"And what do we do coming up?"

"Breathe out, out, out!"

"And what's the fastest we ever rise?"

"As slow as our slowest bubble!"

"And what do we get if we surface too fast?"

"The bends, bends, bends!"

Slowly, fighting the instinct for light and air and life, he kept pace with an errant bubble as it struggled toward the sunlight above.

When he reached the surface, he was almost unconscious, but the lessons of Tom Andrews, years ago, had saved his life.

Ten yards from where he surfaced was Neptune's Folly. "Shark!" he croaked.

There was a mighty splash, and in a moment he felt Jake's arm around his shoulders, holding up his head.

Jake dragged him onto the diving platform, then quickly over the stern.

He lay by the compressor, in the golden sunlight, breathing God's own air.

Then Jake's black face was above him, blocking out the sun.

"You forget our submarine, white boy?"

"Rear-ended," he said with a gasp. "Other driver's fault."

"Totaled?"

"Totaled." He felt weakly in his loot bag, came up with the acoustic marker. "Hey, is this what you wanted, Othello?"

Jake nodded. "It'll do."

***

In the Loma Bella Club, Rico Lomas studied the reservation list at his headwaiter's stand.

He liked to know who his guests would be. He was dependent on the Bay Street Boys—Nassau's financial and political community—for much of his security in the islands, and he always sent a long-stemmed rose to the table of any politician's wife.

The reservation list was spare enough. The jungle bunnies who crowded the place every evening couldn't afford the dinner prices, although they seemed to lose a fortune at the tables.

One name caught his eye: "Seven P.M., Newcombe."

A party of two.

Strange, for Newcombe hadn't crossed the threshold since he'd lost twelve grand a year ago in an eight-hour session at the baccarat table.

Trying to recoup was what had turned him into a minor-grade narcotraficante. Now he was turning Whiskey Cay into another Galleon and stepping on Rico's Gucci-leather toes.

Well, if that was the reason he was setting up for dope, that one bad night at baccarat would cost the Englishman his life.

Too bad. El Inglés was a good pilot. He could have used him for deliveries. He had used Calypso Charters before, hired Hoagie to drop him at five thousand feet over Galleon Cay, in shorts and soccer shoes, hanging from a fast-falling Strato Cloud chute. He'd descended like a god, in the yellow, black, and red of San Juan de Gracia's provincial flag.

He'd landed dead-center on the football field, in time for the final quarter of a game between his traficantes and the locals. He'd kicked the winning goal and known that he would live in Bahamian legend forevermore.