breath steamed. I pulled a pair of leather gloves from a side pocket and put them on.
Durban took the gangway first, steadying herself on the incline with a gloved hand on the railing. Two black shapes met her as she stepped on deck. Introductions were well under way when I caught up.
“Professor Sean Boyle,” said a man I knew from briefing notes to be fourteen years my senior. The cold burnished perfect pink circles on his shaved cheeks.
We shook gloves and I said, “Special Agent Vincent Cooper.”
A second man said, “Moritzio Abrutto, ship's master.” According to those briefing notes, he was American, as were most of the crew. The ship was leased to Moreton Genetics, the large U.S. firm which employed Professor Boyle and the late Doctor Tanaka. Abrutto was blond and fair-skinned. “Come inside,” he said, leading the way through a hatch, warm yellow light beckoning from within.
The air inside the ship smelled of diesel and bacon. We followed the ship's master and Professor Boyle into a reasonably large area with bench seats on either side of a couple of tables. The mess. Photos on the walls showed various people, mostly men and mostly bare-chested, proudly holding various objects for the camera that could have been anything from offal to placenta. Life recovered from the deepest oceans, I assumed. Nearly all the photos were signed. I recognized the subjects in one as being Boyle and Tanaka. Boyle was bearded, and they stood together on the ship's rear deck in tropical sunlight. Both men had their hands on their hips, ready for action. I bent toward the photo to take a closer look.
“A great man,” said Professor Boyle behind me. “I'm missing him already.” He peeled out of his jacket. “That photo was taken a year and a half ago, cruising up the southern tip of the island of Honshu. We were heading for the Trench.”
“The Japan Trench?” I asked.
“Yes,” said the professor. “Our first expedition to these waters.”
“The one just concluded was your second?”
“Third.”
Three times. I hadn't known that. Perhaps the fact that Boyle and Tanaka had been on the Natusima several times before wasn't significant, but it reminded me that while the brief I'd been given was pretty good, there were still holes in it.
“Can I offer you people anything to eat or drink?” Boyle inquired.
“Not for me,” I said, having eaten twice my body weight for breakfast.
“No thanks,” said Durban.
“Take your coats off and have a seat. Get comfortable,” said the master, taking his own advice. The rest of us followed his lead.
“So, Agent Cooper,” said Boyle as he slid in behind the table, “how can we help you with your investigation?”
“I'm not really investigating,” I replied. “I'm just prepping the DoD's files for closure.”
The professor locked his fingers in front of him. “Well, then, what would you like to know?”
“Before you start, if you have no objection… ?” I placed a digital recorder on the table and switched it on. Its red LED winked, letting me know it was recording.
“No, that's fine,” said Boyle with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“I've already read your statement, Professor,” I said. “Is there anything you could add to it? Anything that has come to mind since you made it?”
The professor shook his head. “The truth is, Agent Cooper, I've tried my best to forget about the whole unpleasant episode. So, the answer to that is no, nothing.”
“If you don't mind, would you go through events on that night again, anyway?”
The professor glanced at his watch. “If you think it'll help.”
I nodded, fixing an expression of understanding on my face to put him at ease. Boyle didn't look much like a professor, but only because I believe all professors should look like Albert Einstein on a bad hair day. Boyle's, by the way, was thick and straight, and it was also unnaturally blue-black. Dyed. I guessed he was more self-conscious about gray hair than he was about appearing to wear a mixing bowl on his head. He had the appearance of a severe monk, the Spanish Inquisition kind, and I could easily imagine him lighting bonfires. But, as I said, first impressions can be misleading.
The written brief told me Professor Sean Boyle was forty-eight and that his parents had emigrated to the U.S. from Ireland when he was four. His face was intelligent and his dark eyes glittered with intensity beneath bushy black brows. His skin was pale all over, except for the glow on his cheeks induced by the