David Gibbins - The Mask of Troy

Costas glanced at him, then put up his hand. ‘And now for the best part,’ he bellowed. ‘For the real men.’ He sat heavily by the water’s edge, then reached back ostentatiously to his bag, clanging together some glass bottles. He pulled one out, and held it up to the light. It was a half-bottle of vodka. ‘Ah,’ he exclaimed loudly, smacking his lips. ‘Krepkaya. The best.’ The three Russians watched in amazement as Costas knocked the cap off on a rock and put the bottle to his lips, gulping down half of it. He let out a long gasp, then passed the bottle to Jack, who put it to his lips, tasted it with relish, then drained it. He gasped, nodded appreciatively, then tossed the bottle into the pool, before turning back and checking his equipment. The Russian with the tattoo got up and took a few steps over to them, lumbering in all his gear. He pushed Costas’ shoulder roughly. ‘So,’ he said, his English guttural and heavily accented. ‘A little drink for the nerves, no?’ He jerked his head towards the pool, then turned back to the other two Russians, smirking. ‘A little too much fear, eh?’

Costas stopped adjusting his helmet and slowly gazed up at the man, a look of utter contempt on his face. He suddenly erupted in laughter, and turned to Jack, barely able to control his mirth. ‘This moron thinks we’re afraid of that little puddle.’ Jack shook his head, snorting in derision. Costas turned back to the man. ‘You idiot. We always drink alcohol before a deep dive. It dilates the blood vessels. Stops us getting the bends. Learned it from the old French navy divers. Really tough guys. They’d break a Spetsnaz like a matchstick.’

The man leaned heavily over and took Costas’ chin in his hand, twisting it. ‘I’ll fucking break you before today is over.’

Costas pushed him away. ‘So that’s what your boss ordered? At least we know where we stand.’

The man reached back to Costas’ bag, where two more bottles were visible. Costas shot out his arm and put it over them. ‘Only one bottle for the three of you. Dr Howard and I are used to it. It’s extra proof Krepkaya. You won’t have the stomach for it.’

‘Fuck you. We’re Russian.’ The man pushed Costas’ arm aside, and yanked out the two bottles. He broke open the lids with his teeth, first one, then the other, and passed one to the nearest of the other two men. Then he tipped up the other bottle himself, drinking deeply. As he wiped his lips, gasping, Costas spat on the rocks beside him. ‘Hey. Chechnya. Don’t drink too much. I don’t want to swim in your vomit.’ The man snarled at Costas, then tipped up the bottle again, nearly draining it. He gasped, then passed the remainder to the second man, who finished it, then did the same with the bottle from the other man. The air stank of alcohol. The Russians donned their face masks and put in their regulators, then followed the tattooed man into the pool, staggering and slipping on the salt. Costas shouted at them, ‘Test your regulators. Go under the surface for three minutes.’

They all disappeared under the surface, leaving only a maelstrom of bubbles. Wladislaw came up quickly and knelt down between Jack and Costas, whispering urgently. ‘What the hell was that all about? Sure alcohol dilates the blood vessels, but it also dehydrates. That causes the bends. What were you doing?’

Costas peered at him. ‘What we were doing, Jack and I, was keeping hydrated.’

Wladislaw knitted his brows. He suddenly understood. ‘You mean your bottle was water.’

Costas nodded. Wladislaw stared at him. He stared at the bubbles. ‘So who the hell are these guys? What’s going on here?’

Jack turned to him, speaking low, quickly. ‘We didn’t want to tell you. In case they realized that you knew. Your life would be in danger.’

‘Knew what?’

Jack clicked on his visor monitor and paused. He saw that Costas was ready. He made the ‘okay’ sign, and Costas repeated it. Jack kept his visor open and turned to Wladislaw. ‘Do you have children?’

‘Three.’

‘My daughter’s been kidnapped. Whoever’s running these three guys is extorting us. There’s something down there they want.’

‘ Your daughter. My God.’ Wladislow looked stunned. He spoke in a whisper. ‘So this has all been a set-up? It wasn’t IMU who contacted us after all. You’re not searching for Neolithic remains.’

‘Not this time.’

‘This has something to do with the Nazis.’

Jack nodded.

‘I knew it,’ Wladislaw exclaimed. ‘ I knew it. From what the old Jewish survivor told me, I knew something sinister had gone on down here.’

Jack spoke urgently. ‘I was given instructions by phone yesterday after my daughter was abducted. They’re using us to find a hidden Nazi treasure because they think it’s down at the very base of the fissure, more than a hundred metres below water level. We’re expert divers and know how to find treasure. They got hold of some old Nazi document. Their leader, the one with the Chechnya tattoo, knows the details. We’re supposed to follow him, and he’ll point the way. Costas thinks he knows where it is already, from his talk with the man earlier and from your plan of the mine he’s programmed into our helmet computers, which shows only one possible route beyond this pool. Then they stay at the maximum safe depth for their breathing gear, and wait. We find what they want, then they dispose of us on the way back up.’

The head of a diver bobbed up on the surface, breathing noisily from a regulator, staring at them. Costas shut his visor and gave the thumbs-down sign, moving to the edge of the water and pushing off. The diver who had surfaced descended beside him. Wladislaw turned to Jack, helping him with his helmet. ‘Quickly. Tell me anything I can do. I’ve got a pistol in my office.’

‘Too late for that.’

‘Do you have any weapons?’

‘Costas has tools for bomb disposal. He thinks that whatever’s down there might have been booby-trapped by the Nazis.’

Wladislaw nodded. ‘The Nazis did that when they concealed stolen treasures, works of art.’ He paused. ‘Is that what this is all about?’

‘I’ll tell you. When we surface. Here’s what I want you to do now. Take my phone. It’s in my fleece pocket. Don’t answer it if anyone rings. But there’s a text message ready to send to our security chief. It says Das Agamemnon-Code. It means we’ve gone under, and everything is as planned. Go back to the surface, send it, then leave this place immediately. Don’t call the police. Go home, collect your family and take them away somewhere safe, somewhere far away. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going. A sudden little holiday while the mine is shut. Then call IMU. They’ll look after you. Use your own phone, not mine. Leave mine on your desk, where I can find it. It’s my only contact with the kidnapper. If we escape this he’ll know about it, and I’ll need to speak to him.’

Wladislaw put his hand on Jack’s shoulder. ‘Understood.’ He paused. ‘Your daughter.’

‘Yes?’

‘What’s her name?’

‘It’s…’ Jack swallowed hard. The enormity of it suddenly hit him. What were they doing to her, right now, at this very moment? His voice was hoarse, a whisper. ‘It’s Rebecca.’

‘Rebecca.’ Wladislaw knelt up. ‘Good. For Rebecca. You can rely on me.’

Jack reached up and squeezed Wladislaw’s hand, then flipped down his visor, sealed it and clicked on the intercom. He heard Costas’ breathing, a measured, reassuring sound. ‘Costas. You read me?’

‘Loud and clear. You okay?’

‘Roger that.’ He slipped into the water, feeling the pressure against his e-suit, his cocoon against the water. He made himself remember how much he enjoyed that sensation, how relaxed it made him feel, the beginning of a dive. He took a few deep breaths from his rebreather, and glanced at the readout inside his visor. Everything was good. He just had to stay in control. To forget about the tunnel, the walls. To stem his anger, his terrible fear for Rebecca, to let the adrenalin work for him, not against him. He would pay back those who had done this. He would relish it. But not yet. He took another deep breath, and clicked on the screen display inside his helmet, showing a 3-D lattice map of the labyrinth ahead of them, their route marked out in red. He dropped below the surface, watching the green water rise up his visor, seeing Costas’ face in front of him. The forms of the other three divers were visible in the gloom beyond, the beams from their headlamps wavering in the water. He switched on his own headlamp, keeping it angled down to avoid it shining directly in Costas’ eyes. Costas put out his right hand and turned his thumb down. ‘Good to go?’