“Let’s imagine the fishing boats put their nets out about this far from the castle jetty. It’s pretty similar.”

“How deep?” Dillon asked.

“Eighty fathoms, sometimes a hundred. Plenty of sardines this time of the year and they don’t go deep, so it would all look legitimate.”

“It’s the getting to the shore without being seen that’s the thing,” Dillon said.

“Well, underwater’s the obvious way.”

“But not for me,” Blake reminded him.

“Let’s give it a try anyway, if only to check the feasibility. What about it, Dillon? I’ve plenty of gear in the cabin.”

“I’m game,” Dillon said. “Lead me to it.”

They manhandled a couple of tanks on deck and Aleko provided inflatable jackets, masks, and fins. “No need for diving suits. We’ll go in at fifteen or twenty feet only and it’s warm enough at that level.”

They got the gear on, Blake helping out. When they were ready, Aleko opened a box and produced a couple of Marathons, passing one to Dillon.

“What’s that?” Blake asked as Dillon switched it on.

“A dive computer. Absolute bloody marvel. Gives you an automatic reading of your depth, elapsed time under water, how much time you’ve got left.”

“Is that necessary?” Blake asked. “I didn’t think there were problems when you stick to shallow waters.”

“There’s always a chance of some kind of decompression sickness at any depth, small, but it’s there. Diving’s a hazardous sport.”

“Okay,” Aleko said. “Let’s go.”

He went backwards over the side. Dillon tightened his weight belt, checked that the air was flowing freely through his mouthpiece, and followed. He swallowed a couple of times to equalize the pressure in his ears and went after Aleko.

The water was very blue and seemed to stretch into infinity, and it was so clear that they could see the white sand of the bottom eighty feet or so below. There were fish everywhere, most of them quite small, and once a motor boat passed overhead and Dillon was rocked in the shockwaves of the turbulence.

He kept on going, just a couple of yards behind Aleko, aware of an off-shore current carrying them in and of the sea bed shelving. As they entered the harbor, it was no more than thirty feet deep. They swam under the keels of numerous fishing boats and surfaced beside stone steps leading from the jetty.

Aleko spat out his mouthpiece and checked his watch. “Fifteen minutes. Not bad, but we had a strong current pushing us along.”

“Not too good for the journey back,” Dillon said, and at that moment, Yanni appeared on the steps above them.

“What are you doing here?” Aleko asked.

“They didn’t really need me up at the barn, so I thought I’d see what you were up to.”

“Good lad. Now go and get the inflatable. You can run us back to the boat.”

The inflatable was black and powered by a Mercury engine that was incredibly noisy, even when Yanni throttled back. As they drifted in to the Cretan Lover, the boy cut the engine and Aleko tossed the line to Blake.

“It wouldn’t be possible to approach the castle jetty in this thing under cover of darkness,” Dillon said. “Maybe we could row it in.”

“Not without difficulty,” Aleko told him. “Outside that bay there is a fierce cross current. It can run a good two to three knots, enough to blow you off-target.”

“Then how in the hell are we going to do it?”

Blake was leaning over the rail, listening, and Aleko said, “I may have a solution.” He turned to Yanni. “The Aquamobile is in the aft cabin. Bring it up. Help him, Mr. Johnson, it’s an awkward size.”

It was like a large sledge with a framework of aluminium. In the center was a huge battery pack and a triple propeller inside a wire cage.

“How fast will this thing go?” Dillon asked.

“Four knots. Let’s go down and you can try it.”

Dillon submerged, the Aquamobile descended in a shower of bubbles. Aleko grabbed the bar at the stern and switched on, moving away smoothly. He returned and offered it to Dillon, who took over and circled the boat. He switched off and came up beside the inflatable.

“What are you suggesting?”

“Let’s say you and Mr. Johnson ride in the inflatable and I guide the Aquamobile in and tow you.”

Dillon nodded. “It’s a thought, but it might be too heavy.”

“Well, we’ll see.” Aleko looked up at Blake. “Join Yanni in the inflatable, Mr. Johnson, and we’ll try.”

Blake dropped over the rail and Yanni tossed a line to Aleko, who fastened it to the handling bar. “Here we go,” he called and switched on.

Dillon swam alongside, just under the surface, but was gradually left behind as the Aquamobile and the inflatable forged ahead. After a while, they turned in a circle and moved back to the boat. Dillon followed, and by the time he got there, they were pulling the Aquamobile over the rail.

He and Aleko unzipped their inflatable jackets and tanks, and Blake and Yanni reached over for them. Dillon removed his fins and followed Aleko up the small ladder.

He toweled off on deck and lit a cigarette. “That’s it, then.”

“So it would appear,” Aleko nodded. “We’ll go back and tell the Brigadier.”

The barn was built of heavy stone, and whitewashed. There were no windows, but there was electric light. A row of sandbags lay at one end fronted by cardboard cutouts of soldiers.

“So you take it this seriously?” Dillon said.

“Let’s say I like to keep my hand in,” Aleko told him.

They were all there, including the crew of the Cretan Lover, and the equipment Ferguson had ordered from Harley at the Ministry was laid out on trestle tables, the black jump suits and flak jackets, the silenced Brownings and Uzis, the night-vision goggles, the stun grenades, and the Semtex blocks and timers.

“Mother Mary, we’re going to war,” Yanni said.

Aleko picked up the pair of night-vision binoculars. “Hey, I could do with these. Beautiful.”

“You can have the lot afterwards if this thing works,” Ferguson told him and turned to Dillon. “Anything else?”

“Yes, I’d like a decent rope. Let’s say a hundred feet long and knotted every two feet.” He looked at Aleko. “Can you manage that?”

“I’ll put the boys right on to it.” He picked up one of the Brownings and weighed it in his hand. “May I?” he asked Ferguson.

“Be my guest.”

Aleko took deliberate aim and fired three times at the end target. He hit it in the chest, widely spaced. “I never was much good.” He gave it to Blake, butt first. “Your turn.”

“It’s been a while. Too busy to practice these days.” Blake held it in both hands in the approved stance and fired three times, the result, a tight grouping in the heart area.

He handed the weapon to Dillon. “Now you.”

Dillon turned to Ferguson. “Do I have to?”

“Come off it, Dillon, you Irish are all the same. You love showing off.”

“Is that a fact, now?”

Dillon turned, his hand swung up, two dull thuds as he double-tapped, shooting out the eyes of the first target. There was total silence and then Dimitri whispered, “Jesus, Mary.”

Dillon weighed the Browning. “A nice weapon, but I still prefer the Walther,” and he laid it down on the table.

“Well, after that, I’d say the only thing to do is go and eat,” Aleko said and led the way out.