The stocky man delivered two hefty kicks and the bolt gave way to reveal a storeroom stuffed with non-perishable supplies.

‘Behind the cupboard.’

It was mounted on hinges and the stocky man eagerly flung it open to reveal a heavy steel door with a combination dial. Ford recited the password without being asked. ‘15061945’ was the date his parents had reached the nearby village after escaping the submarine.

It took the stocky man two attempts to work the dial correctly. With a clunk, the heavy steel door swung open. Inside, the vault was pitch-black. Giving Ford a suspicious look, he pushed him ahead.

‘You first.’

When Ford turned on the light, the Indonesian man scowled.

‘Is this a joke?’

Aside from a large timber wine rack full of dusty bottles, the vault appeared to be empty.

‘Look under the rack.’

The Indonesian grunted as he pulled out a flat, nondescript box made of dark timber. Prying open the lid, he let out a soft hiss. The gold ingots were the size of chocolate bars. Covetously, he picked one up and held it to the light, where it gleamed seductively.

‘You see,’ he told the other man, tracing his fingertip over the finely embossed surface. ‘The Chrysanthemum Seal of Japan.’

Ford cleared his throat. ‘You’re holding a kilogram of gold bullion worth 40,000 US dollars. There are ten bars in the box. I’m afraid that’s all that’s left. Please take it and go.’

He held his breath and prayed. It was a tiny percentage of the cargo the submarine had brought upriver in 1945, and although there were still tonnes on board, nobody would ever be able to retrieve it from the bottomless depths of the Hoosenbeck Cavern.

The stocky man sighed and got to his feet.

‘You have fifteen patients alive upstairs. And I will execute them one by one until you give me the exact location of the submarine.’

With a sinking heart, Ford knew it was over.

‘Third brandy box, on the right. There is a map.’

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Margaret River, Western Australia, present day

Making love underwater, her skin is slippery as slick rubber. Weightless, effortless, nerve endings sing. He can feel Natalie is close, lifts and lunges, consumed with her pleasure. Above him she grips his shoulders, starts to shudder. They roll over, and he drives even harder. Her hair floats like a shroud and he can’t see her face, but he can feel the torrent of bubbles as she comes. He can’t stop pounding. Even when he feels her fingers scrabbling at his throat, her ribcage collapsing under his hands.

Dear God, he wants to stop, but he can’t. The awful, relentless, pounding, pounding . . .

Breathe, why don’t you, Nat?

BREATHE!

Nash opened the door a crack to learn that the source of the relentless pounding was Frank Douglas hammering on his front door.