as if nothing had happened—no near collision, no punch. No apology for dereliction of duty, no mention of the punch. Everything copacetic.
So Jack adopted the same attitude: The night before hadn't happened.
Not a bad approach, considering how they were looking at another day or so cooped up together on the Sahbon.
The truce allowed them to talk civilly. They got along. They stuck to neutral subjects like sports and movies; they watched videotapes—Dazed and Confused twice at Tom's insistence—and studiously avoided the landmine of worldview.
Jack didn't get Tom. He was unquestionably bright, clever—perhaps a little too clever—and could be charming when it suited him. He'd make a good acquaintance or card-playing buddy as long as you first made sure the deck wasn't marked. But a friend? Jack wondered if Tom had any friends.
True friends… people who knew all about him, people he could call on when in need, and who could in turn depend on him to come running when they needed him.
Look at who's wondering about friends.
Jack could think of only three people in the world he could call friend: Gia, Abe, and Julio.
Three was enough. More than enough. A friend was a commitment. Friends took time and nurturing. And you had to give them your trust. That was the big stumbling block for Jack: You had to let a friend know you. Jack realized he had limitations in that department. He didn't want to be known. The fewer people who knew how he made his living, the better.
Gia, Abe, and Julio. They knew. They were enough.
But Tom? Who did Tom count as a friend? Who called Tom friend? Jack couldn't imagine it.
And that was sad to say about your only living kin.
"Okay." Tom clapped his hands. "Time to get out the fishing rods."
"Fishing? No way. My feet need dry land under them again ASAP."
"You kidding?" Tom laughed. "Fishing? I can't stand fishing. Rather watch paint dry. The rods are our camouflage. We're going to sneak in in plain sight, and then we're going to hide in plain sight."
"Just as long as we don't end up like the Sombra."
"Not to worry. We've got all sorts of advantages they didn't: like charts and channel markers and depth finders."
Jack tried to squeeze some assurance from that, but came up dry.
"All of which you know how to use, right?"
"Of course. I'm not exactly what you'd call an old salt, but I do know a few things. The channel markers are the easiest. Just remember the three R's: red-right-return."
"Meaning?"
"Always keep the red channel markers on your starboard side when returning to port."
Jack nodded. Sounded straightforward enough. He didn't see how Tom could screw that up. Even he could handle that.
Jack scanned the water. The sky was a clear blue dome, the midday sun glinted on the gentle waves. The breeze ruffled his hair. He guesstimated the air temp in the mid-sixties.
And straight ahead, taking up a good chunk of horizon, lay the islands of Bermuda. Islands. Jack had been studying the maps and a tourist guide. He'd always thought of Bermuda as a single island but had learned it was a group—five major and a horde of small ones.
More accurately, Bermuda was the remnant of the rim of a giant, ancient, long-dead, undersea volcano ringed with coral reefs. It ate up a fair number of degrees of their horizon now. Not a desert island—anything but. Its surface undulated with green, pastel-studded hills.
Directly around them lay dark blue water; but not far ahead it changed to a pattern of turquoise interlaced with thick, dark threads: sand and coral.