No wonder Señor Zuberan had the kind of security he did, she thought, relaxing a bit. This kind of wealth in a country as poor as San Marcos was bound to attract attention. One look at Timoteo confirmed this: his eyes were wide with amazement; he looked like Ali Baba in the cave of the forty thieves.
Abrahamâwho Emma decided was some kind of ancient houseboyâled them through a door into an open colonnade that framed a courtyard with a central fountain of white marble. From here they entered another, more modern wing of the house, where the floors were carpeted wall-to-wall and the furniture was overstuffed and comfortable-looking.
After passing through several plush rooms, also packed to
bursting with objects of art, they came to what Emma realized must be a ballroomâa huge open space with parquet floors, ornate moldings, and French doors. Three enormous rock-crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, providing light. The entire room was painted a luminescent white, and for an instant Emma had the unsettling illusion that she was surrounded by vast banks of snow.
Their escort opened a pair of the French doors.
Emma found herself at the top of a short flight of steps leading down to a grassy lawn that extended a few hundred feet and ended at a short wall. From where she stood, Emma could see the sheer drop-off beyond the wall and could imagine waves breaking on a rocky shore far below.
In the center of the lawn was a round table, sheltered by an umbrella and surrounded by four white iron chairs. Seated at the table was a slight man with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair. Behind him the vast blue panorama of the Caribbean stretched out to infinity.
Emma descended the stairs. The man sensed her presence after only an instant. He put down his newspaper and rose from his chair as they approached.
“Miss ⦠Passant, is it?” he said in a soft voice with barely a trace of an accent when Emma stopped a few feet from him. “Welcome to my home. I am Bernal Zuberan.”
“Thank you for seeing me, Señor Zuberan.”
“It is I who must thank you, my dear. We don't get many unexpected visitors out here. Certainly none as charming as yourself.”
His skin was fair. His eyes were pale gray and set in a web of faint wrinkles. He had a kind smile and seemed genuinely pleased to see her. Emma estimated him to be in his early fifties.
“And who is your friend?” he said, grinning at Timoteo.
“My name is Timoteo,” answered the boy, wide-eyed. “I am the best guide in San Marcos.”
“I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Timoteo.” Zuberan smiled benignly and extended his hand. Timoteo reached out and shook it, tentatively at first, then as if it were the handle of a pump.
“Don't break the man's arm, Timoteo,” said Emma.
“It's all right,” said Zuberan, laughing, as he finally managed to extricate himself. “Boys are naturally enthusiastic. We will be having lunch in a short while. Perhaps you will join me?”
“Thanks, but we've already eaten.”
“Do you have ice cream?” asked Timoteo in an eager voice.
“Timoteo!”
“Of course we have ice cream.” Zuberan laughed again. “Abraham, why don't you take Timoteo to the kitchen and see that he gets all the ice cream he wants. If it is all right with Miss Passant, of course.”
All eyes turned to Emma.
“You don't want you to make yourself sick,” she said, uncomfortable at the thought of being parted from the boy.
“You cannot get sick from ice cream,” said Timoteo knowingly. “I eat ice cream all the time and do not get sick.”
“Well, if it's what you want ⦔
“Are you certain we can't get you anything, Miss Passant?” said Zuberan. “Some coffee, perhaps?”
Emma hesitated. She was drinking entirely too much coffee. She should really cut down.
“Yes, please,” said Emma, wondering why she was always faced with the one temptation she was unable to resist. “If it's not too much trouble ⦔
“No trouble at all. Two coffees for us, Abraham, when Timoteo is settled. Let him play with Esteban's Nintendo, if he likes.”
“SÃ, señor,” said the white-haired houseboy. Then he turned and headed back to the house. Timoteo ran after him, not glancing back.
“Esteban is my son,” said Zuberan after a moment. “He is about Timoteo's age, but is not often here anymore to enjoy his things. He lives mostly with his mother now. In Switzerland.”
Emma nodded, barely listening. She stared at Timoteo's small departing figure, wondering if he would make himself ill, despite his protests. She suddenly felt very much alone.
“Won't you sit down?” said Zuberan. He indicated the chair with the best view of the vast blueness of the ocean, then nodded to the two Neanderthals, who retreated to an alcove by the side of the house, out of earshot.
“You have a lot of men to guard you, señor,” said Emma, taking her seat as Zuberan held the chair.
“Yes, unfortunately the political situation here is very unsettled at present,” her host replied, sitting down across from her at the table. “In other countries only gangsters and politicians need this kind of protection. On San Marcos, however, anyone with money and property must think about his own safetyâthe authorities are no help at all; part of the problem, in fact. As you see, I have done well and have much to protect.”
“I didn't realize that owning marinas could be so lucrative.”
“It isn't, I assure you,” Zuberan replied with a gentle laugh.
“That is why I have not owned a marina for many years. I am in financial services now.”
“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry.”
“No, no. It would be unnatural if you were not curious. Money is a fascinating thing. No matter how much we have, we all seem to want more. I have been a very lucky man. Is that seat comfortable for you?”
“Yes, it's fine, thanks,” said Emma. Her iron chair had a thick seat cushion and was surprisingly comfortable.
“So, tell me, my dear,” said Zuberan, studying her face carefully, almost like a boxer sizing up an opponent. “You have been in San Marcos long?”
“No, only a few days.”
“And you are staying at the Casimente?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Just a guess. Many Americans stay at the Casimente. Do you like it there?”
“Yes, it's very nice.”
Zuberan nodded.
“Obviously you are a resourceful young woman. You have been in San Marcos for only a brief time and yet you have found your way down here to this remote place. As I said, we don't get many tourists in Migelina these days.”
“I'm not a tourist. I'm looking for information. It's very important to me. It may be the key to two murders.”
“Indeed?” said Zuberan, raising an eyebrow. “Who was murdered?”
“My grandfather and another man,” said Emma. “I think their deaths might be somehow tied to a boat that was once in your marina.”
“The
Kaito Spirit,”
said Zuberan slowly.
“Do you remember it?”
“Yes, I remember the
Kaito Spirit.”
“You do?” asked Emma, almost afraid to believe her ears.
“Yes, but frankly, Miss Passant, I do not see what possible connection there could between the
Kaito Spirit
and these murders of which you speak. This boat was destroyed twenty years ago in the hurricane. You must have been just a little girl.”
“My grandfather used to own the
Kaito Spirit,”
said Emma, almost bursting with excitement.
“I'm afraid that is impossible.”
“What do you mean? Why is it impossible?”
“It was I who owned the
Kaito Spirit.”
“Then my grandfather must have owned it before you did,” stammered Emma.
“When was this? What was his name?”
“His name was Jacques Passant. And it was more than thirty
years ago. I don't know exactly. Sometime before I was born.”
“No,” Zuberan declared. “It cannot be.”
“It's true. I promise you my grandfather owned the
Kaito Spirit,
Señor Zuberan. A model of it disappeared from his dresser in his room after he was killed. In his will, he said that the
Kaito Spirit
was my legacy.”
Zuberan's face had gone pale. When he spoke again, his voice quavered.
“What did he look like, this Jacques Passant?”
“He was short and a bit round,” said Emma, suddenly feeling frightened herself, though she could think of no reason why. “With high cheekbones and sandy hair. He was French and spoke English with an accent. He had a peculiar manner of speech, I don't know exactly how to describe it â¦
“Someone who might call a boat he owned âthe hole in the water into which I pour money'?”
“Yes, that's exactly like something my grandfather would have said. You
did
know him!”
“Yes,” said Zuberan in a voice so small it was almost inaudible. “I knew him. But not by the name of Jacques Passant.
“What do you mean? That was his name!”
“Maybe at some later date it was. But the little Frenchman who owned the
Kaito Spirit
and who spoke in the peculiar manner that you describe was not called Jacques Passant when he lived here in Migelina. His name was Etienne Lalou.”
Â
Â
B
ut why would my grandfather have changed his name?” said Emma, feeling as if she had been slapped across the face.
“To hide, perhaps,” said Zuberan.
“Hide? Hide from whom? From what?”
“Obviously he had something to be frightened of. Do you know who killed him?”
Emma shook her head helplessly. She felt none of the relief or excitement she had expected after all the dead ends. Instead she felt terrified, as though she had already learned too much. It made no sense. She had come all this way precisely to find out about the
Kaito Spirit
, to tie it somehow to her grandfather's murder. Suddenly, however, she wanted to run away and not hear another word.
“Why, you must be Marie's daughter,” said Zuberan, his face lighting up with surprise.
“You knew my mother, too?”
“Of course. Now I see the resemblance. But she was just a little girl then. It was so long ago. Tell me how she is. Did she grow up
tall and lovely like you? It is impossible for me to think of her as an adult.”
“I'm sorry, Señor Zuberan. I'm afraid my mother died when I was born.”
“No!” shouted Zuberan, banging the table with the flat of his palm, his smile collapsing. “Don't tell me this!”
Emma froze at the violence of his outburst, not knowing what to do. The men at the side of the house suddenly had guns in their hands. They began moving toward the table, but had taken only a few steps when Zuberan recovered his composure and waved them back to their places.
“Forgive me, my dear,” her host whispered. “It is horrible to hear this sad news all at once. Somehow, I always thought I would see them again. Etienne. Marie. Both dead.”
Zuberan put his hands to his temple and lowered his head. Emma waited in uncertainty and anticipation until he finally looked up again, his expression seemingly calm, his face unreadable.
“I know my reaction must seem very odd to you, Emma,” he said in a hoarse voice.
“I ⦔
“No, please. I know I am a stranger to you. It is you who have suffered the loss. Your grandfather. Your mother. But I assure you, my dear, we share a common bond. The man I knew as Etienne Lalou was like a father to me. Everything I have today I owe to him. Whoever killed him must be brought to justice.”
“That's why I've come here,” said Emma, searching for words, still shaken by the bodyguards' armed response. “The police think it was just a random killing.”
“But you don't.”
“No.”
“What can I do to help?” Zuberan said, his face suddenly hard, his gray eyes blazing.
“You can tell me about the
Kaito Spirit.”
“Of course. But where to start? I sailed on the
Kaito Spirit
with Etienneâwith your grandfatherâfor almost ten years.”
Emma blinked her eyes. The
Kaito Spirit
had been the little model on Pépé's dresser to her. Suddenly it was no longer that symbol, but the real thing. Real people had sailed on her across a sea of time as well as water. Whatever secrets the boat concealed would be four-dimensional, too. Asking for information about the
Kaito Spirit
was like asking about the Supreme Court or about Chicagoâthe answer would depend on what point in time you wanted to know about. Where along the
Kaito Spirit'
s time-line did the strand of destiny that had led to Jacques Passant's murder cross? Where had this all begun?
“My grandfather once told me that he had stolen the most precious treasure of the sea and could never go back,” said Emma, remembering the day on the San Francisco Bay so many years ago. “Do you know what he could have meant?”
Zuberan bit his lip. An odd expression crossed his face.
“I may,” he said after a moment. “Did you say that the model of the
Kaito Spirit
had been stolen?”
“I can't be sure,” said Emma, “but I think so.”
“The other man who was murderedâwho was he?”
“I didn't know him, really. His name was Caraignac. He was a New York antique dealer.”
“An antique dealer ⦠that would fit.” Zuberan nodded. “Yes, I may know what this is about, Emma. I may know why Etienne was killed.”
“What is it? What happened?”
Zuberan stared out across the ocean and didn't speak for a long time.
“It is a long story,” he said finally. “One I have never told anyone. It started on the
Kaito Spirit,
many years ago, before you were born. Apparently it has not yet ended.”
“I want to know everything,” said Emma. “Please tell me everything.”
“I will,” said Zuberan, reaching across the table and gently patting her hand. “We are all bound together, Emma, like a family âyou, me, Etienne, Marie ⦠the
Kaito Spirit
binds us all.”
“Was it some kind of yacht?”
“Dios
, no.” Zuberan laughed, the gentleness having fully returning to his face, his voice. “The
Kaito Spirit
was a working boat. An old wreck, really. She must have been twenty years old already the first time I saw her, but even then I loved her. We took tourists out for sightseeing and fishing excursions.”
“You sailed from the harbor here?”
“Those were the days when Migelina was an important place,” said Zuberan, sitting back in his chair. A faraway smile crossed his lips, as if he were reviewing a pleasant memory. “It is impossible to see it now, but thirty years ago this area was one of the most lovely resorts in the Caribbean. People from all over the world came to Migelina. The best people. Etienne took me aboard when I was not much older than your friend Timoteo. He taught me everything. My family had nothing. My father was dead. My mother took in wash in Migelina. Because of Etienne we were able to eat. I worked hard for my wages, of course, but I received more than just money. Etienne taught me to read, taught me to think. He was a wonderful man.”
“Yes, I know,” whispered Emma.
“The incident that this may all go back to,” said Zuberan, “happened after I had grown from a boy into a man. Some tourists came to us and rented out the
Kaito Spirit
and our services for two full weeks. You have to understand how unusual this was. There were many boats for hire in Migelina. Often we went for weeks without even a day charter. Our work was mostly two-hour sight-seeing trips up and down the coast. These tourists, however, were very rich. Etienne asked them for a preposterous amount of money for the
Kaito Spirit,
ready to be bargained down, but the man just opened his wallet and paid the full amount in advance.”
Zuberan stopped speaking and smiled.
“What is it?” asked Emma.
“These peopleâI do not remember their names, of course, it was so long agoâbut all these years I have remembered them as being so rich. Now I realize that it was we who were so poor. The two-week charter Etienne received for the
Kaito Spirit
probably would not have paid for a single night in their hotel, and yet to us it was a king's ransom. As I said before, Emma, money is a fascinating thing. Even now with all that I own, I still cannot imagine being as rich as those tourists who could charter the
Kaito Spirit
for two full weeks.”
Zuberan fell silent and stared out over the ocean. Emma didn't speak. Finally he resumed his story.
“Some days our tourists did not even use the
Kaito Spirit
, taking the time to go inland and see the sights. We had been paid nevertheless and were ready on call. We took them fishing for tuna and marlin. We sailed up the coast for picnics in secret inlets and coves. We arranged for diving gear and waited while they explored coral reefs and underwater caves. Do you dive, my dear?”
“No,” said Emma.
“You really should try it sometime. Of course, skin diving wasn't the popular sport thirty years ago that it is now. I was just learning to dive then myself, though today there are few things that I enjoy more. It is a wondrous, quiet world down below the waters. A world full of beauty and color and life. A world that no man can ever really know. I love it. It was down there in that quiet, magical world that we found the dragon.”
“The dragon?” said Emma.
“That is what I have always called it,” said Zuberan, “though I am not sure if a dragon is what it really was. Perhaps there is some other name for the creature. Some name out of science books or mythology. I do not know. All I know is that it was unearthly and ferocious and beautiful. And it was made of gold.”
“I'm sorry, Señor Zuberan. I think you've lost me. You found some kind of sea monster?”
“No, it is I who must apologize. I am telling the story very badly. It is just that the dragon is a living thing to me. It still appears to me in my dreams, these many years laterâits eyes bulging, its flesh scaly, the sharpened fins that ridge its spine cutting the water like a sword. But of course it was not a real creature that we found in the sand. It was an artifact.”
“An artifact?”
“An ornament. A fantastic dragonlike creature more than three inches long, crafted of rich gold and suspended from a long golden chain. The workmanship of it was wondrous. Each link of the chain was a work of art. Each scale of the dragon was separate and distinct. The creature was hollow, and if you opened its jaws and blew through it, it made a shrill soundâlike a whistle.”
“But what was it?”
“This I do not know. I know where it came from, however. It was Spanish treasure. Gold from the conquistadors.”
“You're kidding.”
“No, I assure you, my dear, I am not kidding. They were all over these islands. Their galleons set out from here back to Madrid with holds filled with the stolen wealth of the Incas. Many such treasure ships were sunk in hurricanes and tropical storms. Millions of dollars' worth of gold and silver bullion have been recovered over the years.”
Emma couldn't speak. She was breathing shallowly and could feel her heart beating like a bird's. Sunken treasure! Found by the
Kaito Spirit
. This had to be it. This had to have something to do with why her grandfather had been killed.
“It was Marie, your mother, who actually found the dragon,” said Zuberan, interrupting Emma's racing thoughts. “She was just a girl then, a pretty little thing, maybe fourteen years old. Etienne would sometimes take her out with us when the clients weren't the usual crude boors and didn't mind. One of the tourists on this trip took a shine to Marie and showed her how to use the scuba gear. Etienne wasn't happy about it, but he finally let her go
down. When she surfaced from her first dive, she was holding the dragon in her little fist. She had seen it sparkle in the sand. Gold is incorruptible, Emma. Eternal. The dragon and its thick, intricate chainâit must have been four feet longâhad lain there on the ocean floor for hundreds of years, but both were in perfect condition, as though they had been made yesterday.”
“She must have been very excited,” said Emma.
“Of course she was. She was dancing all over the deck, laughing, shrieking the way young girls do. I can still see her in my mind's eye. I was certain the tourists would claim the dragon for themselves, since they had chartered the boat and paid for the diving equipment, but to my surprise they did not. They couldn't have been nicer, more gracious. They congratulated Marie, telling her how well she had done. They were so rich, they didn't care. Even though they must have understood its value, it was still just a trinket to them. Just a trinket.”
“What happened? Did you sell it?”
“Etienne certainly would have liked to,” said Zuberan, “and that, of course, was the problem. The authorities would have confiscated the dragon the instant they learned about it. There are still strict government laws about recovery of sunken treasure, but in those days Peguero was the government, and Peguero was more interested in lining his pockets than in preservation of historical artifacts. The only way for Etienne to sell the dragon was to get it out of San Marcos, but this was risky. The police were keeping a close eye on us.”
“The police?” said Emma, surprised. “Why?”
“Because we had been arrested a few months before this.”
“Arrested?”
“Yes, arrested,” said Zuberan, his lips curled into a frown. “The charge was gunrunning. I have told you, my dear, that I revered Etienne like a father. I had always believed him to be a fine man, honest and upstanding. It therefore came as a terrible shock
to me when the police boarded the
Kaito Spirit
and dragged us away in handcuffs, fingerprinted us like common criminals, threw us into jail. It turned out thatâunbeknownst to meâEtienne had been engaged in all manner of criminal activities to supplement his income from the boat.”