Ark Angel

by Anthony Horowitz

“Good luck, Alex!”

  Alex turned to see Paul Drevin standing on the terrace above him, waving. He waved back, then climbed into the boat.

  The journey only took a few minutes. In that time, Alex went over his equipment, running through the usual checks. His mask fitted. The BCD was brand new. He turned on his air supply and checked his gauge. He had been given just under 3,000 psi. Alex made a quick calculation. The deeper he went, the more air he’d use. But he was a light breather. At twenty-two metres, the depth of the Mary Belle, he guessed he would have a bottom time of at least half an hour.

  He noticed Kolo watching him as he finished his preparations. Alex had been looking forward to visiting the wreck, but suddenly he felt uncomfortable. He had been diving many times with his uncle and once with friends, and each time it had been a happy, sociable affair. Now he was in a boat with a captain who hadn’t said a word and a buddy who had barely spoken either. Two hired hands taking the rich kid for a ride. For a moment, he understood the loneliness that Paul must have felt all his life.

  The boat slowed down and the anchor was lowered. The captain raised a flag – red with a white stripe – signalling that there were divers in the area. Kolo helped Alex put on his equipment. Then it was time for the briefing.

  “The Mary Belle is right underneath us,” Kolo told him. “We’ll enter the water over this side and then if everything’s all right, we’ll go straight down. The sea’s a little choppy today and visibility’s not so good, but you’ll soon see the wreck. We’ll start at the stern. You can see the rudder and propeller. Then we’ll swim up the deck and into the second hold. There’s plenty of fish down there. Glassfish, hatchetfish, groupers – maybe you’ll be lucky and see a shark. I’ll signal when it’s time to come back up. Any questions?”

  Alex shook his head.

  “Then let’s do it.”

  Alex drew his mask over his face, checked his respirator one last time, then sat on the edge of the boat with his hands crossed over his chest. Kolo gave him a thumbs up and he tipped over backwards, splashing down into the sea. It was a moment which he always enjoyed, feeling his shoulders pushing through the warm water, rolling in a cocoon of silver bubbles with the fractured light high above. Then his BCD, partly inflated, dragged him back to the surface. He was bobbing in the water, face to face with Kolo. The captain was watching them over the pulpit rail.

  “All right?” Kolo shouted.

  Alex gave him the universal diver’s sign: finger and thumb forming an O, the other three fingers pointing up. Everything OK.

  Kolo responded with a clenched fist, thumb pointing down. Descend.

  Alex released the air in his BCD and let his weight belt drag him down. The water rose over his chin, past his nose and eyes. Gently he began a controlled descent, listening to the sound of his own breathing amplified in his ears. It was only now that he remembered he had been operated on just three weeks ago. What would Dr Hayward think about him scuba-diving? Well, at least it wasn’t something that had been forbidden.

  A triggerfish – green with brilliant yellow stripes and a yellow tail – swam past, taking no notice of him. The water was a deep tropical blue that became darker and murkier the further he descended. He looked at his depth gauge. Eleven metres, twelve metres, thirteen… He was comfortable, in full control. Kolo was a few metres above him, legs crossed. Great bubbles, each one containing a pearl of used air, rose in clusters to the surface.

  And suddenly the Mary Belle was there, appearing in front of him as if projected onto a screen. It was always the same underwater. Objects, even ones as big as a sunken cargo ship, seemed to loom out of nowhere. Alex squeezed a little air into his BCD to slow his descent. He checked that he had neutral buoyancy, then he kicked forward and swam to examine this silent witness from the Second World War.

  The Mary Belle lay in the sand, slanting to one side. It was in two halves, separated by a jagged, broken area that could have been made by a German torpedo. It was about a hundred and thirty metres long, twenty metres wide, the whole ship covered in algae and brightly coloured coral that would one day turn it into an extraordinary artificial reef. As he swam over the deck, heading for the stern, Alex looked down on the dark green surfaces, the twisting ladders and rails, the anchor winches and blast roof. He passed two railway freight cars lying side by side. Part of a locomotive lay shattered, a few metres away on the sand. At the far end he saw what had to be an anti-aircraft gun, now pointing helplessly at the seabed. Once, the deck would have been full of life, with young marines running back and forth, the tannoy system barking orders, the wind and the sea spray blowing in their faces. But the Mary Belle had been hit. It had lain here for over half a century. There was nothing in the world more silent. It was the very definition of death.

  Alex noticed Kolo signalling to him and he swam under the stern. He had disturbed a shoal of snappers which darted away, zigzagging rapidly out of sight. The propeller was directly above him. When the ship had broken in two, the stern had turned on its side, otherwise it would have been buried in the sand. Kolo signalled again. Are you all right? Alex glanced at his air supply. He had used 500 psi. He signalled back. Fine.

  Slowly they swam round the side of the wreck. Alex had his arms crossed over his chest, his hands clasping opposite arms. This was how he always dived. It helped retain body warmth and stopped him being tempted to touch anything. They rose up over the bridge and followed a ladder – each rung encrusted with new life – back to the upper deck. Kolo pointed at an opening beside one of the freight cars Alex had noticed. A hatchway, with a ladder leading down. It was the entrance to the second hold.

  It seemed that Kolo wanted him to go in ahead of him. Alex took out his torch, then kicked down and cautiously swam through the opening, head and shoulders first. Wreck diving is entirely safe provided you know what you’re doing, and Alex knew that the only real danger was getting his air pipes caught or slashing them on a sharp edge. The solution was to do everything very slowly, checking for any obstructions. But the hatch was easily wide enough for him. He followed the ladder down, turned on the torch and looked around him.

  He was in a large, cavernous space which ran the full width of the ship and about twenty-five metres of its length. A ghostly green light streamed in through a series of small portholes and Alex flicked off the torch, realizing he wouldn’t need it. The light illuminated an array of objects instantly recognizable even after sixty years beneath the sea. There was a Jeep, parked against a wall, a stockpile of Winchester rifles, a row of boots, a pair of motorcycles. It occurred to Alex that if he had come upon these on land, they would have been rusting and ugly, nothing more than junk. But their long stay underwater had given them a strange beauty. It was as if nature was trying to claim them and magically transform them into something they had never been.

  Sound is also different underwater.

  Alex heard the clang of metal hitting metal but for a moment he was unsure where it had come from, or indeed what it was. He glanced left and right but nothing was moving. Then he looked back the way he’d come. There was no sign of Kolo. Why hadn’t the other man swum into the hold? Then Alex realized. The hatch that he had come through had been closed. It had swung shut – that was the sound he had heard.

  He twisted round and swam back up the ladder. He wasn’t wearing gloves and he was afraid of cutting himself, but when he reached the hatch he put his hand against it and pushed. It didn’t budge. It was so securely fastened it could have been cemented into place.

  What the hell was going on? Alex felt the first stirrings of unease which could all too easily become panic. But he knew the most important rule of scuba-diving was to remain calm, and he forced himself to breathe slowly, to take everything one step at a time. The support holding back the hatch must have broken. But it didn’t matter. Kolo knew he was here. There was a dive ship directly overhead. He’d just have to find another way out.

  Alex backed away from the hatch and swam the length of the hold.
He came to a steel wall on the other side of the truck, and although it was pitted with holes, some big enough to get an arm through, there was no way the rest of his body would be able to follow. But there was a door – and it was ajar. Once it would have allowed the crew access from one hold to another. Now it was the exit that Alex needed. He swam over to it and pushed. The door opened about five centimetres but no more. It had been chained shut on the other side. Alex saw something glint. The chain was brand new. That was when he really began to worry.

  A new chain on an old door. It could only be there for one reason. Somehow Drevin had found out who he was. Alex had thought he was so clever, eavesdropping with his iPod and snooping round the island. But he had let them put him on a boat and take him out to sea. He had done exactly what they wanted, swimming down into this death trap. And now they had locked the door. They were going to leave him here to drown.

  Fury, black and irresistible, surged through him. His heart was thundering; he couldn’t breathe. For a brief moment he was tempted to take the regulator out of his mouth and scream. He was helpless. At the mercy of a single pipe and a diminishing supply of air.

  The next ninety seconds were possibly the most difficult of Alex’s life. He had to fight for control, twenty-two metres below sea level, aware that he was quite probably in his tomb. Somehow he had to channel his anger away from himself, back towards Drevin, who had dealt with him as ruthlessly as anyone else who had ever crossed his path.

  Another sound. An engine overhead. Alex felt a flicker of hope but quickly clamped down on it. It wasn’t the sound of someone coming to rescue him. Kolo had returned to the surface. He had done his job and now he was leaving.

  Sure enough, the noise faded and died away.

  Alex was alone.

  There was one thing he had to know, although he dreaded looking. He reached down for his instrument console. How much air had he used? The needle told him the worst. He had 1,750 psi left. At 500 psi, the gauge turned red. At that point, a spring-operated shut-off valve inside the tank’s J-valve would close. He would have a few minutes left. And then he would die.

  When he was sure he was back in control, he swam forward again. Alex knew that at this depth, he would soon get through what air he had left. But moving too fast, using too much energy, would only quicken the process. How long did he have? Fifteen minutes at most. Already he knew that his situation was hopeless, and he forced himself to ignore the dark whispers in his mind. Nobody knew he was here. There was no way out. But he still had to try. Better people than Drevin had tried to kill him and failed. He was going to find a way out.

  The hatch was sealed shut. The windows were too small. The floor, the ceiling and the walls were solid. There was just the single door that might lead him to safety, and that was chained. Alex looked around, then picked up one of the Winchesters. There was no chance it would fire after all these years underwater, but it might still do. Carrying the old rifle, he swam over to the door and, holding onto the stock, slid the barrel through. He would use it as a crowbar. Maybe he could prise the door open; the chain was new but it was attached to a handle that was old and might be rotten. Using all his strength, Alex pulled. Briefly he thought he could feel the metal giving. He pulled harder and jerked back as something snapped. The rifle. He had broken the barrel in half.

  He swam over to the pile and picked up another. He could feel his gauges dragging behind him, but he didn’t look at them again. He was too afraid of what he would see. He could hear his every breath; it echoed in his ears. And every time he opened his mouth he could see his precious air supply disappearing in a cloud of bubbles. He was hearing and seeing his own death. It was being carefully measured out all around him.

  The second rifle broke just as the first had done. For a moment, Alex went mad. He grasped the door with his hands and wrenched at it as if he could tear it off its hinges. Bubbles exploded around his head. Blackness swirled around his eyes. When he calmed down, little had changed. His fingers were white, and he had cut the palm of one hand.

  And his air supply had dropped to 900 psi. Only minutes left.

  He had to move fast. No, moving fast would only bring the end closer. But there had to be another way out. He examined the windows again. The largest of them was irregular in shape – some of the metal had worn away. Alex could just about fit his head and half his shoulder through the gap. But that was it. Even if he took off his tank, his waist and hips would never make it through. He jerked back, fearful that he was going to get stuck and cut through his own air pipe. He hadn’t achieved anything.

  And his supply was now down to 650 psi. The needle was only a millimetre above the red.

  Alex was cold. He had never been so cold in his life. The wetsuit should have been trapping some warmth for him but his hands and arms were turning blue. There was no sunlight in the hold. He was at the bottom of the sea. But it was more than that. Alex knew he was going to die. He would be found floating in this hellish place, surrounded by rusting machinery and memories of a war long over. This time there was no way out.

  500 psi.

  How had that happened? Had he somehow missed the last two minutes – two precious minutes when he had so few left? Alex forced himself to think. Was there anything else in the hold that he could use? Maybe the ship had been carrying artillery shells. He had seen an anti-aircraft gun on the deck. Could he perhaps blow his way out of here?

  He began to search desperately for ammunition. As he did so he felt something in his throat and knew that it was becoming more difficult to breathe. His air supply was finally running out. He wondered if he would faint before he drowned. It seemed completely unfair. By a miracle, he had survived an assassin’s bullet in London. And was it just for this? For another even worse death just a few weeks later?

  Something grey flashed past one of the windows. A large fish. A shark? Alex felt a sense of total despair. Even if by some miracle he did find a way out, the creature would be waiting for him. Perhaps it already knew he was there. In just a few brief seconds, his situation had become doubly hopeless.

  But then he saw the grey shape again and with a shock of disbelief realized that it wasn’t a shark at all. It was a diver in a wetsuit.

  Someone was looking for him.

  He had to force himself not to cry out. He kicked hard with his fins and reached the last window just as the diver was about to swim by. Alex’s arm pushed through the jagged gap and he caught hold of the diver’s leg. The diver twisted round.

  Brown hair floating loose. Blue eyes full of worry behind the mask that covered them. The diver hovered on the other side of the window, and Alex recognized Tamara Knight.

  Desperately he made the distress signal that he had been taught years before, chopping with his hand in front of his throat. Out of air. Help! He was finding it more and more difficult to breathe, straining to draw what was left in his tank, aware that his lungs were never more than half filled. Tamara reached into the pocket of her BCD and pulled something out. She passed it through the window. Alex was confused. He was holding one of Paul Drevin’s inhalers. What good was that? Then he realized she must have taken it from his room. It was the gadget Smithers had given him in New York. How had she known about it?

  And would it work underwater?

  Dizzy, barely in control, Alex swam over to the chained door. He had to struggle to remember how the inhaler worked. Twist the cylinder twice clockwise. Why hadn’t Tamara set it off herself? Of course, she couldn’t. It was fingerprint sensitive. Alex had to do it. Breathe! Now the inhaler was armed. He rested it on the chain, then swam back further into the hold.

  10 psi. The needle on his air gauge didn’t have much further to travel.

  The door blew open. There was a ball of flame, instantly extinguished, and Alex felt the shock wave hit him, throwing him against the truck. He wasn’t breathing any more; there was nothing left to breathe. Where was Tamara? Alex had assumed that there was a way out through the next hold, but what if
he was wrong?

  Everything was going black. Either the blast had knocked him out or he was suffocating.

  But then he felt Tamara’s arms around him. She was pulling his regulator out of his mouth. It was useless, and he let it go. He felt something touch his lips and realized she had given him a second regulator, the octopus attached to her own tank. He breathed deeply and felt the rush of air into his lungs. It was a wonderful sensation.

  They stayed where they were for a few minutes, their arms wrapped around each other. Then Tamara gently nudged Alex on the shoulder and pointed up. He nodded. They were still a long way down and with the two of them sharing a single tank, it wouldn’t be long before Tamara’s air supply also ran out.

  Tamara swam through the broken door and Alex followed. There was an open hatch and they slipped through it, travelling slowly up. They paused when their gauges showed five metres. This was the safety stop that would allow nitrogen to seep out of their bloodstream and prevent them from getting the bends. Five minutes later they completed their ascent, breaking through the surface into the brilliant afternoon sun.

  Alex had no air to inflate his BCD, so he unfastened his weight belt and let it fall. Then he tore off his mask.

  “How…?” he began.

  “Later,” Tamara said.

  It was a long swim back to the island and Tamara wanted to make sure they weren’t seen. They allowed the current to carry them round Little Point, then kicked in for the shore behind the house. Tamara checked there were no guards in sight before they ran across the beach and into the shelter of the palm trees.

  Alex heaved off his tank and threw himself down onto the ground. He lay there panting. Tamara was lying next to him. In her wetsuit, with her hair loose and water trickling down her face, she didn’t look anything like a personal secretary … and suddenly Alex realized that she had never really been one.

  “That was too close for comfort,” she said.

  Alex stared at her. “Who are you?” he asked. But already he knew the answer. “CIA.”