Escape from Shadow Island (14 page)

IT WAS A MOONLESS NIGHT, THE SKY SO overcast that not a single star shone through the canopy of cloud. The
Rosario
was almost invisible on the black expanse of the ocean. Isabella kept the wheelhouse and navigation lights off, steering in complete darkness. Max was standing beside her. He'd spent the afternoon and evening hiding in a cave on the shore, waiting for night to fall and Isabella to return. He'd swum out to the boat from the headland once again, and his clothes were dripping wet. There was a towel in the wheelhouse, but Max didn't bother to dry even his hair. He was going to be wet again all too soon.

There was a wind blowing offshore, breaking the
surface of the sea. The waves were higher than they'd been earlier in the day, and the
Rosario
was pitching and tossing, spray showering over the deck.

Isabella couldn't see the compass or any other navigation aid, but she didn't need to. Their destination was clearly visible on the horizon, lights burning in the windows of the fortress and down by the jetty.

“You sure you want to do this?” she said.

“I'm sure.”

“I'll get as close as I can. How long do I give you?”

“Twenty minutes. If I'm not back in that time, you can assume I'm inside the fortress.”

Isabella glanced at him. Neither of them made any mention of the alternative outcome: After twenty minutes, Max might not be inside the fortress, but dead.

“We can still go back,” Isabella said. “Forget this plan.”

“No, I'm going ahead with it,” Max answered firmly.

“It very dangerous. Maybe very foolish. Is there really no other way of getting onto the island?”

“We wouldn't even get close to the jetty; it's too well protected. Those trigger-happy guards would probably shoot us if we went too near. And the cliffs are unclimbable, you can see that. The pipe is the only
way. I
have
to get to Consuela.”

Isabella didn't argue further. She pulled back the throttle lever. The boat slowed. “This is where we were this morning,” she said.

Max picked up the waterproof flashlight Isabella had bought earlier in Rio Verde and stuffed it down the waistband of his trousers. “I'll see you,” he said.

“Good luck,” Isabella replied.

Max dropped over the side of the boat and started to swim toward Shadow Island. He stayed on the surface, to see where he was going and to conserve his lung power, but the rough sea didn't make it easy. The waves kept rolling over him, breaking in his face. He had to judge his position exactly. If he got too close to the island before he submerged, he risked being dashed on the rocks.

He looked up at the fortress, now less than a hundred yards away. He tried to gauge the exact location of the sewage outlet, but in the darkness he couldn't find his bearings. Everything looked different at night. He'd just have to dive down and search for it again. He ducked beneath the surface and swam to the edge of the rock shelf.

Pulling the flashlight from his waistband, he clicked it on and shone the beam over the rocks. A fish darted
away in front of him, surprised by the light. The seaweed glowed a dozen different shades of green, fronds and tendrils swaying in the underwater currents.

There it was—the opening to the sewage outlet. Max shone the flashlight inside the pipe. It lit up the first few yards, but after that there was just a black hole.

Max swam to the surface again and trod water, breathing in deeply, preparing himself for the challenge he was about to undertake. The idea of swimming through that dark, narrow pipe filled him with dread. He didn't suffer from claustrophobia. Small enclosed spaces didn't worry him, nor did water. Not as a general rule, anyway. He was used to being shut up in boxes and trunks and immersed in water. But he'd never attempted anything like this. He didn't know what was inside the pipe, and he'd get only one chance to find out. If fate was against him, this seaweed-encrusted outlet might very easily become his tomb.

Max turned his head. The
Rosario
was now just a small shadow bobbing up and down on the sea. He didn't know whether Isabella would be able to see him—probably not—but he raised his arm and waved to her just in case. Then he braced himself. He couldn't put off the moment any longer. Delaying only encouraged him to dwell on the hazards of what he was about
to do. As Isabella had said, this was a dangerous venture, a foolish one. But he knew he had no choice. Consuela was on Shadow Island, and he knew in his gut that the island was in some way connected to his father's disappearance.

He took a deep breath, filling every tiny recess of his lungs with air, and dived down once more. He placed his right hand on the edge of the outlet for a second, to steady himself, then plunged inside the pipe. The walls closed around him. They were made of iron, the surfaces pitted and eaten away by rust. Every couple of yards there was a riveted sleeve where the cylindrical sections had been joined together.

The flashlight beam pierced the blackness, but Max could see no end to the pipe. The water was cloudy. He could feel the pressure on his body, on his eardrums. How far had he come? Twenty, thirty yards? That was only a quarter of the distance he had to cover. He'd been underwater for less than a minute. He had about two more minutes of air in his lungs, but was that going to be enough? He couldn't turn back—the pipe was too narrow for that. A chill passed through him. What if the other end of the pipe was blocked? What if he found there was no way out after all? He would die down here.

He resisted the temptation to increase his speed. That would use up his remaining oxygen too fast.
Just keep going at an even pace
, he told himself.
Stay calm. Don't think about anything other than the next stroke. One yard at a time.
He let some air trickle out through his lips to relieve the pressure on his lungs. His eardrums were in agony. It felt as if a sharp nail were jabbing into them.

His legs and arms kept up a steady rhythm, propelling him along the cylinder. It seemed to Max that the pipe was getting narrower, but he wondered if it was just his imagination.

How far had he come now? Sixty yards? Seventy? He still couldn't see the end, and he was running out of air. It felt as if there was a hoop of steel around his chest getting tighter and tighter. He let out some more air, watching the bubbles float up past his eyes.

Was it another trick of his imagination, or had the pipe started to slope upward a little? Yes, he could definitely feel a slight change. But the end was still nowhere in sight. He must have swum ninety yards by now. Surely he must be close to the fortress. His lungs were bursting. He couldn't hold his breath for much longer.

Then the flashlight beam struck something in the
blackness ahead. Max saw rivets, a wall of rusty iron, and his heart almost stopped. The pipe was blocked. He'd reached a dead end. His fingers touched the wall, probing the surface, pushing hard on it. It was solid metal. That was it. He'd come all this way for nothing. He had only a few seconds of air left. Should he try to turn around, make an attempt to swim back out? Max knew it was futile, but he wasn't going to just wait there passively for the end. If he was going to die, he wanted to die doing something.

He twisted his body. One arm scraped against the side of the pipe. His other arm flailed upward…but it encountered no resistance. There was nothing there. Max rolled over onto his back and shone the flashlight directly up. The pipe hadn't come to an end. It had simply turned through a sharp ninety-degree angle.

Max thrust himself upward. His lungs were almost ready to explode. His vision was blurring; he was starting to feel dizzy. Another few seconds and he would black out. He scooped the water back frantically with his arms, his legs kicking out again and again. There was nothing left in his lungs. This was it. He felt himself losing consciousness. He closed his eyes and kicked out one last time.

Then, suddenly, everything changed. There was no
longer water on his face, but cool air. He opened his eyes. He'd broken the surface. His head was out of the water. He gulped in the air greedily. The pain in his ears eased, the hoop around his chest relaxed.

He'd done it. He'd got through the pipe. And he was alive.

He could have whooped with delight, only he didn't have the energy. He trod water, shining the flashlight around. He was in a small stone-walled chamber that was partially flooded with seawater. At one side of the chamber, just above the water level, was a stone ledge with a rusty iron ladder bolted to the wall above. Max swam over to it and pulled himself out. He was exhausted. For three or four minutes he just lay on his back, breathing heavily.

He heard a slight movement by his feet and sat up, aiming the flashlight down. The beam reflected back off a pair of beady eyes—a rat. The creature gazed at Max, then scuttled away through a hole in the wall. Max dragged himself to his feet. His clothes were sodden and heavy with water. He stripped and wrung them out before dressing again. Then he grabbed hold of a rung and climbed up the rusty ladder.

There was an iron manhole cover at the top. Max clung to the highest rung with one hand and pushed
on the cover with his other. It didn't move. He hammered on it with his fist. The cover still didn't budge. Max swung back off the ladder so he was almost upside down and slammed the sole of his sneaker into it. He felt it give a little. He kicked again, then swung back upright and pushed with his hand. The cover lifted out of its slot. Max pushed it to one side and clambered through the opening.

Shining the flashlight around, he saw that he was in the cellars of the fortress. There were stone slabs on the floor and a high vaulted ceiling above. The place smelled damp and musty. The beam of the flashlight found a door on the far side of the room. He walked over and tried the handle. The door was locked, but Max had come prepared. He rummaged in his trouser pockets, pulling out a small screwdriver and a piece of thick wire that he'd taken from the toolbox on board the
Rosario
. He shone the flashlight into the keyhole, assessing the lock, then chose the piece of wire as the best tool for the job. Ten seconds later, the lock slid back and Max inched open the door.

There was a corridor outside, with doors at regular intervals along both sides. Max had memorized the plan Angel Romero had drawn and knew that these doors gave access to the pitch-black, windowless cells
in which political prisoners had been kept during the 1970s.
Are people still being kept in them?
Max wondered. Consuela was being held somewhere in the fortress—and what had happened to the handcuffed man who'd arrived that morning? Max didn't think either of them was down here in the cellars. From the stale, airless atmosphere, he got the impression that this area was no longer used. But he tried one of the doors anyway. It wasn't locked. Pushing it open, he heard the scurry of tiny paws inside and his flashlight caught the tails of half a dozen rats disappearing through a crack in the crumbling stonework.

The cell was one of the tiniest, most horrific rooms Max had ever seen. It was only about a five feet square—not even big enough for a man to lie down in. The floor was bare earth and the stone walls were damp and covered in a white, foul-smelling fungus. Max closed the door, imagining what it must have been like for the prisoners who'd been shut away in these ghastly cells, sometimes for years. How had they endured it?

Max walked on quickly to the staircase at the end of the corridor. He paused for a moment, then went cautiously up. As he neared the ground floor, he slowed, listening hard. The cellars might be out of use, but the rest of the fortress would certainly be occupied. He
didn't want to blunder into one of the armed guards who he was sure patrolled the building. This floor didn't interest him. Romero had said the other cells were all on the third and fourth. If Consuela was locked away somewhere, it would probably be up there.

Max peered around the corner and saw a wide hallway with doors opening off it. The hall was in darkness, but through a window Max could see the courtyard in the center of the fortress, illuminated by floodlights. He crept across to the window and looked out warily. It appeared to be deserted at first, but then Max caught movement over by the main entrance: A figure stirred restlessly in the shadows. There was a guard on duty.

Max's plan of action was vague. It had consisted of two main objectives: getting into the fortress and rescuing Consuela. The first objective had been achieved; the second had still to be completed. Max hadn't given much thought to what happened after that. The important thing was finding Consuela. Once he'd done that, he'd worry about the minor details—like how they'd get out of the fortress and off the island without being recaptured or shot.

He pulled away from the window and ran lightly up the next flight of stairs. It was the middle of the night. With any luck, everyone would be asleep and he'd find
Consuela without encountering any opposition.

On the second-floor landing, Max paused again. He thought he'd heard something. Cocking his head, he listened. He
had
heard something. Someone was coming down the stairs. Max had to think fast. There was no point in going back to the ground floor, so that left him only one option. He ran along the landing and tried the handle of the first door he came to. It swung open a few inches. Max squinted through the gap, checking that the room was empty, then stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He waited, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. He was in an office of some kind. There was a desk over by the window, cupboards on the walls. He could make out the details quite easily. Then he realized why. Light was seeping in under the door of an adjoining room.

Crouching down, Max looked through the keyhole of the door. He couldn't see much—just a wooden balustrade and a white wall beyond it. There was no sign of any people and no sound, either. Max eased open the door and went through. He found himself not in a room, as he'd expected, but on a gallery overlooking a very old, vast chamber. There was oak paneling on the walls, and the high ceiling was divided up into a series of painted squares separated by ornate plasterwork.
Max guessed it was probably the original main hall of the fortress, dating back to the sixteenth century.