She glanced at his sea green eyes, but she had to look away. He was much easier to take when he was joking around.

“I need to get back to my boat.”

He squeezed her hand. “No, please. Riley. Don’t go. This is the first break we’ve had in weeks. We’re close, I know it.”

She slid her fingers out of his grip and moved her folded hands to her lap. She stared at the coin, unable to look at Cole. She, too, wanted answers. But hers were different questions.

Through the open galley door came the sputtering sound of the outboard shutting down, then the thudding of scrambling feet.

“Riley, I need your fresh set of eyes. I still can’t see those numbers. Theo never picked up on it. Stay and help me figure out what they mean.”

“Cole!” Theo called.

She glanced across the table and saw worry lines appear between his eyebrows.

He lifted his chin toward the open door and called out, “We’re in the galley!”

Theo appeared in the doorway, his glasses askew and his breath rasping in his throat. His elbows were both raised over his head as he attempted to take off his backpack.

“They’re here,” he said. “I saw them both in town. And another fellow on the powerboat.” As he spoke, Theo untangled his arms from the straps, swung the backpack onto the table, and unzipped the front compartment.

“Slow down, Theo. You talking about the Brewsters? We know — we both saw Spyder.”

The younger man nodded and pulled a small digital camera from the backpack’s pocket.  He pushed a button on the camera and the LCD screen lit up. “Check this out. I couldn’t use the flash – obviously – but I thought you’d like to get a look at this guy.” Theo handed the small camera to Cole. “The brothers went to town to buy provisions. I saw them leave, so I went down to check out the boat. Then this other chap comes out. Push that silver button on the back of the camera to scroll through. I got three different shots of him before I took off.”

Cole moved the camera farther away from his body, then tilted the little screen, squinting to see the dark images. “He doesn’t look like he’d be friend or family of the Brewsters, that’s for sure.”

“Not a boatman either, judging from the leather-soled loafers,” Theo said. “Pricey ones, I bet. When the brothers left the boat, they were complaining about him bossing them around.”

 Cole looked across the table at her. “Check this guy out. Looks like he stepped right out of an ad in GQ.” Cole set the camera down in the middle of the table and then spun it around so that Riley could see the image on the screen.

She glanced at it more out of politeness than interest. She had been listening for a break in the conversation so she could make her excuses. She hadn’t at all expected to recognize the man in the photos.

She didn’t say anything.

“Riley? What is it?”

She said nothing. She couldn’t breathe.

“Cole,” Theo said. “She doesn’t look too good.”

Cole slid off the table bench and stood. He put his hand on her shoulder. “Riley?”

She looked up and blinked at him. “Yeah,” she said, her voice sounded stronger than she felt.

“You know him, don’t you? You recognize this guy.”

When she had first agreed to meet him in Pointe-à-Pitre it was because she needed answers but all she kept finding was more questions.

She reached for the pen, underlined the number she had written on the paper. “Let me tell you about this number 322.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

The Atlantic south of Bermuda

February 13, 1942

By the time Michaut returned to the hold, they had armed themselves, Woolsey with his pocket knife, Lamoreaux and McKay with broken bottle glass. They waited in the darkness with only the occasional cough or shuffling feet to indicate the state of their nerves. Their plan was to go straight to the bridge, to take out Gohin first, and then hope the others would return to their senses once the man who had bullied them into this mad mutiny was out of the picture.

“When I leave the radio room,” Michaut said, speaking in his broken English so they all could understand, “Gohin go up to deck to take some air and smoke.” He pointed up with his index finger.

“What about the others?” Lamoreaux asked.

“Most men is sleeping from wine, Capitaine.  Gerard is the helm and Fournier navigateur. No diving, so no one do planes or vents.”

“Reckless way to run a boat.” Lamoreaux’s eyes locked on Woolsey. “Bon, Lieutenant, allons-y. Let’s take back my boat.”

The four of them stayed together as they headed forward through the compartment containing the auxiliary pumps, hoses, and motors that brought fresh air into the sub when she ran at the surface. Their path would take them to the ladder just aft of the control room. Michaut went ahead to distract the men on watch there, and McKay followed him. Just before the big man peeled off into the radio room, a sailor stepped out of that compartment and into the companionway. His wide eyes registered surprise at seeing the captain there in the company of the two Brits. Before the seaman could open his mouth, McKay stepped behind him, wrapped one of his ham-sized arms around the man’s neck, then lifted, bending his head back and pressing the sharp glass against the taut skin.

“Non!” the captain rasped in harsh whisper. He glanced forward toward the control room. He could hear Michaut chatting with the other men on watch just a few feet away. He lowered his voice. “C’est pas necessaire, n’est-ce pas, Bertrand?”

The sailor attempted to shake his head in spite of the glass at his throat and the meaty hand clamped on his forehead.

The captain held his finger to his lips while staring at the sailor’s face. “Release him,” he whispered to McKay. When the big man obeyed, the captain stepped up and spoke in low, rapid French as the sailor gasped for air and clutched his throat.

The captain’s words seemed to calm him, but when the old man finished, the sailor turned aft and took off at a dead run. Woolsey said, “That was a mistake, Captain. You should have let McKay kill him.”

McKay stepped up to Woolsey and backed him into the bulkhead.  “Sod off,” he whispered. “I wasn’t gonna kill him. No more needless killing on this boat.” The spray of spittle caused Woolsey’s right eye to blink.  McKay spun away and disappeared into the radio room.

Lamoreaux grabbed the side of the steel ladder, and Woolsey watched as he climbed through the first of three hatches that would take them to the conning tower. Looking straight up he saw only darkness above the captain, but he knew the conning tower hatch was open. He smelled the sea air. Woolsey was glad to let the French captain take the lead. No sense being the first to poke his head out there since Michaut had told them that Gohin was now armed. Their weapons would work up close, but they would have no effect at all against bullets.

Woolsey began to climb once Lamoreaux disappeared. When he got closer to the hatch, he could make out the stars. Then, the captain’s head appeared. Putting his finger to his lips, the captain pointed aft. Woolsey eased himself onto the conning tower deck and remained in a crouch. Even behind the bridge the cold wind lifted his hair and whistled around his ears. Looking aft, he saw the silhouette and the red glow of the cigarette on the gunnery deck just below them. Gohin had his back turned as he leaned over the rail and dragged deeply on his smoke.

The weather was on the mild side for February in the North Atlantic, but the sub’s forward speed of ten knots, coupled with the ten knots of breeze over the bow, resulted in a stiff and loud wind. Woolsey shuddered when he looked down at the black water rushing past the hull. One slip and he’d be in that water, drowning. He stifled a groan. Woolsey feared that any sound would carry straight back to Gohin. There was no moon, but the stars seemed all the brighter in her absence.