“Do you want me to spell you for a while?” Chavasse asked.

Orsini took over the wheel again and shook his head. “Later, Paul, after Carlo has done his trick. That way I’ll be fresh for the run-in at dawn.”

Chavasse left him there and went down to the galley, where he discovered Francesca making coffee. He leaned in the doorway and grinned. “That’s what I like about Italian girls. So good in the kitchen.”

She turned and smiled mischievously. “Is that all we’re good for – cooking?”

She wore a pair of old denim pants and a heavy sweater, and the long hair was plaited into a single pigtail that hung across one shoulder. She looked incredibly fresh and alive and Chavasse shook his head.

“I could think of one or two things, but the timing’s wrong.”

“What about the terrace of the British Embassy?”

“Too public.”

She poured coffee into a mug and handed it to him. “There’s a place I know in the hills outside Rome. Only a village inn, but the food is out of this world. You eat it by candlelight on a terrace overlooking a hillside covered with vines. The fireflies dance in the wind and you can smell the flowers for a week afterwards. It’s an experience one shouldn’t miss.”

“I’m all tied up for the next couple of days,” Chavasse said, “but after that, I’m free most evenings.”

“By a strange coincidence, so am I. I’m also in the telephone book and I’d like to point out that you still owe me a date.”

“Now how could I forget a thing like that?”

He ducked as she threw a crust of dry bread at his head, turned and went through the aft cabin into the salon. Carlo had two Aqua-lungs and their ancillary equipment laid out on the table.

“There’s fresh coffee in the galley,” Chavasse told him.

“I’ll get some later. I want to finish checking this lot.”

He never had much to say for himself, a strange, silent youth, but a good man to have at your back in trouble and devoted to Orsini. He sat on the edge of the table, a cigarette smouldering between his lips, and worked his way methodically through the various items of equipment. Chavasse watched him for a while, then went through into the other cabin.

He lay staring at the bulkhead, thinking about the task ahead. If Francesca’s memory hadn’t failed her and the cross-bearing she had given them was accurate, then the whole thing was simple. There couldn’t be more than five or six fathoms of water in those lagoons and the recovery of the statue shouldn’t take long. With any kind of luck, they could be back in Matano within twenty-four hours.

He could hear a rumble of voices from the galley, Francesca quite distinctly, and then Carlo laughed, which was something unusual. Chavasse was conscious of a slight, unreasoning pang of jealousy. He lay there thinking about her and the voices merged with the throbbing of the engine and the rattle of water against the hull.

He was not conscious of having slept, only of being awake and checking his watch and realizing with a shock that it was two A.M. Orsini was sleeping on the far bunk, his face calm, one arm behind his head, and Chavasse pulled on his reefer coat and went on deck.

Mist swirled from the water and the Buona Esperanza kicked along at a tremendous pace. There was no moon, but stars were scattered across the sky like diamonds in a black velvet cushion and there was still that strange luminosity in the water.

Carlo was standing at the wheel, his head disembodied in the light from the binnacle. Chavasse moved in and lit a cigarette. “How are we doing?”

“Fine,” Carlo said. “Keep her on one-four-oh till three A.M. then alter course to one-four-five. Guilio said he’d be up around four. We should be near the coast by then.”

The door banged behind him and a small trapped wind lifted the charts, raced round the deckhouse looking for a way out and died in a corner. Chavasse pulled a seat down from the wall and sat back, his hands steady on the wheel.

This was what he liked more than anything else. To be alone with the sea and the night and a boat. Something deep in his subconscious, some race image handed on from his Breton ancestors, responded to the challenge. Men who had loved the sea more than any woman, who sailed to the Grand Banks of the North American coast to fish for cod, long before Columbus or the Cabots had dreamed of crossing the Atlantic.

The door opened suddenly as rain dashed against the window and he was aware of the heavy aroma of coffee, together with another, more subtle fragrance.

“What’s wrong with bed at this time in the morning?” he demanded.

She chuckled softly. “Oh, this is much more fun. How are we doing?”

“Dead on course. Another hour and Orsini takes over for the final run-in.”

She pulled a seat down beside him, balanced her tray on the chart table and poured coffee into two mugs. “What about a sandwich?”

He was surprised at the keenness of his appetite and they ate in companionable and intimate silence, thighs touching. Afterwards, he gave her a cigarette and she poured more coffee.

“What do you think our chances are, Paul?” she said. “The truth now.”

“All depends on how accurately your brother plotted the final position of the launch when she sank. If we can find her without too much trouble, the rest should be plain sailing. Diving for the Madonna will be no great trick in water of that depth. Depending on weather conditions, we could be on our way back by this evening.”

“And you don’t anticipate any trouble in the Drin Gulf?”

“From the Albanian navy?” He shook his head. “From an efficiency point of view, it’s almost nonexistent. The Russians had a lot of stuff based here before the big bust-up, but they withdrew when Hoxha refused to toe the line. Something he hadn’t reckoned on and China’s too far away to give him that kind of assistance.”

“What a country.” She shook her head. “I can well believe the old story about God having nothing but trouble left to give when it came to Albania’s turn.”

Chavasse nodded. “Not exactly a happy history.”

“A succession of conquerors, more than any other country in Europe. Greeks, Romans, Goths, Byzantines, Serbs, Bulgars, Sicilians, Venetians, Normans and Turks. They’ve all held the country for varying periods.”

“And always, the people have struggled to be free.” Chavasse shook his head. “How ironic life can be. After centuries of desperately fighting for independence, Albania receives it, only to find herself in the grip of a tyranny worse than any that has gone before.”

“Is it really as bad as they say?”

He nodded. “The sigurmi are everywhere. Even the Italian Workers’ Holiday Association complain that they get one sigurmi agent allocated to each member of their holiday parties. Even at a rough estimate, Hoxha and his boys have purged better than one hundred thousand people since he took over, and you know yourself how the various religious groups have been treated. Stalin would have been proud of him. An apt pupil.”

He took out his cigarettes and offered her one. She smoked silently for a while and then said slowly, “Last year, two of your people who were operating temporarily through the Bureau in Rome went missing. One in Albania, the other in Turkey.”

Chavasse nodded. “Matt Sorley and Jules Dumont. Good men both.”

“How can you go on living the life you do? That sort of thing must happen a lot. Look how close you came to not getting out of Tirana.”

“Maybe I just never grew up,” he said lightly.

“How did it all begin?”

“Quite by chance. I was lecturing in languages at a British university, a friend wanted to pull a relative out of Czechoslovakia and I gave him a hand. That’s when the Chief pulled me in. At that time he was interested in people who spoke Eastern European languages.”

“An unusual accomplishment.”

“Some people can work out cube roots in their heads in seconds, others can never forget anything they ever read. I have the same sort of kink for languages. I soak them up like a sponge – no effort.”