“Not really,” Carney said.
“Enough to give some people a heart attack.”
“I’ve been diving for years,” Carney told him, “and I’ve never found sharks a problem.”
“Not even a great white?”
“How often would you see one of those? No, nurse sharks in the main and they’re no problem. Around here, reef sharks now and then or lemon sharks. Sure, they could be a problem, but hardly ever. We’re big and they’re big and they just want to keep out of the way. Having said that, did you enjoy the dive?”
“It was fine.” Dillon shrugged.
“Which means you’d like a little more excitement.” Carney started the engine. “Okay, let’s go for one of my big boy dives,” and he gunned the engine and took the
Privateer
out into open water.
They actually passed at some distance
Maria Blanco
still at anchor off Paradise Beach, and Guerra was in the deckhouse, scanning the area with binoculars. He recognized the boat and told Captain Serra, who examined the chart and then took a book on dive sites in the Virgin Islands from a drawer in the chart table.
“Keep watching,” he told Guerra and leafed through.
“They’ve anchored,” Guerra told him, “and run up the dive flag.”
“Carval Rock,” Serra said. “That’s where they’re diving.”
At that moment Algaro came in and held the door open for Santiago, who was wearing a blue blazer and a Captain’s cap, a gold rim to the peak. “What’s happening?”
“Carney and Dillon are diving out there, Señor.” Serra indicated the spot and gave Santiago the binoculars.
Santiago could just see the two men moving in the stern of
Privateer
. He said, “That couldn’t be the site, could it?”
“No way, Señor,” Serra told him. “It’s a difficult place to dive, but hundreds of dives are made there every year.”
“Never mind,” Santiago said. “Put the launch in the water. We’ll go and have a look. We’ll see what these two divers of yours, Noval and Pinto, can do.”
“Very well, Señor, I’ll get things moving,” and Serra went out followed by Guerra.
Algaro said, “You wish me to come too, Señor?”
“Why not?” Santiago said. “Even if Dillon sees you it doesn’t matter. He knows you exist.”
The rock was magnificent, rising up out of a very turbulent sea, birds of every kind perched up there on the ridge, gulls descending in slow motion in the heavy wind.
“Carval Rock,” Carney said. “This is rated an advanced dive. Descends to about eighty or so feet. There’s the wreck of a Cessna over on the other side that crashed a few years back. There are some nice ravines, fissures, one or two short tunnels and wonderful rock and coral cliffs. The problem is the current. Caused by tidal movement through the Pillsbury Sound.”
“How strong?” Dillon asked as he fastened his weight belt.
“One or two knots is fairly common. Above two knots is unswimmable.” He looked over and shook his head. “And I’d say it’s three knots today.”
Dillon lifted his jacket and tank on to the thwart and put it on himself. “Sounds as if it could be interesting.”
“Your funeral.”
Carney got his own gear on and Dillon turned to lean over and wash out his mask and saw a white launch approaching. “We’re going to have company.”
Carney turned to look. “I doubt it. No dive master I know would take his people down in this current today, he’d go somewhere easier.”
The swells were huge now, the
Privateer
bucking up and down on the anchor line. Dillon went over, paused to check his air supply and started down to what looked like a dense forest below. He paused on the bottom, waiting until Carney had reached him, beckoned and turned toward the rock. Dillon followed, amazed at the strength of the current pushing against him, was aware of a stream of white bubbles over to his left and saw an anchor descend.
On the launch, Santiago sat in the wheelhouse while Serra went to the prow and dropped the anchor. Algaro was helping Noval and Pinto into their diving equipment.
Serra said finally, “They are ready to go, Señor, what are your orders?”
“Tell them to just have a look around,” Santiago said. “No trouble. Leave Carney and Dillon alone.”
“As you say, Señor.”
The two divers were sitting together on the port side. Serra nodded and together they went over backwards into the water.
Dillon followed Carney with increasing difficulty because of the strength of the current up across rock and coral, following a deep channel that led through to the other side of the rocks. The force was quite tremendous and Carney was down on his belly pulling himself through with gloved hands, reaching for one handhold after another, and Dillon went after him, the other man’s fins just three or four feet in front of him.
There was a kind of threshold. Carney was motionless for a while and then passed through, and Dillon had the same problem, faced with a kind of wall of pressure. He clawed at the rocks with agonizing slowness, foot by foot, and suddenly was through and into another world.
The surface was fifty feet above him and as he surged forward, he found himself in the middle of a school of tarpon at least four feet in length. There were yellow tail snappers, horse-eyed jacks, bonita, king mackerel and barracuda, some of them five feet long.
Carney plunged down to the other side, the rock face falling below, and Dillon followed him. They closed together and Dillon was aware of the current as they turned and saw Noval and Pinto trying to come through the cut. Noval almost made it, then lost his grip and was pushed into Pinto and they disappeared back to the other side.
Carney moved on and Dillon followed, down to seventy-five feet, and the current took them now in a fierce three-knot riptide that bounced them along the front of the wall in an upright position. They were surrounded by clouds of silversides, flying through space, the ultimate dream, and Dillon had never felt so excited. It seemed to go on forever, and then the current slackened and Carney was using his fins now and climbing.
Dillon followed through a deep ravine that led into another, waterlike black glass, checked his computer and was surprised to find that they had been under for twenty-five minutes. They moved away from the rock itself now, only three or four feet above the forest of the seabed, and came to a line and anchor. Carney paused to examine it, then turned and shook his head, moving on toward the left, finally arriving at their own anchor. They went up slowly, leaving the line at fifteen feet and swimming to one side of the boat, surfacing at the keel.
Carney reached down to take Dillon’s tank and the Irishman got a foot in the tiny ladder and pulled himself up and over the stern. He felt totally exhilarated, unzipped his diving suit and pulled it off as Carney stowed their tanks.
“Bloody marvelous.”
Carney smiled. “It wasn’t bad, was it?”
He turned and looked across at the launch which was anchored over on the port side, swinging on its anchor chain in the heavy sea. Dillon said, “I wonder what happened to the two divers we saw trying to get through the cut?”
“They couldn’t make it, I guess, that was rough duty down there.” The launch swung round, exposing the stern. “That’s the
Maria Blanco
’s launch,” Carney added.
“Is that a fact?”
Dillon dried himself slowly with a towel and stood at the rail looking across. He recognized Algaro at once, standing in the stern with Serra, and then Santiago came out of the wheelhouse.
“Who’s the guy in the blazer and cap?” Dillon enquired.
Carney looked across. “That’s Max Santiago, the owner. I’ve seen him in St. John a time or two.”
Santiago was looking across at them and on impulse, Dillon raised an arm and waved. Santiago waved back and at that moment Noval and Pinto surfaced.
“Time to go home,” Carney said and he went round to the prow and heaved in the anchor.
On the way back Dillon said, “The
Maria Blanco
, where would it anchor when it’s here, Caneel Bay?”
“More likely to be off Paradise Beach.”
“Could we take a look?”
Carney glanced at him, then looked away. “Why not? It’s your charter.”
Dillon got the water bottle from the icebox, drank about a pint, then passed it to Carney and lit a cigarette. Carney drank a little and passed it back.
“You’ve dived before, Mr. Dillon.”
“And that’s a fact,” Dillon agreed.
They were close to Paradise now and Carney throttled back the engine and the
Privateer
passed between two of the oceangoing yachts that were moored there and came to the
Maria Blanco
. “There she is,” he said.
There were a couple of crewmen working on deck, who looked up casually as they passed. “Jesus,” Dillon said, that thing must have made a dent in Santiago’s wallet. A couple of million, I’d say.”
“And then some.”
Carney went up to full power and made for Caneel Beach. Dillon lit another cigarette and leaned against the wall of the deckhouse. “Do you get many interesting wrecks in this area?”
“Some,” Carney said. “There’s the
Cartanser Senior
off Buck Island over to St. Thomas, an old freighter that’s a popular dive, and the
General Rodgers
. The Coast Guard sank her to get rid of her.”
“No, I was thinking of something more interesting than that,” Dillon said. “I mean you know this area like the back of your hand. Would it be possible for there to be a wreck on some reef out there that you’d never come across?”
Carney slowed as they entered the bay. “Anything’s possible, it’s a big ocean.”
“So there could be something out there just waiting to be discovered?”
The
Privateer
coasted in beside the dock. Dillon got the stern line, went over and tied up. He did the same with the other line as Carney cut the engine, went back on board and pulled on his track suit.
Carney leaned by the wheel looking at him. “Mr. Dillon, I don’t know what goes on here. All I know for certain is you are one hell of a diver, and that I admire. What all this talk of wrecks means I don’t know and don’t want to as I’m inclined to the quiet life, but I will give you one piece of advice. Your interest in Max Santiago?”
“Oh, yes?” Dillon said, continuing to put his diving equipment in a net diving bag.
“It could be unhealthy. I’ve heard things about him that aren’t good, plenty of people could tell you the same. The way he makes his money, for example.”
“A hotel keeper as I heard it.” Dillon smiled.
“There’s other ways that involve small planes or a fast boat by night to Florida, but what the hell, you’re a grown man.” Carney moved out on deck. “You want to dive with me again?”
“You can count on it. I’ve got business in St. Thomas this afternoon. How would I get there?”
Carney pointed to the other side of the dock where a very large launch was just casting off. “That’s the resort ferry. They run back and forth during the day, but I figure you missed this one.”
“Damn!” Dillon said.
“Mr. Dillon, you arrived at Cruz Bay in your own floatplane, and the front desk, who keep me informed of such things, tell me you pay with an American Express Platinum Card.”
“What can I say, you’ve got me,” Dillon told him amicably.
“Water taxis are expensive, but not to a man of your means. The front desk will order you one.”
“Thanks.” Dillon crossed to the dock and paused. “Maybe I could buy you a drink tonight. Will you be at Jenny’s Place?”
“Hell, I’m there every night at the moment,” Carney said, “otherwise I’d starve. My wife and kids are away on vacation.”
“I’ll see you then,” Dillon said and turned and walked away along the dock toward the front desk.
The water taxi had seats for a dozen passengers, but he had it to himself. The only crew was a woman in a peaked cap and denims, who sat at the wheel and made for St. Thomas at a considerable rate of knots. It was noisy and there wasn’t much chance to speak, which suited Dillon. He sat there smoking and thinking about the way things had gone so far, Algaro, Max Santiago and the
Maria Blanco
.
He knew about Santiago, but Santiago knew about him, that was a fact and yet to be explained. There had almost been a touch of comradeship in the way Santiago had waved back at him at Carval Rock. Carney, he liked. In fact, everything about him he liked. For one thing, the American knew his business, but there was power there and real authority. An outstanding example of a quiet man it wouldn’t pay to push.
“Here we go,” the water taxi driver shouted over her shoulder, and Dillon glanced up and saw that they were moving in toward the waterfront of Charlotte Amalie.
It was quite a place and bustling with activity, two enormous cruise liners berthed on the far side of the harbor. The waterfront was lined with buildings in white and pastel colors, shops and restaurants of every description. It had been a Danish colony, he knew that, and the influence still showed in some of the architecture.
He followed a narrow alley called Drake’s Passage that was lined with colorful shops offering everything from designer clothes to gold and jewelry, for this was a free port, and came out into Main Street. He consulted the address Ferguson had given him and crossed to where some taxis waited.
“Can you take me to Cane Street?” he asked the first driver.
“I wouldn’t take your money, man,” the driver told him amiably. “Just take the next turning through to Back Street. Cane is the third on the left.”
Dillon thanked him and moved on. It was hot, very hot, people crowding the pavements, traffic moving slowly in the narrow streets, but Cane Street, when he came to it, was quiet and shaded. The house he wanted was at the far end, clapboard, painted white with a red corrugated iron roof. There was a tiny garden in front of it and steps leading up to a porch on which an ageing black man with gray hair sat on a swing seat reading a newspaper.
He looked up as Dillon approached. “And what can I do for you?”