Dark Waters (Mephisto Club Series Book 1) Page 13

  Chad's protestations tailed off as the Russian leader took out a pistol, inspected it, sighted along the barrel at the quayside. The leader put the gun back into his waistband, then looked out at the harbor.

  “I see no Fox,” he said. “I just hear words. I cannot give Mister Korochenko words. He wants a head. You see my problem, Chad?”

  “Yes, yes, I see it. Hey, what do I call you, anyhow?” asked Chad.

  “You can call me Mister Green,” said the leader. “And my friends here are Mister Blue, and Mister White.”

  “Oh for Christ's sake, give me a break – in the movie–” Chad began, regaining some confidence.

  Green nodded to Blue, a barrel-chested man with arms like a gorilla, who stepped forward. Chad fell silent and retreated until he was stopped by the cabin door. Blue, with an almost casual movement, punched Chad in the stomach and left him doubled up on deck, vomiting.

  “Very unpleasant,” said Green. “Now you will have to mop it up, Lisa. That is your job, yes? What these British call dogsbody – funny word!”

  Mister White leered at Lisa, stepped over to where she was cowering by the stern.

  “No, boss,” said White. “This one is too pretty to be a cleaner. I say we take her with us, yeah?”

  He reached out to stroke Lisa's cheek. She flinched, and he grabbed her face, turned it to his own.

  “I will break you in, English lady,” he breathed. “It will be fun. The other girls will be glad to help.”

  “No, kidnapping is not part of the deal,” Green said. “Leave her be.”

  White stepped away from Lisa, blowing her a kiss. Green picked up some postcards from a folding table, frowned at them, placed them inside his jacket. Blue, meanwhile, had picked up a phone and was fiddling with it. He paused, snapped out a few words in Russian. Green took the phone, then held it out for Lisa to see.

  “This is the treasure, yes?” he said.

  Lisa looked at the image of a golden cross. She struggled to recall if Dan had mentioned it, shook her head in panic.

  “I don't know,” she said. “I didn't go to the church, Dan must have taken that picture.”

  There was another exchange in Russian, then Green walked over to Chad and kicked him in the abdomen. Chad groaned, curled up into a ball.

  “Mister Korochenko, he likes art,” said Green. “So maybe he will like this piece of art. Perhaps if I fail to kill Fox, it will be, how you say? Compensation. Maybe. But that is Plan B. Plan A is same as before. You deliver Fox. Now, where did they go, this clever American and his English diver friend?”

  Chad moaned, but said nothing. Lisa lunged forward, desperate to protect her boyfriend, and got down on her knees in front of Green.

  “We don't know! They wouldn't tell us!” she insisted, clutching at him. “They just said it was somewhere safe.”

  Green shook her off with an expression of mild distaste and walked to the landward side of the yacht. A small group of locals had gathered on the quay about twenty yards away, and seemed to be talking among themselves. Green said a few words in Russian and then got off the boat. White followed, while Blue stood over Lisa and Chad. Green looked back from the jetty and spoke.

  “Perhaps your memory will improve by the time we get back, eh? Let us hope so.”

  ***

  Michael Malahide was finishing a frugal midday meal when he heard the gunfire. At first, he was unsure, wondering if he had heard the sharp crack. The next shot left him in no doubt. He had done some work in parts of the world where shootings were common. He knew the sound of a pistol, even at a distance.

  “What's going on?” he asked Morag, who was standing and looking out of the kitchen window. “Is it the police? Or the army?”

  Malahide imagined troops landing in force to deal with the islanders once and for all. He visualized camouflaged men storming up the beach, firing warning shots, seizing control of the post office.

  “Don't be silly,” said Morag, glancing back at him. “It's some more strangers. It seems the new lot have some kind of dispute with the first group.”

  She sounded less sure of herself than usual, Malahide noted. For the first time since he arrived, he began to wonder if the cult the islanders subscribed to could really protect them. He thought of the modern world, with its complex and often deadly technologies. Then he recalled the dark embrace of Mother Hydra, and shuddered.

  Whatever happens now, I can't go back to my old life. I'm part monster, freakish.

  “You stay here, Mike,” Morag said decisively. “I'll go and see what's happening.”

  The priest looked down at the meal on the table in front of him. It was fish pie. It was always fish pie. The locals never had any trouble catching fish with minimal effort. Malahide pushed the plate away from him, and stood up. He felt conflicted, with an ingrained desire to tackle conflict vying with something new, and confusing.

  I disgust myself, he thought. I am not a fit representative of Our Lord. I am weak, a failure.

  Despite the inner harangue of his conscience, Malahide made his way from the house to the church, determined to do something, anything, rather than sit idly by. He felt an instinctive desire to prove himself, not merely to God, but to his own better nature. And it occurred to him that one way to do this would be to rid the Lord's house of one obvious abomination.

  Chapter 9: Gods and Monsters

  When they reached the cliff, Steve led Dan along the uneven, rocky barrier. By now, Dan was exhausted. The baggy dry suit slowed him to a snail's pace, and the buffeting of the Atlantic currents in shallow water made progress even more difficult. They were just a few feet below the surface, now, and Dan kept glancing up, expecting to see the mobsters' boat appear. He kept imagining what might have happened to Lisa and Chad, despite his best efforts to focus on the sea floor, the cliffs, and Steve's rhythmic swimming.

  Just as Dan was beginning to despair, the cave mouth loomed out of the greenish murk. Steve turned, gave a thumbs-up, then kicked towards the dark aperture. Dan suddenly felt apprehensive. He thought of the strange entities he had seen in the church murals, the peculiar unblinking stare of Morag. A familiar British saying came to mind, one that seemed apt despite the inappropriate imagery.

  What if we're jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire?

  His hesitation meant that he slowed, then stopped, his buoyant suit keeping him in place above the sea bed. Steve was almost out of sight, and Dan still could not bring himself to kick himself into motion again. He looked up, still seeing no sign of pursuit, and then around him. The sea floor consisted of fine sand strewn with a few boulders, presumably dislodged from the cliff above by storms. Something gleamed directly below Dan. He focused his flashlight and it picked out a silvery patch. He kicked downwards, instead of ahead, made a quick scooping motion, came up clutching a metal disc.

  He floated again, a man-shaped blimp, gazing at the tarnished coin. It was silver, crudely minted, decorated on the obverse with the head of a monarch. Dan was not a Renaissance specialist, but he instantly recognized Philip the Second of Spain, the monarch who sent his fleet against England.

  A stray piece of the treasure, he thought. Loose change, perhaps, exposed by a rock fall.

  A firm hand grabbed his wrist, and Dan almost dropped the coin. Then he saw Steve peering into his mask, presumably checking for signs of narcosis. Dan shook his head, held up the silver piece, then put it into a pocket on his suit. Steve nodded, jerked a thumb at the cave mouth, then held up his air gauge. Dan realized that they had not replenished the Nitrox tanks after Lisa and Chad had had their harbor dive. They were almost out of gas.

  Dan began to swim with renewed urgency. Steve was moving into the cave again, glancing back this time to make sure Dan was following. They headed into darkness, the green light fading. In the gloom, Dan saw his arms produce luminous trails as microscopic creatures reacted with light to his disturbing the water. Ahead, Steve was surrounded by a faint aura. As his eyes adjusted, Dan saw that the
cave floor was not wholly natural. Rough rock gave way to what looked like worked stone slabs. Then, ahead of them, a flight of steps loomed into view.

  Steve slowed, turned in the water, adjusted his suit, and sank onto the lowest step. Dan guessed what his companion would ask before Steve signaled his question.

  Going up?

  ***

  Malahide rounded the corner onto the quayside just as the fight broke out. Two strangers, both thick-set, shaven-headed men in expensive-looking clothes, were surrounded by perhaps twenty island men. Moira Bell was looking on, with Morag at her side. The less hefty of the two newcomers was shouting something that the priest could not quite make out. The man's voice had a thick accent. Malahide thought he might be East European.

  “There's no need for violence, we can settle this in–” the priest began to shout.

  His words caused heads to turn, and the intruders saw this as an opportunity. The bigger of the two took out a pistol and struck the biggest of the local men on the back of the head. His companion rushed forward, grabbed Morag, and dragged her up against the wall of the post office. Suddenly both men were pointing guns at the small crowd.

  “Yes,” said the first man. “No need for any more violence. All we want is Fox, the American. You know where he is. You will tell us.”

  The man who had been struck got up from the cobblestones and lunged forward, arms outstretched. The larger intruder shot him in the face. The back of the islander's head erupted in blood, bone, and gray matter. His body collapsed onto the quayside like an over-filled sack of old clothes.

  “Oh God have mercy,” murmured Malahide.

  “Now you get the message!” shouted the first man, jamming the muzzle of his gun against the side of Morag's head. “You give us the American, we go, nobody else dies. Or maybe a few more, if you are too slow.”

  “You don't have to do this!” Malahide shouted, surprising himself. “If this is about money, you can have this instead.”

  He walked forward, holding out the golden crucifix. The two strangers both turned their guns toward him, but he did not flinch. He pushed through the semi-circle of locals and stopped five feet away from the criminals and their hostage. Morag, who had looked terrified a moment earlier, now seemed angry.

  “You can't give them that!” she hissed.

  “Shut up, bitch!” grunted the bigger thug, adding something in his own tongue.

  Both men were gazing in fascination at the cross. Malahide knew that gold fever often possessed a certain type of man, driving out all other thoughts.

  “Put it down,” the leader said, gesturing with his gun. “We will take it.”

  When Malahide put the golden cross down, he backed away a couple of steps. The bigger man stooped to pick up the crucifix. Then he held it up for inspection, and the intruders were distracted once more. Before Malahide could protest, the islanders rushed forward, and there was a flurry of shots. Three more men lay bleeding on the quayside, four more staggered away, severely wounded and moaning.

  “You'll pay for this, you!” Morag spat, adding a strange sound that might have been a word.

  “No, you will pay!” shouted the man who held her. He raised his voice, addressing what remained of the crowd. “We will take your cross back to our ship, thank your priest. We will take this nasty little girl, too. You will get her back when you bring us the American. Now back off!”

  Malahide stepped aside along with the others as the gangsters took their captive back along the quayside. Then the leader seemed to have second thoughts. He turned, gestured at the priest.

  “You too, holy man! You come, too! They will not let anything happen to their brave priest, eh?”

  Now there's irony for you, Malahide thought as he walked up to the bigger intruder and was instantly grabbed in a brawny arm. The muzzle of the gun was still hot as it was pressed against his temple.

  ***

  Dan struggled for a few moments with his buoyancy valve so that he could set his feet onto the steps. Then he followed Steve up the stone stairway. His head emerged from the water to see the light from Steve's flashlight playing over the dank walls of a cavern. It was almost entirely filled with water. The divers were standing on a narrow ledge. In front of it, a low tunnel led away into darkness.

  Removing their masks, Dan and Steve exchanged a few words. It was obvious that they could not go back. They took off their useless Nitrox tanks and left them on the ledge, but decided not to spend more time removing their bulky suits. As they took stock of the situation, Dan asked, “What next?”

  “Onward and upward, with a bit of luck,” Steve remarked. “Here, take this.”

  He drew a knife from a sheath on his ankle and handed it to Dan, then took a much bigger weapon from his waistband.

  “I like your priorities,” Dan remarked sourly. The blade he held was about four inches long.

  Steve shrugged.

  “That's how the cookie crumbles, mate,” he said. “We're bringing knives to a gunfight, so size isn't really the issue, is it?”

  Dan had no answer to that, so instead he followed the Englishman along the corridor. When they saw the staircase ahead of them, Dan felt momentary elation at the thought of escape. Then it occurred to him that everything they had seen so far supported Malahide's claims of a weird oceanic cult on the island.

  “Maybe it leads into the church,” he suggested as they slogged up the steps.

  “Low door,” Steve said, his voice echoing back to Dan. “Might mean a secret exit.”

  There was a dull thud.

  “I think it's locked,” Steve added.

  Dan crowded in alongside Steve and between them they began to shove the door. It seemed weak, but it became obvious that something heavy was on the other side. It gave, slightly. They paused, sweating in their heavy suits.

  “Steady, rhythmic shoving,” Dan said. “That might get it done.”

  Steve nodded, and they both put their gloved hands against the wooden planks. When they pushed this time, the door flew open, slamming back on its hinges. They fell forwards into dazzling daylight.

  “Pick them up, quickly,” said a woman's voice.

  Strong hands grabbed Dan and dragged him roughly across what he realized was a tiled kitchen floor. His skull connected with a table leg, and he swore.

  “That's the American,” said the woman. “He's the one we need. Put the other one back. Let them take him.”

  Dan, groggy from the blow, saw Steve kicking and bellowing as he was forced back through the low doorway. The door was held shut until an old freezer was pushed across it. Then two men lifted Dan onto his feet. A short woman with huge, dark eyes took his face between her strong, clammy hands.

  “I don't know who you are,” she said in a softly-accented voice, “and I don't really care. You've brought misfortune to us, and to our cousins below. Don't give us any more trouble or we'll gut you. Understand?”

  To underline the point, one of the men held up Steve's serrated blade in front of Dan's face. He nodded, fear clogging his throat. He felt the same despair that had gripped him in the gangsters' limousine. But that had been in a city. This time, far from any man-made law, there seemed not even the slightest hope of escape.

  Why me? What have I done to deserve this?

  The islanders dragged him out of the house, onto the road leading down into the harbor. As he tried to stay upright, Dan heard Melinda's voice, whispering close to his ear.

  “You just keep on being you, I guess. That pretty much explains it all.”

  ***

  Malahide made his mistake when, scared and confused, he was half-thrown into the main lounge of the luxury yacht. Morag was already inside, standing against the wall, looking down. A man in a costly-looking suit was standing over her, a shot glass of clear amber liquid in one hand. He held the glass under Morag's nose. She recoiled, gagged.

  “So, single malt not to your taste?” purred the man. He, too, had an accent that Malahide decided must be Russ
ian. “Yet it is the drink of this country, these islands. Still, we are all individuals. Are we not, Father?”

  The man turned to face Malahide, then stammered something incoherent. The gorilla-like thug walked up to what was obviously his boss and offered him the crucifix. The boss gave a quizzical smile.

  “What is this? A cheap trinket? Surely it is I, the brave explorer, who should be offering such things to the–”

  The leader paused, reached out for the cross, hefted it in one hand. Then he examined it more closely, turning it over, gazing at the precious stones. Then he looked up at Malahide.

  “Treasure island, eh Father? Is there any more like this?”

  “I don't know,” said Malahide, his words coming quickly, his voice high. “I think they spent most of it on building the church because it's really a temple to their gods, false gods, but real ones–“

  The man frowned, held up a hand. The gorilla-thug slapped Malahide to silence.

  “I'm sorry, Father, but I think you are hysterical,” the boss said. He walked over to a low table and put the cross down. “Now, if this is all the treasure they have, that is a pity. But even if they had a hundred gold crosses, it would not compensate me for the humiliation I have endured from that – American.”

  The boss hawked and sent a gob of saliva into a silver spittoon by Morag's feet. She flinched. Malahide felt a sudden, irrational desire to protect the girl, in spite of everything she and her people had done.

  “You can't just wait around indefinitely,” he pointed out. “It's not safe.”

  The boss nodded to his henchmen, who bundled both Morag and the priest onto a curved leather divan. The boss sat down opposite them, leaned forward in a businesslike manner.

  “Yes, time is always a factor in these affairs,” he said. “But I am guessing that the police take a while to respond to a call from an island so far away from the mainland. When exactly did you call them, Father?”