David Gibbins - The Mask of Troy

…’

‘Of course,’ Raitz whispered. ‘ Of course. I swear on the soul of the Fuhrer. I will tell nobody.’

‘My grandfather went into the forest. He hid there. He said it was a fearful place, with SS guards and former inmates trying to kill each other. He was desperate for food. He found a bunker. He saw a man go in and out, not someone he recognized. He followed him once into the bunker, hoping to find food. What he saw there was beyond your wildest dreams. All of the great lost works of art are there. A veritable shrine to your Fuhrer. But there was another room. That room contains what I want. In the door he saw an impressed swastika shape in a roundel. A reverse swastika. It was a keyhole. Some kind of magnetic key.’

‘And you think the key is what’s hidden in the mine,’ Raitz whispered.

‘My grandfather had only a few moments inside the bunker before he crept out. The next day he saw two Allied officers go in with the man. The door shut itself and they never came out. He thought he might have heard a gunshot inside. Then the weather got worse and he had a bad feeling. He had just reached the edge of the forest that evening when it began to rain bombs.’

‘My God. The bunker is still there?’

‘Buried under a NATO airbase.’

‘Have you tried to see how we might get there?’

‘That’s the next stage.’

‘This is wonderful,’ Raitz said, his concerns about the Dutchman forgotten. ‘This serves your cause. And my cause.’

‘And what is that?’

‘The thousand-year Reich,’ Raitz said reverently, clumsily clicking his heels.

‘ Jazaka Allahu Khairan,’ Saumerre replied, closing his eyes.

Raitz stared at him. ‘What does that mean?’

Saumerre opened his eyes. They were burning with fervour. He stared at Raitz, then seemed to remember where he was, and relaxed. ‘I was forgetting myself. I am a Muslim, you remember, on my father’s side, Algerian. It means good luck. May Allah reward us with good. It’s just an expression. Now, I can still smell that Jew. We have arrangements to make. Let’s get out of here.’

T he Turkish navy crewman opened the throttle on the outboard and the Zodiac boat roared away, digging a trough in the sea and then rising above it to skim towards the distant grey shape of the minesweeper. Jack grasped the railing and leaned out through the stern of Seaquest II ’s internal docking bay, a hangar-sized space open to the sea below that allowed diving and submersible launch in virtually any conditions. Today the sea had been unusually calm, a sluggish low swell occasionally ruffled by the early-afternoon breeze, and Captain Macalister had kept the stern door open. Jack closed his eyes and took a deep breath, relishing the breeze, the tang of salt, the whiff of two-stroke exhaust. These were the smells he had associated with diving all his life, the smells that meant he was in the right place, doing the right thing. He felt a burst of adrenalin. It had been a frustrating morning, as they had negotiated the best way to remove the mine from the shipwreck. But now they were back on course, and he could focus again on what he was about to see on the sea bed, a find that almost beggared belief, the extraordinary remains of a galley from the Trojan War.

Costas came up alongside, wiping his oily hands on a rag, wearing torn working overalls with tools poking out of the pockets. He followed Jack’s gaze, and looked wistfully at the Zodiac as it receded into the distance. ‘It should have been me,’ he said. ‘Defusing that mine. It makes me feel empty inside.’

‘Not as empty as you’d feel if it had gone off while you were hugging it.’

‘Speaking of which.’ Costas pointed out to sea, and Jack saw that the Zodiac had come to a stop, perhaps a mile from the minesweeper. Two men came up behind them, Mustafa Alkozen, the IMU Turkish liaison, and Ben Kershaw, the ship’s security chief. Mustafa, a muscular, bearded man with a deep voice, had a two-way radio receiver clamped to his ear. He took it down. ‘Captain Macalister has just been informed by the captain of Nusbat. One minute.’ The ship’s klaxon sounded to warn the crew to brace for impact. They were well outside the danger zone, but Macalister was taking no chances. Jack looked out into the haze off the bows of the minesweeper, two, maybe two and a half nautical miles distant, Gallipoli just visible in the background, the coast of Troy to the right. Suddenly there was a wobble in the sea and a white ripple that flashed outwards, followed by a geyser of spray. Seconds later he felt something, barely discernible, as if a ghost had passed through them. ‘That was the shock wave, this far away,’ Costas said, shaking his head. ‘Imagine those guys in the Turkish minelayer in 1915, snagging one of those things. They wouldn’t have stood a chance.’

Jack turned to Mustafa, smiled broadly and shook his hand. ‘Thanks again. That was excellent liaison. I’d like to have some of their guys dive with us, once the excavation gets under way.’

‘You have a standing invitation to the Turkish naval academy for dinner, you know that. You and Costas. You’ll be very well looked after.’

‘I know about Turkish hospitality. I’d be delighted. I’ve got some good friends there from my navy days, and now some more. Once we’re up and running.’

Ben nodded at Jack. He was a small, wiry man, with a quiet voice, British ex-special forces. ‘They should have let you take out that mine with the Webley.’

‘You kidding? You should have seen me yesterday. All over the place.’

‘I was watching from the bridge. Not a bad final shot.’

‘Pure fluke. I’d given up trying.’

‘That’s often the key. It’s what I tell Rebecca. Stop trying so hard, relax.’

‘She’s a better shot than me.’

Ben grinned. ‘You better watch it, Jack. She’ll be taking over.’ He stood quietly for a moment, a little awkward. ‘I meant to say. I really would have gone with her to London, you know. You just had to say the word. She’s… a really good kid. Hard to think what it was like on board without her. My guys would do anything for her. You know that.’

‘I know.’ Jack put his hand on Ben’s shoulder. ‘And I appreciate it. Really do. She thinks of you guys, the crew, as an extended family. It’s the best thing for me to see, especially after what she’s gone through.’

Ben nodded. He patted a bulge in his jacket. ‘I’ve done those reloads for you. Took the bullet weight down a notch, two hundred and sixty-five grains. That should do the trick. Wouldn’t mind having a go myself.’

‘See you on the foredeck after dinner?’

‘You’re on.’ Ben waved, and he and Mustafa walked back through the jumble of equipment. Jack turned to Costas. ‘So what’s the story with my Aquapod?’

Costas exhaled forcibly, shaking his head. ‘Can’t work it out.’

Jack looked at him incredulously. ‘I didn’t hear you say that.’

‘Jeremy and I spent half the night on it. He’s got a real knack. Sees things like you do, sees the whole problem first and then deconstructs it. Too many engineers are the other way round, too logical. I can’t really understand what made him leave engineering to study ancient languages, for God’s sake.’

Jack grinned. ‘Same kind of challenges. Just less oily.’

‘The problem’s not a safety issue. It’s the external link on the intercom. We can communicate between the Aquapods, but you can’t link to the outside. We think it might be pressure-related. Only way to find out is to take it down.’

‘Fine by me. I never liked talking much underwater anyway. That’s the problem with all these submersibles. Diving’s about getting away from that. Just you and your breathing.’