Chapter Thirty-eight

The Caverns

Von Traeger, at a wooden table in the main chamber, rechecked his course on a navigation chart, working with dividers. Deirdre read the message from the carrier pigeon, “Dreadnought’s making seven knots,” she informed the German. The turbine-powered Dreadnought was capable of much higher speeds—up to twenty-one knots, but while in the confined waters of the firth, until she reached the open sea, her speed would remain more modest.

He grabbed a notepad and started calculating. “She’ll pass us in …”

“Ten to fifteen minutes, depending on the current.”

Von Traeger dropped the pad and pencil to the table in annoyance. “Perhaps you would care to command the U-boat, as well!”

She ignored that. “You had better cast off. Have you confirmed your final arrangements?”

Von Traeger resented her questioning him. He prided himself on efficiency. That was, after all, what Prussians were known for. He huffed and allowed, “Ja. After the attack, I will make for the sea and rendezvous with my yacht. Once on board, I will scuttle the U-boat, destroying all evidence. Neither Germany nor England will be the wiser.”

She nodded in approval. He clicked his heels, “Möge der Tag bringen uns Glück!”

“Do as you were instructed and luck will not be a concern. You are squandering time, Baron.” She made a small gesture, motioning him toward the U-boat.

Having been thus dismissed, Von Traeger marched to the sub and battened down the hatch. Men cast off mooring lines and jumped to the shore. The sub’s internal combustion engine sputtered to life, water bubbled white around her stern, and she began to move down the lagoon toward the cave entrance and the firth beyond.

Deirdre caressed her crescent-moon pendant, watching in satisfaction. The pieces were all falling into place, as she knew they would.

  

Blake was undoing Tasha’s bonds so that she could feed herself from the large wooden bowl of porridge steaming on the nearby stout table.

“Did you pass a good night, ma’am?” asked Blake. He was a simple man at heart who had nothing against Tasha; she was simply on the wrong side. He unfettered one of her arms. “Porridge, ma’am. Have to keep your strength up, you know.”

“Very true, and I am sorry for this,” she said, and then spun around with her free hand grasping the back of Blake’s head. With perfect accuracy, Mother slammed his face into the sturdy bowl of porridge. Focusing all of her considerable strength into the one arm and bracing herself, Tasha forced him under.

Tasha had no personal dislike of Blake. He was merely an obstacle to be overcome. She was fighting to stop a slaughter that would ravage Europe, but she was also a mother protecting her child. She needed freedom of action, and to achieve that, Blake had to die. All of Mother’s impressive powers were focused on that goal and Blake was doomed. Tasha strained—her mouth a straight determined line. Without oxygen, Blake weakened and his struggles waned. When they ceased, Mother lifted his face from the bowl. A mass of glistening red pulp lay where his nose used to be. She let the body slide to the floor, freed her other arm, and methodically rifled Blake’s pockets. She took his revolver, finding—to her surprise—it was her own Webley Bulldog. Ian must have given it to Blake after she had been disarmed. Then she left the now lifeless chamber.

  

As Tasha entered the connecting passageway, she was spotted by one of Deirdre’s armed men. He was most likely a poacher, for he silently stalked her, shikari-like, as she exited the prison chamber, keeping close to the wall.

She halted, sensing him, and turned, but he ducked behind a projection of rock. Mother hurried on, rounding a sharp corner. He crept up cautiously, and lingered on his side of the corner, listening for any sign of her. The game was cat-and-mouse, but now he wasn’t certain which was which. He cocked his revolver, leapt round the corner and landed like a cat, gun ready. He was good, but what he saw surprised him, for he saw nothing. The tunnel was empty. There was no hint of Mother, nor was there any place for her to hide that he could see. He nervously trod into the tunnel, his head oscillating from side-to-side.

If the cult member had been alert to the cavern roof, he would have seen her above him, clinging to irregularities in the rock like some incredible insect. She soundlessly dropped down behind him, leaned close to his ear and whispered: “Boo.”

Startled, he jumped, but before his feet touched down, her fist smashed into his jaw, sending him sprawling.… The expression, even then, was down for the count.

  

The tunnel emptied onto a wide ledge in the main chamber that ran uphill and terminated over the open maw of the sea entrance. There were crates and equipment all about Tasha, as well as sticks of cordite connected by fuse wire. A workman loitered at the far end. Tasha exited the passage and ducked behind some crates. One of the crates was open, and she spotted sticks of dynamite. She stashed a couple of sticks in her belt. One never knew when a large explosion might be convenient.

  

Back in the passage, three more armed guards found their unconscious compatriot on the tunnel floor. No amount of persuasion would rouse him. They drew their revolvers and rushed down the tunnel.

  

The little U-boat had nearly reached the mouth the cave, and open water lay beyond. Above it, on the ledge, a workman lit his pipe, watching the sub while leaning against a large crate. Tasha, suddenly behind him, wrapped her arms around his neck and dragged him under cover. While keeping her hand over his mouth to prevent him from alerting the others, she snapped the worker’s neck, searched his pockets, and found the box of wooden Vesta matches he used to light his pipe.

Bullets started flying around her. The guards had spotted Mother and were racing toward her while shooting. Tasha used the workman’s body as a shield, then tossed the dead cultist aside and bolted to the top of the ledge.

Deirdre, alerted by the firing, spotted Tasha across the lagoon, rushing to the edge of the ledge as the guards closed in. She calculated all of Tasha’s options and her counter-measures. Then Deirdre saw Tasha rush to a case of cordite and target it with her Webley. The guard’s bullets were already striking near the explosives. Deirdre yelled at her followers. “Stop firing! You’ll blow us to atoms!” Her men halted at their priestess’s command.

Tasha yelled to Deirdre, “Stop that U-boat or I’ll fire!”

Deirdre had already played this scenario in her mind. “It’s a poor bluff, Lady Dorrington. You might kill Laura.” Then she ordered her men, “Take her!”

Tasha had not really expected Deirdre to believe that she would fire, but it was a move she had to play. The gamble bought a little time, and she used it to back further away from the men and toward the ledge. Deirdre’s acolytes closed in. Below her, the sub was just passing under the cave mouth.

Tasha pivoted, shoved the gun into her belt and dove into the lagoon. She swam to the sub and grasped a diving fin. Bullets splashed and whizzed all around. Tasha hung on as the U-boat cleared the cave. She felt cleansed by the cold water, and the open sky above was a liberating contrast to the oppressive confinement of the death-cult’s caverns.

Deirdre watched in helpless fury. Tasha had used the one strategy that might be effective, though the odds were heavily against her.