Free The Keys of Hell by Jack Higgins

some time he busied himself with the charts and finally nodded in satisfaction.
    “We should move into the marshes just before dawn.” He placed a cheroot between his teeth and grinned. “What happens after that is in the lap of God.”
    “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