“One more day for pleasure!” Tonasi slapped home the twenty-round magazine, fitted the silencer to the machine pistol. “One more . . .”
“Tooms’s pleasure will be brief—the concern that we may not be back in time for today’s obscenity. I will tell him that we will be there. When we are not, there will be a second call. He won’t be able to come down at that point, to leave Starring before their ships pass. You will take that call, Paul. You will tell him you are supporting us, that we are on a second run. We have had luck. We should have an entire grid completed today—and, he will know that this will be far more important to Starring’s interests than our presence on deck.
“If he presses you, tell him that you and he should resubmerge the second submersible for a test run as soon as he is free. He may or may not decide that is what he wants to do. If I am wrong, Paul, if he decides to make an appearance, he will probably call down, first. Whatever he does, stick with your story. We are on the first grid.”
They made coffee and rested. It would be light now on the surface. At 8:55, the call came from Tooms to Renfro. Starring had him in the traces topside, perplexed about their decision to make the grid run. See them in two to three hours . . .
“He’s out of the way. The tanker is enroute, on schedule.”
“He does good work for a pig.” Tonasi clamped his arms around her, hugged her hard, and kissed the back of her neck. “You are a hungry hunter. You want that ship. I will get her for you. Breathe, Les, breathe. Relax. I will get her for you!” He let her go. The tension was broken. Together they traced the route on the chart of the main channel.
“They are planning to pass as close as possible. They navigate at all times at load depth, thirty-eight feet, even though the ship is in ballast. Allowing for shipping in the opposite direction, the tanker will be exactly here”—she made a mark on the chart, moved the calipers to the chart scale—“when abreast of the catamaran, closest point of contact—we will be here—the shoreline, from here to here.” She placed the calipers beside the chart. “I know—we will sink this ship. You have to do everything required to achieve this victory. You have lived among these criminals. You have endured them to make this possible. By tomorrow night, your victories will be known to the world. Three swift cuts of the guillotine will have ridded the world of a criminal! You will lift the hearts of all in the struggle, and you will strike terror in the oppressors. What we do today and tomorrow is more than anything before. Our victory, the justice, will be remembered long after we are dead.”
“Paul, Filippo. The ship today is only the first blow. We have thirty-six more hours. Keep your heads. Do not reveal today’s action in any way. My body will scream to cry out victory, but we cannot. Victory today! Victory tomorrow! Anything less will betray all who hunger for this blow. We cannot fail.” She took their hands in an act of communion.
There was one hour, now. Tonasi and Renfro zipped the jackets of their wetsuits, pulled on the hoods, gloves, and buoyancy compensator vests. Head inspected them. They moved the cargo to the deck of the work chariot. Their bodies slithered back and forth from the habitat. At noon, the work chariot rose from its cradle in the darkness of the bay, hovered, then proceeded in a slow circular run, climbing, descending. Head’s masked face and clenched fist were illuminated as the chariot passed the habitat and then disappeared instantly, its lights doused.
From his after station, Tonasi kept watch on the cargo, which was riding well. The deep-green canvas sea anchor and surface buoy were lashed to the reel of nylon line. The tail of the line ran forward from a slot on the outer rim of the wheel, along the chariot’s hull, through the padeye on the forward deck, to a metal ring in the grip of the claw. The mine rode top up, its shrouded propeller jutting into the cockpit, the powerful magnets insulated from the chariot’s cargo grating by the lashed wooden cradle.
Instinctively, Tonasi worked his jaws to compensate for the changing pressure. The water above was a dark gray-green. They were running closer to the surface. He ran a gloved hand across the smooth curve of the mine’s shroud, checked his position in the cockpit, the surfaces against which he would lock his legs. He felt no tension. Only the physical sensations of the submerged run kept his interest before the attack. He allowed his body to bend with the water’s steady pressure. His face moved close to the black skin of the mine, the raised white arrows of the settings. The chariot banked to starboard. The water was lighter. Renfro had made the turn east and was climbing on the final run into the main channel.
Renfro’s occasional glance at the panel told her what she already knew; they were running smoothly, on course, on schedule. Her watch read twelve minutes into the mission when the bubble compass steadied on 90 degrees. The speed held at four knots. In five minutes she would slow to one knot, recheck her bearings. Life aboard the Matabele was finished. They would have to abandon Malta; that had already been decided. As the future fed through her mind, she nudged the joystick, increasing the upward glide of the submersible. The next day they would be ashore, would separate. They had money. Tooms and Starring had seen to that. She throttled back, hit “surface,” her thoughts still on their routes out of the country, cover stories, the separate arrivals in northern Europe, the rendezvous in Copenhagen. There they would decide, separate again—permanently?
They were running in pale green. She did not welcome the return of light. The blindness of the submerged run was also its invisibility. Silence enveloped the chariot in its slowing glide. The fathometer reported the increasing depth beneath them . . . eighty, eighty-two, eighty-four, eighty-eight feet. She could see the underside of the surface. It would not be rough, but there would be enough wave action, she could see it, to help conceal them.
Her body tensed with the first sound of the distant thudding. Early! she thought. Immediately, she rejected the notion, adjusted the chariot’s trim. As they continued to rise, she forced her head back against the resistance of the tanks, gauging the surface. She did not want the upper blade of the rudder or the curve of the reel and sea anchor exposed. The chariot was steady, hovering. She pulled her legs up and stood on the seat. The wave action was greater than expected. Tonasi was also standing. She gestured upward, climbed into the submersible’s compartmented divider. Held firmly by the legs, she studied their location. The thudding—crab boats off to the east—no interference. The red gong buoy marking the far side of the channel was rocking slowly, some five hundred yards to the northeast. She turned; the profile of the Octagon was precisely where she wanted it, 180 degrees reverse bearing from the buoy. She turned again . . .
Tonasi felt her dive through his hands. She yanked him down into the cockpit. She had missed spotting the sailboat beating to windward from the southeast. It had been blocked by the rubber sidewall of her mask. When she did see it, the sloop was on them, no more than one hundred yards away, knifing diagonally up the bay. She waited. Forty-five seconds flicked by on her watch; then she stood again.
The yacht had already faded to a small patch of white. There was a merchantman barely visible to the south. They would have at least fifteen minutes. She took the controls, brought them closer to the surface, but she would not risk being spotted by binoculars from the catamaran. She knew their habits; the chariot’s hull would stay completely submerged. She thumped Tonasi’s tanks; they dodged waves as they spoke.
“The mine?”
“Ready . . . one hour?”
“Less. One ship closing from the south. We should deploy the anchor.”
He nodded yes.
“I will run to the north to stretch the line to its fullest. The freighter will have passed. When the line is out, signal.”
Both masks and regulators slid back into place. She swung the chariot onto the new course, taking it down to fifteen-foot running depth. The nylon line was attached to the rigid, circular opening of the canvas sea anchor. The anchor, eight feet in diameter, was weighted from the bottom, buoyed at the top to hang suspended at eight-to-ten feet beneath the
surface, with only its white flotation buoy on the surface. It was away. Tonasi kept the canvas close to the hull until he was satisfied that the cone had filled and was towing unfouled. With the brake released, the metal reel on the cargo deck began to turn, paying out the line in response to the forward motion. He counted the yellow, one-hundred-foot interval markers emerging slowly. She knew the timing. He felt the chariot slow just before the tenth marker, one thousand feet of line, appeared. They surfaced. The red gong buoy was abeam. The freighter they had anticipated was passing. Another ship was southbound, heading toward them.
“Her?”
“No, container ship. We are well clear. I will run forward. Pay out the last of the line; jettison the reel. We will wait. I want to see her before we cross the channel.” They waited, heads above water, masks off, the bright chrome regulators on their chests beneath the surface to avoid betraying glints of sunlight. The vibrations of three passing ships throbbed through the chariot, the waves from the wakes washing over their heads. They waited. Then, they spotted her.
“One-forty-five? The bastards are early?”
“No. She will slow. The planning has called for three knots from the start. I checked that with Tooms and the lot on the bridge.”
“Slow and sexy for the great man—good, good for us, Les. She’s high in the water, a goddamned wall of bottom paint—okay”
“She’s alright. The nose is still beneath the surface. It will catch us.”
Tonasi scanned the horizon; a few distant sails, no other ships. “She’s dead!”
“Activate switches; prepare to release tie-downs. Take manual control when you feel us begin to tow.” They were at their stations. The turns increased on the submersible’s propeller. She held it on the northerly course to keep the line taut to the trailing sea anchor.
At 1:50 P.M., the chariot submerged with rudder hard over and swung to an easterly course across the channel.
The message from the Partner to the Octagon clattered from the catamaran’s teleprinter. The communications officer clipped it neatly into a folder and took it to the captain for delivery to Starring, who immediately dictated a glowing response.
“My God, Oats, what a sight; what a stirring sight!” The details of the giant LNG tanker were emerging. She loomed larger and larger in making her slow, stately approach. “Where’s your team, the divers? Have them join us. That bunting makes a show against the white. We’re having this filmed, aren’t we?”
“Three cameras, two motion grinding away, one still, Tommie. Higher duty has called our Maltese porpoises. They went below at the crack of dawn to lay the first research grid—spoke to Leslie a couple hours ago. She promised they’d be up, but they haven’t made it yet.” Tooms fished in his shirt pocket for a cigarette, preparing for the blast.
“Bad planning, damn it, Oats. I’m damned well not pleased, wanted that shot of the expedition members with the Partner in the background—who the hell can I rely on? Damn it Oats!” He slapped his hands together, turned his attention to the blue hull continuing to build. “Make sure that we get it tomorrow when the Mayan makes her pass up the bay—No, damn it, I won’t be here. I’ll be in Washington, and—I’m going to take that young Renfro with me. Have her see me as soon as they surface.”
Standing on the wing of the Partner’s bridge, the pilot took his eyes off the catamaran to glance at the tiny crab pot float off to starboard, cocked at a strange angle . . . looks like it’s moving with us . . . tricks of the eye. They were abreast of the Octagon, and the tanker’s great, bass horn shook the bay in sounding her salute to the Towerpoint flagship. When the salute ended, the baritone of the Octagon rolled across in response. The swallow-tailed pennant snaked gracefully from the forward mast. The Partner’s master was elated; Starring’s message was in his hand.
The work chariot faced south, hovering six feet beneath the surface, the braided line disappearing to the west through the grip of the manipulator’s claw. The slow beat of the Partner’s propeller increased in volume, letting them track her approach. Tonasi glared through his mask, ordering his eyes to see the ship they could not see. Forward, Leslie Renfro was concentrating on the instrument panel. She had to maintain depth, to anticipate the split-second maneuvers required when the submersible and ship were joined.
The thump of the blades was so close, so loud, she thought the propel . . . they surged forward! The Towerpoint Partner’s bow nose had slipped under the line stretched across the channel at the same time the tanker had thundered its salute. The bow had the line in its teeth, drawing it taut in a vee, bringing the chariot and the sea anchor aft, and in toward the port and starboard sides of the enormous hull.
Pulled by the line in its claw, the submersible fought against its controls, began an arcing slide, then leveled and steadied under its pilot’s command. The compass was swinging wildly under the influence of the tanker’s hull. The propeller beat was fierce. The tow continued to draw them inward, now in that darker water of the ship’s shadow. The chariot pulled hard against the line, yawing, attempting to roll. Strain was tearing at her legs. She bit hard as a sharp jolt of pain shot from arm to arm across her chest. She snapped her head to the side, straining to see through the water . . . the ship had to be there! Nothing! . . . Green blindness, pain! The chariot bucked, fought to roll. She leaned hard against the stick in the turbulence of the tons of water being forced along the sides of the great hull. Then it was there! In the swirling chaos, a wall of orange-red rushed toward them.
The starboard bow plane . . . she knew she had to guard it. She fought for more port rudder, swung the submersible in stern first. Now, now, now! Her mind blocked out the violence engulfing them, screamed out to Tonasi, Now! She heard the thud. Green! He had hit the surface signal. The mine was on the tanker.
Tonasi had seen the approaching hull first. He was standing, legs braced, half turned, unaware of the weight of the mine he held against his chest. Maybe not? Maybe not? His worry drummed in cadence with the propeller. He had not expected such violence. As the chariot bucked and veered toward the hull, there seemed only one possibility. They would smash. The chariot rolled again—his left elbow! The sea was a tempest. The pain struck so severely he thought his arm had gone, but he still held the mine. With a sharp twist, he reached across the hammering, battering divide, shoved the black shape from his chest, His hands stayed with the mine after impact. He pulled; the magnets held.
At the flash of his signal, she thrust herself half onto the bow, feet locked behind her. With two slices of her knife, the line slipped through the padeye, through the claw, and was gone. She banked the chariot into a long, circling dive away from the leviathan they had just condemned to death.
They surfaced, exhausted, struggling for breath, watching the high, open stern draw rapidly away. Tonasi kissed her hooded head, patted her shoulders. The left sleeve of his wetsuit had torn away at the shoulder. Blood was flowing freely from the gash. His voice was slow, deep. “I’ll live. The big one won’t. She didn’t like having her belly tickled.” He took a strap from the cargo rack, wrapped it tightly around his upper arm.
The chariot began its return run, working to the north and west in a methodical zigzag course until they spotted the surface buoy. Tonasi stowed the line beneath him in the aft compartment. The sea anchor came back aboard. They altered course for the Octagon, dove, and returned the chariot to its habitat cradle.
Chapter 14
A chalky film of limestone dust settled on Pierce Bromberger’s shoes during his walk up the path of crushed white rock winding from the road to the walled residence. The nameplate carried CAPTAIN WILLIAM ROGER RENFRO, DSC, ROYAL NAVY RETIRED in two lines of engraved brass. He rang the dolphin clapper of the bell mounted beside the gate in North Bluff, St. Georges, Malta.
This intrusion on the silence of the Sunday afternoon brought the high answering bark of a dog. Bromberger had Sweetman’s message with him. The quest for the Burdette killers had just entered its second month and, final
ly, the first cracks were beginning to appear. Grabner had been true to his word. His men were excellent. A week before, the Swiss had taken an interest in the activities of a hotel caterer in the resort town of Lugano. He had several vans, one parked at night inside a small garage, others on the street outside his flat. His specialty was Italian delicacies for the Swiss hotel trade. The vans were well known at the border for their regular runs to the markets of Milan, fifty miles to the south. The pattern had begun to vary in June, more runs, different hours. This had not made an impression on the border police until Grabner’s special units had reinforced the posts with the sharper eyes, minds, and the newest computers of counterterrorism.
The vans were placed under surveillance but not challenged; their runs to Lugano, Milan, Zurich, Lenx, and Geneva were plotted. While the number of runs had increased, the number of hotel deliveries had stayed the same. In Geneva, a van had gone twice to the same city garage for gasoline, disappeared down an inner ramp, then reemerged for the return drive to Lugano.
Grabner personally had authorized night entry of the garage. Swiss security then discovered another van under canvas, snap-on license plates, and with hidden storage compartments, including a cargo hold beneath removable floor decking.
The GIS in Rome was given this information. The authorities in Milan observed one of the vans being unloaded from a closed truck on the outskirts of the city. Within less than an hour, the van which had driven from Lugano to Milan was aboard the truck, and its replacement was heading back toward the Swiss border.
This exercise had led the GIS to Naples, Palermo, and a stunning raid forty-eight hours before on the Messina faction. Half the stolen NATO munitions had been recovered, two terrorists killed, and three others captured in the harbor aboard a stolen powerboat. Official silence was maintained. A harsh interrogation had begun.
A Death in Geneva Page 21
