Discharging its humanitarian duty had put the French liner thirtysix hours behind schedule. It arrived in New York on Thursday afternoon to a tumultuous welcome, stayed long enough to unload seven hundred thirtythree Doria survivors. After accomplishing its historic rescue, the ship did a quick turnaround, steamed back up the Hudson River and out to sea. Time was money, after all.

‘ “Next,” the customs officer said as he looked up from his table.

The officer wondered for a second if the man in front of him had been injured in the collision and decided the scar had healed long ago. ,

“State Department’s waiving passports for survivors. Just sign this blank declaration card. All I need is your name and U.S. address,” the customs inspector said.

“Yes, thank you. They told us on the ship.” The blond man smiled. Or maybe it was just the scar. “I’m afraid my passport is at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean.” He said his name was Johnson and that he was going to Milwaukee.

The officer pointed. “Follow that line, Mr. Johnson. The Public Health Service has got to check you for communicable diseases. Shouldn’t take long. Next, please.”

The health inspection was brief, as promised. Moments later the blond man was through the gate. The crowd of survivors, relatives, and friends had surged from the steamship dock onto the street. There was a traffic jam of slowmoving, hornhonking trafficcars, buses, and taxis. He stopped at the curb and scanned the faces around him until a pair of eyes met his. Then two more and another. He nodded to acknowledge that he had seen his comrades, before they headed off’ in different directions:

He moved away from the crowd, toward Fortyfourth Street and flagged down a taxi. He was weary from the night’s exertions and looked forward to the chance to rest.

Their work was done. For now.

June 10, 2000

The Moroccan Coast

1 NINA KIROV STOOD AT THE TOP OF the ancient stairway, eyes sweeping the nearly stagnant green waters of the lagoon, thinking she had never seen a coast more barren than this isolated stretch of Moroccan shoreline. Nothing stirred in the oppressive, ovenlike heat. The only sign of human settlement was the duster of puttycolored, barrelroofed tombs that overlooked the lagoon like seaside condominiums for the departed. Centuries of sand drifting through the arched portals had mingled with the dust of the dead. Nina grinned with the delight of a child seeing presents under the Christmas tree. To a marine archaeologist, these bleak surroundings were more beautiful than the white sands and palm trees of a tropical paradise. The very awfulness of the mournful place would have protected it from her biggest fear: site contamination.