by Jack Higgins
Darcy surfaced, reaching for the girl, and found himself under heavy fire from two of the Albanians who crouched by the rail of the MTB with submachine guns. In the wheelhouse, Rossiter gave the engines full power and spun the wheel, and in the same instant, Chavasse’s second grenade exploded under the bow, blowing most of the stern away and taking the propeller with it. The MTB shuddered and bucked like a live thing. As she slowed, Chavasse tossed his last grenade. It landed amidships and exploded with shattering force.
Rossiter was at that very moment emerging from the wheelhouse and the blast blew him into the water. The MTB heeled over, black smoke pouring from the engine hatch. Two of the Albanians still crouched at the rail, firing toward Darcy. Chavasse moved a few yards to one side, to a place where he could get a clear view, and drove them both over the side with a long burst from his machine pistol.
There was some kind of explosion in the engine room and flames burst through the hatch. The entire boat seemed to lurch to one side, rolled over and started to sink.
It was all over. In the sudden quiet, the only sound was Famia’s hysterical cries as she floundered through the shallows, trying to pull free from Darcy Preston’s restraining hand.
Chavasse slung his machine pistol and swam toward them. When he was close enough to their side of the lagoon, he started to wade, reaching for the girl’s left hand. She struggled fiercely, with a strength that was frightening in its power. For a moment, the three of them were caught in a mad tableau, Chavasse hanging on to one hand, Darcy Preston the other, at the same time trying to hold his machine pistol out of the water under the mistaken impression that it would cease to function if wet.
And then it happened like something out of a nightmare. Out of the water from amongst the floating wreckage, Rossiter rose like some terrible phoenix, his body soaked in blood. That strange aesthetic face was calm, devoid of all expression, the wet flaxen hair plastered into a skullcap.
The girl screamed his name, tore herself free and plunged toward him. In the same moment, his right hand went back, there was a click, a flash of steel in flight.
Everything seemed to happen at once. The girl still frantically trying to tear herself free, floundered across Chavasse’s path and the knife buried itself in her heart, the ivory Madonna protruding from beneath her breasts.
Rossiter gave a terrible cry, reaching out toward her, and Darcy Preston emptied the machine pistol into him, driving him under the surface of the water.
Chavasse caught the girl as she swayed, a look of complete surprise on her face. He held her close to him and gently eased out the knife. In the same moment that it left her body, the life went out of her also. She hung for a moment in his left arm and then he released her and she sank from sight.
He turned and Darcy cried, “Is this what we came for, this butcher’s shop?”
He threw the machine pistol into the water, turned and waded through the shallows to L’Alouette. Chavasse went after him, and when he scrambled over the rail, Darcy was already in the wheelhouse.
The boat started to move, pushing its way through the narrow waterway, emerging a few moments later into the main channel. Beyond, through the rain, the smoke drifted up from Hellgate. Chavasse crouched there by the rail, very cold, trembling slightly, drained of all emotion.
And then he realized a strange thing—he was still clutching Rossiter’s knife in his right hand. The channel widened as they moved through the estuary out to sea and he stared down at the ivory Madonna.
“And how many men have you killed in your career, Chavasse?”
The words seemed to whisper in his ear as if Rossiter himself had spoken. With a sudden gesture of repugnance, Chavasse flung the knife from him. It glinted once, then sank beneath a wave. Somewhere overhead, geese called as they moved out to sea, and he got to his feet wearily and went to join Darcy in the wheelhouse.
