She had expected blackness but it was far worse than her fears. She worked by touch alone, striking down until one hand scraped on iron and she fumbled her way along the superstructure, passed one door, closed, reached the second that was the wireless office and found it open.
She dared not enter. She kicked up for the surface, broke into the air five yards from the boat and stroked towards it and clung to the side, gasping.
Francis stooped over her, peering closely and she panted, “About over there. But look, when I go down again I’ll have to find the thing all over. Take off this line, will you?”
“You’ve got to have a line!”
“I need it for something else.” And as he reluctantly picked at the knot, “The only way I can do it is to use the line as a guide.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Have you got a better idea?”
Francis had: pack the lot in. But he shook his head and she took the end of the line from him. Her breasts rose and fell under the now transparent chemise as she breathed deeply, then she was gone again.
That dive sufficed to mark the wireless office and she tied the line to the handle of the door.
On the third dive she followed the line and entered the office. After long seconds of awkward groping she located the desk and a drawer beneath. It was open and she felt a key in the lock but the drawer was empty. She turned to re-surface and found she had lost her bearings and went bumping around in the steel cell, fumbling for the door. She found it only when her lungs were bursting and lights wheeled across her eyes, kicked clumsily through it and up.
She paddled only feebly to the boat and clung to the side, exhausted. Francis said, “Good God! Here, let’s have you in.” He reached for her but she flapped at his hands.
“No! Leave me alone! Just give me a minute.”
He had to wait while she tried to fight down fear and fixed her mind on Thunder and the six hundred men aboard her … David Cochrane Smith. She said, “All right. I should have taken the slack of the line in with me. That’s what I’ll do. I found the desk and a drawer but it was empty. Must be another one.”
Francis said, “Wait a minute. The drawer was open?”
“That’s right. Key in the lock. Why? What is it?”
Francis said slowly, “If the feller in there had thought the ship was in danger or that somebody might get hold of the book he would have got it out ready to ditch it.”
“So it could be kicking around on the deck in there.”
Francis thought glumly, ‘Or lying at the bottom of the bay.’
Sarah said, “I’ll try the office again.”
Francis chewed his lip then said grudgingly, “Once more, then that’s the finish.”
“I’ll finish when I’m ready.”
He caught her eye and did not waste time on argument, but privily decided that this was the last dive and she would be hauled aboard whether she liked it or not.
He said, “It’ll be heavy, weighted so it would sink —”
“I know that!” She dived, and he waited.
She entered the office, taking the slack of the line with her in a loop around her wrist, feeling the light strain kept on it by Francis in the boat. She felt below the desk, around the chair bolted there, moved back towards the door… She felt rough canvas, a bag, a handle to it. It was weighty and rested on something. The thing moved, touching her arm as she lifted the bag. She felt at it with the hand that trailed the rope, meaning to push it away, but her hand clasped another, fingers groping.
Air exploded from her with shock. She kicked and went hand over hand up the line, banging through the door, iron stripping skin from her shoulders.
On the surface Francis felt her tugging and hauled in on the line, only to be checked as it tautened between him and the door below. Then Sarah burst up scarcely a yard away, threshed wildly one-handed, spat and took a whooping breath.
Francis thrust the boat away from the funnel and as it moved to her he reached over, grabbed her and manhandled her in over the side to lie gasping, shuddering. She still held the bag and Francis took it from her. “What happened?”
He had an arm around her, lifting her. With his free hand he reached to his hip pocket and pulled out a flat bottle. She accepted the bottle, gagged on the rum but felt it burn inside her. She shook her head or it shook despite her. Then: “There was a — that bag was lying on — a man.”
Francis said softly, “Oh, my God.”
Then the faint light around them was snuffed out. They turned as one to stare across the pool and saw Thunder, now a dark bulk except for her navigation lights, moving, slipping gently towards the channel.
Francis said, “She’s on her way.” He picked up an electric torch and crouched in the bottom of the boat, shading the light with his cupped hand. In the little glow he tugged at the straps of the bag that were water-soaked and stiff, then swore impatiently, took a clasp-knife from his pocket and sliced through the straps. The bag was waterproof and the book was dry. He opened it, riffled through the pages and sighed. His teeth showed as he grinned up at Sarah. “You got it. This is it. Their code-book.” He stepped light-footed aft and as he started the engine Sarah stared after Thunder, now a blurring shadow and thought, ‘This will make a difference, all the difference. This is his justification, this will give him time.’
Kaufmann blinked as Thunder slipped away but his eyes went quickly back to the boat moored over the wreck of the collier. The boat was also moving and there was no stealth about her now. The noise of her engine growled at him across the pool and she ran straight for the quay. His engineer asked, “We go?”
Their orders had been to observe Thunder and report but Kaufmann shook his head. He could catch the old cruiser at Stillwater Cove.
“No. You wait here.” And he leapt from the boat, ran up the steps to the quay and crossed it quickly to seek the shadows of the buildings. From that sheltering gloom he watched the boat sweep in, lost it as it ran in under the quay but heard the falter and die of the engine. A second or so later a girl climbed on to the quay, her dress clinging to outline the figure. She turned and called down to the boat, “I’m heading straight for the consulate. You follow when you’re ready.” She hurried across the quay and entered a narrow street.
Kaufmann hesitated only briefly while he reasoned. The girl carried under one arm a bag that still dripped silver drops as she crossed the quay. It had come from Gerda and she was hurrying to the British consulate. There was nothing conclusively menacing about that but it suggested — Enough. The mere possibility that they had found proof of Gerda’s real purpose was enough to merit action and Kaufmann’s course was clear. He could not follow the girl up that street but there were other ways to the British consulate. He broke into a run.
His way took him twisting and turning through alleys so narrow that he blundered along in near total darkness. Once he tripped and sprawled his length but rose immediately and ran on, but limping now. He came out into a narrow street that ran on to a wider thoroughfare and there was light ahead of him there. The thoroughfare led to a square. Light spilled out on to the square from the windows of the houses that surrounded it but it did not reach the garden of shrubs and feathery topped trees that laid a dark shadow across the centre of the square. He ran to that darkness and into it, became part of it. He leaned against a tree and panted, wiped at his wet face with a handkerchief. He was a young and active man but the race had stretched him and the fall shaken him. He thrust away the handkerchief and closed his eyes for seconds, trying to regain his calm. That was essential.