Escape from Shadow Island (18 page)

“We're friends,” Max said. “You understand? Friends, okay?”

“Just grab him,” Chris said. “We're wasting time.”

He slung the weapon over his shoulder and seized the man by the arms, hauling him up from the bed. Max and Consuela took one side, Chris the other, and between them they half dragged, half carried him out of the cell. The stink of smoke was getting stronger. Black clouds poured out across the courtyard.

The man was limp in their arms now, offering no resistance. He was muttering to himself, repeating the same thing over and over. “Friends, okay. Friends, okay.”

“He's lost his mind,” Chris said. “He's finished.
What're we going to do with him?”

“Get him help,” Max said.

They carried the prisoner along the passage and down the stairs. The fire had spread from the east wing. The ground floor was filled with choking fumes. The smoke was so thick that visibility was down to only a couple of yards.

“Where now?” Chris said hurriedly.

“The main entrance is that way, near the southwest corner,” said Max.

“Are there guards?”

“I think so.”

“We could try to shoot our way out.”

“There are too many of them,” Max said.

“Look out!” Consuela yelled.

A soldier had erupted from the fog of smoke. Chris let go of the prisoner, reaching for his submachine gun, but he was a moment too late. The guard fired, hitting the prisoner in the chest. Chris fired back. The guard flung himself sideways through an opening into the central courtyard.

Max and Consuela kept hold of the prisoner and dragged him into the nearest room—the fortress kitchens. Chris let off another burst of machine-gun fire to keep the guard at bay and dived in behind them. He tipped over a large cupboard to barricade the door.

Max and Consuela lowered the prisoner gently to the floor. There was blood all over his chest and more seeping from his mouth.

“What do we do?” Max asked desperately.

“I don't know,” Consuela replied. “He's badly hurt.”

“There's nothing we can do,” Chris said.

“There must be. How do we stop the bleeding?”

“It's too late for that.”

Max was still holding the man's hand. He looked up at Max, his face screwed up with pain.
“Arhat Zebari,”
he whispered.
“Arhat Zebari.”
Then he died.

Max stared down at his lifeless face, feeling a shiver run through him. He'd never seen a man die before, never felt such a chilling sense of despair. Who was this wretched prisoner? Why was he on Shadow Island?

Consuela put an arm around Max and pulled him close. “He's gone,” she murmured softly.

“We have to get out. Save ourselves,” Chris said.

He went to the window and peered out. It was only a short drop to the ground outside. “We should head for the jetty,” he said. “There's a boat there. Max?
Max!
”

Max tore his gaze away from the dead man. “What?”

“You and Consuela get out the window.”

“Window…”

“
Now
. Do you hear me? I'm going to create a
diversion, give them something to keep them busy.”

Chris went down the line of stoves, turning on all the burners. The room filled with the foul smell of propane gas.

“Max, we have to go,” Consuela said urgently.

She pulled him to his feet and they scrambled through the window. Chris followed a few seconds later. He was holding a kitchen cloth and a box of matches.

“Take cover behind those rocks,” he said.

He set fire to the cloth and tossed it back through the window, then hurled himself to the ground as an enormous explosion ripped through the kitchens. The stone walls were solid enough to withstand the force, but the windows were blown right out. Sheets of roaring fire erupted through the openings, the flames scorching the outside of the building.

The three of them got to their feet and ran along by the fortress walls to the jetty. There were two patrol launches tied up. An unarmed sailor was standing on the deck of the first boat, staring at the smoke pouring from the fortress.

“Off the boat!” Chris shouted at him. “Who else is on board?”

Another sailor and the boat's skipper emerged from the cabin. Chris fired into the air above their heads as a warning. “Move!” he yelled at them.

The men clambered quickly out onto the jetty.

Chris aimed at the hull of the second launch and let off another burst of machine-gun fire, putting holes in the boat below the waterline. Within seconds the launch started to list to one side.

“Look!” Consuela cried. She pointed back toward the fortress, where the big main doors had been opened. Armed soldiers were streaming out and running down the steps toward the jetty.

Chris leaped on board the first patrol boat. Max untied the stern mooring rope, Consuela the bow; then they jumped down onto the deck. The guards were nearly at the jetty now, only fifty yards away. Chris turned the ignition key and the patrol boat's engine kicked into life. The soldiers were running along the jetty. They raised their guns.

“Chris!” Max shouted, pulling Consuela down into the shelter of the cabin.

Chris rammed the throttle lever forward and threw himself to the floor, just as a hail of bullets cut through the wheelhouse, shattering the windows. The patrol boat surged away from the jetty, the sea foaming violently in its wake. The guards fired again, but the boat was fast getting out of range.

Max craned his head up and looked back. The
soldiers were standing in a group at the end of the jetty. Behind them, the fortress was blazing like a beacon, flames leaping from the windows, creeping across the roof so that the whole building was enveloped in fire and smoke.

CHRIS GOT UP AND TOOK THE WHEEL OF THE boat, adjusting their course to take them north along the coast. He kept the throttle on full so the launch was touching thirty-five knots.

Max and Consuela came out from the cabin and joined him in the wheelhouse.

“You okay?” Chris asked.

Max nodded. Consuela looked at him, her expression concerned. “Are you sure? What happened back there…seeing that poor man…it was awful.”

“I'll be all right,” he said.

He felt numb, slightly sick. The prisoner's death had shaken him. “What did he mean?” he said. “
Arhat
Zebari
? Was that his name?”

Consuela came over and gave him a hug. “Try not to think about him, Max. You did all you could.”

“Hey, what about me? Don't I get a hug too?” Chris said, grinning at Consuela.

Consuela eyed him coolly. “I don't even know who you are.”

“Chris Moncrieffe. Pleased to meet you.” He held out his hand.

Consuela hesitated, then shook it. “Where are we going?” she asked.

“As far away from that island as we can get,” Chris replied.

Max turned and looked back. The fortress was burning fiercely, the fire out of control. Great clouds of black smoke were billowing up into the sky.

“They're going to come after us,” he said.

“How? We took the only usable boat,” Chris pointed out.

“There are boats on the mainland. And Julius Clark has a helicopter on his yacht.”

“We'll worry about that when it happens,” Chris said.

“I think it already is,” Consuela told him. She was gazing across to the mainland. A boat was heading out
toward them from the mouth of the Rio Verde.

“That's just some clapped-out old fishing boat,” Chris said dismissively. “We can easily outrun it.”

“No,” Max said. “Slow down.”

“What?”

“Throttle back.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

Max waved at the other boat. “I know who it is,” he said. “Change course to meet it.”

“You sure?”

“I'm sure.”

Chris pulled back the throttle lever and turned the wheel. The
Rosario
came alongside them and Isabella stepped out of the wheelhouse.

“I was waiting by the shore. I see the fire,” she called across to them. “Are you all right? Do you need any help?”

“Can we come on board?” Max called back.

“Of course.”

“What're you doing?” Chris protested. “This launch is much faster, much better equipped than that piece of junk.”

“It's also the boat that everyone will be looking for,” Max replied. “Julius Clark's people, the Santo Domingan navy, if there is one. This is the boat they'll come after.”

“You've got a point,” Chris conceded. “But we can't just leave it here so close to the mainland. They'll know we've transferred to some other vessel.”

“Can we point it out to sea and just let it go?” Max suggested.

“Leave it to me. You two get off,” Chris said.

Max and Consuela climbed over the side of the launch onto the deck of the
Rosario
. Chris maneuvered the patrol launch around until it was facing due east. He found a piece of rope in a locker and lashed the wheel to the control panel, so that the rudder wouldn't move. Then he opened up the throttle. The launch sped away. Chris ran to the side and dived over. By the time he'd swum to the
Rosario
and clambered aboard, the patrol boat was half a mile away, heading toward the horizon.

“Which way we go?” Isabella asked.

“North,” Max replied. “Away from the island and Rio Verde.”

Isabella swung the wheel over, and the
Rosario
turned and headed up the coast.

Chris stripped off his dripping wet jeans and shirt. “You got any spare clothes on board?” he asked Isabella.

“In locker,” she replied. “There are old clothes—work
clothes—of my father. He use when he repair boat.”

“They'll do,” Chris said, pulling out a pair of oily trousers and a threadbare shirt. “Now let's see where we are.”

He lifted down a maritime chart from a shelf and spread it out. “You're the guy with all the ideas,” he said to Max. “What do you suggest? Do we put into a cove somewhere and lie low? Or do we keep going, try to get to a neighboring country?”

Max glanced at the chart. It was large scale and very detailed. Every navigation buoy, every tiny island, every submerged rock was shown on it. He took a closer look and felt his heart give a jolt. He'd just noticed something around the edges of the chart—numbers and lines dividing it into small grids.
Is it possible?
he wondered.

He counted off the squares along the side and top of the chart and put his finger on a spot—a headland in the north of Santo Domingo.

“That's where we're going,” he said.

 

Isabella steered the
Rosario
as far into the bay as she dared, then cut the engine and threw the anchor overboard. The bay was small and isolated, with a shingle beach and a low, rocky headland at the north end. The beach was deserted, the land behind it
covered in trees and dense vegetation. There were no houses or other signs of human habitation.

Max took the two packets of money from his trouser pockets and placed them on the dashboard. The others stared at the bills in amazement.

“Where did you get those?” Consuela asked.

“Let's just say it was a gift from Julius Clark,” Max replied.

He turned to Isabella. “How much did your father earn in a year?”

“My father? I don't know. In good year, maybe a thousand dollars.”

Max peeled off ten of the thousand-dollar bills and held them out. “Take them. That's ten years' income. Enough to support you and your brothers and sisters until you start earning money yourselves.”

“For me?” Isabella said. “Why?”

“Call it compensation. Your father was murdered by Julius Clark's men. Clark admitted it to me.”

Isabella's face turned pale with shock. “Why? Why would Señor Clark kill my father?”

“Because he knew something Clark wanted kept secret. That day your father took my dad out, they didn't go fishing. They went to Shadow Island. My dad was up to something—I don't know what. He went
snooping on the island, and your father was murdered to prevent him talking about it.”

Chris picked up the remaining bills. “That's a lot of money. What're you going to do with it all?”

“Get home for a start,” Max said. “We can't fly back to England from Santo Domingo now. We'll need to get to Nicaragua, Honduras, or Belize, one of those places, and buy new air tickets, pay for new passports. Money will be useful.”

He picked up the maritime chart and walked onto the deck. He went to the side of the boat and swung his leg over the rail.

“We won't be long,” he said to Isabella.

“Wait a minute,” Consuela said. “Where are we going?”

“To solve a puzzle, I hope,” Max said. He jumped down into the shallow water and waded ashore.

Consuela and Chris exchanged looks, then Chris shrugged. “Why not?” he said. “He seems to know what he's doing.”

Chris vaulted over the rail into the sea, then turned to offer Consuela a helping hand.

“I can manage,” she said stiffly. She lowered herself over the side and followed them onto the beach. “What puzzle?” she asked Max.

“You remember those numbers I told you about?
That I found on the piece of paper under Luis Lopez-Vega's wig? They weren't a code or the combination to a safe. I think they were a grid reference. A grid reference here in Santo Domingo.”

Max opened the chart on the beach and pinned down the corners with pebbles.

“One-one-one-three—that's eleven degrees and thirteen minutes north. Then eight-three-five-two. That's eighty-three degrees and fifty-two minutes west. Where those two lines intersect is right here, on the headland.”

“Why would Lopez-Vega have wanted to give you a grid reference?” Consuela said.

“There's only one way to find out,” Max replied.

He folded the chart up again and walked along the beach, the shingle crunching beneath his feet. At the north end of the bay, he scrambled onto the headland and waited for Consuela and Chris to join him.

“If I'm right,” Max said, “the exact point should be about thirty or forty yards along the headland. Somewhere…” He screwed up his eyes against the glare of the sun. “Look, what's that?”

He climbed over the rocks and out along a rough, sandy track.

On a small patch of earth, well above the tide line, someone had built a low cairn—a mound of stones
like the ones hikers use to mark footpaths in the mountains.

Max knelt down and took it apart, stone by stone. The mound was hollow, and in the center was a small package wrapped in plastic to protect it from the weather. Max unwrapped the bundle. Inside was a folded piece of paper. He stopped breathing for an instant. There was a name written on it—
Max
.

With trembling fingers, he unfolded the letter. He recognized his father's handwriting immediately, though some of the words were shaky and blurred, as if Alex had had trouble holding his pen steady.

The letter was dated just a fortnight earlier. Max stared at the words. He was in a daze, disbelief and excitement coursing through him. His father had written this a mere fourteen days ago.

He was alive.

Max gazed at the words on the page. His whole body was quivering, his pulse racing, his vision blurring. He was breathless, faint with shock and joy.

Consuela gently took the letter from him. She read through it, her eyes lighting up, then filling with tears. She put her arms around Max and held him tight. “I thought he was gone,” she whispered, her voice choking with emotion. “Oh, Max, I'm so happy.” She pulled away and smiled at him.

Max took the letter back and clutched it in his hand. He stared out across the ocean. There was a lump in his throat, tears in his eyes. After two long, unbearable years, he'd heard from his father. But where was he? What did his letter mean? What powerful forces was he talking about? Why did he have to go away again? What was the Cedar Alliance? More questions. So many questions for which Max had no answers.

“I trust you, Dad,” Max said softly, the tears running down his cheeks now. “But I'm not going to wait another two years to see you. I'm not going to wait another two years before Mum gets out of prison. I'm coming to look for you. I don't care how dangerous it is. And I promise you one thing—I'm going to find you.”