He looked to his right and saw the burnt remains of the desk. Moving towards it, he carefully climbed over a collapsed roof beam, its surface still lukewarm despite the recent drenching by the fire hoses.
Dan bent down, pulled the first drawer of the desk open and began to sift through the contents. Flakes of blackened paper disintegrated at his touch, colours and words obliterated by the intensity of the fire.
He cursed, threw the drawer to the floor and wrenched the next from the desk. He looked up, shook his head at the sheer destruction of the building and concluded an accelerant such as petrol had been poured through the rooms before the fire was lit to achieve such an effective result.
He discarded the last of the desk drawers and stomped back across the remains of the study, along the hallway to what would have been the kitchen, and found Mitch at the top of the cellar steps.
‘Anything?’
Mitch shook his head, smuts of ash covering his face. ‘Nothing – I went as far as I could before the roof had totally collapsed, but any crates or boxes are gone. There’s nothing left, and definitely no way through to the tunnel entrance.’
Dan nodded and turned. He gazed out at the disused fields, the breeze ruffling his hair. His eyes fell to the horizon, and watched a lone hawk floating in the air currents at the cliff’s edge.
He turned back to Mitch. ‘Guess we’ll have to find another way then.’
They left the kitchen and went in search of Antonia. They found her crouched on the floor of the living room, a broken photo frame in her hands, the picture charred and blackened in her fingers.
‘Any luck?’ asked Dan.
Antonia eased herself up, tossed the photo frame aside and shook her head, looking at the damaged photograph. ‘Nothing. What do we do?’
‘We climb,’ said Dan.
***
Dan and Mitch walked carefully to the edge of the cliff, small stones and dirt cascading over the side as they approached. Antonia leaned against the car, keeping one eye on their progress and the other on the track leading from the villa to the main road.
Dan lowered himself to the ground and crawled forward on his elbows until he was peering over the edge of the cliff. Mitch joined him.
‘Do you see anything?’
Dan shook his head, his eyes scanning the churning waters below. ‘The old diesel-electric submarines had to snorkel to run the diesel generators to recharge their batteries and get fresh air,’ he said. ‘Chances are, they’d have taken the opportunity to dump any rubbish.’
Mitch squinted into the water. ‘We’re not going to see anything from up here.’
Dan peered carefully over the cliff. ‘I reckon if you abseil down to the leading edge of the plateau, you’d be able to crawl across and down to where the waves are coming in,’ he said, pointing out the route as he spoke. ‘If anything’s going to wash up, it’s going to get caught in that rip.’
A tight chuckle emanated from Mitch.
Dan glanced over at him. ‘What?’
Mitch looked down to where Dan had pointed. ‘I’m not going down there!’
Dan blinked. ‘What do you mean? Of course you are – that’s why you’re here.’
Mitch laughed, edged away from the cliff and stood up, then folded his arms across his chest and shook his head. ‘No way. What do you think I am – a madman?’
Dan stood up, glanced over Mitch’s shoulder and caught Antonia watching them, an amused smile spreading across her face.
She held up her hands. Well?
Dan looked down at the boiling sea below, the waves crashing ferociously against the base of the cliffs, churning the water as they retreated for another assault. He sighed.
‘Okay, I’ll go.’
Chapter 35
Crawling out from under the car, Mitch backed against the passenger door, bent his knees against the strain and held the red and black rope tight between his gloved hands.
Dan glanced up at him. ‘Don’t let go.’
Mitch grinned, the sea and sky reflected in his sunglasses. ‘I’ve strapped the rope to the axle and I’ll belay it out so you can concentrate on getting down there in one piece. You’ll be fine, as long as I don’t sneeze.’
After an initial recce, the two men discovered the uneven cliff face would mean Dan would have to climb down, rather than abseil. The limestone surface undulated and curved along the coastline, fractured in places from the constant battering by the sea.
Dan glanced down, the wind ruffling his hair, and tested the new footholds against his weight and nodded to himself.
Not a bad start .
He lowered himself over the edge of the steep incline. As he kicked with his boots for a foothold, small stones and gravel gave way, tumbling down the face of the cliff.
Looking down, he concentrated on where his feet worked at the surface, kicking the soil to make a dent big enough to edge his toes into. He avoided the view down to the rocks below.
He let go of the rope with one hand and began to feel the rock face for a handhold, something to get him started on the way down. His fingers scratched at the rough surface, soil sticking to limestone rock held tentatively in place by ambitious tree roots. He eased himself into place, checked the rope was still fastened tightly to the harness around his waist then began the slow abseil down the cliff.
He disappeared over the edge and became more aware of the wind buffeting the coastline. As he let go with one hand, a sudden gust threatened to drag him away from his footholds. He clawed at the surface seeking out handholds and pulled himself into the stone and dirt to lessen the effect of the wind. Slowly, step by step, he eased himself down the sheer drop. The waves crashed against the rocks below, the sound fading then returning with the effect of the wind.
As he crept lower, a fine spray of water blew across his body as the waves below smashed against the rocks. He blinked behind his sunglasses as salt water stung his eyes. He balanced one foot on a protruding, rounded, weathered rock while he shifted his weight and kicked his boot into the rock face.
Before he could continue his steady descent, the soil around the rock cracked and disintegrated. Dan’s biceps bulged as he dug his fingers into the soil. He desperately scrabbled for a handhold, glancing at the vicious rocks below, the grey-blue surf angry and boiling.
Dan’s feet kicked the surface of the rock face, seeking sanctuary, something to step onto to stop his momentum. He grunted as his body slammed into the rock face then he shot out a hand to grasp onto a gnarly old tree root sticking out from the rough surface.
It held.
Dan lowered his face to the back of his hands, panting. He raised his eyes upwards and saw Mitch peering down, shaking his head.
Dan looked down between his feet. He was so close. He breathed out slowly. His knee joints were on fire from the effort and his fingernails were bleeding, huge blisters erupting on the palms of his hands.
He lowered his left foot, feeling his way for the next toe-hold. A few loose stones fell away.
A sudden squawk pierced the air. Dan lost his footing again as a seagull launched itself from the ledge below, flapping and screeching as it flew to safety. Dan yelled and instinctively let go with one hand to protect his face. The sudden movement threw Mitch off balance and Dan felt himself begin to drop with a sickening lurch.
The rope suddenly jerked and grew taut. Dan was slammed against the side of the cliff face, his shoulder hitting the rock. He cried out in pain and shock – then instinct kicked back in. He reached out, grabbed the nearest hand-hold he could find and held on tight. The momentum of the rope slowed and Dan pulled himself closer to the rock face, panting hard.
A shout came from the top of the cliff. ‘You okay?’
‘Fucking birds!’
‘You’re okay. Good to hear.’ A pause. ‘In your own time then.’
Dan shook his head in disbelief. As he edged further down towards the foot of the cliffs, cold spray from the rolling sea began to splash his body. He peer
ed over his shoulder. Once his eyes grew accustomed to the pattern of the surf as it smashed against the rocks before plunging back into the sea, he began to see anomalies against the water’s colour.
Debris.
He took a deep breath and began lowering himself once more. He ignored the burning sensation in his shoulders, not wishing to face the climb back up without finding some sort of confirmation for his theory.
The roar of the thrashing sea assaulted his senses, the ceaseless pounding of water on the rocks below hypnotic in its intensity. Dan concentrated on placing one foot carefully below the other, working his hands down the rope, kicking at the cliff face and wedging his toes into small nooks in the rock as he descended.
A sharp cold sensation brought him out of his reverie – he was at the bottom of the cliff, his legs already ankle-deep in the swirling surf. Looking around, he searched among the debris being pummelled against the rocks for a clue, and crawled further into the cold water, balancing on a rock ledge which ran under the water’s surface. Debris littered the waves, sloshing against his body with the vicious tidal current.
He gasped as a large wave engulfed him. Hanging tightly onto the rope, he held his breath as the wave washed over him and away. Shaking his head to clear the water from his hair and eyes, he turned his head left and right, searching for something, anything, which might provide a clue to the submarine’s crew or its ultimate destination.
He gripped the rope with one hand, thrusting the other through the cold water, sifting through galley scraps and waterlogged food packaging. As another torrent of water struck the rocks beside him, he looked across the surface and saw a bundle of rags, borne by the waves, slowly being driven his way.
Dan looked along the rock face, calculating the ebb and flow of the water, then lurched for the collection of coloured material. As his fingers touched its surface, he frowned.
It felt solid, rather than something discarded by a submarine, jettisoned through its torpedo tubes.
He dragged the bundle closer, feeling its weight as another wave rushed towards the cliff face, rolling the collection of rags in its wake.
At first, Dan’s mind refused to comprehend what he was looking at. Where there should have been a face were only two empty eye sockets, a small crab clinging to the scraps of skin hanging out of one orifice. The nose had been eaten away, or broken against the rocks. The skull was flat along one side, caved in by heavy blows, while the soft skin of the lips and ears had already been eaten away by fish.
Dan yelled, and let go of the body.
He slipped off the rock he was balancing on under the water and plunged into the icy depths.
His heart racing, he resurfaced, his right hand flailing in the water until he located the safety line. Wrapping his fingers around it, he pulled himself to the surface, aided by Mitch hauling the rope back up the cliff face, until he clambered back onto his rock perch, shivering – both from cold and shock.
He glanced up at the sound of a yell from the top of the cliff and raised his hand.
I’m okay.
He waited until his breathing was back under control.
‘Didn’t see that coming,’ he muttered, and then coughed up a mouthful of sea water.
He retched, and spat over the side of the rock, then began to search the water for the body.
His eyes soon found it – the waves were keeping it trapped at the base of the limestone cliff to his right.
He took a deep breath. ‘Alright,’ he said. ‘Let’s find out who you were.’
He carefully tied the rope around his waist, gave it two quick pulls, gave Mitch a thumbs up, then slowly lowered himself back into the churning water.
He clambered along the rock face, digging his fingers into the rough surface as he crept closer and closer to the body as it rose and fell with the motion of the waves. Edging closer, he reached out with one hand until his fingers touched the denim material of the jeans covering the lower half of the body. Looping his fingers through a leather belt around the cadaver’s waist, he pulled the body closer.
Ignoring the shredded remnants of its face, Dan began to search the body and clothing. He reached into the front pockets of the denim jeans, and pulled out the remains of a document. The papers fell apart in his hand, pulped by the salt water. Dan threw the scraps into the waves in disgust.
Tightening his grip on the cliff face, ignoring the burning sensation in his shoulders, Dan hauled the body over in the water. As the body rolled, he saw movement in the water next to it. A square object, coloured, escaped the back pocket of the corpse’s jeans and began to float away.
‘Shit!’ Dan exclaimed, and pushed the body out of the way.
His eyes frantically searched the water for a flash of colour, anything which would indicate where the object had escaped.
Then he saw it. A cigarette packet, floating only two metres to his right. It bobbed up and down annoyingly, teasing him as it survived wave after wave, its blue and white packaging catching the sunlight as it turned in the water.
Dan frowned. The colour scheme of the packet was tantalisingly familiar, but he couldn’t remember where he’d seen it.
He glanced up at the rope, then at the surf as it lunged towards the cliff face once again. He’d have to time it carefully. Letting go of the rope at the wrong moment and being swept out to sea was not an option he wanted to consider.
He held his breath as the next wave shot towards him. As he felt it sweeping over his body and away, he let go of the rope with one hand and used the momentum of the receding tide to edge closer to the cigarette packet. His fingers clawed through the water, desperately trying to reach the object, before he roared with the strain on his other hand and returned his grip to the rope.
Just in time.
Another wave crashed against the cliff face, sucking the air from his lungs. As the wave receded, he spluttered to the surface and immediately thrashed towards the cigarette packet. His fingers grazed the surface of it, but it slipped away under the weight of his hand.
‘Fuck!’
He glanced over his shoulder and saw the next onslaught heading his way. He filled his lungs with air and held tightly on to the rope, his eyes screwed shut as another blast of cold water enveloped his body.
Coughing as the water receded again, he felt himself starting to shiver uncontrollably and knew this would be his last chance.
He launched himself at the cigarette packet, scooping handfuls of water towards him in an attempt to bring the packet closer. When he was sure he would get a good grip on the debris, he lunged at it. For a fleeting moment, he felt the rope loosen in his left hand before his fingers tightened their grip, and his right hand clutched the cigarette packet.
He put it between his teeth and sought out the safety of the rope, as another wave smashed over his head and into the rocks.
He waited until the surf retreated then began the long agonising haul back up the rope. It began to rise with him, Mitch having felt the new sensation in the rope and realised that Dan was on his way back up.
Dan used his legs to power himself up the cliff face, his hands and arms exhausted from the climb down and the treacherous minutes in the surf. As he neared the top, he saw Mitch peering over the edge at him as he pulled the rope easily through his hands, a grin on his face.
Dan hauled himself over the cliff edge, crawled a few metres then collapsed. He spat out the cigarette packet and lay on the ground, panting.
Mitch wandered over and peered down at him, his shadow over Dan’s face.
‘You know,’ he said, kicking at the cigarette packet next to Dan’s head, ‘most people find just one at a time works, rather than the whole packet.’
Dan grinned, his eyes closed, feeling the sun warming his body.
‘I ran out of nicotine patches.’
Chapter 36
Strait of Gibraltar, Mediterranean Sea
‘Take her up, let’s have a look.’ Ivanov held his nose and blew gently, equalising t
he pressure in his ears as the submarine began to rise slowly through the waves.
As the boat neared the surface, Ilya slowed the ascent to keep the conning tower under the water, while Ivanov pulled up the periscope and peered through. Rain lashed the lens as he turned it slowly through a rotation, getting his bearings and searching the darkened horizon.
Another five degrees to the right and he had his target. The cruise ship leapt into view, a towering floating city, lights blazing from portholes and strung from wires along its decks as it made its way out of the Mediterranean.
Ivanov blinked as a large wave engulfed the periscope, even though he was still safely dry several metres under the surface and then cursed at the natural reaction.
He stepped back from the periscope and gestured to his weapons specialist, Alexei. ‘Come and take a look.’
Alexei moved away from the bulkhead he’d been leaning against and stepped up to the periscope. He glanced through, nodded, and took a step back. ‘We’ll be fine.’
‘The timing’s important,’ said Ivanov. ‘Too soon and we’re trapped. Too late and there’s a risk of being located.’
Alexei beckoned the captain over to a small chart table, and sat down in one of the chairs fixed to the floor. ‘They’re twenty-one nautical miles off Gibraltar at the moment,’ he said, tracing his finger along a line he’d pencilled in on the chart. ‘When they reach this point here,’ he added, stabbing his finger on the map, ‘that’s our point of no return.’
Ivanov leaned over the map. ‘So, we’ll steer round them, overtake them and attack.’
‘I’d prefer to be in position before then. With this old thing, I can’t guarantee we’ll get a direct hit,’ said Alexei. ‘Look what happened last time.’
Ivanov nodded. ‘Agreed.’ He turned to Ilya. ‘Get us down again, and into position. Keep us under five knots – this thing rattles like a can full of stones. I don’t want to get this far and have to abort the mission because we’ve been heard by someone’s navy patrol.’
Under Fire: (A Dan Taylor thriller) Page 18