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you’ve been approached before,” he said.
    “Then you’ll know the common fate of those who’ve approached me. Dowsers, psychics, oil barons, engineers, everybody with
     a foolproof scheme.”
    “Their schemes may have been flawed,” Neidelman replied, “but their dreams were not. I know about the tragedies that befell
     your family after your grandfather
    bought the island. But his heart was in the right place. There
is
a vast treasure down there. I know it.”
    “Of course you do. They all do. But if you think you’re the reincarnation of Red Ned himself, it’s only fair to warn you that
     I’ve heard from several others who already claim that distinction. Or perhaps you purchased one of those old-looking treasure
     maps that occasionally come up for sale in Portland. Captain Neidelman, faith won’t make it true. There never was, and there
     never will be, any Ragged Island treasure. I feel sorry for you, I really do. Now, perhaps you should leave before I call
     the guard—I beg your pardon, I mean the security specialist—to escort you to the door.”
    Ignoring this, Neidelman shrugged, then leaned toward the desk. “I don’t ask you to take it on faith.”
    There was something so self-confident, so utterly detached, about the Captain’s shrug that a fresh flood of anger swept Hatch.
     “If you had any idea how many times I’ve heard this same story, you’d be ashamed for coming here. What makes you any different
     from the rest?”
    Reaching inside the leather portfolio, Neidelman withdrew a single sheet of paper and wordlessly pushed it across the desk.
    Hatch looked at the document without touching it. It was a simplified financial report, notarized, indicating that a company
     named Thalassa Holdings Ltd. had raised a sum of money to form the Ragged Island Reclamation Corporation. The sum was twenty-two
     million dollars.
    Hatch glanced from the paper back to Neidelman, then began to laugh. “You mean you actually had the nerve to raise this money
     before even asking my permission? You must have some pretty pliant investors.”
    Once again, Neidelman broke into what seemed to be his trademark smile: reserved, self-confident, remote without arrogance.
     “Dr. Hatch, you’ve had every right to show treasure hunters the door for the last twenty years. I perfectly understand your
     reaction. They were underfunded and under-prepared. But they weren’t the only problem. The problem was also
you.
” He leaned away again. “Obviously, I don’t know you well. But I sense that, after more than a quarter century of uncertainty,
     maybe at last you’re ready to learn what really happened to your brother.”
    Neidelman paused for a moment, his eyes still on Hatch. Then he began again, in a tone so low it was barely audible. “I know
     that your interest is not the financial reward. And I understand how your grief has made you hate that island. That is why
     I come to you with everything prepared. Thalassa is the best in the world at this kind of work. And we have equipment at our
     disposal that your grandfather could only have dreamed of. We’ve chartered the ships. We have divers, archaeologists, engineers,
     an expedition doctor, all ready to go at a moment’s notice. One word from you, and I promise you that within a month the Water
     Pit will have yielded up its secrets. We will know
everything
about it.” He whispered the word “everything” with peculiar force.
    “Why not just leave it be?” Hatch murmured. “Why not let it keep its secrets?”
    “That, Dr. Hatch, is not within my nature. Is it within yours?”
    In the ensuing silence, the distant bells of Trinity Church tolled five o’clock. The silence stretched on into a minute, then
     two, and then five.
    At last, Neidelman removed the paper from the desk and placed it back in his portfolio. “Your silence is sufficiently eloquent,”
     he said quietly, no trace of rancor in his voice. “I’ve taken enough of your time.