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Buku The Nautical Chart by Arturo Pérez-Reverte & Margaret Sayers Peden

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The Nautical Chart by Arturo Pérez-Reverte & Margaret Sayers Peden

Author:Arturo Pérez-Reverte & Margaret Sayers Peden [Pérez-Reverte, Arturo & Peden, Margaret Sayers]

Language: eng

Format: epub

Tags: Fiction, Literary, Thrillers, Suspense, General, Sea Stories

ISBN: 9780156029827

Google: WMjsP_8TeBgC

Publisher: Harvest/Harcourt

Published: 2004-06-15T08:46:53+00:00

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The Nautical Chart by Arturo Pérez-Reverte & Margaret Sayers Peden

TANGER and Coy had stopped near the bow of a small schooner. She was looking across the bay, where the skyline of Algeciras was sharp and dear. The water was calm, a blue-green barely rippled by the breeze. There were more clouds in the sky now, moving slowly toward the Mediterranean. Opposite the port, at the foot of the massive Rock, ships at anchor dotted the water. Maybe the Chergui had sailed from this very spot on its last voyage, after lying to in the shelter of the English batteries on Gibraltar. A lookout aloft with a spyglass, a sail glimpsed on the horizon, moving west to east, an anchor quickly and stealthily weighed. And the chase.

“Nino Palermo knows there were emeralds,” Tanger concluded. “Not how many or their size and quality, but he knows. He’s seen some of the documents I’ve seen. He’s intelligent, he knows his business, and he knows how to draw conclusions. But he doesn’t know everything I know.”

‘At least he knows you deceived him.”

 

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The Nautical Chart by Arturo Pérez-Reverte & Margaret Sayers Peden

Author:Arturo Pérez-Reverte & Margaret Sayers Peden [Pérez-Reverte, Arturo & Peden, Margaret Sayers] , Date: July 8, 2019

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Author:Arturo Pérez-Reverte & Margaret Sayers Peden [Pérez-Reverte, Arturo & Peden, Margaret Sayers]

Language: eng

Format: epub

Tags: Fiction, Literary, Thrillers, Suspense, General, Sea Stories

ISBN: 9780156029827

Google: WMjsP_8TeBgC

Publisher: Harvest/Harcourt

Published: 2004-06-15T08:46:53+00:00
TANGER and Coy had stopped near the bow of a small schooner. She was looking across the bay, where the skyline of Algeciras was sharp and dear. The water was calm, a blue-green barely rippled by the breeze. There were more clouds in the sky now, moving slowly toward the Mediterranean. Opposite the port, at the foot of the massive Rock, ships at anchor dotted the water. Maybe the Chergui had sailed from this very spot on its last voyage, after lying to in the shelter of the English batteries on Gibraltar. A lookout aloft with a spyglass, a sail glimpsed on the horizon, moving west to east, an anchor quickly and stealthily weighed. And the chase.

“Nino Palermo knows there were emeralds,” Tanger concluded. “Not how many or their size and quality, but he knows. He’s seen some of the documents I’ve seen. He’s intelligent, he knows his business, and he knows how to draw conclusions. But he doesn’t know everything I know.”

‘At least he knows you deceived him.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t deceive men like him. You fight them with their own weapons.”

She turned toward the far end of the quay, where the Carpanta was tied up. Through the masts and rigging of neighboring boats, Coy could see El Piloto, who was completing some chores topside. He had arrived that morning, sleepy and unshaven, with dark skin cracked by sun, rugged hands, rough when you shook them, and eyes that always recalled a winter sea. Three days’ sail from Cartagena. Steamers, he had said—El Piloto always called merchant ships steamers—had not let him get a wink of sleep the whole trip. He was getting too old to be sailing by himself. Too old.

“I worked it all out, you know,” Tanger continued. ‘All Palermo did was accidentally provide the mental click that fit everything into place. Set things in order that had been there, waiting… The kinds of things that for some reason you sense will have meaning someday, and that you store in a corner of your memory till that time.”

Now she was being sincere, and Coy realized that. Now she had told the real story, and was still talking about it; at least with regard to concrete facts, she had nothing left to hide. Now he had the keys, the account of events. He knew what was at the bottom of the ocean and about the mystery. Even so, he was not exactly tranquil, or relieved. I will lie to you and deceive you. Some unknown, unidentifiable note was vibrating somewhere, like an almost imperceptible change in the rhythm of a diesel or the melodic insinuation of an instrument whose appropriateness is not possible to establish immediately, a deliberate or improvised line that seems mysterious until the end, when it can be properly assessed. He was remembering a piece by the Thelonious Monk Quartet, a blues classic that was called precisely that—”Misterioso.”

“Intuition, Coy,” she said. “That’s the word. Dreams you are sure will materialize someday.” She kept gazing at the sea as if replaying that dream, her skirt blowing in the breeze, hair blowing in her face.

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