East of Suez by Howard Engel Page A

unsung underwater pro.” Her grin told me she liked that.
    “It goes with the territory: I’m a marine biologist. I’m trying to protect what’s left of the ocean wildlife.”
    “Is it in a bad way?”
    “Well, there’s less of it every time I look. We keep using the oceans as a toilet. We can’t do that and catch fish indefinitely.”
    “I came here to go scuba diving for fun and relaxation. And you do it for a living. What do you do to relax?” A cloud covered her smile. She didn’t answer. Why was I probing like this? I’d only just met the woman. Without the cover of his profession, a private investigator often sounds bold , as my mother used to say. You might add rude and forward . I’m sure there are other Victorian expressions that reveal how professional and rude I was sounding.
    A fat orange crab avoided my feet as it shunted sideways back to the water. The fisherman’s truck was now moving slowly down the beach.
    “What happened to that giant squid back there? What killed it?”
    “Could have been lots of things. I’d have to do a postmortem. Even then … it’s probably the Hemingway reason.”
    “Hemingway?”
    “The novelist. Nobel Prize. Bullfighting. Cuba.”
    “Right! For Whom the Bell Tolls , and that Paris-Spain book.”
    “Remember old Santiago, the Cuban fisherman?”
    “Which of the fishing stories was that?”
    “ The Old Man and the Sea .”
    “Oh yeah. Let me think. He said he went out too far.”
    “Well, this poor squid came up too far. She needs the high pressure of the depths or she implodes. She doesn’t have a pressure valve like the ones on your scuba gear. Poor thing.” Fiona glanced back over her shoulder. “She looks like a sandy heap of cow’s guts. You should see Architeuthis in her element: long and lean, graceful as a swan.” Fiona smiled at me.
    “You like your critters don’t you?”
    “We get along. It’s land mammals I have trouble with. If you’re taking one of the chartered diving trips, you’ll have lots to look at.”
    “I haven’t had that much time under salt water.”
    “You’ll be all right. They send experienced divers along with you and you’ll be teamed up with another diver. It’s a good way to meet people. You’ll see. Just stay away from the north end of the reef. The waters there are a bit unpredictable. Currents, tides, that sort of thing.” Fiona grinned, then turned to walk back to the dead thing in the sand. I waved.
    Looking back half a minute later, I saw that the crowd around the corpse of the sea monster was breaking up. At the same time, the receding tide conceded that it was time to give up its dead and leave it beached as it retreated down the shingle. People who had seen their fill were making space for newcomers. But there weren’t so many of them. I began to move away from the water, kicking myself for blowing away my chances of quizzing Fiona more about the reef and the things out there that might be of interest to a private investigator like me. I continued walking along the beach. There were more struggling crabs now, and an enterprising pair of kids were picking them up and putting them into a wicker basket.
    “Hey! Mr Cooperman!” It was her, or she, or whatever. I turned and waited for Fiona to catch up with me. “When are you catching the boat out to the reef?”
    “I’ve booked for—” Here I had to search for the information in my pocket. I showed her the scrap of paper.
    “Yes, I know that lot,” she said. “Their gear is the best. And they give you a good look around for your valuable American dollars.”
    “Where do you get your stuff? You know—tanks, mask, flippers—that sort of thing?”
    “Oh, I’ve got my own. Have to in my business. I’ve got a boat, too, which helps. The dive boats out to the reef would break me, if I had to depend on them. You must come out with me one day.”
    “Thanks.”
    “Oh, by the way: never speak to another diver about ‘flippers.’ We call them