Aleksey snorted. ‘I know exactly where they are.’
‘Huh?’
‘I know where the treasure is. Miles told me.’
They’d reached the dock. Aleksey gently pushed Ben back onto the seats. ‘Wait here.’ Ben didn’t have the strength left to fight, but he mustered some from somewhere and struggled once more to his feet. Sensing this wasn’t a battle he could win, Aleksey suddenly swung around and backed the RIB away from the dock and took it at a low speed quietly to the north, out of the bay and then west along their northern coastline. He remembered another such trip, sailing inSpindrift, Ben spotting a red-bricked structure. Then he too saw the top of the garden wall. He brought the boat gingerly into the rocky shoreline, but the true genius of the inflatable’s design showed itself as they glided over sharp submerged rock no ordinary boat could have navigated. When they were close enough, he took the line and leapt for a rock, clinging to it for a moment then scrambling clear to the sandy bank, where he fastened the rope to a tree. Within a moment, he was in the garden, and he blessed his gods of chaos and chance, not something he did very often, that Harry was pottering around in the greenhouse, apparently listening to his wireless, Snodgrass at his heels. Harry glanced over, unconcerned, but then gripped his spade with an instinctive spasm of shock at the sight of him. He’d been bleeding a lot in the boat. ‘Is he safe?’
Aleksey swallowed, trying to draw spit into his mouth, which was so dry he could barely form words. As succinctly as he could, he told Harry what had happened—not the treasure, not Barthrop, not Colter, not the shark, not even Miles. Just Ben, and what Harry needed to now do for them.
Almost as if Harry had been born for such a moment, he just squeezed Aleksey’s shoulder lightly as he walked past him, heading to the shore.
Aleksey went to the tap and twisted down to drink from it.
He rose to his full height and shook out some kinks.
Then, with purpose, but entirely confused as to what any of this was really about—for it surely wasn’t about buried treasure—he made his way towards Clearwater Pond.
You are theRaiser.
Well, yes, he was. An old joke he’d shared with a little boy on a Scottish hillside another lifetime ago, before he wasthisman. Sure, he couldn’t spread his arms wide and command the seabed to rise. But he entertained himself by believing that perhaps another little boy could, and had done over two thousand years before. And Miles had worked this out on a code left by a dying man. What had Frobisher scratched on his precious Nelson Prize, starvation shrivelling him up?Jesus stone, perhaps? It was succinct and could not be mistaken—but only relevant if you knew the tale of the island. As he walked purposely under the trees, another piece of the puzzle clicked into place for him, the one that had fluttered elusively away from his mind as he’d stood smoking on the deck with Miles. A man with a godly name had known to hide the treasure he’d stolen beneath the stone. How? Because the stone had once healed him and restored his sight? Where else would you take a blind child but to a reputedly miraculous relic of the faith? And would not then that hysterical little boy, traumatised by something intonotseeing, see once more on faith alone? All things were possible through faith, even if it was only in a stone. He had faith in a pair of green eyes and a man who gave meaning to his life, so who was he to doubt?
He came to the edge of the pond and could see the two figures he sought standing by the old tree, wet and very busy upon some task. Barthrop suddenly seemed to sense his presence, swinging around, pulling Miles to him, one arm around the boy’s throat, the other holding the large, serrated dive knife to the side of it. He shouted hysterically over the water between them, ‘You can’t be here!’
‘A lot of people keep saying that to me. It’s a knack I have—not dying to suit other people’s convenience.’
‘You’re covered in blood.’ Miles’s voice was high, tight, clearly stressed.
‘It’s not all mine. Don’t worry.’
‘We’ve found the—’
‘—shut up and dig!’
Aleksey held his hands wide. ‘Don’t be afraid, Miles, this will end well. We do not want the treasure, Barthrop. As Colter explained to you, I have absolutely no need of it. The entire wealth of the Aztec Empire is as nothing compared to the fortune I already have. It’s all yours, and I will even help you dig it up. Only let the boy go.’
‘Stay there!’
Aleksey obediently retreated the small distance he’d gained. Something had caught his eye anyway, lurking in the trees.
Miles had a small folding shovel at his feet, and he picked it up at another prod with the knife. ‘I’m not very good at digging, Mr Barthrop. I’ve never done any before. I might take some time doing this. It would be a much better idea to let Nikolas swim over and help. You should see him when he does something, which isn’t as often as we all think he should really, but he’s absolutely spectacular. Especially with chainsaws.’
Glancing at the boy, the spade, and also at whatever it was they were doing, Barthrop nodded and pulled the boy to him once more, waving Aleksey closer. Apparently, you didn’t have to be all that smart to be a museum director.
Walking slowly into the crystal waters of the pond, Aleksey felt a surge of confidence that what he had told Miles might be so: this might end well for all of them. Despite now believing this obnoxious little man had killed Orlando Frobisher, he hadn’t known the landowner and so didn’t care. Colter, surprisingly, he regretted. Rogue Wave’s owner had started to be a worthy adversary, and had he lived, Aleksey felt they might have become almost polite to each other. Maximising the opportunity to get his own personal blessing, he sank gratefully beneath the water, twisting and turning and washing his wounds. When he surfaced on the shore of the tiny island, he stood dripping and considering his options. Barthrop and Miles were over by the tree. Between him and them lay a huge pit. He idly wondered whether the old dog had enjoyed his devious frolics on Revival Sands, fooling them all to think that was where he was finding his treasures. He should have remembered the old mutt’s fascination with this place, his constant furtive scrabbling whenever they came here:Radulf’s Stone. Aleksey didn’t attribute magical powers to the old dog’s interest. He definitely didn’t think Radulf was seeking absolution or redemption—the old dog was too far gone for either of those. But a rotting corpse?—that he would want to find.
He considered the hole now. It was clearly not just the work of one stupid, blind wolfhound. Whatever Radulf had been doing had apparently collapsed the roof of a chamber which had been dug a long time ago.
‘Start digging.’
‘I will. I’m just deciding where to dig first.’ He picked up the spade and pretended to study it. He could throw it, but Barthrop was behind Miles. He could refuse to dig, but it seemed a better option to him to just do what was asked of him. He jumped down into the hole onto what appeared to be the top of a wall and made a tentative stab at the sandy bank.
‘Not there! Dig out the roof.’
‘I’m going to. Who knows more about digging? Me or you?’
‘I’m an archaeologist.’
‘Huh. Well, I’ve built whole cities out of sand, with castles and keeps—I planned to build one for my brother and me to live in one day. I’d have been the lord, obviously, and he was going to be some minor functionary in my government. Maybe a museum director.’ He straightened and put a hand to his back with an elaborate groan and stretch. ‘Funny really, they always got taken out by tidal waves, too.’
