He strode over to the windows and peered out. His office at the Cavendish Laboratories overlooked Free School Lane. It was a sunny spring morning, and the narrow street would normally have been full of students out enjoying some of the season’s first warmth. Today it was nearly empty. The war seemed to have put every aspect of life on hold. Havelock turned back to his desk and wondered to himself how deep Vampire was. Could her cargo be salvaged? It would be risky, yes, but this was war. Risks must be taken. Mary entered his office balancing a cup and saucer.

“Everything OK, sir?” she gently asked, setting the tea down on top of some papers, along with a small pile of shortbread biscuits. “I heard that officer mention a shipwreck.”

“An Australian destroyer was sunk in Ceylon,” he muttered distractedly. “A shame, a great shame.”

“Sorry to hear that, sir,” Mary said, and turned to leave the office. “Oh, Mr. Paget Thomson will be calling shortly. He was in a meeting in London.”

“Thank you, Mary.” Havelock waved her off as he put his lips to the steaming cup, then pulled back. “And one more thing. I’ll be needing a nautical chart of the east coast of Ceylon.”

Blow Down

Bay of Bengal, eight nautical miles east of Batticaloa, Sri Lanka. Present day.

Malcolm Rausing gazed out the pilothouse window of the dive support vessel Depth Charge into the black night. In the distance to the west he could just make out the twinkling lights of Batticaloa. Otherwise it was pitch black, and he could hear the waves gently lapping at the hull 40 feet below. It was a new moon, so no silver beams of light on the sea, no reflection of any kind. Rausing’s face was illuminated by the green light of the instrument panel in front of him. The crescent scar on his forehead stood out in relief, disappearing into his V-shaped hairline. In the artificial light, his pale blond hair, pulled back into a tight ponytail, had the cast of silver mercury. His large grey eyes were intelligent and probing as he scanned the horizon, like a nocturnal predator searching for prey. Satisfied with what he saw, he turned to face the group of three men who stood a respectful distance behind him, all of them wearing black starched shirts with epaulets and the sleeves rolled up neatly, buttoned at their biceps.

“We’ll dive in an hour,” Rausing said to them. “Get the divers blown down to bottom pressure.”

“Yes, sir,” the big man on the end said with a Scandinavian accent. He turned on his heel and left the pilothouse through the outside door, his footfall receding as he clanged down the metal staircase. The humid sea air had briefly entered the cabin, adding some warmth to the chill of the air conditioning.