by Lin Anderson
Reigning blows below the water line was a whole lot harder than when above it, Patrick decided, as his second attempt at breaking the glass with a sharp lump of limestone rock failed. Already, daylight was entering the cave through the metal grille on the roof and filtering down through the water.
Patrick accepted the mouthpiece offered by Huntington and took a breath.
This time it would break, he vowed.
Taking up a different stance, Patrick concentrated his aim on what appeared to be a chink in the glass and swung, directing the sharpest corner of the rock at that spot.
This time he heard a crack. And moments later he saw a chequered disintegration in the surface of the glass. Patrick dropped the rock and attacked the shattered segments with his knife, until the hole was big enough to retrieve her.
Reaching in, Patrick caught hold of the Madonna and eased her forward, then tipped her into their waiting arms. He could tell by Huntington’s expression that neither of them had been aware of the true weight of what they sought. Scrambling on to the beach, together they laid down their joint burden.
‘Can we use the lift bag to get her out?’ Huntington said, his eyes rising to where daylight filtered through the iron grille above them.
Patrick wasn’t sure if that was possible. A lift bag was essentially a balloon device which, when filled with air and attached to a heavy object, lifted it to the surface. They had to negotiate a narrow tunnel with a low roof. The bag would be no use to them in such a confined space. It might be useful once they were back outside, but using that method to lift the Madonna to the surface would only be advisable if they could be certain no one other than Jean-Paul would spot the orange balloon and realize its significance.
Coming to a decision, Patrick took off his BCD and began to undress. Losing his thick wetsuit meant dropping five or six kilos, which would allow him to ditch his weight belt. The buoyancy control device was military issue and could support just short of twenty-eight kilograms.
The water at the relevant depth was very cold. He would be taking a chance on hypothermia without a wetsuit, but then he was taking a chance on having enough air to get both him and the statue to the surface anyway.
Huntington, realizing what the plan was, immediately offered to trade places with him.
Patrick shook his head. ‘I’m in better shape than you are, at the moment,’ he added to soften the blow.
As he lifted his air tank on to his shoulders, a shadow crossed the grille above them. Patrick motioned to Huntington that he should step back out of sight, which he did, his own tank only half in place.
The words were in German, shouted rather than spoken, and Patrick recognized the guttural voice of one of the boneheads. A rapid exchange of voices followed, filled with excitement. Patrick reminded himself that, although they could see the light above, their adversaries would be looking into darkness.
Patrick motioned to Huntington to stay out of sight and wait, then got down on his knees in the water, lifted the statue, and secured it inside the fully inflated BCD, strapping it to his chest.
He then signalled to Huntington that they should prepare to enter the water as quietly as possible. Those above might not be able to see them in the darkness of the cave, but they would be able to hear them.
Huntington nodded and, lifting his gear to swing it over his shoulder, encountered the bullet wound. His face creased as the pain hit home, and he staggered a little. The next moment passed in slow motion as Patrick realized that the morphine had worn off and Huntington’s tank was about to collide with the wall.
The resultant clang echoed like a gunshot in the confined space.
Moments later, indiscriminate firing came from above, ricocheting off the limestone walls and pinging into the water with the whooshing sound of a silencer. A bullet missed Patrick’s face by centimetres and, deflected from the wall, headed downwards, entering the water close to Huntington.
Underwater they would be in danger of taking a bullet. Up here, being hit was fast becoming a certainty. Huntington had read the situation the same way. He was fastening his tank in place and preparing to make for the water, even as the bullets continued to rebound round them in a shattering volley of noise.
Cradling the Madonna, Patrick submerged. Their attempted escape having been noticed, the bullets were now being directed at the water, making the surface seethe.
If we reach the tunnel, then we stand a chance.
Huntington had taken the lead, moving more swiftly than Patrick, with his burden. He turned and flashed his torch, and Patrick noted he had hold of the rope. Patrick could spare a hand for neither the rope nor his torch. The weight of the gold felt like a foot on his back, and he was using both hands to propel himself along the seabed towards the tunnel entrance, all the time kicking up a storm of sand.
He’d fastened the two straps of the BCD as tightly as he could, but they were no match for the relentless downward pull of the gold. The next time Patrick kicked, he lost her. Slipping out from the double straps of the lifejacket, the Madonna fell like a lead weight into the sand. His own weight suddenly lessened by twenty kilos, Patrick bobbed up to the surface.
That’s when he heard it. A saw cutting through the metal grille above.
Once the opening is clear, they will be down here by rope in seconds.
Patrick let out air from his jacket, then kicked his way back to where he’d dropped the Madonna and began to search frantically for her in the sand.
Then he heard shouts, and feet hitting the pebbles. One set, then another.
The boneheads will be the first down, with the guns.
Blinded by sand clouds, Patrick had to rely on instinct to find the statue.
Desperate to locate the place he’d dropped her, he began to dig like a dog scrabbling for a bone, all the time in disbelief at how far she might have sunk.
And then he found her, the hard block of solid gold.
Lifting the Madonna, he secured her inside the BCD again and swiftly reinflated it, just as a bullet swept by on his left, then another on his right. He kicked out for the darkness that was the tunnel entrance, and met Huntington’s torch as he came back in search of him.
God knows how I’ll deal with the tunnel, but at least I’ll be free of the bullets.
But not yet free of his pursuers, it seemed.
Patrick felt the disturbance as someone entered the water behind him. Felt the approach as the water surged forward. It seemed the boneheads weren’t about to give up on the prize just yet.
As Patrick, hugging the Madonna, gave a frantic kick forward, a hand caught hold of his fin and pulled him back. Jerking himself free, or so he thought, he felt something stab his leg, tearing into the bare flesh.
The beam from Huntington’s torch met his mask and Patrick realized they were approaching the ninety-degree turn. Patrick kicked out, knowing that to round that corner was to leave his follower behind. As the darkness of the narrow tunnel closed about him, Patrick wondered what would await them at its exit.
SEVENTEEN
Patrick indicated that he aimed to rise at least to the level of the underwater ledge they’d passed earlier on the cliff face. The plan was to swim along the coast in a westerly direction at a depth of fifteen metres. The surf breaking on the ledge would conceal their air bubbles from anyone on the shore looking for them.
Between the grounds of the château and the neighbouring Villa Eilenroc was a sea wall. Patrick hoped to stash the statue underwater there, then try and gain the surface before he ran out of air, or got the bends.
The boneheads had used silencers when firing into the cave, and the shots wouldn’t have been heard from the water. So there’d been no warning for Jean-Paul or François that anything untoward had occurred. But once Bach knew they were in the cave he would have checked out the shoreline and seen both the dinghy and the Diving Belle, and surmised that if they had the prize they would be heading there with it.
Which meant they couldn’t.
Huntington, knowing what was intended, gave the rope three sharp tugs. At this depth they had no idea what was happening on the surface, but if it was Jean-Paul who held the other end then he would let it go and return to the Diving Belle as ordered.
Moments later, Huntington signalled that the rope had been freed.
Patrick, nursing the Madonna, kicked out for the ledge.
The confines of the tunnel had been problematic. Now the danger was that as the swell lifted and dropped him, he would be thrown against the cliff face. With the weight of the gold pulling him down, swimming at a depth of fifteen metres felt like swimming at thirty metres with a heavy boot pressing down on his back.
Checking his console, he saw that the needle indicating his reserves of air was already into the red.
Never stay down in the red.
Huntington, moving alongside, would have more air than him, but not much more. They were both running close to empty and Huntington’s rise to the surface would be as fraught as his own.
The sea wall he sought was at least a hundred metres west of the tunnel, just about as far as he could manage. The pull from the Madonna seemed to be growing by the second. Patrick had an overwhelming desire to loosen the straps and let her go. But were he to do so, he would immediately bob to the surface like a cork, exploding his lungs in the process. Not something he wanted to happen.
Then he spotted it, just as Huntington turned and gave him the OK.
Before them loomed the place where he could lay down his burden.
Patrick checked his depth gauge. Had he had the air, he would have preferred to conceal her at the base of the wall, but he couldn’t go deeper than this and hope to come back up alive.
To his right Huntington was busily checking out the wall, trying to find a suitable lodging place while Patrick concentrated on managing his buoyancy and staying horizontal. Were he to flip on to his back, or worse than that, spin upside down …
A signal from Huntington drew him nearer the shore.
A deep cleft lay between the limestone rock and the stone of the sea wall, with a ledge big enough to take the Madonna. Wedged inside, she would be out of sight to the casual eye.
Patrick gave Huntington the thumbs up, then checked his console.
Was that one bar left or five?
Aware that Huntington must be as low on air as he was, he indicated that he should go up. Now.
Huntington hesitated, but only briefly, knowing there was no other way, then began to deflate his jacket and gave a few kicks to gain his ascent.
If he didn’t survive the transfer of the Madonna himself, at least Huntington knew her whereabouts.
The manoeuvre depended on timing and balance of weight and air. What was required was delicate but possible, Patrick reminded himself. Simultaneously he had to move the Madonna to her place in the sea wall and compensate for the change in weight.
If he got it wrong, the Madonna would survive, but he would not.
Patrick took hold of the inflater valve with his left hand, then began to ease the Madonna free with his right. She came easily at first, then caught for a moment in the tighter strap. Two hands would have been better than one, but he couldn’t desert the inflater valve. As she broke free of his body, his buoyancy rose and he immediately began to ascend.
Patrick eased open the valve and tried to compensate.
Steady again, he began to transfer the Madonna to the cleft in the rock, his fingers screaming out at the awkwardness of the hold and the weight of the statue. He held her in place for a moment before beginning to lessen his grip on her.
For a moment they were in perfect balance, but when the rock took her weight …
She was facing him as he sat her carefully down and he was struck again by the likeness and by the words inscribed in German along her base: Die einst und zukünftige Königin.
Ready now, he released her, simultaneously opening the valve to release the air that would save his life.
He was moving upwards. Too quickly, he knew. He would have to make a safety stop of at least two minutes at five metres or the dissolved gases coming out of solution would become bubbles inside his body, the result of which might be anything from muscle pain to paralysis.
He stopped his ascent, knowing that his air was almost out. The final breath from the mouthpiece would taste heavy, after that there would be nothing.
A shoal of tiny fish found him suspended there. Discovering their reflection in his mask, they tapped at it, believing they had found a mate. Above him the sun shining on the blue water, its rays filtering down, encased him in what appeared to be a golden glow.
Patrick took his last breath, as heavy as the Madonna had seemed in his arms, then began his final ascent.
EIGHTEEN
The first thing he registered was how cold he was. Numb, bitingly cold. Then Patrick realized that if he could feel such cold he was still alive. It seemed the final breath he’d taken from the mouthpiece had turned out not to be his last.
As he strove to open his eyes, shivers wracked his body and he heard a voice say, ‘He’ll die if we don’t raise his temperature.’
‘Then you’d better warm him up,’ someone replied.
The voices seemed to come from faraway, although something told him he knew the owners of both. His eyelids finally responded to his command and flickered open. His last remembered image had been of a tiny bright-blue fish biting at his mask and the promised warmth of the sun should he reach the surface.
Although the image before his eyes was swimming, he knew he was no longer under or even in the sea. He lay horizontal on a cold, hard surface, in a shadow-filled room. Two, maybe three, faces moved above him, forming and re-forming.
‘He won’t be able to tell us anything if he dies.’
‘Then save him.’
Footsteps, then a door slammed shut. Only one face above him now.
Another wave of shudders hit his body.
I thought the lack of air would kill me, but it’s the cold that will do it.
Patrick hugged himself, drawing up his knees to his chest.
‘Can you stand?’ the remaining voice asked. ‘We have to get you warm again.’
Patrick allowed himself to be helped to his feet, then his saviour half walked, half dragged him a few yards to what was, he discovered when he was lowered on to it, a bed.
The touch of soft warmth on his back sent Patrick into a jerking spasm again.
It’s when I stop shivering that I have to worry.
Now someone was pulling off his wet shorts and drying his body. The roughness of their rubbing brought blood to the skin surface like small prickling bubbles. His brain registered this and equated it to the bubbles of gas that might be in his system from ascending from depth too quickly.
Maybe that’s why I’m confused.
A warm cover was pulled over him, yet still he shivered as though in his death throes. A hand touched his face gently. Patrick tried to focus on the face that hovered above him. For a moment he thought he was gazing at the Madonna. Not the cold hard version that had tried to drag him down to his death on the seabed, but the version he had gazed at in Fratelli’s villa.
‘Patrick. It’s me, Grazia.’
‘Grazia?’ he said in amazement, trying to draw the moving parts of her face together. To anchor and match them to his memory of her.
‘You have hypothermia. I have to get you warm. I’m going to get in beside you.’
Patrick registered the words, but not their meaning. Some moments later, he felt her warm arms envelop his ice-cold body and the heat of her breasts as they touched his chest.
As he had cradled the golden Madonna, so now did Grazia cradle him. The effect was extraordinary. Heat beat from her in waves, touching his body everywhere. Patrick imagined himself drawing out all her heat and leaving her cold and near to death, like he was, and instinctively tried to draw back.
But she wouldn’t let him, clasping him to her. Gradually her h
eat flowed into him. Patrick felt it pass along his limbs and flood his chest, helping to pump his heart.
They were facing one another, her cheek touching his, the warm mass of her hair caressing his shoulders. At last Patrick relaxed and let Grazia coax him back to life.
She insisted he be the one to sit on the bed, wrapped in the blanket. Grazia, dressed again, sat on the floor of the cellar, her back against the wall, observing him.
Once he was fully conscious, she questioned Patrick closely, trying, he knew, to establish whether he was experiencing any symptoms of decompression sickness. He answered honestly, because now he was warm again he could think more clearly.
‘I’m OK,’ he assured her. ‘I think I was concussed, that’s all. And frozen.’ He fingered a bump on his head.
She appeared to be satisfied by this.
There was a short pause, before she said, ‘You found what they were looking for?’
Grazia had saved his life, but he wasn’t sure just how much of what had happened should be revealed to her, so he answered her question with one of his own.
‘Why did Fratelli and Bach bring you here with them?’
‘I’m not sure. Maybe they wanted me to authenticate whatever it was they were looking for.’
‘They expected a third painting?’ Patrick said.
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what they expected.’
‘London didn’t tell you?’
She looked askance at him. ‘Did they always tell you everything?’
‘Strictly a need-to-know basis,’ Patrick said with a wry smile. ‘Which is what I am now applying to you.’
He tried to recall the conversation he’d overheard in his confused state.
Who said ‘He won’t be able to tell us anything if he dies’? Had it been Grazia?
‘Tell me exactly what you know,’ he said.
Grazia was regarding him in much the same way as he was regarding her.
‘That they found you at the location. That you escaped through the tunnel. That what they sought had gone.’