The Devil's Trinity

by Michael Parker

  Khan knew that Marsh had survived the sinking of the Ocean Quest because the news of his rescue had been reported in the Freeport Press and on the web site of that newspaper.

  Batista arched his eyebrows in surprise. “I thought you would be piloting the Challenger.”

  Khan nodded. “I know, I know. But my heart will not allow me to risk it. Marsham is the only man who can do it without training. And you know him; you have worked with him.”

  Batista had worked on deep dives with both Marsh and Greg Walsh, several years earlier. He was already an experienced diver when he met them and had always got on well with them. He didn’t know that Greg Walsh had died.

  “As you say; I know him. I knew Walsh too, of course. I didn’t realise he had died.”

  Khan gave Batista a friendly pat on the shoulder and looked up at the Challenger.

  “This is a dangerous business, Julio. Men die.” He looked at the Challenger again. “You have done well, Julio. Allah will sing your praises as he does with all his soldiers. Now go and get Marsham.”

  Chapter 5

  Marsh opened his eyes and immediately thought of Helen. He had been dreaming about her and was now able to give substance to the dream. He had always had affection for Helen, but because she was married to Walsh, he had only ever been able to show the normal signs of friendship towards her, despite wishing that he could have known her more intimately. And now he felt guilty because he was giving free rein to his feelings for her despite the fact she had been a widow barely a few days.

  It was true that Helen and Greg had argued a great deal lately. Marsh usually put this down to the fact that there was something of a cash flow problem in the company. Although the three of them were partners in the business, there had never been any formal contracts drawn up between them, and it had always been accepted that Greg was the senior partner.

  There had been talk, a few years earlier, of getting round to sorting out their respective roles and legalising them, but they hadn’t been in any hurry. The company had grown from a small outfit to the reputable business it was now. The uniqueness of Ocean Quest, and their extreme professionalism lent itself to the company’s success.

  Their prize possession was the submersible, Helena. It had been named after Helen and built by the MacDonnell Douglas Aircraft Corporation in America. Designed by Marsh and Walsh, it had been built for use in the field of geological marine exploration primarily, particularly around deep water wellheads and deep sea rigs.

  To recover some of the substantial amount of the cost which had been initially borne by the bank, they had sold the designs to the MacDonnell Douglas Corporation after their successful sea trials. Despite that, they still owed the bank a great deal of money.

  Now Marsh lay in bed, thinking of Helen and wondering what they were going to do. Once the two of them had got over Greg’s death, if that was ever possible, he knew they would have to address the problem of how to continue with the business before the banks foreclosed on them. Their yacht, the Ocean Quest had been an essential part of their assets and would have to be replaced. Another diver would have to be recruited and trained. Contracts would then be required to protect the new recruit.

  But more importantly, and only Marsh knew this, how was he going to deal with the fact that someone on that freighter, in league with Khan, was responsible for Greg’s death. And there was no way he could tell Helen.

  *

  Helen Walsh stared through the window of her spacious villa, absently watching the gulls weave and turn in the sky above Freeport Harbour. The air conditioning hummed quietly behind her to combat the day’s high temperatures. In the garden below her, a gecko lizard scampered across the green lawn and disappeared into the undergrowth beneath the wild jasmine and pink orchids.

  Helen was an attractive woman, and the sadness in her face did little to hide her beauty. The peace and tranquillity of the scene that lay spread out before her offered no comfort. In her hand she was holding a copy of the Freeport News. It was folded at the article now uppermost in her mind.

  Sitting in the room behind her was Inspector Horatio Bain of the Bahamian C.I.D. It was he who had brought the news to her a couple of days earlier of Greg’s death. The newspaper had lain on her table since that visit and she had not been able to read it. The inspector had picked the paper up and read the article out loud.

  “Wreckage has been sighted believed to be the missing yacht Ocean Quest, which sailed out of Freeport a few days ago. On board were the two well known, local oceanographers, Greg Walsh and his partner Harry Marsham, owners of the underwater exploration company, Ocean Quest. Harry Marsham was picked up by the U.S. Coast Guard and is recovering in hospital at the Guantanamo Naval Base in Cuba. Hope for Walsh is fading fast although his wife, Helen Walsh refuses to believe anything has happened to him.” He handed the paper to her. She took it and turned away from the window.

  “There must be some word, Inspector,” she pleaded. “I can’t believe Greg has not been found. He must have been picked up.”

  The inspector sighed. “I wish there was something I could say which might possibly give you hope. But there has been no report of any ship picking up your husband. Whatever happened must have happened very quickly.” He held his hands out. Like his wishes, they were empty.

  “What have you tried?” she demanded to know. “Perhaps he is already in some hospital somewhere. Maybe he is suffering from amnesia.” She sounded desperate; clutching at unlikely straws.

  Despite her anguish there was still an unaffected sexual attractiveness in her which the inspector found impossible to deny and, in the circumstances, totally shameful.

  “We have contacted all the countries bordering the Caribbean,” he assured her. “No-one answering your husband’s description, or suffering his demise has turned up in any medical institution, believe me.” He stood up, anxious now to get away. “I am sorry Mrs. Walsh, but you have to prepare yourself for the worse.”

  Helen’s shoulders dropped. She laid the paper back on the table without looking at it. “Of course Inspector, but I can’t give up hope.” She looked up, hopefully. “You won’t give up trying though, will you?”

  He smiled. “Of course not,” he answered. “But it would have been helpful if we had known their plans. As it is, we’re guessing.”

  “I don’t think they intended going anywhere in particular,” she muttered.

  “I know, you told us that when you heard the dreadful news.” He was glad to talk; to avoid the more constraining atmosphere.

  “And you have checked, haven’t you?”

  The question was unnecessary, and she had already asked it.

  He nodded. “Of course. There is still a search going on but we have received no further reports. The Americans are still searching.” He left it at that. There was really nothing more he could say.

  Helen knew it too and it was pointless talking it round. She saved him further embarrassment by releasing him from his self-imposed obligation.

  “Well, thank you Inspector Bain. I know you will keep looking. And I’m sure you will let me know as soon as you have anything positive.”

  She walked to the door with him. Outside in the bright sunshine he paused on the front porch and offered Helen his sympathies. She thanked him and closed the door.

  *

  Admiral Starling glowered across his desk at Francesini. His mood was best described as ‘concerned’. And when Starling was concerned about something, being close to him was not the most sensible place to be. Francesini was glad that he had the desk between himself and his boss.

  “So we’ve lost it,” Francesini said.

  Starling peered at him from beneath dark eyebrows. “Our intelligence on the ground in Iran insists the bomb was transferred from the helicopter, just inside the border and taken down to the coast.”

  “Which means the Iranians probably knew about it?”

  “Exactly, but why take it down to the coast?”

  “To ship
it out.”

  Francesini’s concern about nuclear devices was always the nightmare scenario that one would be smuggled into the United States and be detonated with all the horrendous consequences. But the best brains in the C.I.A. played their own war games and were always able to offer up their best guess at how the terrorists would penetrate American security and get a nuclear bomb into the United States. And he was reasonably confident that every angle had been covered. Reasonably confident.

  But this wasn’t one of the C.I.A.’s ‘best guess’ scenarios; Iran was not about to export nuclear bombs to commit a terrorist act. In her present state, she had too much to lose.

  “Our human intelligence on the ground in Iran,” Starling told him, “is spread fairly thin south of the Straits of Hormuz, which is where we believe the device ended up.” He drummed his fingers on the table.

  “Remo, this one bothers me. And I’m not getting the right signals from you. If you have anything I should know about, no matter how flimsy, I want to know. Understand? We’ve got to know where that nuke is heading.”

  Francesini nodded. “Anything that crosses my desk that might be worth you looking at, sir, I’ll let you know.”

  Starling leaned threateningly across the desk. “I said ‘anything however flimsy’, Remo, not ‘anything that might cross your desk’.” He paused. “I’ve known you a long time Remo, and I know how you work. Don’t mess me around. Don’t play your silly little games where you keep your cards close to your chest. If I thought you were shafting me for some petty, selfish reason, afraid that some other department might get a look at the deck you’re holding, so help me Remo I’d run you through myself. And I mean it. Do I make myself clear?”

  So Francesini told him. And as he opened up on the flimsiest of detail, of how Walsh first came to him, how Walsh eventually agreed to work for him and why a man named Harry Marsham was being kept in hospital in Guantanamo, Starling’s expression changed from one of utter astonishment to menacing and threatening intensity.

  *

  Marsh felt well enough to go home now. When he had asked the doctor how long he would be kept in, the doctor said that he didn’t know. Marsh decided the only way he could leave would be to discharge himself, but he was aware that he was more or less in military custody, which meant leaving the hospital would mean breaking the law; whatever law on Guantanamo Bay Naval Station he would be breaking. And where would he go if he walked out of the hospital?

  Marsh was fast coming to the conclusion that there was no legal reason for keeping him there and was determined to leave as soon as he possibly could, but he needed the willing cooperation of the Americans. Just then the door opened and Francesini walked in with another man.

  Francesini greeted him cheerfully. “Good morning, Marsh. How are you this morning? I’ve brought a colleague with me. James Starling.”

  Marsh was surprised at seeing a second man with the so called man from the immigration department. It was definitely becoming intriguing.

  “And what do I call you?” Marsh asked, holding out his hand to the admiral.

  “Jim,” Starling answered warmly, shaking Marsh’s offered hand. “Most folks do,” he added, ignoring Francesini’s sideways glance at him.

  The two men drew up chairs and placed them beside Marsh’s bed, settling themselves into them.

  “And how can I help you?” Marsh asked expecting Francesini to say something, but Starling continued.

  “As I understand it, you and your partner, Greg Walsh were sailing when your yacht was in collision with something else; possibly a submerged object.”

  A not very impressive beginning, Marsh concluded.

  “And unfortunately your partner is still missing.” Marsh nodded. Starling pressed on. “Was there a reason why you were sailing in that area? Where you were hit?”

  Marsh shook his head. “Why do you ask?”

  “We are trying to establish a reason for your friend’s death.”

  “Who said he was dead?”

  Starling seemed slightly taken aback at Marsh’s response. “I’m sorry; it was an assumption.” Francesini glanced at his boss. He seemed to be enjoying Starling’s lumbering efforts at getting to the point, if indeed there was a point to be got to!

  “Were you out fishing? Were you out as some part of a business contract? There has to be a straightforward explanation.”

  We weren’t fishing, thought Marsh, but he is. Why?

  “What kind of straightforward explanation do you want? We were out fishing and I was cleaning my rifle when something struck our boat and I ended up with a bullet in my leg. Will that do?”

  Starling stiffened, affronted by Marsh’s acerbic response. “I think you’re playing games with us, Mister Marsham.”

  Marsh shook his head. “Seriously, but aren’t we all playing games then?”

  Starling and Francesini exchanged glances. “What do you mean?” Francesini asked.

  “What I mean is that you are no more from the immigration department than I am from the Moon.”

  This seemed to stun the two men. Then Starling relaxed, realising that Marsh was too astute to be fooled for too long. “Why do you say that?”

  Marsh shifted his position, pushing the pillows up behind his back. “Well, first of all, two men in suits do not come visiting from the immigration department over an incident which is outside their jurisdiction; an incident which occurred outside territorial waters and one in which there are no witnesses.”

  “You told me you were sunk just off the coast,” Francesini complained.

  “So I lied. No different to what you two are doing. Now, do you want to tell me who you really are and why you want to talk to me, or do I discharge myself and go home?”

  Starling seemed to consider this for a few moments. “OK Mister Marsham,” he said eventually. “We’re from the C.I.A. And yes, you are right; we have no hold over you. Whatever happened to you and your friend is a matter for the Jamaican authorities, and I assume they will almost certainly want to pass it on to your own people. But we are deeply interested in your partner, Walsh.”

  This caught Marsh by surprise and another piece of the jigsaw slipped into place.

  “Greg? Why?”

  “Before I answer that, can you tell me if he has been acting differently lately?”

  Greg was on to something, Marsh was sure of that now.

  “In what way?” he asked.

  Francesini sat forward and held his hand up towards Starling, preferring to take over the conversation.

  “Greg Walsh came to me a few months ago. He apparently had completed some oceanographic work for a leading oceanographer by the name of Hakeem Khan although he wouldn’t tell me who the guy was at first because he was still honouring client confidentiality. But he was concerned with the figures he was coming up with and what he euphemistically described as ‘other things’.”

  “Why would he come to you?”

  “Well, he didn’t exactly come to me; it was in a kind of roundabout way. He couldn’t take his doubts to the Bahamian authorities because he couldn’t rely on their security. Plus the fact that he didn’t think they would take him seriously. Those were his words, not mine. So he contacted someone he knew who had past links with us: a retired agent.”

  Marsh nodded knowingly. “That would be old Mancini.”

  “You know him?”

  “Knew him,” Marsh said. “He died a couple of months ago. Natural causes,” he added. “So, what then?”

  “What he spoke to me about was what you might call low grade material. But he was quite convinced of his fears. I thought he was a bit paranoid at the time. I agreed to put it on file and ‘keep an eye on it’.” He lifted his finger and touched the side of his head. “But what he told me began to nag away at me. So I contacted him and asked him to do some more probing. Trouble was that his contract with the client had finished.”

  Starling stood up and walked to the end of Marsh’s bed. He stood there, arms stiff, ho
lding the end of the bed, facing Marsh. “We want to know if he took you into his confidence. After all, you are his business partner.” He waited but when he saw Marsh shake his head, he carried on. “I have to accept that you are telling me the truth, but can you tell me if there is anything that Greg Walsh kept on file that you have access to that might give us a look into his affairs?”

  “Like what?” Marsh asked.

  “Computer files, hard copies. Something locked away; anything that he would have kept separate from the business. If you can give us his cell phone number, we can check the records of all his calls.”

  Marsh knew he wouldn’t be able to help them. If Greg had been up to something secret, well he sure as hell kept it secret from him. Unless Helen knew.

  “Look,” he said to the two of them. “I really don’t know that I can help you.”

  “You could look through his papers,” Starling told him. “Look for anything that might connect with….”

  “His paranoia? His low grade intelligence?” Marsh reminded him.

  Starling got serious then. “Marsh, please don’t trivialise this. We cannot tell you what it is we are looking for and why. All we can do is ask you to cooperate in any way you can. And I can tell you that your friend’s low grade intelligence has been upgraded. It is now extremely important.”

  Marsh knew that this was his ticket home. Once there he could do some rummaging around through Greg’s things and tell the C.I.A. there was nothing to be found. He hoped! But now he was beginning to get just a little bit scared. Greg was dead and he had been shot. It just might be a good idea to have the might of the C.I.A. on his side.

  “OK,” he said after a while. “What do you want me to do?”

  Chapter 6

  Marsh walked into the arrivals lounge at the Grand Bahamas International Airport at Freeport wearing a fresh set of clothes that Francesini had bought for him in the Navy shop at Guantanamo Bay. The C.I.A. man had used some of the money from Marsh’s wallet, which he had to change for Marsh because of the state it was in after its long immersion in the ocean. He had also arranged for the renewal of Marsh’s credit cards, driving licence etc., which had also suffered. Marsh had picked up a few other personal items at the shop on the base which included the small flight bag he was carrying. The whole business meant Marsh had been kept at the base a couple of days longer than he would have liked, but under the circumstances there was little he could do.