66 Metres (15 page)

‘Must have been a good diver to rescue you.'

He looked at her intently. ‘The best. Anyway, the point is, it's physiological. You can't control narcosis except by build-up dives.' He shouted over the din of the engines to Ben. ‘What's on for tomorrow?'

‘A seventeenth century galleon. What's left of it.'

Jake laughed, and rolled his eyes, and spoke directly to her. ‘Bullshit. It's a scenic dive. Pete will be back tomorrow. He'll tell you there might be golden doubloons down there, even after all this time. Then, when you're down below, he'll throw chocolate coins covered in gold-coloured foil after you.'

She smiled. ‘Thanks for the warning.'

He grew more serious. ‘We dive the Tsuba again on Monday.'

She sat up. ‘What about Pete? Will he agree?'

‘Leave him to me. Long time since I saw the Tsuba's propeller.' Jake chewed his lip a moment. ‘A few of us will be eating at Old Smithy's Inn tonight, if you want to join us.'

‘Maybe,' she said. It would give her the alibi for what she planned later.

Like the narcosis suddenly lifting, her plan was on track again. She'd text Kadinsky once back at the inn, inform him she'd have the Rose in two days, just within his margin. She relaxed. It was too noisy to talk at any length, and post-dive fatigue kicked in, so she slumped down, sat on the bottom of the boat, and leant her head back on the rubber tube, letting the sun and wind dry her hair. Occasionally she opened her eyes to see Jake and Ben chatting at the front of the boat. As her eyes lingered over Jake's form, she realised something else had happened inside the wreck. Throughout her life, she'd never let anyone hold her close – it always made her feel claustrophobic – even Viktor, after sex. And since Slick and Pox, well… In her lifetime, she'd only ever let her father really hold her. But inside the wreck, Nadia had let Jake rescue her, pull
her out of the mess, and she'd felt… secure. That was rare. And utterly futile. She closed her eyes. Forget it. Not going to happen. The Rose, Katya, Kadinsky, period.

Despite the noise and constant bumping along on the waves, nitrogen-fuelled sleep took her.

***

Adamson found Ben closing up the dive shack for the day.

‘Hello there, how's the diving today? My name's Bill, by the way.' He thrust out his hand.

Ben clicked the padlock into place, beeped on the burglar alarm, then shook Bill's hand. ‘Ben. The diving is always good here. Are you a diver?'

‘Used to be, years back. Bahamas mainly, some nice wrecks out there.' He beamed. ‘Where'd you go diving today?' Adamson half-turned, as if they might both set off together back into town.

Ben faced Adamson square. ‘The Tsuba, a World War Two cargo ship, torpedoed by a U-boat in 1942, seventy-four souls lost.'

Adamson frowned. ‘Terrible shame, there must be so many war-related shipwrecks out here.' He paused, inviting Ben to say something. He didn't, nor did he start to leave. ‘Is it a deep wreck?'

‘Quite a few wrecks in the Scillies are deep.' Ben's face was poker-neutral.

Adamson maintained his smile. ‘And this one?'

‘Depends how deep you want to go.'

Adamson could keep his smile up all day. ‘What depth is the sea floor out there?'

‘Sixty-six metres.'

‘Woah, that's way too deep for me. Isn't that a technical dive, you know, helium and all that?'

‘Yes, it would be. Trimix: oxygen, nitrogen and helium.'

‘Do you have trimix here?'

‘No, only Kennedy's do trimix.'

‘So, today you –'

‘Dived to forty-eight.'

‘I see. Well, I've taken up enough of your time, thanks for the chat, maybe I'll dive something a little shallower late in the week.'

‘We're open every day,' Ben said.

Adamson carried on walking. The conversation had been unnecessarily edgy, Ben must have been pissed off for some reason, or else he simply didn't like Americans. It didn't matter, he had the information he needed. At the far end of the harbour wall he checked to see Ben had left, then he pulled out his personal encrypted phone – not the CIA one – and dialled a number he hadn't used in over a year. He didn't need to look it up, he had a memory for numbers.

‘Charlie? Yeah, it's Bill… I have a job for you, urgent… Underwater, Scilly Isles, a wreck called the Tsuba… Bring a buddy, someone you trust, who doesn't ask questions… A Level One job… Sixty-six metres… Trimix would be a good idea, or even better, closed circuit rebreather. Bring your own equipment… No, this one's private… Ten times the usual rate.' He listened for the ‘affirm', then hung up.

The sun was setting, and the town lights glistened in the last of its rays, vivid red shapes waxing and waning on the rippled sea surface. It all looked so peaceful, idyllic. He headed back to the hotel. Nobody paid him any attention, or gave him a second look. He was bland, forgettable, his own personal camouflage. No one remembered his face, unless it was the last thing they saw, and then not for long.

He breathed in the fresh sea air. Sandy and Arnie both loved the seaside. Later, he'd phone home to find out how Arnie's day had been. He whistled a song as he walked, unable to remember its name. He thought about it. Numbers he could recall, but hardly any songs. And faces? Well, mostly, faces he tried to forget, except his family. The sun dipped below the horizon and the breeze picked up, so he pulled up his collar, felt the comforting weight of the Smith & Wesson under his left armpit, and walked a little faster.

***

Jake stepped outside Smithy's to take the call, where the street was noisy as revellers headed to one pub or another. Perfect cover.

‘Jake?' It was Lorne.

He had to hold his left palm over his free ear to hear her properly. ‘I'm here. News?'

‘You did good, Jake. Quite the trove here in Frankfurt. One of our persons of interest who stole the device was here, and there's another lead straight back to Russia. We're locking everything down, but it'll probably break the news tomorrow evening.'

He was surprised. Frankfurt had been a shot in the dark, or at least into the grey. But he was relieved it wasn't Nadia. He wanted to ask Lorne if they had evidence it was the Kolorokovs. But not on a phone, no matter how well encrypted. ‘Need me there?'

There was a pause. ‘Enjoy the Scillies, you've earned it. And Elise. But keep the phone live until we're done. Any developments, call me.' She broke the connection.

He put the phone in his pocket. Ah yes, Elise. Unfinished business. More accurately, barely started. A few-nights-stand that hadn't ended too well, if it had ended at all. But it was history, at least for him, over a year with no contact. He went back inside. Despite everything, it would be good to see the rest of the old gang. Still, he found himself glancing up the stairwell, hoping Nadia would join them later.

Chapter Eight

Nadia sat naked on the armchair in her cramped room in the roof space of Old Smithy's Inn. Stars peeked through the skylight. Idle banter from patrons standing outside the pub, having a quick smoke, competed with the less distinct hubbub that permeated all the way from the bar up to the third floor. Conversation, music, occasional shouts, babies' cries. Her fingers itched to nurse a cigarette, but so far she'd stuck to her decision three months ago to give up. One reason she didn't go downstairs.

Jake was the other. She could occasionally pick out his strong tenor voice. He'd been on her mind. She closed her eyes for a moment, imagined him naked next to her. Earlier she'd glanced at his body while he changed out of his wetsuit. A swimmer's physique, her second favourite after gymnast. And his hands. Her fingers drummed on her thigh. She hadn't come in a while, and the episode with Mike, difficult though it had been, had re-awakened her hormones. Jake's voice drifted upstairs again, a laugh this time. She sat up straighter, and crossed her legs yoga-style.

To business. She weighed the pros and cons. Pro: he fit the bill of a sufficiently advanced diver to help her get close to the Rose. Con: he wasn't alone. He was clearly with friends down below. Pro: he was here, now, and willing to take her to see the prop in two days, and she was under time pressure. Con: he was smart and in control underwater. That could be tricky when she swam away from the wreck to find the device. Pro: he liked her – at least she thought he did, despite his cool behaviour, which she put down to his professional demeanour. Con: she liked him.

That was the problem.

Her phone beeped. Kadinsky. Of course. She stood up and clicked on the short link embedded in the SMS. Her breath shallowed. A silent video showed a face, up close, a manicured finger vertical across brightly rouged lips, laughing, heavily mascaraed eyes, tousled dark hair. Katya mouthed two words in Russian:
Still alive
. As proof she drew back and held up an iPad playing BBC World's latest news broadcast. Nadia had seen it earlier that evening – she made a point of watching it every night on account of Kadinsky's little routine – right after she'd visited Kennedy's to plant the bomb. The London heist had been masked as a helicopter stunt for a movie, and only occupied sixth place on the network headlines. No mention yet of three bodies found in Penzance.

Nadia watched her elder sister. Katya's pupils were dilated, so she was high. Katya mouthed two more words –
love you
– then her face grew more serious, more alert, as if suddenly remembering this wasn't a game.
Take care
, she mouthed, adding
Miss you.
She touched a finger to the tiny scar on her temple left by Nadia's bullet five years earlier, then, just as she began to
say something else, the image moved abruptly. Nadia bit her lip. She saw a man's legs ending in expensive shoes. The video changed. Someone walking in the woods in daytime. They stopped before a crudely dug rectangular hole in the ground. An empty grave waiting, a rolled up black plastic bag lying on the damp soil.

Sonofabitch!

Nadia's breathing turned scratchy, her palms suddenly clammy. She took a slow, deep breath, squeezed her eyes shut for a few seconds then opened them. She knew the routine. What she wanted to do was tie up Kadinsky, castrate him with a serrated knife, feed him his balls, and see if he bled or choked to death first. Instead she typed a reply:
Thank you. Working on it. Weather favourable. Monday looks good
. She hit ‘send', checked it had gone, then threw the phone onto her bed. Sitting on the edge of the soft mattress, she touched a finger to her left temple, felt the smooth skin, and glanced at the clock: 9:30pm. Half an hour before the fireworks. She got dressed in a loose t-shirt and jeans, snapped the skylight closed and headed downstairs.

She paused out of sight on the broad landing above the bar, the noise rising like heat. Everyone downstairs was having Saturday night fun, talking shit and getting drunk, or trying to get into each other's pants. Meanwhile, her only sister was effectively a slave, one of many in Kadinsky's lair. Whatever Katya had meant to him five years ago, her favour with him had clearly diminished – she was a disposable asset.

The landing reminded her of a thermocline, found when diving in deep water, a thin band separating one layer of warmer water from another one just below, around six degrees cooler. Except this thermocline was upside-down. She inhabited one world – brutal, ice cold and unforgiving – while those downstairs and elsewhere on this sun-drenched holiday isle lived in ignorant bliss. Yet she had to step into that layer and act like one of them, gain their trust, and then betray them. Not invite them into her layer, but at some point they – Jake in particular – would glimpse her through the hazy thermocline, and see her for what she was. A liar, a user, and sooner or later… a killer. Her mother would add, ‘Like your father.'

She remembered, at sixteen, defending her deceased father during one of her screaming episodes with her mother. He'd been an agent in the special forces, Spetsnaz. Nadia had insisted that he'd worked for the government, for the good of Russia. He'd been a patriot. Her mother had turned her back, but the next day had taken Nadia on a seven-hour bus ride to another town, Lobuensk. Without explaining anything, she dragged Nadia to a local cemetery, and found a cluster of graves. All kids, the eldest Nadia's age. Nadia had stayed silent until she got home the next day. Straightaway she went to her room and started scouring the internet. It didn't take long. A hostage situation gone badly wrong, Russian crack agents sent in to free a dozen schoolkids and their teacher. One American version said the orders from the Kremlin had been to kill everyone, including the hostages, as a lesson to terrorists everywhere that such blackmail wouldn't work in Russia. There was a single video clip of three masked gunmen storming the building. Nadia focused on one of them. He moved like her father when he went hunting.

Nadia's mother appeared at the bedroom doorway, her eyes red-ringed and puffy. Her hands tugged at a damp handkerchief, as if trying to tear it apart.

‘Children, Nadia, they were children. I couldn't sleep with him after that. So he found others. I didn't really care about his sluts. It was the killing. I watched it change him. I begged him to give it up, but he wouldn't. He said it was his job, that he was trapped. But I could see it in his face. He was addicted to it, to killing.' She turned and walked away, then paused at the top of the stairs. ‘Ask your sister, Nadia. Ask Katya.'

Nadia never did.

She brought herself back to the present. She checked the time, got up and walked down to the next layer, slipping through the thermocline into the normal world, which she was about to disrupt.

Four tables stood under the low, oak-beamed ceiling in the room, a lounge that joined the main bar area through an archway. Floral wallpaper, whose original colour was lost to time, was plastered everywhere, with sepia photos of the Scillies in former years. Hard-backed books hung from the ceiling on short wires. Nice touch.