He slipped off his black fins and set them on the boat’s transom, then silently climbed out of the water, setting his tank and harness down in one motion. He paused to assess the open rear deck of the boat: no one aboard and the engine hatch right where he had been told it would be. He knelt and opened it, then unsealed the drybag he’d brought, pulling out what looked like a small, badly wrapped birthday gift. Except there was a tangle of wires protruding from one end, plugged into a cheap Casio digital watch.

Scholz unclipped a small torch from his harness and aimed its beam at the watch’s dial. He glanced at his own wristwatch and then fiddled with the Casio’s buttons. Rausing had told him to set the alarm for 7:00. They’d be on board by then. He reached down below the Mercury Marine engine and carefully wedged the package under its sump, then closed the hatch with a silent click.

Scholz gave one last look around, rolled up the empty drybag, shouldered his tank, and slipped into the black water at the back of the boat. Then he rotated the bezel of his compass 180 degrees, descended, and swam back the way he came.

Circle of Life

Rampart Inn, Galle Fort, Sri Lanka. The next day.

Tusker was underwater with Upali, working a dig site. He reached down to probe the sea bed, then saw his arm was bare. No wetsuit. No scuba gear at all. He was holding his breath. He waved his arms to get Upali’s attention—I need your regulator!— but Upali didn’t seem to notice. His friend swam just out of reach. Tusker kicked up, up, up toward the surface, felt his lungs about to burst.

He awoke, gasping, bathed in sweat.

Tusker rubbed his eyes. He’d had the dream before. What did it mean? He was never much for psychoanalysis or dream interpretation, but maybe the universe was trying to tell him something. The fan was buzzing on its stand in the corner. What had woken him?

There was a loud knock on his door. It was Sidath, the guesthouse owner, holding a tray with tea. Back home, Tusker was a coffee drinker, but since coming to Sri Lanka, he preferred what they did best here.

“Your friend, Mr. Walsh, is waiting for you downstairs, sir,” Sidath said quietly.

“Thanks, Sidath,” he said blearily, clutching his poorly tied sarong in one hand and reaching for the mug with the other. Sidath tipped his head side to side, in the typical South Asian expression that could mean a dozen things, this time, “You're welcome," then turned and padded quietly down the hallway.