The heavy machine gun in the stern of the patrol boat raked them with a murderous fire, the Buona Esperanza reeling at the impact, and Chavasse ducked as he finished his last magazine and portions of the roof disintegrated above his head.
Orsini was still firing, the barrel of the submachine gun braced against the side of the wheelhouse. As the patrol boat veered in a wide arc, cutting across their bows again, Chavasse snatched a grenade from the box beside Liri, pulled the pin and ran out on deck.
For a brief moment, the patrol boat was so close he could see the expressions on the soldiers’ faces, and as it swept by he lobbed the grenade over the railing to her stern. It started to roll, one of the soldiers kicked out at it frantically, and then it exploded. When it cleared, only the tangled wreckage of the machine gun was left. The soldiers had vanished.
The patrol boat ran on into the mist and there was quiet. Liri got to her feet, blood on her face, and wiped it away with the back of her hand.
“Will they try again?”
“Certain to. They’ll be a little more careful next time, that’s all.”
Orsini was leaning over the engine room hatch and he stood up and came toward them. “Not so good. At least another fifteen minutes.”
They looked at each other without saying anything, knowing what that meant, and quite suddenly Kapo’s voice boomed out of the mist. “Why don’t you give in, Chavasse? You can’t hope to get away.”
Liri gave a startled exclamation and Orsini reassured her. “Don’t be alarmed. He’s using a loud hailer, that’s all. I wonder what the swine’s playing at?”
“Not interested,” Chavasse called.
The engines of the patrol boat roared into life and it erupted from the mist, the men at her rail raking the Buona Esperanza with small arms fire.
Chavasse shoved Liri down against the deck and Orsini crouched beside them, the submachine gun chattering angrily. He stopped firing abruptly just as the patrol boat disappeared into the mist.
He checked the magazine, then tossed the weapon into the wheelhouse. “What about the Bren?”
“Nothing left for that either.”
Orsini went and pulled the small box of grenades from under the chart table. “At least we’ve got these.”
“If they come close enough,” Chavasse said.
Kapo’s voice drifted out of the mist again. “It’s obvious that you’re incapable of moving, Chavasse, but I’ll be generous. Give yourself up without any further nonsense and I’ll let your friends go free. I give you my word. I’ll give you ten minutes to think it over. After that, we’ll come and finish you off.”
In the silence that followed, Orsini gave an audible grunt and disappeared down the salon companionway. When he returned, he carried the spare Aqua-lung.
“Help me get into this thing quickly,” he said to Liri, and turned to Chavasse. “You’ll find some more of that plastic explosive in the salon, Paul, and some chemical detonators. Get them quickly.”
“What in hell do you think you’re playing at?” Chavasse began, but Orsini gave him an angry shove.
“Don’t argue. Just do it.”
The Italian was buckled into the Aqua-lung and pulling on his rubber flippers when Chavasse came back on deck with the bandolier of explosive.
“I’m going to have a go at fixing Kapo once and for all,” Orsini said as he fastened the bandolier around his waist.
Chavasse shook his head. “You haven’t got enough time left.”
Orsini grinned. “That’s what they told me in forty-one when I took a team into Alex. But we got in and out and left two British destroyers squatting on their backsides in the mud. I know what I’m doing.”
He pulled his mask down, turned from Liri’s white face and vaulted over the rail. He had only a rough idea of the direction of the patrol boat, but he knew it couldn’t be far away. He swam very fast, kicking strongly with his webbed feet, and within a couple of minutes had penetrated the mist.
He surfaced gently and looked about him. There was no sign of the patrol boat, but Kapo’s voice boomed over him and he saw a dark outline in the mist.
“Five minutes, Chavasse, that’s all.”
Orsini went under, swam forward, and the keep of the patrol boat loomed out of the water. He worked his way along to the stern, opened the pouches of his bandolier and squeezed handfuls of the plastic explosive between the propeller and the hull. He was fast running out of time and he pushed home the detonator, snapped the end and turned away.
He drove forward, drawing upon his final reserves of strength, feet churning the water into a cauldron, and then the hull of the Buona Esperanza seemed to be moving toward him and he surfaced.
Chavasse leaned over the rail, Carlo beside him, and they hauled him up onto the deck. Somewhere, through the roaring in his ears, the engine of the patrol boat rumbled into life.
When the explosion came, it echoed through the rain and the screams of the dying mingled with it. For a long time, debris continued to fall into the water, and then there was silence.
“Holy Mother,” Carlo said in awe. “She must have gone down like a stone.”
Orsini slowly unbuckled the straps of his Aqua-lung. “How are things below?”
“All finished,” Carlo said. “We can move out whenever you’re ready.”
Liri was kneeling beside Orsini, her cigarette tin open. Chavasse dropped beside them, took one and bent his head to the match as it flared in her hands.
Orsini looked at him curiously. “You’re sorry about the girl?”
“Anything she got, she asked for.”
Chavasse turned and stood at the rail, aware of the tightness in his throat that couldn’t be logically explained, remembering a gay and lovely girl he had met a thousand years ago at an Embassy party in Rome.
His head was aching and he was tired, damned tired, and she was calling his name over and over again. He closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, she came swimming out of the mist.
She had never looked lovelier, dark hair spreading around her in the water, eyes large in the white face. As she drifted in, she looked up at him appealingly.
“Help me, Paul! Help me!”
He looked down at her, remembering Matt Sorley, Dumont and all the others, good friends who had gone to a hard death because of her.
Orsini said, “For God’s sake, Paul. Are we animals?”
Chavasse turned and looked at him and the Italian shrugged. “If you won’t help her, I will.”
He started forward and Chavasse shook his head. “My affair, Guilio.”
He reached down and pulled Francesca aboard and she sprawled on the deck, coughing and gasping for breath. “Thank you, Paul. You’ll never regret it, I promise you.”
As she got to her feet, her hand swung up and he was aware of the blade, shining in the harsh morning light. He tried to turn, but he was too late and it caught him in the left side, slicing through flesh, bouncing from the rib cage.
He staggered back, recoiling as much from the cold hatred in her eyes as from the force of the blow, and Orsini cried out in dismay. Chavasse was aware of the knife raised high, gleaming in a ray of early-morning sunlight, which at that moment pierced the mist, and then Liri’s voice was lifted in a savage cry.
She moved forward, the heavy automatic Orsini had given her in both hands, and one heavy slug after another hammered Francesca back over the rail into the water.
Chavasse was aware of Orsini kneeling beside him, of Liri throwing the gun far out to sea. He took a deep breath, fighting against the pain.
“I’m all right, Guilio. I’m fine. Just let’s get to hell out of here.”
Orsini called to Carlo in the wheelhouse and, a moment later, the engines started and the Buona Esperanza moved forward slowly.
They passed through a great widening circle of wreckage from the patrol boat and Liri, standing at the rail, called out sharply and pointed to the water.