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From what he could figure, Nigel had two essential problems. One, how not to fall victim to the crew before Devi was free. Two, he'd no idea where the wreck really was. He'd seen the two clues, and had some notion how they fit together, the coin leading to where the turtle appeared, the turtle, in turn, leading to where the coin had been found. How was a handprint a map? Could it be he needed more clues, more pictograms, perhaps, that showed the hand or some other sign of the wreck? He'd love to have Arryo or Hortensia here to talk it over, to see if the grandfathers left them any other hint of the treasure. The treasure now linked to a woman's life.
Nigel drew a deeper breath, his first in far too long, and rolled his shoulders back. He pressed his palms together, searching for some inner peace, and finding mere fragments. If he could not be certain of the wreck, then he must be certain of Devi's freedom. They'd never release her before they had gold in hand, and Nigel would wager the contents of the pirate's hold that neither of them was meant to survived the discovery.
Beyond his canvas door, insects buzzed in the night as if to underscore his complete isolation.
Remember the rules, she told him. Indeed he did, for he fully intended to break them.
He took up his boots, preparing to shake out scorpions in spite of the fact they'd been stored on a shelf. Nigel paused, considering the tactics of warfare, things he'd studied in the abstract, but never before needed to know. The Greeks and Persians used early forms of biological warfare to assail their enemies, including deploying the denizens of the desert to their own advantage.
If it must be war, then Nigel had best gird his loins as best he could. Arryo and his bow would be lovely just about now, if Nigel could see clear to taking one life in defense of another. Such was the world he found himself in. How long could a man's principles be made to stand when other men had none?
Nigel drew open the canvas to the night, and turned up the flame on his lantern.
Lying his boots on the ground beyond the curtain, he pulled a few cameras, and a few other things from the shelves, then made—perhaps—one final recording for his assistant, a sort of spoken last will and testament, appending this to some of his audio notes. He pulled most of the things from his rucksack, and finally reclaimed his boots, hoping he would be ready for company, knowing they would be ready for him.