Keys of Hell by Jack Higgins

Author:Jack Higgins
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Thriller
ISBN: 9781585470365
Publisher: Berkley
Published: 1965-01-02T00:00:00+00:00

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.

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