The Keepers of the Persian Gate by Sydney Maurice Page A

correct latitude, but the incorrect longitude.
    “Okay, stop here,” said Jake. “We need to stay within twenty metres of this radius.”
    The sea was very calm at this stage and voices could carry.
    “Do we have anything other than the GPS to line up a transit?” asked Paddy.
    “There are two lights over there on the shore. Do you see, they’re almost lined up. I guess if we keep them that way, that’ll do for keeping our position fixed,” replied Jake. “Right, tie this line to your rescue buoy and hold on tight. I’ll do the same. We’ll separate. A hundred feet apart he said, wasn’t it?”
    “Yeah. I think so,” said Paddy.
    Paddy and Jake swam the short distance apart. They bobbed up and down in the tide for several minutes. As they did, the men manoeuvred in every direction to maintain a constant position within the radius of the coordinates. It environment was quiet enough for their voices to carry.
    “I do hope those sharks you were talking about don’t decide to turn up now!” shouted Paddy.
    “Nah, I was just saying that to get you to hurry up. Wrong time of year!” Jake called back.
    “Asshole,” replied Paddy.
    “How are we for time?” asked Jake.
    “About three minutes to go,” replied Paddy. “Do you have any idea what’s planned?”
    “Haven’t a clue,” said Jake.
    “I remember when I was doing a sailing course several years ago, my RYA Yachtmaster’s Certificate, we were taken by a guy called Jeremy Lindsay. He was Special Boat Service, you know? Our British equivalent of you SEALs.”
    “Of course, I know them well,” said Jake.
    “Well, I remember him telling us that when the Argentinians invaded the Falklands, the SBS were on the ground long before the British response force arrived. Their mission was to carry out recon of the island before the bulk of the main force arrived. The only way for them to get back off the island was for them to row to a specific set of coordinates in dinghies several miles offshore. Then they separated just like we have, with a line tied between them,” explained Paddy.
    “And what happened next?” asked Jake.
    “Well, all of a sudden…”
    “Wow, what’s that over there?” Jake interrupted.
    There was a heavy disturbance in the water as something approached them from the north. It looked like a moving pole. As it drew closer, the object intersected the middle of the rope which connected Paddy to Jake and began towing them. The pair held on very tight. The mast must have been moving about fifteen knots.
    After about ten minutes of being towed along on their bellies, the men saw the main body of the vessel begin to ascend out of the water and a coning tower came into view. Suddenly they felt a hard surface beneath their feet as the submarine slowed to a stop. They both fell forward on the surface like a fish out of water. Then they heard the sound of a hatch opening from the top of the coning tower and a torch shone down from that direction.
    “I say, Captain Trimble, are you there?” shouted a man with a British accent.
    Paddy shouted back. “Yes!”
    “Do you have a Yank with you?” shouted the voice.
    “I do indeed,” replied Paddy.
    “Very good. I am Lieutenant Commander Williams. Welcome aboard the HMS Victorious!”

Chapter 5
    Doughty Street
    IT WAS AUGUST 2011, and London had been experiencing a significant heat wave since early July. Paddy, fresh back from his attachment to the International Criminal Court, had been working tirelessly alongside Marco Montpellier and numerous others on a two-month extradition hearing in Paris, culminating in the Mechanic’s extradition to the Hague.
    Doughty Street was one of those places which could inspire anyone’s imagination. A tree lined street of Georgian townhouses located in the heart of Central London, in the nineteenth century it played host to Charles Dickens as he wrote Oliver Twist. Today, Number 48 was a museum celebrating Dickens’ life. The entire area, in fact, was