ask the Navy for what you need?"
"But I am asking you. You're a civilian and you have no ties." She studied him through the smoke spirals. "You offer many advantages. If I hire you, I control you. I'm in command. You understand?"
"I understand."
"With military people that would be impossible."
Coy nodded. That much was obvious. She had no stripes on her cuff, only a period every twenty-eight days. Because naturally she was one of those. Not one day more or less. You only had to see her—a blonde in permanent high gear. For her, two and two always made four.
"Even so," he said, "I imagine you will have to give them an accounting."
"Of course. But in the meantime I have autonomy, three months' time, and a little money for expenses. It isn't much, but it's enough."
Again Coy focused on the view outside. Below, in the distance, a train was approaching the station like a long serpent of tiny lighted windows. He was thinking about the commander, about how Tanger had looked at him as she was now looking at Coy, convincing him, with that array of silences and expressions she used so well, to intercede with the admiral in charge. An interesting project, sir. Competent girl Daughter, you know, of Colonel So-and-So. Pretty thing, I might mention in passing. One of our own. Coy wondered how many people with a degree in history, museum employees by dint of examination, were given carte blanche to search for a lost ship, just like that.
"Why not," he said finally.
He had leaned back in the chair and was again rubbing Zas behind the ears, entertained by the situation. All things considered, three months with this woman would be a magnificent return on the We ems & Plath sextant.
'After all," he added, as if reflecting, "I don't have anything better to do."
Tanger seemed neither satisfied nor disenchanted. She just clipped her head a little lower, as he had seen her do before, and the tips of her hair once again brushed her face. The eyes on Coy were taking in every detail.
"Thanks."
Finally she'd said it, just as he was beginning to wonder why she wasn't saying it.
"You're welcome." Coy touched his nose. "And now it's my turn. You promised me a question and an answer_____ What is it
exactly you're looking for?"
"You already know that. We're searching for the Dei Gloria."
"That much is obvious. My question is why. I'm asking what you're looking for."
"Museo Naval aside?" "Museo Naval aside."
The light from the lamp fell obliquely on her freckled face, intensifying the effect of the fading whorls of cigarette smoke. The play of light and shadow turned her hair to shades of matte gold.
"I've been obsessed with this ship for some time. And now I think I know where she is."
So that was it. Coy felt like smacking himself on the forehead for being so stupid. He looked at the framed photograph: Tanger as a teenager, light hair, freckles and a T-shirt loose over bare, brown thighs. She was leaning against the chest of a tan middle-aged man in a white shirt, with short hair. About fifty, he estimated. And she, maybe fourteen. Behind them was the ocean and a beach, and he also noted an obvious resemblance between the girl and the man. The shape of the forehead, the willful chin. Tanger was smiling into the camera, and the expression in her eyes was much more luminous and open than any he had seen. She looked expectant, on the verge of discovering something, a present or a surprise. Coy remembered. LDS: Law of the Diminishing Smile. Maybe you smile at life like that when you're fourteen, and then with time your lips grow chill.
"Go easy. There aren't any more sunken treasures."
"You're wrong." She scowled at him. "Sometimes there are."
To convince him, she talked a while about treasure hunters. There were people like that, obsessed with old maps and secrets, and they searched for things hidden at the bottom of the sea. You could see them in Seville, in the Archivo de Indias, the New World archives, bent over old files, or
"But I am asking you. You're a civilian and you have no ties." She studied him through the smoke spirals. "You offer many advantages. If I hire you, I control you. I'm in command. You understand?"
"I understand."
"With military people that would be impossible."
Coy nodded. That much was obvious. She had no stripes on her cuff, only a period every twenty-eight days. Because naturally she was one of those. Not one day more or less. You only had to see her—a blonde in permanent high gear. For her, two and two always made four.
"Even so," he said, "I imagine you will have to give them an accounting."
"Of course. But in the meantime I have autonomy, three months' time, and a little money for expenses. It isn't much, but it's enough."
Again Coy focused on the view outside. Below, in the distance, a train was approaching the station like a long serpent of tiny lighted windows. He was thinking about the commander, about how Tanger had looked at him as she was now looking at Coy, convincing him, with that array of silences and expressions she used so well, to intercede with the admiral in charge. An interesting project, sir. Competent girl Daughter, you know, of Colonel So-and-So. Pretty thing, I might mention in passing. One of our own. Coy wondered how many people with a degree in history, museum employees by dint of examination, were given carte blanche to search for a lost ship, just like that.
"Why not," he said finally.
He had leaned back in the chair and was again rubbing Zas behind the ears, entertained by the situation. All things considered, three months with this woman would be a magnificent return on the We ems & Plath sextant.
'After all," he added, as if reflecting, "I don't have anything better to do."
Tanger seemed neither satisfied nor disenchanted. She just clipped her head a little lower, as he had seen her do before, and the tips of her hair once again brushed her face. The eyes on Coy were taking in every detail.
"Thanks."
Finally she'd said it, just as he was beginning to wonder why she wasn't saying it.
"You're welcome." Coy touched his nose. "And now it's my turn. You promised me a question and an answer_____ What is it
exactly you're looking for?"
"You already know that. We're searching for the Dei Gloria."
"That much is obvious. My question is why. I'm asking what you're looking for."
"Museo Naval aside?" "Museo Naval aside."
The light from the lamp fell obliquely on her freckled face, intensifying the effect of the fading whorls of cigarette smoke. The play of light and shadow turned her hair to shades of matte gold.
"I've been obsessed with this ship for some time. And now I think I know where she is."
So that was it. Coy felt like smacking himself on the forehead for being so stupid. He looked at the framed photograph: Tanger as a teenager, light hair, freckles and a T-shirt loose over bare, brown thighs. She was leaning against the chest of a tan middle-aged man in a white shirt, with short hair. About fifty, he estimated. And she, maybe fourteen. Behind them was the ocean and a beach, and he also noted an obvious resemblance between the girl and the man. The shape of the forehead, the willful chin. Tanger was smiling into the camera, and the expression in her eyes was much more luminous and open than any he had seen. She looked expectant, on the verge of discovering something, a present or a surprise. Coy remembered. LDS: Law of the Diminishing Smile. Maybe you smile at life like that when you're fourteen, and then with time your lips grow chill.
"Go easy. There aren't any more sunken treasures."
"You're wrong." She scowled at him. "Sometimes there are."
To convince him, she talked a while about treasure hunters. There were people like that, obsessed with old maps and secrets, and they searched for things hidden at the bottom of the sea. You could see them in Seville, in the Archivo de Indias, the New World archives, bent over old files, or
Similar Books
