Monday night gave him a fog so thick the harbor lights had no edges.Zale hung in the black water beside the third piling of the old ferry slip with his forearms across a slimed crossbeam and the sea pulling at his legs. Eleven degrees again. The dive watch said 3:41. He had been in the water for twenty-six minutes, and this time he had not let his body argue with the cold. He had told it the number before he went in, and it had accepted the number.The key was in his right fist.He had carried it that way since the cliff, wrapped in a strip of black tape against the neoprene of his palm so the brass would not knock on anything. The magnetic card sat flat in a thigh pocket with the zipper pulled tight. Four days he had spent in the olive grove with both of them, turning them over, running the numbers on the sheet until they were a language he could dream in. Four days of watching the harbor from the cliff road through a long lens. Four days of waiting for Voss to change what he did.V