Escape from Shadow Island (13 page)

“I met a man from Santo Domingo in London,” Max said. “He had two missing fingers. His name was Luis Lopez-Vega.”

Romero stared at him in astonishment. “
Luis?
You met Luis? When was this?”

“Last week.”

“
Last week?
Surely not.”

“Do you know him?” Max said.

“Of course. Luis was a prisoner on Shadow Island at the same time as I was. What was he doing in London?”

“He was murdered before I could find out.”

“
Murdered?
My God, what happened?”

“He was shot in his hotel room.”

Romero looked away. “That is sad news,” he said. “Luis was a good man.”

“The London police are saying he was a drug dealer. That he had been in prison for drug-related offenses.”

Romero gave a contemptuous snort. “The London police know nothing about Santo Domingo, about how things work here. Yes, Luis was in prison recently. But he wasn't a drug dealer. The charges were fabricated. The police do that to people they want to get out of the way. Luis was jailed because he was a political activist. He was one of the core group of fighters who opposed the generals in the seventies, who kept the PDP going underground when the government banned it. He was a threat to the generals, so they locked him away. I heard that he'd been released, but I did not know he was dead.”

“He told me that my father was alive,” Max said. “But he died before he could explain. You don't know anything about that, do you?”

Romero shook his head. “I lost contact with Luis and his friends a long time ago. I am too sick to do anything more for the PDP. I cannot do even light work. I am dependent on my daughter to support me.” He glanced tenderly at Victoria. “Without her, I would not survive.”

Victoria went over and placed her hand on his shoulder. “You should rest now, Papa.” She turned to Max and Isabella. “I'm sorry, but please, you must go. My father is tired.”

Max nodded and stood up. “Thank you for your help,” he said to Romero. “Can I ask one last question? Do the numbers one-one-one-three-eight-three-five-two mean anything to you?”

“No,” Romero said after a moment. “They mean nothing.”

Victoria showed Max and Isabella out of the house and they walked up the street, Max studying the drawings Romero had made on the pad of paper.

“What are you going to do now?” Isabella asked.

Max thought for a moment. “When we talked yesterday, you said you still had your father's boat. Is it seaworthy?”

“Seaworthy? What you mean?”

“Is it okay to use?”

“Yes, is okay.”

“And can you sail it?”

“Yes. I go out with my father many times. I know what to do. Why you ask?”

“I want you to take me to Isla de Sombra,” Max said.

MAX CLAMBERED ONTO A NARROW RIDGE of rocks and watched the fishing boat come round the headland from Rio Verde. He could see Isabella in the boat's wheelhouse. She raised her hand, letting him know she'd spotted him, and changed course, heading toward the shore.

Max hadn't dared go down to the harbor with her. He knew the police would be keeping an eye out for him, searching the streets of the capital, paying particular attention to the exit points—the roads, the river, and the sea.

It wasn't safe for Max to go anywhere near Fernando Gonzales's fishing boat, but no one would be suspicious
if Gonzales's daughter took it out. Max had given Isabella some of his Santo Domingan currency to buy fuel—he could see from their tiny, cramped apartment that they didn't have much money. He then walked two miles out of the capital along back streets and rough dirt tracks to their rendezvous on the coast.

The boat slowed and came to a virtual stop fifty yards out, Isabella giving the throttle occasional short bursts of power to hold her position. She couldn't get any closer for fear of being swept onto the rocks by the rolling waves.

Max slid into the water and swam out to the boat, hauling himself up a knotted rope to the stern deck. Dripping wet, he went to join Isabella in the wheelhouse. “Any problems?” he said.

Isabella shook her head, her ponytail swinging across her shoulders. “No. The harbormaster, the other fishermen, they all know me.”

“Did they ask where you were going?”

“I say I just go along coast short distance. To keep boat engine working. Leave boat in harbor too long, it no good for engine.”

Max smiled at her. “Thank you for helping me. I know you're taking a big risk.”

“I want to find out what happen to my father.”

Isabella thrust the throttle forward and the boat surged away. It was a short, stubby little vessel with a sun-bleached hull and the name
Rosario
painted on the side of the wheelhouse.

“Is my mother's name,” Isabella had told him earlier, describing the
Rosario
so that Max knew which boat to look out for when he was waiting on the rocks.

Isabella swung the wheel over to port and they headed out to sea.

“How close can you get to the island?” Max asked.

“Not very. I told you, there is boat. Men come out, tell you to go away. But I try to get near.”

Max crouched low so he wasn't visible to anyone watching them from Shadow Island—and he was pretty sure someone
would
be watching. If Julius Clark valued his privacy enough to have a patrol boat keeping unwanted visitors away, then he'd almost certainly have a lookout who'd spot any vessel that threatened to stray too close.

It was a still day, but even so the
Rosario
rolled a lot in the swell. She seemed a sturdy enough boat, but Max wouldn't have wanted to be out in her in a storm. He peered through the side window of the wheelhouse. Shadow Island was a couple of miles away
to the north, still too far for him to be able to make out any of the details.

“Can we get nearer?” he said.

Isabella adjusted their course. “There are binoculars in there,” she said, nodding at a locker on the floor.

Max lifted the lid and saw life jackets, a tarpaulin, an emergency flare, and various ropes inside. He rummaged underneath the life jackets and found a scuffed leather case containing a pair of ancient binoculars.

He trained the binoculars on Shadow Island and adjusted the focus. He could see the rocks at the base of the island, the sheer cliffs above them with the stone fortress on top.

“Are there rocks all the way round?” Max asked.

“Yes.”

“So how do you land on it?”

“There is jetty. That is only place,” Isabella said. “On southwest corner. You see it?”

“Yes, I see.”

The jetty was made of huge blocks of stone like the ones that had been used to build the fortress. It protruded about twenty or thirty yards from the island, coming out beyond the rocks to provide deepwater
mooring for boats. Max could see a vessel there now—a sleek, streamlined launch with a small forest of radio antennae and satellite-navigation equipment on its cabin roof. It looked very expensive and very fast. Not the kind of vessel that you could outrun in a battered old tub like the
Rosario
.

Max studied the island. He had never seen such an impregnable-looking place. There was an uninterrupted rim of sharp rocks that made approaching by boat hazardous. Then, even if you got over that obstacle, there was a sheer sixty-foot-high cliff in front of you that only an expert mountaineer with ropes and pitons would be able to scale. Above the cliffs were the smooth, high stone walls of the fortress, which no one, not even a skillful climber, would be able to tackle. Max could see why marauding buccaneers had once made it their base.

“Do you think you can get close to the southeast corner?” he said.

Isabella looked at him, her expression concerned. “You think about that pipe? Angel Romero said you die if you try to swim it.”

“It could be my only way onto the island,” Max replied. “I'm a good underwater swimmer. I want to see what it looks like.”

“It very dangerous. This Consuela, she must be very special.”

“She is.”

Isabella studied him a moment, then turned the wheel and opened the throttle a little. The
Rosario
headed across the sea toward the island. Max waited until they were a hundred yards off the southeast corner, then stripped down to his boxer shorts. Isabella adjusted the engine and rudder until the boat was side on to the island.

“Okay,” she said. “This as close as I can get.”

Max went down on all fours and crawled across the deck before slipping over the starboard side, knowing that the bulk of the wheelhouse had shielded his actions from any watching eyes on Shadow Island.

He swam under the hull of the boat and kept going underwater toward the island. The water was clear, but too deep for him to see the bottom.

After fifty yards the rock shelf loomed up ahead of him and he felt the tide pulling on his body. The waves on the surface were beginning to break over the rocks, so he swam deeper to keep out of the turbulence.

Max scanned the edge of the rock shelf where it plunged down in what appeared to be a bottomless
subterranean cliff. The shelf was composed of layers of jagged rock, the uneven edges softened by a thick coat of seaweed. Where was the pipe? It had to be somewhere around here. Max swam closer. How long had he been underwater? A minute? Maybe a minute and a half. He was still feeling comfortable, but knew he'd have to surface for air pretty soon.

The shelf was close enough to touch now. Max stretched out a hand and ran his fingers over the carpet of seaweed. Was he in the right place? He'd thought the opening of the pipe would be obvious, but he couldn't see it. He turned and swam along parallel to the shelf, examining the rocks as he went. Maybe the pipe wasn't there any longer. Maybe Romero had remembered its position incorrectly.

Max felt a pain in his chest: His body was running out of oxygen. He kicked upward. As he broke the surface, he snatched a mouthful of air but saw a big wave rolling toward him. He ducked back down quickly before he was swept onto the rocks. He hadn't filled his lungs. He needed more air if he was to stay under for any further length of time. He went back up to the surface. This time there was a gap between waves. He took a huge gulp of air and dived back down to resume his search.

Twice more he had to surface for air. He was becoming demoralized. Where
was
this pipe? He had to find it. Isabella could only stay nearby for a limited period of time. If the patrol boat came out and ordered her to move away, Max would be stranded, with no means of getting back to the shore. Romero had said the currents off the island were treacherous. Max was a strong swimmer, but he didn't rate his chances of making it back to the mainland through an angry ocean.

Perhaps he'd missed the opening of the pipe. He turned and swam back the way he'd come. With breaks for air, he must have been underwater for seven or eight minutes. He was getting tired. He peered at the rocks but could still see nothing resembling a pipe. There were clefts and hollows and deep crevasses and—

Max stopped abruptly and swam back a couple of yards. He'd noticed a distinct shape in the layer of seaweed—a long, rounded ridge running back toward the island. He put his hand on the seaweed but could feel nothing solid beneath. He pushed his fingers deeper. It was hollow behind the seaweed. Max ripped away some of the trailing fronds and saw a dark, circular opening—he'd found the pipe.

Using both hands now, he tore off the rest of the
seaweed curtain and gazed into the hole beyond. It was about two feet in diameter, but it was too dark to see very far. Max put his head and shoulders in. The pipe was wide enough for him to swim through, but was it clear all the way to the end? And how long was it? A hundred yards, Romero had said. But was he right?

Max felt himself running out of air. He propelled himself up to the surface and trod water for a time, filling his aching lungs. He looked across toward the jetty, and his blood went cold. The patrol boat was racing out toward them.

Max took a deep breath and dived back under the water. He didn't think anyone on the patrol boat had seen him—it was too far away for that—but he had to get back to the
Rosario
before the patrol boat reached it. It was less than a hundred yards. He could do that distance easily without coming up for air. But could he do it fast enough? He kicked hard, pushing himself to the limit. He'd never swum so fast in his life. He saw the hull of the
Rosario
in front of him and glanced back. He couldn't see the patrol boat yet. He just needed a few more seconds, that was all. The
Rosario
was almost over him now. Isabella would be able to see him in the clear water. Max swam underneath the
boat, surfacing on the starboard side. He clung to the trailing bow rope, gasping for air.

The patrol boat approached, coming to a stop a few yards away from the
Rosario
. A soldier with a submachine gun in his arms called out to Isabella in Spanish.

“These are private waters. What are you doing here?”

“I've come to fish,” Isabella shouted back.

“Fishing is forbidden. You should know that. Move away now.”

“What?”

“Move away.”

The soldier let off an angry burst of submachine gunfire, peppering the water between the two boats. “Next time, we'll sink you.”

Isabella scurried into the wheelhouse and rammed the throttle forward. The
Rosario
sped away, Max hidden from the soldier's view. He clung tightly to the bow rope and was towed along, the water buffeting his body. Only when they were well away from the patrol boat did Isabella throttle back and stop. Max hauled himself up onto the deck and crawled into the wheelhouse.

Isabella was ashen-faced. The gunfire had terrified her. “Thank God you are safe!” she exclaimed,
exhaling with relief. “I see you come under boat, but after that I don't know what happen to you.”

“I'm okay,” Max said, still a little breathless after his battering in the water. “You're not hurt?”

“Not hurt. Just scared. We should not stay here longer.”

Max looked back at the island. He picked up the binoculars and trained them on the jetty, half a mile away. Two men came down the steep steps from the fortress and walked out along it. They were dressed in military fatigues and carried submachine guns over their shoulders.

“Look!” Isabella said.

She was pointing diagonally ahead: A motor launch identical to the one that had left the jetty was speeding toward the island from the south.

Max watched the launch through the binoculars. It slowed and came alongside the jetty. Two sailors leaped ashore and tied the boat to a couple of mooring posts. Then a short gangplank was extended and a man was escorted off. He wore a blue shirt and faded jeans. Max couldn't see his face. He was walking a little unsteadily, his arms in a strange position. Max realized with a jolt of shock that he was handcuffed.

The two armed guards took hold of the man and
led him away along the jetty. They went slowly up the steps and through the big iron-studded wooden doors at the main entrance to the fortress.

Max lowered his binoculars. “You're right, we should go,” he said.

Isabella pushed the throttle lever forward. “Did you find the pipe?”

Max nodded.

“Can you swim it?”

“I don't know. We'll find out tonight.”