Riptide by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child Read Free Book Online Page A

remained silent for a moment, and Hatch waited.
    “I’m sorry, Dr. Hatch,” Neidelman said. “I should have made myself clear on that point in your office. You haven’t yet signed
     the agreement. Our entire twenty-two-million venture stands on the information we’ve obtained.”
    Hatch felt a sudden surge of anger. “I’m glad you have so much faith in me.”
    “You can understand our position—” Neidelman began.
    “Sure I can. You’re afraid I might take what you’ve discovered, dig up the treasure myself, and cut you out.”
    “Not to put too fine a point on it,” Neidelman said. “Yes.”
    There was a brief silence. “I appreciate your directness,” said Hatch. “So how’s this for a reply?” He swung the wheel, heeling
     the boat sharply to starboard.
    Neidelman looked at him inquiringly as he gripped the gunwale for support.
    Coming about 180 degrees, Hatch pointed the
Plain Jane
back toward port and throttled up.
    “Dr. Hatch?” Neidelman said.
    “It’s quite simple,” said Hatch. “Either you tell me all about this mysterious find of yours, and convince me you’re not just
     another nut, or our little field trip ends right now.”
    “Perhaps if you’d be willing to sign our nondisclosure agreement—”
    “For Chrissakes!” Hatch cried. “He’s a damn sea lawyer as well as a sea captain. If we’re to be partners—an ever-receding
     possibility—we’ll have to trust each other. I’ll shake your hand and give you my word, and that will be sufficient, or else
     you lose all hope of ever digging on the island.”
    Neidelman never lost his composure, and now he smiled. “A handshake. How quaint.”
    Hatch held the boat steady as she roared ahead, eating through the remains of wake laid down just minutes before. The dark
     bluff of Burnt Head came gradually into focus again, followed by the rooftops of the town.
    “Very well then,” Neidelman said mildly. “Turn the boat around, please. Here is my hand.”
    They shook. Hatch eased the engine into neutral and let the
Plain Jane
coast for a long moment. At last, engaging the hrottle again, he nosed her seaward, gradually accelerating once more toward
     the hidden rocks of Ragged Island.
    A period of time passed in which Neidelman gazed eastward, puffing on his pipe, seemingly in deep contemplation. Hatch stole
     a glance at the Captain, wondering if this was some kind of delaying tactic.
    “You’ve been to England, haven’t you, Dr. Hatch?” Neidelman said at last.
    Hatch nodded.
    “Lovely country,” Neidelman went on, as coolly as if he was reminiscing for pleasure. “Especially, to my taste, the north.
     Ever been to Houndsbury? It’s a charming little town, very Cotswolds, but all in all rather unremarkable I suppose, if it
     weren’t for its exquisite cathedral. Or have you visited Whitstone Hall in the Pennines? The Duke of Wessex’s family seat?”
    “That’s the famous one, built like an abbey?” Hatch said.
    “Exactly. Both delightful examples of seventeenth-century ecclesiastical architecture.”
    “Delightful,” echoed Hatch with a trace of sarcasm. “So what?”
    “They were both designed by Sir William Macallan. The man who also designed the Water Pit.”
    “Designed?”
    “Yes. Macallan was a very great architect, perhaps England’s greatest next to Sir Christopher Wren. But a far more interesting
     man.” Neidelman was still gazing eastward. “In addition to his buildings and his work on Old Battersea Bridge, he left behind
     a monumental text on ecclesiastical architecture. The world lost a true visionary when he disappeared at sea in 1696.”
    “Lost at sea? The plot thickens.”
    Neidelman pursed his lips, and Hatch wondered if he was finally nettled.
    “Yes. It was a terrible tragedy. Except…” He turned toward Hatch. “Except, of course, he was
not
lost at sea. Last year, we uncovered a copy of his treatise. In the margins were what seemed to be a pattern of spottings
     and