66 Metres (13 page)

The divers were quiet. Sign of a good day's diving, nitrogen micro-bubbles slowly fizzing out of their bloodstreams, the sun and salty air adding to their relaxed state. They'd probably
have a late lunch in one of the pubs, then laze away the rest of the day until clubbing time. Not a bad way to spend a holiday.

The pack of divers, four men and two women, clambered out of the boat in an orderly fashion, dutifully carrying their gear up the steps to the shack, sweating in the blazing sun. They washed off their gear with a hose, then unpeeled neoprene wetsuits, sighing with relief after having simmered in their own juices. Some inevitable splashing sprayed in Nadia's direction. After about ten minutes, their log books signed and stamped, the bunch sauntered toward the town centre, and left Pete and Ben to do the final tidying up. Pete had changed into jeans and a navy blue pullover, despite the sun.

‘Gino's,' he said, offering her a hand to stand up.

‘I've eaten,' she half-lied, thinking of the ice cream. She didn't feel hungry, but she took his hand.

‘Then you can watch me eat.' He beamed.

Suddenly she caught sight of Mike walking their way. The events of the previous night – including their frantic sexual encounter and the patrol boat inspection – flooded back to her. Like any skipper, Mike was gazing down at the boats as he strode along the quay, and hadn't seen her yet. She spun around and headed over to the shack. ‘I want to check out your kit first,' she said, at which Pete roared with laughter. ‘Your dive kit,' she added, way too late.

Pete followed her in, ushering Ben out with a wave of his hand. It was dark inside the cramped shed full of dull white tanks and the smell of wet neoprene. Racks of regulators hung like rubber spaghetti, their gleaming stainless steel valves the only shiny objects in the humid room. Nadia did a thorough inspection, checking a few of the regulator mouthpieces and stab jacket designs, then focused on the dive computers that resembled clunky wristwatches. ‘Got any more advanced ones?'

Pete gave her a quizzical look. ‘What did you have in mind?'

‘A serious Suunto would be nice, not a Vyper though.' She tossed one of them back into the plastic basket.

‘Meaning?'

‘Depth-rated, multi-stage deco-dive based on the latest micro-bubble algorithm, for example.'

Pete's tone shifted from chat-up banter to serious dive pro. ‘Where exactly do you want to dive?'

‘The Tsuba. I'd like to see the propeller.'

Outside, Ben dropped something that rattled for a second on the ground. He muttered an apology.

Pete's face was stone. ‘You know how deep that is?'

Despite the stuffiness in the room, the temperature between them freefell.

‘Yes,' she said, slowly.

Pete's features hardened. He seized her wrist. ‘Out,' he said. ‘Now.'

His grip was firm, and he yanked her into the daylight. At least Mike was nowhere to be seen. Ben avoided her puzzled gaze as Pete continued to lead her off down the quay.

‘Where are we going?' she asked, trying to keep up.

‘Kennedy's,' he replied.

Nadia stuck her heels in, forcing him to stop.

He let go of her wrist. His face was flushed. ‘It's not an air dive. You obviously know that. Kennedy does trimix dives, they have rebreathers, he's the only one that does on the island.'

She stared into his eyes, the kind of blue she'd normally want to swim in, but his pupils were needle-sharp. He was angry as hell, and she didn't know why, only that she'd over-reached and had to claw her way back.

‘Look, okay, forget the propeller. The Bridge, though, it's at forty, it doesn't even have to be a deco dive.'

He simmered, lips pressed together like two wooden planks.

She tried her best disarming smile. ‘You don't know many Russian divers, do you?'

His eyes narrowed. ‘The laws of physics and physiology are the same there as here. At sixty-six metres, oxygen poisoning begins.' His voice was raw. ‘The prop's at that exact depth. Nitrogen narcosis makes you want to stay just a little longer.' Without warning he spun on his heel and stormed off. She was about to follow when two large, implacable hands grabbed her shoulders.

‘Don't,' Ben said. ‘Leave him be.' It was the first time he'd said anything truly audible, in a strong Cornish accent. He released her shoulders, and she turned to face him, his head down at first, then he looked up at her with a pained expression.

‘Our dad, see,' he said. ‘Four years ago. Out there.' Ben nodded to the white wave-caps on the horizon. The offshore breeze had woken up.

He had dreamy eyes, unlike Pete's, though the same shade of ocean blue.

‘Dived deep. Two tourists kept asking for it.' He turned back to her. ‘Well, they got what they wanted. Not the Tsuba, another wreck, we have plenty here.' Ben looked past her, toward the disappearing figure of Pete. She followed his gaze.

‘It was him that found them, see, all the others had given up by then. All three were lying on the seabed at seventy metres, like they'd fallen asleep. No bubbles. Don't know how Pete made it back, really. How deep have you been, Miss? Honestly. On air, I mean.'

She turned back to Ben. He'd make a good interrogator: those eyes, that face, difficult to lie to. ‘Fifty-two,' she admitted.

‘Then you know, don't you, what happens when you're down there. Like a drug, it is.' He stared at the ground a moment, then seemed to make a decision. ‘When did you last dive?'

She discounted the Thames, barely eight metres. ‘Six months ago.'

‘Got your diving licence and a credit card on you?'

She nodded.

‘Come with me,' he said.

She glanced back up the quay but Pete was lost amongst the crowds swarming the shop-fronts. ‘Where to?' she said, trailing back towards the shack.

‘Safe Haven. It's a secluded bay on the next island. There's a thirty-metre drop-off. The ride out there will be a bit lumpy, but we'll stay in sight of shore. You'll dive with me. I'm a klutz on land, but down there… Anyway, there are successive ledges leading to the bottom at thirty, so I can check you out, no worries-like.' He fixed her with a look. ‘You're going to go deep, I can see that, so you've got to have some build-up dives. You'll sleep well tonight.'

She knew he was right. Without build-up dives she'd get narked and probably die out there. Still, she hesitated. ‘What about Pete, won't he be angry? I don't want to get you into trouble.'

Ben grinned, and for the first time she saw the sibling resemblance. ‘What's he going to do, kill me? I'm his brother.'

He turned, and she followed him into the shack. Right now he was the only one helping her get even close to retrieving the Rose.

Inside, he bent over a small, rusted old-style safe inside a cupboard, whizzed in the combination and fished out a small package, then handed it to her.

‘Now this,' he said, standing up as she held the titanium-framed oversized watch, ‘
this
is a dive computer.'

She held it in her hands, her spirits lifting to the point she couldn't help but ask the question.

‘Ben, will you take me diving on the Tsuba?'

He grinned. ‘No,' he said, ‘too deep for my level of skill. But I know someone who just might. You can start diving with him tomorrow morning. I'll get you back up to speed today.'

Nadia strapped the computer to her right wrist. ‘Let's go.'

Chapter Seven

Adamson checked into the Grande in Hugh Town, feigning a summer cold. He told the pretty Polish receptionist he was jet-lagged and likely to be ordering room service for the next couple of days. He resisted saying
dziekuje
as she handed him the room card; American tourists traditionally only spoke English. A well-turned out porter in a red peaked cap and matching pin-stripe waistcoat offered to carry his bags, but Adamson held onto the wheeled Samsonite. It looked small and light, but was heavy and might attract curiosity. He tugged it along and lifted it when necessary as if it weighed nothing. The porter opened the door to the room and put the second bag on the low shelf, then drew back the heavy velvet curtains. Sunlight streamed in, lighting up an interior galaxy of dust motes. Adamson parked the Samsonite and took in the room: a lumpy king-sized bed, a faded, chipped teak dresser, an en suite bathroom without a mixer tap – something the Brits apparently had yet to discover – and an old-style metal bath, the enamel worn near the plug hole. No double-glazing, no shower unit, no air-con. Brown paisley wallpaper and a thick pile burgundy carpet. A lonely apple sat in a jaded glass bowl next to the smallest minibar fridge he'd ever seen. But he smiled at the porter as if this was the Four Seasons, then sneezed to stay in role.

The porter busied himself explaining everything, as if it wasn't self-evident, and then stood to attention, hands behind his back, as if he wanted nothing. Adamson knew the ropes and handed him a fiver. It amused him that Americans were vilified by many Europeans for their foreign interference, but when it came to tipping, an American tourist was everyone's favourite, from bellhop to taxi driver to waiter to hooker. The porter backed out of the room, closing the panelled oak door behind him.

Adamson had requested a top floor suite overlooking the sweep of the bay. Leaning forward, nose almost to the dusty window, he took in the ferry port to the right, the narrow sand-and-pebble beach right out front, all the way to the fishing boats and dive centres disappearing out to the left.

The room was perfect.

He locked the door, heaved the Samsonite onto the bed, entered the lock code, then unzipped it all the way. He pulled out the laptop, then fingered his favoured weapon, a Smith & Wesson M&P9, 17 rounds – its normal white-dot front sight painted gold – wrapped in its harness, stashed next to his Air Marshall's badge. As soon as the laptop opened he entered the password and passed the retina scan. A photo appeared. The one he'd requested from Jorgenson. The Russian girl, Nadia, twenty-three years old. The photo was five years old, which meant she'd been under the radar, of no special consequence. But people's faces didn't change that much in
the space of a few years. The photo showed her with an older man, his arm around her neck. She was laughing. It didn't look genuine. Too bad for her. So many people had shitty lives, and then they died. If there was a God, he had a lot of explaining to do, and if God was a woman, it beggared belief.

He went to the other bag and fished out a pair of high-powered binoculars he'd bought in Frankfurt Airport, pulled a chair up to the bay window, and began scanning the population below, taking in the dive boats as they came and went about their business. Half an hour later he closed up the two bags and ordered Cajun chicken and rice, plus a pot of black coffee. After another two hours he spotted Nadia near one of the dive shacks. He stood up so fast with the binoculars that he spilled his coffee.

He ordered a half bottle of house red, and picked up his phone.

***

Nadia hadn't slept well, and was edgy. She had three days and one of them had gone by already. She sat on the harbour ledge, the top half of her wetsuit draped over her thighs. From the waist down she was hot, encased in neoprene. The reflected sun off the wave-tops made her eyes hurt whenever she stared too long out to sea. Pete was off on some errand or other, having already taken a group out earlier in the morning. Ben had fixed her up with a dive buddy who – according to Ben – was just whom she needed to go on a deep dive, someone who used to dive a lot in the Scillies, knew all the wrecks, including the Tsuba. She imagined some egocentric hothead depth junkie. There were enough of them in Russia, those who lived long enough to brag about it. But apparently Pete was happy as long as it was this guy leading the dive. No one else would do. Ben had mumbled something about a rescue the guy had pulled off two years ago when a storm had come out of nowhere over a shallow wreck, causing it to partially collapse. She'd asked who he'd rescued, and Ben had coughed and gone red. So, he'd rescued Ben. Pete and Ben owed him.

But she was anxious to get moving, to get dived up for the real dive to retrieve the Rose. She shouted to Ben in the shack, not bothering to mask a little sharpness in her tone.

‘Where is he, Ben? He's late.'

A man, early to mid-thirties, in a battered, turquoise-and-silver wetsuit strolled out of the shack.

‘No I'm not,' he said. ‘Just catching up with Ben, we've not seen each other in a while.'

Nadia spun her legs around, careful not to tip herself into the drink. His voice was sure, but not cocky. Maybe a little sad. She took two steps towards him, and held out her hand.

‘I didn't hear you arrive. I'm Nadia.'

His handshake was firm, his palm and fingers cool despite the heat. He met her eyes, and his didn't flick down to her bikini top as most men's had that morning. She instantly assessed his physique the way she'd learned back in the camp, as part of her martial arts training. She let her eyes relax, and used peripheral vision to take in the upper body and head – the triangle – taking in his broad swimmer's shoulders and chest, then registering his temples, crown, carotids, bridge and underside of the nose just above the lips – all the usual targets – and the eyes. The eyes might or might not be a window on the soul, but they definitely indicated the state of mind. Something was broiling behind those grey-blue eyes, but they were strong. Ben had been right; she was in good hands. Which reminded her; she glanced down to his hands, lingered a second, then flicked back to his face, shifting out of recon mode.

‘I'm Jake,' he said. ‘The tide will turn soon. We have to move. How many dives, and where?' He nodded to her suit.

Professional, to the point. She slid her hands into the arms of the wetsuit. She was lightly sweating so her arms wriggled in smoothly, her hands popping out the other ends through the tight black rubber seals.