She steered the small sub through the tunnel and finally she saw what passed for daylight in this part of the world. In her excitement, she over-steered a shallow bend in the tunnel and grated the side of the sub along the rock. A terrible, ear-piercing screeching sound filled the tiny cabin.
“Women drivers…”
Scarlet looked at Ryan. “What did you just say?”
Ryan swallowed. “Um, that you’re a first-rate submariner and thanks for saving my life.”
Scarlet’s scowl turned to a smirk. “That’s what I thought.”
On the surface now, she brought the machine to a stop and called into Elysium to report. Eden was briefing Ben and Lexi on Mexico, but Alex was there to take the call.
The line was crackly but the message easily understood. Vincent Reno was out of his operation and he’d regained consciousness.
“I knew the old bastard would pull through,” Scarlet said, relieved.
Alex smiled and continued. “You might also like to tell Hawke that I have it on very good authority that the British Foreign Secretary will be publicly announcing his retirement in a few days’ time.”
Scarlet took a moment to digest the news. She knew what this would mean for Hawke. “Matheson’s bailing out, eh?”
“Yes, and I know Joe has some unfinished business with him.”
You can say that again, she thought. “I’ll pass it on when they catch up with us, Alex.”
Scarlet ended the call and sighed.
“All good?” Ryan asked.
“That depends on who you are,” Scarlet said.
Ryan looked confused. “What do you mean?”
“Matheson’s retiring.”
“Ah.”
“Exactly.”
Scarlet put a call through to Trond and arranged for him to fly out and pick them up, then she opened the hatch and stood with her upper body out in the fresh air.
“So what now?” Ryan asked.
“I’m going to smoke a cigarette,” she said. “And then count my gold.”
“You mean our gold.”
She smiled and dragged on the cigarette. “Yes, of course I do.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Barents Sea
A few minutes later Hawke was taking Sala’s luxury submarine-yacht to the surface when an idea crossed his mind. He stopped at periscope depth and swivelled the lens towards the west. According to the GPS they were now sailing north from Finnmark.
“What is it?” Lea asked, concerned. “Not more trouble?”
“Not at all,” he said. “Just checking up on the Triton. I spy a rigid inflatable making its way over to them. Looks like it’s full of Norwegian sailors — hope they survive Cairo.”
Lea rolled her eyes. “Give a man a fish and he’ll eat for a day, give him a submarine and he’s got to play U-Boat captain for a week.”
Hawke swung the periscope up and turned to Lea. “Talking of a week, at this rate we’re only seven days’ sailing from the North Pole.”
“You can’t be serious!”
“Sure, why not?”
“Because Ryan says there’s a massive hole there leading to the center of the earth.”
“You’re kidding?”
Lea shrugged her shoulders. “If not that, think of the others — they’ll be worried sick! They’ll think we got caught in the cave system and risk their bloody lives trying to get us out.”
Hawke thought this was a pretty solid point, so he asked Lea to radio the Norwegians and let Scarlet know they were both fine and had decided to take a few days out. Scarlet, Hawke suggested with a grin, could pass the time counting the gold coins with Ryan and if that failed to amuse her there were always the Norwegian sailors.
As Lea made the call, Hawke set the autopilot and dried his hair with one of Sala’s monogrammed towels. Then he turned the radio on and the plush cabin was filled with the sound of 1970s easy listening. “I see they’re bang up to date in this part of the world.” He started to go through the galley in search of something that seemed to elude him.
Lea switched off the radio and joined him. “What are you looking for?”
“Just a little something to set the mood.” He smiled broadly and nodded his head in appreciation. “Ah — I knew old Sala was a man of discerning taste.”
“What is it?”
Hawke turned around with a bottle of champagne. “A 1998 Clos d’Ambonnay, chilled to perfection. He must have been saving it in anticipation of discovering the golden apples and all those divine weapons.”
“And instead he got turned into fertilizer. Go figure.”
“Shame to let it go to waste though.”
They moved to the VIP bedroom and Hawke turned the bottle to pop the cork out. “Nothing wrong with a few bubbles from time to time.”
Lea smiled and slid up on the bed, but then her face changed. Hawke watched her smile change to a terrible rictus of fear.
“What is it?”
“I thought I saw…”
“What?”
“A ghost…”
“Eh?”
Then she screamed and Hawke turned to see the looming figure of Leon Smets moving toward him. He was carrying a roller speargun, and moved menacingly toward the Englishman. Hawke spun the champagne bottle around and turned it into a weapon.
“So you’re back from the dead again then, eh?”
Smets said nothing, but grinned malevolently as he fired the roller gun.
Hawke jumped aside and the spear flew past him, slamming into the walnut veneer door of the drinks cabinet. A thick vertical split formed in the door. “Bloody hell, man!” Hawke shouted. “You could kill someone with that!”
“I think that’s the idea, ya eejit!” Lea called out.
Smets ran forward, now wielding the speargun like a club. He took a heavy swipe at Hawke and the gun whistled past his head before smashing into the top of the cabinet and obliterating a sherry decanter and a good portion of Sala’s finest quality stemware.
Hawke regarded the damage with disappointment. “Now, that’s just irresponsible.”
“You killed Victoria, putain!” Smets hissed. “I will gut you like a mackerel.”
“Not sure mackerels can gut things to be honest, Leon,” Hawke said. “They haven’t got any thumbs.”
Smets screamed and lunged at the Englishman once again, almost frothing at the mouth with rage, but Hawke easily sidestepped the attack and brought a fist up into his stomach as he ran past him.
The Belgian doubled over but took the punch as he had taken a thousand others in his life before snatching a bottle of wine off the carpet and staggering back to regain his balance.
“How the hell did he get on the ship?” Lea cried out.
“How the hell should I know?” Hawke called back. “And it’s not a bloody ship it’s a boat. How many more times?”
Smets swung at him wildly with the wine bottle.
“No one outside the navy cares, Joe.”
Hawke dodged the bottle. “You could give me a hand, you know!”
Smets smashed the bottle on the end of the bed and waved the broken end in Hawke’s face before charging at him again. The bottle flew toward his head but the SBS man was too fast, ducking to one side and bringing his forearm up to block the assault.
Hawke brought his other hand around and smacked Smets’s wrist hard with a karate chop. The Belgian cried out in response and released the champagne bottle. It hit the carpet and rolled under the bed, but before Hawke knew it Smets lunged at him again.
The Belgian’s heavy, calloused hands were wrapped into two solid fists now, and smacking into Hawke’s head and chest. Knocking the Englishman back several feet, Leon Smets kept up a furious barrage of punches and kicks.
Hawke regained his balance and began the fight back, landing a chunky overhand punch on Smets’s jaw, sending the Belgian flying off his feet, but he put out his hand behind him and stopped himself from hitting the floor. Then he crouched down and compressed his body before swivelling his hips and propelling his right foot toward Hawke.