As Dillon and Chapman passed by the inflatable, the big German ducked down out of sight, only reappearing after they’d left the marina area, and had moved out into the mainstream of the harbour.
Kurt said, “Was there a name on that boat, Charon?”
“Wave Dancer that’s what it’s called,” Charon told him. “I asked up at the dive shop. You know I’ve done a lot of diving around these islands, and I’ve heard of this Chapman. He’s one hell of a diver.”
Kurt nodded. “Okay, we’d better get back and let Herr Malakoff know what’s happening.”
Charon cast off, Kurt started the outboard, and they moved away.
The Wave Dancer was doing a steady fifteen knots. The sea was not as calm as it could have been, and Dillon held on tight as the boat rode up over each rolling wave and then plunged back down again.
“Do you suffer from sea-sickness?” Chapman asked.
“Not that I know of,” Dillon shouted above the roar of the engine.
“I’m glad to hear it, because it’s going to get worse before it gets better. But, we’ve not got much further to go now.”
Waves rolled in, long and steep, and the Wave Dancer continued to carve her way through them. Dillon hung on, taking in the incredible scenery, and then they were close to Fiquet Bay, turned in towards it and moved into the calmer waters of the small deserted bay.
“Fiquet Bay,” Chapman said. “A nice dive.” He pressed a button on the consul and the anchor dropped.
“There’s not much to tell you. Thirty to eighty-five feet, and only a light current at this time of the day. The reason I’ve brought you here is because of the wreck. It’s lying on a ridge at about sixty feet. Nothing special to say about it, except that it’s about seventy years old, and thought to be a French trawler that ran onto the rocks during a storm.”
“Sounds like the kind of place you’d bring novices,” Dillon said, pulling on his black and red wetsuit.
“Doesn’t matter whether you’re a novice or an experienced diver. This site is not only interesting. It’s safe.” Chapman told him calmly.
Dillon got into his gear quickly and fastened a weight belt around his waist. Chapman had already clamped air tanks to their inflatable jackets, and helped Dillon ease into his while sitting on the dive platform in the stern. Dillon pulled on his gloves and adjusted his mask.
Chapman said, “See you at the anchor.”
Dillon nodded, checked that the air was flowing freely through his regulator, and went over backwards into the sea. He swam under the keel of the boat until he saw the anchor line, and then followed it down, pausing only to equalise the pressure in his ears by swallowing. A technique designed to alleviate the discomfort felt as one descends and ascends on a dive.
He reached the ridge, paused with a hand on the anchor, and looking up saw Chapman’s blue wet suit rip through the surface in a gush of white bubbles, before descending to join him. A large shoal of mackerel scattered as Chapman swam to where Dillon was patiently waiting for him. At that moment, an amazing thing happened. A grey seal about two metres in length shot out of the gloom, and on seeing Dillon, turned and darted off towards the shallower waters of the bay.
Chapman made the okay sign with his finger and thumb, and Dillon responded in kind before following him as he led the way along the ridge. As they went over the edge of the reef Chapman pointed towards the sheer wall of granite that disappeared straight down into the darkness of the deep water. It was covered in elegant sea fans and soft coral. All crammed together with jewel anemones in every shade of the rainbow. Chapman paused, pointing, and Dillon saw a huge reef conger pass in the distance.
It was a pleasant dive, but nothing out of the ordinary and after about thirty-five minutes they were back at the anchor line. Dillon followed Chapman up the line nice and slow, finally swam under the keel and surfaced at the stern. Chapman unfastened the harness of his buoyancy compensator jacket and took it off. With practised ease, he hauled himself up onto the dive platform pulling his gear behind him. Dillon did the same with his jacket, and Chapman reached down and pulled it and the air tank on board. Dillon joined him a moment later.
Chapman went straight to work, clipping fresh tanks to the jackets, and then went and pulled in the anchor. Dillon towelled himself dry and then poured himself a coffee from the thermos flask that Chapman had brought with them.
“The grey seal,” he said. “Does that happen often?”
“Not often enough, I’m afraid. Think yourself privileged to have seen one at such close quarters.”
“That’s the first time I’ve ever seen one in open water.”
“I’ve been diving these waters for years, and it never ceases to amaze me just how graceful they are down there.” Chapman told him.
“How often would you see one of those grey seals?”
“How often, well, let me put it this way. I doubt very much whether you’ll see another while you’re staying here. Sure, they’re dotted around the island, but they’re very shy and afraid of humans, and they have good reason to be as history shows. Did you enjoy the dive, by the way?”
“Yes, it was fine thank you.” Dillon shrugged.
“Which means that you thought it was a little tame and you’d like a little more excitement.” Chapman started the engine and engaged the gear. “Okay, let’s go for something a little more exciting then.” Chapman said, and he opened up the throttle and took the Wave Dancer out of the bay into open water.
They went back around the island anti-clockwise passing St. Catherine’s Bay on the way. Some distance away the Solitaire was at anchor in deep water half a mile off Rozel Bay. Pierre was on the upper deck, scanning the area with binoculars. He recognised Chapman’s boat and told Captain Armand who examined the chart, and then looked up on one of the computers a list of dive sites in the Channel Islands. “Keep watching,” he told Pierre as he scrolled through the information on the flat screen.
“They’re dropping anchor,” Pierre informed Armand, “and it looks like they’re running up the dive flag.”
“Saie Harbour,” Armand said. “That’s where they’re diving.”
At the moment Kurt came in and held the door open for Malakoff who was wearing a dark blue blazer, open neck shirt, and pair of lightweight beige trousers.
“What have you to report, Captain?”
“Chapman and Dillon are about to go diving, Monsieur.” Armand pointed in the direction of Saie Harbour and handed Malakoff the binoculars.
Malakoff could just make out the two men moving about in the stern of the Wave Dancer. He said, “Could that be where the tunnel entrance is?”
“No way, Monsieur,” Armand told him. “It’s a fairly difficult place to dive, but it’s popular with all of the dive schools and visited many times a week throughout the summer season.”
“Is that so?” Malakoff said. “Well, put the inflatable in the water, and we’ll go and have a look anyway. I think this is a good opportunity to see what these two divers of yours, Mazzarin and Zola, can do.”
“At your command, Monsieur, I’ll get things organised,” and Armand left the bridge followed by Pierre.
Kurt said, “You wish me to come too, Mien Herr?”
“What a splendid idea.” Malakoff said. “Even if Dillon sees you, it really doesn’t matter. After all, he definitely knows you exist.”
The cliffs, at first glance, appeared alive with gulls and terns of every kind perched up on the ridge. Some circled high above the turbulent sea, squawking as they soared effortlessly on the offshore breeze.
“Saie Harbour,” Chapman said. “I’d rate this as an advanced dive and most definitely not for the faint hearted. Drops down to about ninety-five feet. There’s the wreck of a De Havilland mosquito down there, that the Nazis shot down as it was making its way back from the coast of France. There are a number of ravines, fissures, two or three smallish tunnels and a wonderful show of rock and coral reefs. Unfortunately there is one problem, the current, it’s especially strong at this time of the day.”