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Casey worked under the stern canopy, which they’d draped with fishing nets. They already had the Dolphin Speed Trailer over the rail and tied up and were checking their diving gear.
    ‘Throttle back,’ Bell called, and Grant did as he was told, so that they simply coasted along as Bell and Casey pulled on their diving suits and
    inflatables.
    Grant had the windscreen open and leaned out.
    ‘Any problems?’
    ‘No,’ Bell said. ‘Put her on automatic and get
    down here.’
    Bell eased on his jacket with the tanks attached and wrapped the Velcro straps, while Casey did
    the same.
    Casey said, ‘You’re sure about this? Three miles
    in forty-five minutes?’
    ‘It’s easily done at the speed this thing goes. We’ll
     
    manage at fifteen feet all the way. We’ve plenty of air, and there’s an onshore current.’
    He dropped the weaponry bag over onto the Dolphin and clipped his holding line to his weight belt as Grant arrived. Bell pulled on his gloves.
    ‘Well, it’s the moment of truth. We’re going on towards the coast looking for a World War II wreck. An Irish boat called Rose of Tralee.’ The story was beginning to sound so good that he almost believed it himself. ‘Amongst other things, it was carrying gold bullion from the Bank of England for safekeeping in Boston. People have been looking for her for years, but last month I traced an old guy of eighty-six who was a deckhand and survived when she was torpedoed by a U-boat. He didn’t know about the gold, but he was able to give me the position.’
    ‘Jesus Christ!’ Grant said.
    ‘So, play your cards right and I’ll cut you in for a piece.’
    ‘Sure. Anything you say, Mr Bell,’ Grant said eagerly.
    ‘Okay. You stay here. Drop your line. Get the nets out. Look busy. With luck, we’ll see you in three hours.’
    He pulled down his mask, put in his mouthpiece,
    and went backwards over the stern rail. As he untied the line on the Dolphin, Casey joined him. Bell switched on the two heavy-duty batteries, mounted the front seating position and as Casey got on behind, took the Dolphin down, levelled off at fifteen feet and turned towards the distant coast of Nantucket Island with a surge of power.
    Standing on the front porch of the old house, wearing a United States Marines tracksuit, Jake Cazalet drank his first cup of coffee of the day and watched Murchison, his beloved flatcoat retriever, walking with Clancy Smith on the beach below. There was a step behind, and as Cazalet turned, Blake Johnson joined him, also nursing a coffee. ‘Always great to be back, Blake,’ Cazalet told
    him.
    ‘It sure is, Mr President.’ ‘Can’t wait for my run. You’ll join me?’ ‘If you’ll excuse me, not this morning. Even though it’s the weekend and early in the day, Harper is finding himself under considerable pressure in the Communications Room. There’s a lot coming down from the Hill. I’d better stay and give him a hand.’
    ‘All right, then come and look at my new toy. I had it shipped down during the week.’
    He led the way round to the yard. The barn door stood open and inside was a large motorcycle on its stand. ‘A Montesa dirt bike,’ the President said. ‘It’ll be a lot of fun riding it along those roads.’
    ‘I’ll take your word for it,’ Blake said. ‘To be honest, Mr President, I haven’t ridden a bike of any kind for years.’
    ‘Hell, a child could work this thing. Shepherds use them to herd sheep.’ He sat astride, started the engine, rode out and circled the yard. ‘There you go.’ He switched off and pushed it up on its stand. ‘Feel free!’
    ‘I will,’ Blake said.
    As they walked back to the porch, it started to rain. Murchison was sitting waiting, tongue hanging. Clancy Smith came over wearing a hooded oilskin coat in yellow and carrying another, which he passed to Cazalet.
    ‘Knowing you, Mr President, I figure we’re going, rain or no rain.’
    ‘You’re always so right, Clancy.’ Cazalet pulled on