Alex was woken up by an indignant Nadia Vole knocking at his door. He had overslept.
“This morning it is your last opportunity to experience the Stormbreaker,” she said.
“Right,” Alex said.
“This afternoon we begin to send the computers out to the schools. Herr Sayle has suggested that you take the afternoon for leisure. A walk perhaps into Port Tallon? There is a footpath that goes through the fields and then by the sea. You will do that, yes?”
“Yes, I’d like that.”
“Good. And now I leave you to put on some clothing. I will come back for you in … zehn minuten.”
Alex splashed cold water on his face before getting dressed. It had been four o’clock by the time he had got back to his room and he was still tired. His night expedition hadn’t been quite the success he’d hoped. He had seen so much – the submarine, the silver boxes, the death of the guard who had dared to drop one – and yet in the end he still hadn’t learned anything.
Was Yassen Gregorovich working for Herod Sayle? He had no proof that Sayle knew he was here. And what about the boxes? They could have contained packed lunches for the staff of Sayle Enterprises for all he knew. Except that you didn’t kill a man for dropping a packed lunch.
Today was 31st March. As Vole had said, the computers were on their way out. There was only one day to go until the ceremony at the Science Museum. But Alex had nothing to report and the one piece of information that he had sent – Ian Rider’s diagram – had also drawn a blank. There had been a reply waiting for him on the screen of his Game Boy when he turned it on before going to bed.
UNABLE TO RECOGNIZE DIAGRAM OR LETTERS/NUMBERS. POSSIBLE MAP
REFERENCE BUT UNABLE TO SOURCE MAP. PLEASE TRANSMIT FURTHER OBSERVATIONS.
Alex had thought of transmitting the fact that he had actually sighted Yassen Gregorovich. But he had decided against it. If Yassen was there, Mrs Jones had promised to pull him out. And suddenly Alex wanted to see this through to the end. Something was going on at Sayle Enterprises. That much was obvious. And he’d never forgive himself if he didn’t find out what it was.
Nadia Vole came back for him as promised and he spent the next three hours toying with the Stormbreaker. This time he enjoyed himself less. And this time, he noticed when he went to the door, a guard had been posted in the corridor outside. It seemed that Sayle Enterprises wasn’t taking any more chances where he was concerned.
One o’clock arrived and at last the guard released him from the room and escorted him as far as the main gate. It was a glorious afternoon, the sun shining as he walked out on to the road. He took a last look back. Mr Grin had just come out of one of the buildings and was standing some distance away, talking into a mobile phone. There was something unnerving about the sight. Why should he be making a telephone call now? And who could possibly understand a word he said?
It was only once he’d left the plant that Alex was able to relax. Away from the fences, the armed guards and the strange sense of threat that pervaded Sayle Enterprises, it was as if he was breathing fresh air for the first time in days. The Cornish countryside was beautiful, the rolling hills a lush green, dotted with wild flowers.
Alex found the footpath sign and turned off the road. He had worked out that Port Tallon was a couple of miles away, a walk of less than an hour if the route wasn’t too hilly. In fact, the path climbed upwards quite steeply almost at once, and suddenly Alex found himself perched over a clear, blue and sparkling English Channel, following a track that zigzagged precariously along the edge of a cliff. To one side of him fields stretched into the distance, their long grass bending in the breeze. To the other there was a fall of at least fifty metres to the rocks and water below. Port Tallon itself was at the very end of the cliffs, tucked in against the sea. It looked almost too quaint from here, like a model in a black and white Hollywood film.
He came to a break in the path, a second, much rougher track leading away from the sea and across the fields. His instincts would have told him to go straight ahead, but a footpath sign pointed to the right. There was something strange about the sign. Alex hesitated for a moment, wondering what it was. Then he dismissed it. He was walking in the countryside and the sun was shining. What could possibly be wrong? He followed the sign.
The path continued for about another quarter of a mile, then dipped down into a hollow. Here the grass was almost as tall as Alex, rising up all around him, a shimmering green cage. A bird suddenly erupted in front of him, a ball of brown feathers that spun round on itself before taking flight. Something had disturbed it. And that was when Alex heard the sound – an engine getting closer. A tractor? No. It was too high-pitched and moving too fast.
Alex knew he was in danger the same way an animal does. There was no need to ask why or how. Danger was simply there. And even as the dark shape appeared, crashing through the grass, he was throwing himself to one side, knowing – too late now – what it was that had been wrong about the second footpath sign. It had been brand-new. The first sign, the one that had led him off the road, had been weather-beaten and old. Someone had deliberately led him away from the correct path and brought him here.
To the killing field.
He hit the ground and rolled into a ditch on one side. The vehicle burst through the grass, its front wheel almost touching his head. Alex caught a glimpse of a squat black thing with four fat tyres, a cross between a miniature tractor and a motorbike. It was being ridden by a hunched-up figure in grey leathers, with helmet and goggles. Then it was gone, thudding down into the grass on the other side of him and disappearing instantly, as if a curtain had been drawn.
Alex scrambled to his feet and began to run. There were two of them. He knew what they were now. He’d ridden similar things himself, on holiday, in the sand-dunes of Death Valley, Nevada. Kawasaki four by fours, powered by 400cc engines with automatic transmission. Quad bikes.
They were circling him like wasps. A drone, then a scream, and the second bike was in front of him, roaring towards him, cutting a swathe through the grass. Alex hurled himself out of its path, once
again crashing into the ground, almost dislocating his shoulder. Wind and engine fumes whipped across his face.
He had to find somewhere to hide. But he was in the middle of a field and there was nowhere – apart from the grass itself. Desperately, he fought through it, the blades scratching at his face, half-blinding him as he tried to find his way back to the main path. He needed other people. Whoever had sent these machines (and now he remembered Mr Grin talking on his mobile phone), they couldn’t kill him if there were witnesses around.
But there was no one, and they were coming for him again … together this time. Alex could hear the engines, whining in unison, coming up fast behind him. Still running, he glanced over his shoulder and saw them, one on each side, seemingly about to overtake him. It was only the glint of the sun and the sight of the grass slicing itself in half that revealed the horrible truth. The two cyclists had stretched a length of cheese-wire between them.
Alex threw himself head-first, landing flat on his stomach. The cheese-wire whipped over him. If he had still been standing up, it would have cut him in half.
The quad bikes separated, arcing away from each other. At least that meant they must have dropped the wire. Alex had twisted his knee in the last fall and he knew it was only a matter of time before they cornered him and finished him off. Half-limping, he ran forward, searching for somewhere to hide or something to defend himself with. Apart from some money, he had nothing in his pockets, not even a penknife. The engines were distant now, but he knew they would be closing in again at any moment. And what would it be next time? More cheese-wire? Or something worse?
It was worse. Much worse. There was the roar of an engine and then a billowing cloud of red fire exploded over the grass, blazing it to a crisp. Alex felt it singe his shoulders, yelled and threw himself to one side. One of the riders was carrying a flame-thrower! He had just aimed a bolt of fire eight metres long, meaning to burn Alex alive. And he had almost succeeded. Alex was saved only by the narrow ditch he’d landed in. He hadn’t even seen it until he had thudded to the ground, into the damp soil, the jet of flame licking at the air just above him. It had been close. There was a horrible smell: his own hair. The fire had singed the ends.
Choking, his face streaked with dirt and sweat, he clambered out of the ditch and ran blindly forward. He had no idea where he was going any more. He only knew that in a few seconds the quad would be back. He had taken about ten paces before he realized he had reached the edge of the field. There was a warning sign and an electrified fence stretching as far as he could see. But for the buzzing sound the fence was making, he would have run right into it. The fence was almost invisible, and the quad bikers, moving fast towards him, would be unable to hear the warning sound over their own engines…
He stopped and turned round. About fifty metres away from him, the grass was being flattened by the still invisible quad as it made its next charge. But this time Alex waited. He stood there, balancing on the heels of his feet, like a matador. Twenty metres, ten… Now he was staring straight into the goggles of the rider, saw the man’s uneven teeth as he smiled, still gripping the flame-thrower. The quad smashed down the last barrier of grass and leapt on to him … except that Alex was no longer there. He had dived to one side and, too late, the driver saw the fence and rocketed on, straight into it. The man screamed as the wire caught him around the neck, almost garrotting him. The bike twisted in mid-air, then crashed down. The man fell into the grass and lay still.
He had torn the fence out of the ground. Alex ran over to the man and examined him. For a moment he thought it might be Yassen, but it was a younger man, dark-haired, ugly. Alex had never seen him before. The man was unconscious but still breathing. The flame- thrower lay, extinguished, on the ground beside him. Behind him, he heard the other bike, some distance away but closing. Whoever these people were, they had tried to run him down, cut him in half and incinerate him. He had to find a way out before they got really serious.
He ran over to the abandoned quad, which had come to rest lying on its side. He heaved it up again, jumped on to the seat and pressed the starter. The engine sprang into life. At least there were no gears to worry about. Alex twisted the accelerator and gripped the handlebars as the machine jolted him forward.
And now he was slicing through the grass, which became a green blur as the quad carried him back towards the footpath. He couldn’t hear the other bike but hoped that the rider would have no idea what had happened and so wouldn’t be following him. His bones rattled as
the quad hit a rut and bounced upwards. He had to be careful. Lose his concentration for a second and he would be on his back.
He cut through another green curtain and savagely pulled on the handlebars to bring himself round. He had found the footpath – and also the edge of the cliff. Just three metres more and he would have launched himself into space and down to the rocks below. For a few seconds he sat where he was, the engine idling. That was when the other quad appeared. Somehow the second rider must have guessed what had happened. He had reached the footpath and was facing Alex, about two hundred metres away. Something glinted in his hand, resting on the handlebar. He was carrying a gun.
Alex looked back the way he had walked. It was no good. The path was too narrow. By the time he had turned the quad round, the armed man would have reached him. One shot and it would all be over. Could he go back into the grass? No, for the same reason. He had to move forward, even if that meant heading for a straight-on collision with the other quad.
Why not? Maybe there was no other way.
The man gunned his engine and spurted forward. Alex did the same. Now the two of them were racing towards each other down a narrow path, a bank of earth and rock suddenly rising up to form a barrier on one side and the edge of the cliff on the other. There wasn’t enough room for them to pass. They could stop or they could crash … but if they were going to stop they had to do it in the next ten seconds.
The quads were getting closer and closer, moving faster all the time. The man couldn’t shoot him now, not without losing control. Far below, the waves glittered silver, breaking against the rocks. The edge of the cliff flashed by. The noise of the other quad filled Alex’s ears. The wind rushed into him, hammering at his chest and face. It was like the old-fashioned game of chicken. One of them had to stop. One of them had to get out of the way.
Three, two, one…
It was the enemy who finally broke. He was less than five metres away, so close that Alex could make out the perspiration on his forehead. Just when it seemed that a crash was inevitable, he twisted his quad and swerved off the path, up on to the embankment. At the same time, he tried to fire his gun. But he was too late. His quad was
slanting, tipping over on to just two of its wheels, and the shot went wild. The man yelled out. Firing the gun had caused him to lose what little control he had left. He fought with the quad, trying to bring it back on to four wheels. It hit a rock and bounced upwards, landed briefly on the footpath, then continued over the edge of the cliff.
Alex had felt the machine rush past him, but he had seen little more than a blur. He had shuddered to a halt and turned round just in time to watch the other quad fly into the air. The man, still screaming, had managed to separate himself from the bike on the way down, but the two of them hit the water at the same moment. The quad sank a few seconds before the man.
Who had sent him? It was Nadia Vole who had suggested the walk, but it was Mr Grin who had actually seen him leave. Mr Grin had given the order – he was sure of it.
Alex took the quad all the way to the end of the path. The sun was still shining as he walked down into the little fishing village, but he couldn’t enjoy it. He was angry with himself because he knew he’d made too many mistakes.
He should have been dead now, he knew. Only luck and a low- voltage electric fence had managed to keep him alive.
A
lex walked through Port Tallon, past the Fisherman’s Arms public house and up the cobbled street towards the library. It was the middle of the afternoon but the village seemed to be asleep; the boats bobbing in the harbour, the streets and pavements empty. A few seagulls wheeled lazily over the rooftops, uttering the usual mournful
cries. The air smelled of salt and dead fish.
The library was red-bricked, Victorian, sitting self-importantly at the top of a hill. Alex pushed open the heavy swing-door and went into a room with a tiled, chessboard floor and about fifty shelves fanning out from a central reception area. Six or seven people were sitting at tables, working. A man in a thickly knitted jersey was reading Fisherman’s Week. Alex went over to the reception desk. There was the inevitable sign – SILENCE PLEASE. Beneath it a smiling, round-faced woman sat reading Crime and Punishment.
“Can I help you?” Despite the sign, she had such a loud voice that everyone looked up when she spoke.
“Yes…”
Alex had come here because of a chance remark made by Herod Sayle. He had been talking about Ian Rider. Spent half his time in the village. In the port, the post office, the library. Alex had already seen the post office, another old-fashioned building near the port. He didn’t think he’d learn anything there. But the library? Maybe Rider had come here looking for information. Maybe the librarian would remember him.
“I had a friend staying in the village,” Alex said. “I was wondering if he came here. His name’s Ian Rider.”
“Rider with an I or a Y? I don’t think we have any Riders at all.” The woman tapped a few keys on her computer, then shook her head. “No.”
“He was staying at Sayle Enterprises,” Alex said. “He was about forty, thin, fair hair. He drove a BMW.”
“Oh yes.” The librarian smiled. “He did come here a couple of times. A nice man. Very polite. I knew he didn’t come from around here. He was looking for a book—”
“Do you remember which book?”
“Of course I do. I can’t always remember faces, but I never forget a book. He was interested in viruses.”
“Viruses?”
“Yes. That’s what I said. He wanted some information…”
A computer virus! This might change everything. A computer virus was the perfect act of sabotage: invisible and instantaneous. A single blip written into the software and every single piece of information in the Stormbreaker software could be destroyed at any time. But Herod Sayle couldn’t possibly want to damage his own creation. That would make no sense at all. So maybe Alex had been wrong about him from the very start. Maybe Sayle had no idea what was really going on.
“I’m afraid I couldn’t help him,” the librarian continued. “This is only a small library and our grant’s been cut for the third year running.” She sighed. “Anyway, he said he’d get some books sent down from London. He told me he had a box at the post office…”
That made sense too. Ian Rider wouldn’t have wanted information sent to Sayle Enterprises, where it could be intercepted.
“Was that the last time you saw him?” Alex asked.
“No. He came back about a week later. He must have got what he wanted because this time he wasn’t looking for books about viruses. He was interested in local affairs.”
“What sort of local affairs?”
“Cornish local history. Shelf CL.” She pointed. “He spent an afternoon looking in one of the books and then he left. He hasn’t been back since then, which is a shame. I was rather hoping he’d join the library. It would be nice to have a new member.”
Local history. That wasn’t going to help him. Alex thanked the librarian and made for the door. His hand was just reaching out for the handle when he remembered.
CL 475/19.
He reached into his pocket and took out the square of paper he had found in his bedroom. Sure enough, the letters were the same. CL.
They weren’t showing a grid reference. CL was the label on a book!
Alex went over to the shelf the librarian had shown him. Books grow old faster when they’re not being read and the ones gathered here were long past retirement, leaning tiredly against one another for support. CL 475/19 – the number was printed on the spine – was called Dozmary: The Story of Cornwall’s Oldest Mine.
He carried it over to a table, opened it and quickly skimmed through it, wondering why a history of Cornish tin should have been of interest to Ian Rider. The story it told was a familiar one.
The mine had been owned by the Dozmary family for eleven generations. In the nineteenth century there had been four hundred mines in Cornwall. By the early nineteen nineties there were only three. Dozmary was still one of them. The price of tin had collapsed and the mine itself was almost exhausted, but there was no other work in the area and the family had continued running it even though the mine was quickly exhausting them. In 1991, Sir Rupert Dozmary, the last owner, had quietly slipped away and blown his brains out. He was buried in the local churchyard in a coffin made, it was said, of tin.
His children had closed down the mine, selling the land above it to Sayle Enterprises. The mine itself was sealed off, with several of the tunnels now underwater.
The book contained a number of old black and white photographs: pit ponies and old-fashioned lanterns. Groups of figures standing with axes and lunch boxes. Now all of them would be under the ground themselves. Flicking through the pages, Alex came to a map showing the layout of the tunnels at the time when the mine was closed.
 |
It was hard to be sure of the scale, but there was a labyrinth of shafts, tunnels and railway lines running for miles underground. Go down into the utter blackness of the underground and you’d be lost instantly. Had Ian Rider made his way into Dozmary? If so, what had he found?
Alex remembered the corridor at the foot of the metal staircase. The dark brown, unfinished walls and the light bulbs hanging on their wires had reminded him of something, and suddenly he knew what it was. The corridor must be nothing more than one of the tunnels from the old mine! Suppose Ian Rider had also gone down the staircase. Like Alex, he had been confronted with the locked metal door and had been determined to find his way past it. But he had recognized the corridor for what it was – and that was why he had come back to the library. He had found a book on the Dozmary Mine – this book. The map had shown him a way to the other side of the door.
And he had made a note of it!
Alex took out the diagram that Ian Rider had drawn and laid it on the page, on top of the printed map. Holding the two sheets together, he held them up to the light.
This was what he saw.
 |
The lines that Rider had drawn on the sheet fitted exactly over the shafts and tunnels of the mine, showing the way through. Alex was certain of it. If he could find the entrance to Dozmary, he could follow the map through to the other side of the metal door.
Ten minutes later he left the library with a photocopy of the page. He went down to the harbour and found one of those maritime stores that seem to sell anything and everything. Here he bought himself a powerful torch, a jersey, a length of rope and a box of chalk.
Then he climbed back into the hills.
Back on the quad, Alex raced across the cliff tops with the sun already sinking in the west. Ahead of him he could see the single chimney and
crumbling tower that he hoped would mark the entrance to the Kerneweck Shaft, which took its name from the ancient language of Cornwall. According to the map, this was where he should begin. At least the quad had made his life easier. It would have taken him an hour to reach it on foot.
He was running out of time and he knew it. Already the Stormbreakers would have begun leaving the plant, and in less than twenty-four hours the Prime Minister would be activating them. If the software really had been bugged with some sort of virus, what would happen? Some sort of humiliation for both Sayle and the British Government? Or worse?
And how did a computer bug tie in with what he had seen the night before? Whatever the submarine had been delivering at the jetty, it hadn’t been computer software. The silver boxes had been too large. And you don’t shoot a man for dropping a diskette.
Alex parked the quad next to the tower and went in through an arched doorway. At first he thought he must have made some sort of mistake. The building looked more like a ruined church than the entrance to a mine. Other people had been here before him. There were a few crumpled beer cans and old crisp packets on the floor and the usual graffiti on the walls. JRH WAS HERE. NICK LOVES CASS. Visitors leaving the worst parts of themselves behind in fluorescent paint.
His foot came down on something that clanged and he saw that he was standing on a metal trapdoor, set into the concrete floor. Grass and weeds were sprouting round the edges, but putting his hand against the crack he could feel a draught of air rising from below. This must be the entrance to the shaft.
The trapdoor was bolted down with a heavy padlock, several centimetres thick. Alex swore under his breath. He had left the zit cream back in his room. The cream would have eaten through the bolt in seconds, but he didn’t have the time to go all the way back to Sayle Enterprises to get it. He knelt down and shook the padlock in frustration. To his surprise, it swung open in his hand. Somebody had been here before him. Ian Rider – it had to be. He must have managed to unlock it, and hadn’t fully closed it again so that it would be ready when he came back.
Alex pulled the padlock out and grabbed hold of the trapdoor. It
He summoned all his strength to pull it up, and as he did, a blast of cold air hit him square in the face. The trapdoor clanged open, revealing a dark hole that seemed to stretch endlessly beyond the reach of daylight. Alex aimed his torch into the void; the beam illuminated about fifty meters, but the shaft descended even further. He found a pebble and dropped it in, counting silently. At least ten seconds passed before he heard it clatter against something far below.
A rusty ladder clung to the side of the shaft. Alex ensured the quad was out of sight, then slung the rope over his shoulder and tucked the torch into his belt. Climbing into the hole felt daunting. The metal rungs were freezing against his hands, and just as his shoulders dipped below ground level, the light was swallowed by an impenetrable darkness that made him question whether he had eyes at all. He couldn’t hold onto the torch and climb at the same time, so he had to feel his way down—hand, then foot—descending deeper until finally his heel struck solid ground. He knew he had reached the bottom of the Kerneweck Shaft.
Looking up, he could just make out the entrance he had come through—small, round, and as distant as the moon. Breathing heavily to stave off a rising sense of claustrophobia, he pulled out the torch and flicked it on. The beam shot forward, illuminating the path ahead and casting bright light on his surroundings. He found himself at the start of a long tunnel, its uneven walls and ceiling supported by wooden beams. The floor was already damp, and a fine mist of salt water hung in the air. The mine was cold, just as he had expected. Before moving on, he pulled on the jersey he had brought, then chalked a large X on the wall. It was a smart move; no matter what happened down here, he wanted to ensure he could find his way back.
At last he was ready. He took two steps forward, away from the vertical shaft and into the start of the tunnel, and immediately felt the weight of the solid rock, soil and remaining streaks of tin bearing down on him. It was horrible here. It really was like being buried alive, and it took all his strength to force himself on. After about fifty paces he came to a second tunnel, branching off to the left. He took out the photocopied map and examined it in the torchlight. According to Ian Rider, this was where he had to turn off. He swung the torch round and followed the tunnel, which slanted downwards, taking him
deeper and deeper into the earth.
There was absolutely no sound in the mine apart from his own rasping breath, the crunch of his footsteps and the quickening thud of his heart. It was as if the blackness was wiping out sound as well as vision. Alex opened his mouth and called out, just to hear something. But his voice sounded small and only reminded him of the huge weight above his head. This tunnel was in bad repair. Some of the beams had snapped and fallen in and as he passed, a trickle of gravel hit his neck and shoulders, reminding him that the Dozmary mine had been kept locked for a reason. It was a hellish place. It could collapse at any time.
The path took him ever deeper. He could feel the pressure pounding in his ears and the darkness seemed even thicker and more oppressive. He came to a tangle of iron and wire, some sort of machine long ago buried and forgotten. He climbed over it too quickly, cutting his leg on a piece of jagged metal. He stood still for a few seconds, forcing himself to slow down. He knew he couldn’t panic. If you panic, you’ll get lost. Think what you’re doing. Be careful. One step at a time.
“OK. OK…” He whispered the words to reassure himself, then continued forward.
Now he emerged into a sort of wide, circular chamber, formed by the meeting of six different tunnels, all coming together in a star shape. The widest of these slanted in from the left with the remains of a railway track. He swung the torch and picked out a couple of wooden wagons which must have been used to carry equipment down or tin back up to the surface. Checking the maps, he was tempted to follow the railway, which seemed to offer a short cut across the route that Ian Rider had drawn. But he decided against it. His uncle had turned the corner and gone back on himself. There had to be a reason. Alex made another two chalk crosses, one for the tunnel he had left, another for the one he was entering. He went on.
This new tunnel quickly became lower and narrower until Alex couldn’t walk unless he crouched. The floor was very wet here, with pools of water reaching his ankles. He remembered how near he was to the sea and that brought another unpleasant thought. What time was high tide? And when the water rose, what would happen inside the mine? Alex suddenly had a vision of himself trapped in blackness with the water rising up his chest, his neck, over his face. He stopped
and forced himself to think of something else. Down here, on his own, far beneath the surface of the earth, he couldn’t make an enemy of his imagination.
The tunnel curved, then joined a second railway line, this one bent and broken, covered here and there in rubble which must have fallen from above. But the metal tracks made it easier to move forward, picking up and reflecting the torch. Alex followed them all the way to a junction with the main railway. It had taken him thirty minutes and he was almost back where he had started but, shining the torch around him, he saw why Ian Rider had sent him the long way round. There had been a tunnel collapse. About thirty metres up the line, the main railway was blocked.
He crossed the tracks, still following the maps, and stopped. He looked at the paper, then again at the way ahead. It was impossible. And yet there was no mistake.
He had come to a small, round tunnel dipping steeply down. But after ten metres the tunnel simply stopped, with what looked like a sheet of metal barring the way. Alex picked up a stone and threw it. There was a splash. Now he understood. The tunnel was completely submerged in water as black as ink. The water had risen up to the ceiling of the tunnel so that, even assuming he could swim in temperatures that must be close to zero, he would be unable to breathe. After all his hard work, after all the time he had spent underground, there was no way forward.
Alex turned. He was about to leave, but even as he swung the torch round, the beam picked up something lying in a heap on the ground. He went over to it and leaned down. It was a diver’s dry suit and it looked brand-new. Alex walked back to the water’s edge and examined it with the torch. This time he saw something else. A rope had been tied to a rock. It slanted diagonally into the water and disappeared. Alex knew what it meant.
Ian Rider had swum through the submerged tunnel. He had worn a dry suit and he had managed to fix a rope to guide him through. Obviously he had planned to come back. That was why he had left the padlock open. It seemed that once again Alex had been helped by the dead man. The question was, did he have the nerve to go on?
He picked up the dry suit. It was too big for him, although it would probably keep out the worst of the chill. But the cold wasn’t the only
problem. The tunnel might run for ten metres. It might run for a hundred. How could he be sure that Ian Rider hadn’t used scuba equipment to swim through? If Alex went down there, into the water, and ran out of breath halfway, he would drown. Pinned underneath the rock in the freezing blackness. He couldn’t imagine a worse way to die.
But he had come so far, and according to the map he was nearly there. Alex swore. This was not fun. At that moment he wished he had never heard of Alan Blunt, Sayle Enterprises or the Stormbreaker. But he couldn’t go back. If his uncle had done it, so could he. Gritting his teeth, he pulled on the dry suit. It was cold, clammy and uncomfortable. He zipped it up. He hadn’t taken off his ordinary clothes and perhaps that helped. The suit was loose in places, but he was sure it would keep the water out.
Moving quickly now, afraid that if he hesitated he would change his mind, Alex approached the water’s edge. He reached out and took the rope in one hand. It would be faster swimming with both hands, but he didn’t dare risk it. Getting lost in the underwater tunnel would be as bad as running out of air. The result would be exactly the same. He had to keep hold of the rope to allow it to guide him through. Alex took several deep breaths, hyperventilating and oxygenating his blood, knowing it would give him a few precious extra seconds. Then he plunged in.
The cold was ferocious, a hammer blow that nearly forced the air out of his lungs. The water pounded at his head, swirling round his nose and eyes. His fingers were instantly numb. His whole system felt the shock, but the dry suit was holding, sealing in at least some of his body warmth. Clinging to the rope, he kicked forward. He had committed himself. There could be no going back.
Pull, kick. Pull, kick. Alex had been underwater for less than a minute but already his lungs were feeling the strain. The roof of the tunnel was scraping his shoulders and he was afraid that it would tear through the dry suit and gouge his skin as well. But he didn’t dare slow down. The freezing cold was sucking the strength out of him. Pull and kick. Pull and kick. How long had he been under? Ninety seconds? A hundred? His eyes were tight shut, but if he opened them there would be no difference. He was in a black, swirling, freezing version of hell. And his breath was running out.
He pulled himself forward along the rope, burning the skin off the palms of his hands. He must have been swimming for almost two minutes. It felt closer to ten. He had to open his mouth and breathe, even if it was water that would rush into his throat… A silent scream exploded inside him. Pull, kick. Pull, kick. And then the rope tilted upwards and he felt his shoulders come clear, and his mouth was wrenched open in a great gasp as he breathed air and knew that he had made it, perhaps with only seconds to spare.
But made it to where?
Alex couldn’t see anything. He was floating in utter darkness, unable to see even where the water ended. He had left the torch at the other side, but he knew that even if he wanted to he didn’t have the strength to go back. He had followed the trail left by a dead man. It was only now that he realized it might lead only to the grave.
