He kept on his shirt, pants and shoes against the cold, went over the side and struck across the channel. Orsini followed a moment or so later and swam into the mist in the opposite direction.
It was bitterly cold and Chavasse coughed, retching as the strong earthy stench caught at the back of his throat. He swam into the reeds, following a narrow waterway that turned in a circle, bringing him back into the main channel.
He tried another, emerging a few moments later into a shallow lagoon no more than four or five feet deep, and he swam across into the reeds, forcing his way through. Just then, Orsini called through the mist from the other side of the barrier and Chavasse pushed toward him. He came out on the perimeter of a lagoon no more than a hundred feet across as Orsini surfaced in the center.
The Italian floated there, coughing a little, hair plastered across his forehead. Chavasse looked down at the launch, mirrored in five fathoms of clear water, then did a steep surface dive.
He swallowed to ease the pressure in his ears, then grabbed for the deck rail and hung there. The launch had tilted over on the shelving bottom, and he worked his way round to the stern, where he found the name Teresa – Bari inscribed in gold paint across the counter. He had a quick look at the general condition of the wreck, then released his hold and shot to the surface.
He trod water, gasping for air and grinned at Orsini. “Good navigating.”
“My mother, God rest her, always told me I was a genius.”
Orsini turned and swam across the lagoon, plunging into the reeds, and Chavasse followed. They emerged into the main channel within sight of the dinghy and swam toward it.
“Any luck?” Francesca asked.
Orsini nodded. “Just as you described. So near and yet so far. Without that cross-bearing it would have been hopeless. One could have searched these marshes for a year without finding anything.”
They climbed back into the dinghy and he started the motor and steered for the wall of reeds. For a moment, they seemed an impossible barrier and Chavasse and Francesca pulled desperately with all their strength. Quite suddenly, the reeds parted and the dinghy passed into the lagoon.
Orsini cut the motor and they drifted toward the center. Francesca gazed over the side, down through the clear water, her face very pale. She shivered abruptly and looked up.
“Will it take long?”
Orsini shook his head. “We’ll fix a line to hold us in position and one of us will go down. With luck we’ll be out of here in a couple of hours.” He turned to Chavasse. “Feel like another swim?”
Chavasse nodded. “Why not? It couldn’t be any colder than it is up here.”
The wind sliced through his wet shirt as he lifted the Aqua-lung onto his back and Orsini strapped it into place. Francesca watched, eyes very large in the white face, and Chavasse grinned.
“A piece of cake. We’ll be out of here before you know it.”
She forced a smile and he pulled on his diving mask, sat on the rail and allowed himself to fall back into the water. As he surfaced, Orsini tossed him a line. Chavasse went under, paused to adjust his air supply and swam down toward the launch in a sweeping curve.
The Teresa was almost bottom-up, and he hovered over the stern rail to attach the end of his line and then swam toward the deckhouse, which was jammed against the sandy bottom of the lagoon at a steep angle.
There were jagged bullet holes in the hull and superstructure, mute evidence of the fight between the Teresa and the Albanian patrol boat. Some sort of a direct hit had been scored on the roof of the salon and the companionway was badly damaged, the only entrance being a narrow aperture.
He managed it, pulling himself through by force, the Aqua-lung scraping protestingly against the jagged edges of the metal. The salon table had broken free of its floor fastenings and floated against the bulkhead together with several bottles and the leather cushions from the salon.
There was no sign of the Madonna or anything remotely resembling it, and he swam toward the door leading to the forward cabin. The roof at this point had been smashed in by what looked like a cannon shell and a twisted mass of metal blocked the door. He turned and swam out through the salon, squeezed through the entrance and struck up toward the light.
He surfaced a few feet astern of the dinghy and swam toward it. Orsini gave him a hand over the side and Chavasse crouched in the bottom and pushed up his mask.
“The interior’s in one hell of a mess. Stuff all over the place.”
“And the Madonna?”
“No sign at all. I couldn’t get into the inner cabin. There’s a lot of wreckage at that end of the salon and the door’s jammed.”
“But that is where it is!” Francesca said. “I remember now. Marco put it under one of the bunks for greater safety when the shooting started. It was wrapped in a blanket and bound in oilskin against the damp. The whole bundle was about five feet long.”
Orsini pulled a package from under the stern seat. “A good thing I brought along some of that explosive. You’ll have to blast your way in.”
He unfolded a bandolier and took out a piece of plastic explosive shaped like a sausage. “That should be enough. We don’t want to blow the whole boat apart.”
From another bundle he took a small wooden box containing several chemical pencil detonators, each one carefully packed in a plastic sheath.
“How long do these things give me?” Chavasse demanded.
“A full minute. I’ve got some which take longer, but I left them on the boat.”
“Well, thanks very much, friend,” Chavasse said. “What are you hoping to do – collect on my insurance?”
“A minute should be plenty. All you have to do is insert the fuse, break the end and get out of it. I’ll go myself if you like.”
“Stop trying to show off,” Chavasse told him. “In any case, you’ll never get that frame of yours in through the salon companionway.”
He was conscious of Francesca’s face, white and troubled as he gripped the rubber mouthpiece of his breathing tube between his teeth, pulled down his mask and went backwards over the side.
He went down through the clear water quickly, negotiated the companionway with no trouble and moved inside. He jammed the plastic explosive into the corner at the bottom of the door, inserted the detonator carefully. For a moment, he floated there looking at it, then he snapped the end.
The fuse started to burn at once, fizzing like a firecracker, and he turned and swam for the companionway. As he squeezed through the narrow opening, his Aqua-lung snagged on the jagged metal. He paused, fighting back the panic, and eased himself through. A moment later he was shooting toward the surface.
He broke through at the side of the dinghy and Orsini pulled him over. There was a muffled roar and the dinghy rocked in the turbulence. The surface of the water boiled and wreckage bobbed up, sand and mud spreading in a great stain toward the reeds.
They waited for fifteen minutes, and gradually the water cleared again and the hull of the launch became visible. Orsini nodded and Chavasse went over the side.
There was still a lot of sand and mud hanging in suspension like a great curtain, obscuring his vision, but not seriously, and he went down toward the Teresa.
The explosion had even disturbed the entrance to the companionway, the turbulence blowing the wreckage back out onto the deck, and he passed through the salon himself with no trouble.
Where the door to the cabin had been, there was now only a gaping hole, and he swam forward, paused for a moment and then moved inside.
The tiered bunks were still intact but bedding floated against the bulkhead, moving languorously in the water like some living thing. He pushed his way through their pale fronds and looked for the Madonna. It became immediately obvious that he was wasting his time. There was no five-foot bundle wrapped in oilskins as Francesca had described.