He had to wonder as to its intended purpose.
He saw a heavyset man in a white ruffled shirt and black waistcoat step aboard. He watched Eusebio make an obsequious approach and point toward him.
Francisco gave a slight bow as the man reached the aftcastle.
"Captain Gutierrez, I presume?"
He looked irritated. "Yes-yes. What is this about Vazquez? Is he really dead?"
"Quite."
"Who sent you, then?"
"Apparently the owner of
A flagrant lie, and if the captain had the time to check with the owner's agent, he would expose the untruth. But Francisco knew the captain had already been delayed by Vazquez's illness. He had to put to sea today if he wanted to reach Cartagena anywhere near his expected time of arrival.
He shook his head. "Crossing the Atlantic with an unproved navigator…"
"Hardly unproved, sir. I learned my craft in His Majesty's navy. Where, I assume, you learned yours."
Captain Gutierrez quizzed him on the ships he had piloted, the captains he had served under. He too had been in the first Armada and was most impressed by Francisco's bringing the
That satisfied him.
"Very well. We sail with the tide. You will have Vazquez's cot in the officers' quarters."
As the captain brushed past him, Francisco allowed himself a deep breath of relief.
He had succeeded. He was now
Opus Dei… Francisco had to keep reminding himself that he was doing the Lord's work. He was removing an evil from the world, hiding it where no one would ever find it, where no one could ever steal it again.
He knew the name of the object hidden in the hold, but did not understand the nature of its evil—Father Diego had been coy on that. All he knew was that he must prevent it from reaching the New World.
"What's wrong?" Tom said as he carried his backpack and one of the food coolers past Jack.
"I didn't know judges made this sort of money."
"We don't."
Jack watched him step onto a rubber footplate on the gunwale and hop onto the rear deck.
"Then how…?"
"It's not really mine. But the owner owes me a few favors, so I get to use it pretty much whenever I want."
Jack shook his head in wonder.
It had been one long, strange car ride. Four-hundred-plus miles covered in eight-plus hours to these private docks on Wanchese harbor. Most of the time—when Tom wasn't pumping him for details about his lifestyle—they'd played blues. Tom had asked him if he was the Jack mentioned in Bighead's "R-J Blues." Jack had told him he'd have to ask the singer.
"No kidding? This thing's got to be worth a million or more."
Tom shrugged. "Maybe. It's a Hinkley T-forty but it's got some years on it."
"Who's the owner?"
"Someone you never heard of."
"Try me."
"Okay. Name's Chiram Abijah."
"You're right. Never heard of him. What's he do?"
"This and that."
Jack watched his brother's expression as he asked, "Just what kind of favors did you do for What's-his-name?"
"The kind that have me sneaking off to Bermuda."
"Such as?"
"I helped get him off the hook a few times. But he's now under federal indictment for money laundering. Can't help him with that. The good thing is the feds don't know about the boat, otherwise they would've RICO'd it along with his other stuff."
Jack hung back on the dock, still holding the other cooler and staring at the craft.
Tom spread his arms. "Kevlar hull, teak deck, and wait till you see the pilot house—everything teak, cherry, and tulipwood."
Jack backed up a step and squinted in the fading light at the large, gold-leaf script across the transom.
"
Soap
"Looks like a 747 cockpit. Not that I've ever been in one, but…"
"State of the art," Tom said. He looked like such a proud papa, Jack wondered if the boat might really be his. "Every telltale and navigation device you can imagine, and each backed up with another just like it. The previous owner is a very careful man."
But not quite careful enough, Jack thought. Otherwise he wouldn't be facing a vacation in a federal pen.
Jack nodded appreciatively. "Lots of navigation gizmos. Good. I like that. Wouldn't want to miss Bermuda and wind up in Africa."
Tom laughed. "This is the age of GPS, my boy. In case you don't know, that stands for Global Positioning—"
"—System. I know. So this stuff works like one of those car navigators?"
"Even better. Soon as we clear the inlet, we plug in the latitude and longitude of Bermuda's Great Sound and then we just sit back, crack a few beers, and relax."
"Just how far is Bermuda?"
"About six hundred fifty miles due east."
The figure jolted Jack.
"Six hundred—Jesus! How many miles a gallon does this thing get?"
"Maybe one."
"One? That means we need—"
"Lots of gallons. Seven hundred to be safe."
Jack looked around. "But where…?"
"Don't worry. We've got plenty. Good old Chiram more than doubled
"What about storms?"
"We're past hurricane season and the seven-day forecast is clear and calm all the way."
"And you say you've done this before?"
"Loads of times. Piece of cake. With this kind of equipment the boat literally drives itself."
"Awful long way to go in a little boat."
Tom bristled. "First off, it's not 'little.' And second, if you think Bermuda's far for the
Another shock. "Sailboats?"
"Sailboats."
"Why?"
"Because."
Jack shrugged. "Good a reason as any, I guess." He locked his gaze on his brother. "You're sure you know what you're doing?"
"Of course. Why do you keep asking me?"
"Because I'm leaving there"—he double-jerked his thumb over his shoulder at land—"and heading there"—he pointed to the water—"so I'd like to be—"
Tom snapped his fingers. "Yul Brynner,
"Yeah, right," he said. "Talking to the traveling salesman. Good pickup."
Jack was impressed. Might have been more impressed if he weren't facing the prospect of six-hundred-plus miles across open sea on a ship belonging to an indicted money launderer.
I'll soon be in the middle of the goddamn Atlantic Ocean, in the dark, heading for the Bermuda Triangle, with Tom as my skipper. Now there was a comforting thought. At least the boat wasn't named
It had been full dark by the time they'd chugged away from the docks, heading south into Pimlico Sound. After maybe eight or nine miles—or should he start thinking in leagues now?—they'd passed under a highway arching over a gap called the Oregon Inlet, and then they were out to sea.
Am I having fun yet? Jack thought. Answer: no.
The breeze felt cool but Jack was comfortable in his jeans, flannel shirt, and hoodie. Crying seagulls swooped and glided between the boat and the starlit sky.
Half of Jack had wanted to wait for tomorrow and get a fresh start first thing in the morning; the idea of cruising through the dark sent ripples through his gut, but there was no way around it: They were going to have to spend a night or two at sea no matter what time they left.
The other half wanted to get this whole deal over with, reminding him that the sooner they got going, the sooner they'd be back.
Tom came aft to the cooler and pulled out a Bud Light. Jack grimaced. Good movie sense, no beer sense. Maybe all the vodka he drank had killed off his taste buds.
"Want one?"
Jack shook his head. He'd stocked his cooler with Yuengling.
"Maybe later."
Tom stepped below. He returned a few seconds later with a folded piece of paper, pulled up a chair, and settled beside Jack.
"Ever see a treasure map?"
"No." Jack pointed to the helm. "I don't mean to be picky, but shouldn't someone be driving the boat?"
"Like I told you, this thing pilots itself. It knows where Bermuda is and knows it's supposed to go there. And there's not another boat around, so relax."
Yes, Jack knew what Tom had told him, but he still didn't like it.
He unfolded the sheet and handed it to Jack.
"Take a gander."
The sheet was actually four Xeroxed pages taped together into a large rectangle. A compass rose indicated that north was toward the top of the sheet. Right of center was a wedge-shaped landmass with a northward-pointing nipple. A line ran on a diagonal to a star surrounded by wiggly lines. The star had been labeled
Ornate handwritten Spanish filled the lower right corner. Jack's Spanish wasn't up to a translation.
"'Splain to me."
"Okay, Ricky."
Tom had spotted Ricky Ricardo. But that was an easy one.
"Translation?"
Tom closed his eyes and recited. " '
.' And then it's signed by Francisco Mendes, Society of Jesus."
Fifteen ninety-eight…
"This is over four hundred years old?"
Tom nodded. "The original is. It's parchment and barely holding together as it is. I wasn't about to take it out on the Atlantic."
"What's
"How did he know he wasn't buying a Brooklyn Bridge?"
"He had the parchment dated and it's from the late sixteenth century. The details—the distance and the precise latitude reading—point to someone who was on the spot and knew what he was talking about."
"But who
"On what?"
"The
Jack couldn't help laughing. "Don't tell me: It's a treasure ship laden with gold and jewels."
Tom shrugged. "Could be."
"Okay. I'll bite: Where's this Isle of Devils?"
"It's the old name for Bermuda before she was settled."
He and Tom were headed for the Isle of Devils. Why did that set off a warning bell?
Tom was pointing to the map again, this time at the tip of the nipple.
"That latitude crosses the northern tip of St. George's—Bermuda's northernmost island. The line runs three-oh-eight degrees northwest and intersects the latitude of the map's star right here."
"Why no longitude?"
"Longitude was iffy in those days. They were pretty good at telling how far north or south they were, but the science of east-west location hadn't been nailed down yet. But longitude isn't necessary here. Run eight-point-five miles from the tip of St. George's to this latitude and you'll find the
"Oh, there was. I did some research:
Tom shrugged. "No one knows. She left Cadiz on March sixth, 1598, and that was the last anyone ever saw or heard of her. Maybe a storm blew her off course, maybe she caught fire, maybe an onboard emergency forced her to seek land. But whatever the reason, the
"Why do you say that?"
"Her class of ship had a deep draw—six feet. The reef out there is about three feet deep. If the
Jack waved the sheet. "I don't get the point."
"Simple: Someday I'm going to find her."
"If she hasn't already been found."
Tom shook his head. "The
"So you've got a map of a wreck that isn't there."
"No, I've got a map of a wreck that no one else knows exists."
"How can you be so sure?" Jack tapped the big sheet. "The map maker knew. And if there were any survivors, wouldn't they talk up the wreck?"
"To whom?"
"I don't know—the Bermuda government?"
"The island wasn't inhabited at the time. The Brits didn't colonize it until 1612, and even then it was considered part of the Virginia colony."
Jack was confused. "Then how…?"
Tom smiled. "How did the map wind up in a Spanish monastery? Good question. That's what makes the
"Doesn't make sense."
"Does if the
"I'll take a Yuengling."
Tom returned and handed him a green bottle.
"No… no manifest."
Jack sipped and considered how little sense this made.
"Without a manifest, what makes you think the wreck holds anything of value?"
"Because of another ship of the same class named
"Which must have kicked off a massive treasure hunt."
"It did. The gold rush turned up three hundred fifty different wrecks. And those are just the documented ones."
"But not much treasure, I'll bet."
Tom shook his head. "Not a whole hell of a lot. Most were just rotting wood."
Jack sighed. He didn't get this.
"What makes you think you'll find any more than that?"
"Wenzel. He did a lot of research and learned that the
"Which is?"
Tom's brow furrowed. "He didn't know, and couldn't find out. All his research yielded only a few veiled references. But apparently it was considered something of great value."
"Just what
"Think it's shaped like someone's tongue?"
Tom made a face. "The word 'tongue' has a load of meanings besides that incessantly wagging muscle in your mouth. It can be anything from a spit of land to the pin on a belt buckle to the clapper inside a bell to the pole that runs between the horses on a stagecoach."
"So which is it?"
"I have no idea."
"And Gefreda?"
"Same thing. I assume it's either the name of the maker or the town where it was made. But I've got my own theory about the Lilitongue of Gefreda. I think it's some sort of jewel, or a unique piece of jewelry, and I'll bet it's worth a fortune."
Yeah, right, Jack thought. And I'm Captain Hook.
A lost jewel. Sheesh. Had Tom really bought into this?
The reefs Tom had mentioned, however, were apparently real, and they worried him.
"Three hundred and fifty sunken ships. Maybe those stories about the Bermuda Triangle are true."
"Don't tell me you believe any of that balderdash."
Jack had come to believe a lot of things he'd once considered "balderdash." He didn't want to add Bermuda Triangle lore to that list. At least not while he was sailing through it.
"Well… easier to believe in than the Lilly Lips of Gandolfini."
"The Lilitongue of Gefreda. And forget the Bermuda Triangle. No one can even agree as to where the 'triangle' is supposed to be. But the wrecks are real. All three hundred and fifty of them have been mapped, but not one of them is called
"So what's that tell you?"
"That it's waiting to be discovered!"
Jack shook his head. "Tells
Jack refolded the sheet and tapped it against his thigh.