The Devil's Trinity

by Michael Parker

  She walked through the lounge and into the American style kitchen.

  “Drink?” she called out, peering into the tall refrigerator.

  “Coke will do thanks.”

  Helen poured a couple of cokes on ice and placed them on the breakfast bar.

  Then she stopped and stared at the wall opposite with a strange expression on her face.

  Marsh looked at her quizzically. “What’s up?”

  Helen was looking beyond him, her eyes fixed on something in the room. He turned but there was nothing he could see. Nothing obvious anyway.

  “What is it?” He looked back at her. “What’s up?”

  Helen pointed. “That picture.”

  He turned and looked in the direction she was pointing. On the far wall was a framed photograph of their yacht, Ocean Quest. It had been taken shortly after the yacht had been delivered to the yard about two years earlier.

  “What about it?”

  “It’s straight,” she told him.

  “What do you mean, it’s straight? It’s supposed to be.”

  Helen walked round the breakfast bar and crossed the room. She stopped by the picture.

  “This picture never hangs straight, Marsh. Every morning I straighten it and by the end of the day it’s crooked again. I used to nag Greg about it. He promised to straighten it out for me.”

  “So? Perhaps you got lucky this time.”

  She said nothing but began looking around the room. Then she walked across to a desk beneath a window that had panoramic views of the harbour. She began opening the drawers, one at a time, and carefully searching through them.

  As she walked past the small table on which she had tossed her car keys, she stopped.

  “The flowers,” she said, “I never position them that way.”

  Then she walked out of the room and Marsh followed.

  She was rummaging through her bathroom cabinet when he reached her.

  “Helen, what’s happened?”

  “Bastards!” was all she said as she brushed past him and went into the bedroom.

  Again Marsh followed her and watched as she went through the drawers in her dressing table.

  “Have you been robbed?” He asked eventually.

  She straightened and shook her head. “No, I don’t think so.” she replied with a puzzled expression on her face. “But I’m pretty sure someone has searched the house.”

  He frowned. “How do you know?”

  “I know, Marsh,” she said sharply. “That picture is never straight. I never set my flowers the way they are now. Someone has been searching for something and they have been very professional at it. Well, almost.”

  She walked past him and went back into the lounge.

  “I know it, Marsh,” she said as he reappeared. “I know it.”

  “Helen,” he said quietly. “If you’re right, then whoever did this will probably have searched my place too.”

  “I am right, Marsh.” Her voice was controlled now; not so tense. “Believe me, I know I am right. But why? What do I have that can be of any interest to….” She didn’t know how to complete the question. “Well, to whoever has been here?”

  Marsh began to feel a little unsettled. Unseen forces were entering into their lives and he didn’t like the feel of it one bit.

  “I’d better go,” he said quietly. “I’ll need your car.”

  Helen nodded towards the keys on the small table, but said nothing. Marsh left her standing there, albeit reluctantly, picked up the keys and went outside. He climbed into the pick-up truck, gunned the motor into life and roared out of the drive.

  *

  The President of the United States sat behind his desk, known as the Resolute desk because it was crafted from the ancient timbers of the old, British warship H.M.S. Resolute. He was in the Oval Office of the White House, his National Security Adviser and Chief of Staff were sitting at opposite ends. They were facing Admiral Hal Maycock, Chief of Defence Staff at the Pentagon, Admiral Dan Gutteridge, Operations Commandant for the United States Coast Guard, James Starling and Remo Francesini. There was an atmosphere of absolute intensity right there in the political heart of America, and if anyone of them was at all fazed by the assorted company, it had to be Francesini, because these men were gathered here on the strength of his unbending belief that there could be a draconian threat from a terrorist organisation that he had not been able to positively identify and all based on the fears of a dead man and one word from a foreigner dying from radiation sickness.

  “Where’s the Taliba now?” the President asked.

  “She’s in the Santaren Channel, Mister President,” Starling answered.

  “You’re sitting on it?”

  “Yes sir. We have her on satellite observation and Strategic Air Command is over flying as well.”

  “What do we know of her owner,” he glanced at a notepad, “Hakeem Khan?”

  “Top man, Mister President,” Francesini answered. “Clean as a whistle. Been involved with some of the best names in oceanography for many years. He has worked with most of the top institutions here and in Europe.”

  “Nationality?”

  “He was born in Saudi Arabia. Place called Khamis Mushayt. Little town in the south west of the country. No political leanings. Considered almost Western in his thinking because of his long association with organisations in the West. Very wealthy man, self-made. Sort of man you would be quite happy to invite to the White House, Mister President.”

  The President looked at his National Security Adviser. “What do you think, Jack?”

  Jack Corby studied the backs of his hands for a moment. “Seems to me, Mister President that we’re caught between a rock and a hard place. We could lift this Mister Khan and take him away to Guantanamo for questioning, but we’d get so much flak from the international community, particularly the Arabs, we’d have to let him go. If we leave him alone, and he is up to something, and that’s a big ‘if’, we could be in serious trouble. We could get the Coast Guard to run a check on the Taliba under the pretext of drugs. After all, we’re doing it all the time. But probably most important is to get someone who’s working with him to tell us what’s happening.” He turned his hands up in an empty gesture. “But how the hell do we get on the inside? What do we know of his crew, their allegiances? What kind of persuasion can we use? After all, if they’re all terrorists, and fanatical too, we would be wasting our time.”

  Clive Merton, the Chief of Staff came up with a suggestion. “Why don’t we arrange an accident? A collision at sea. Shouldn’t be too difficult.”

  The admiral reminded him of something he seemed to have forgotten. “If he has those nukes on board, we could be in serious trouble. God knows what would happen in a collision. After all, an accident like that would not be precise science. No telling if he’s got them wired for such an eventuality. He could be planning to steam into port and detonate the bastards. We’ve got to be so careful. And if it got in to the public domain that there were nukes involved in the collision we’d staged, the Press would have a field day and some heavyweight Senators would be waving impeachment papers around. It’s far too risky.”

  “Mister President?” Francesini lifted a hand. The President nodded. Francesini had the floor. “I think we should board the Taliba and carry out a complete search. We can take the political flak at that level, and it would all blow over anyway. The point is, if he has those nukes on board, he would refuse us permission to board. That would immediately put our tails up and we could sit on his arse and watch every move he makes. We could even put it that a refusal is tantamount to an admission of guilt. A man of his standing wouldn’t like that.”

  The President looked over at the Admiral Gutteridge. “Dan?”

  “Not a problem, Mister President. You authorise it, the Coast Guard will execute it.”

  The President looked back at Francesini. “What is your gut feeling then, Remo?”

  This made Francesini a little nervous. Almo
st like starting a war on a hunch.

  “If I’ve made a mistake I will be hugely embarrassed and Admiral Starling will sack me. But we know two nukes are missing and we also know a third one has now been officially declared missing. If that third nuke is on it way to the Caribbean, to the Taliba, we want to be around when they try to deliver it. But first we have to make sure we’re not running up blind alleyways. The Taliba could be a red herring of our own making. Of my making,” he corrected himself. “But I sure as hell would want to know,” he added. “One way or the other.”

  Chapter 7

  James Starling was satisfied with the outcome of the meeting with the President and his advisers. But although he appeared relaxed as he sat in the back of the big Ford sedan as it swept away from the Whitehouse, he was far from it. Sitting beside him in the relative peace and quiet of the car, Francesini appeared thoughtful; the memory of his meeting with the President burning fresh in his mind as though he was still in the Oval Office. Perhaps he should have felt nervous and apprehensive because he had staked his entire future career and personal credibility on a hunch; and there was no bigger person to gamble that hunch with than the President himself.

  What Francesini had persuaded the President to agree to, meant that he had committed the American Government to an act of what could only be conceived as piracy, without having much more than a credible argument. The famous scientist, Albert Einstein once said that if the theory doesn’t fit the facts, change the facts. Well in this case, Francesini’s theory was based on facts that he was unable to change, and if his theory got into the hands of the American Press and hence the public domain there would be more at stake than Francesini’s reputation and career. And if he was right, the lives of thousands of Americans could be forfeit if the President failed to act on it.

  Through the blackened, one way glass of the car windows he watched the buildings of Capitol Hill flashing past. People hurried along the sidewalks, their lives and destiny probably under their own control, but without giving a thought to people like him and Starling; unconsciously relying on them to let the President know of any threat, real or imagined, that might devastate their very normal, controlled lives.

  Mr. and Mrs. average American. Do they really have two point four children? Who cared anyway whether they had a whole football team; their lives were not there to be played ball with by politicians and security agents who could not do their jobs properly.

  The phone rang. Starling picked it up, grunted and handed the phone to Francesini, listening carefully to his subordinate’s responses.

  “Anything? Nothing? Nothing at all?” He looked up and cursed softly.

  Starling watched Francesini pause for a moment, obviously thinking through to the next decision he was going to make. He put the phone back to his ear.

  “I’ll be over. Set up a meeting with Inspector Bain; he’s head of the Bahamian C.I.D. Tomorrow, first thing.”

  He handed the phone back to Starling who put it back in its resting place beside him, and waited for Francesini to tell him what it was all about.

  “I had two of my guys search Greg Walsh’s home at Freeport; see if they could find anything relating to Walsh’s commission with Khan. Marsh’s place too. They found nothing.”

  The car stopped for a red light. Starling watched the pedestrians crossing, some running, some with their heads down, others deep in conversation with whoever was beside them. It was so normal. It was a beautiful day out there and he would have given anything to be sitting with his wife in their garden, relaxing and their only concern would be what they would be having for their evening meal.

  “So why am I not surprised?” the admiral asked as Francesini put the thought away.

  Francesini looked at him briefly, and then studied the closely shaved head of the driver in front of him.

  “Because you think this is a wild goose chase?” he asked.

  Starling chuckled. “If only.” The car moved off, accelerating quickly. “If only this was a dream and we could wake up. You forget, Remo, I know you and your hunches; that’s one of the reasons I employ you. Whatever Walsh had, if he thought it was important, really important, he would have kept it in the bank or some secure safe somewhere else. And remember, Marsh promised to see if he could find anything in his partner’s belongings that could help us. ”

  It was Francesini’s turn to chuckle. “Sir, have you ever put something away for safe keeping and when you wanted it, you just couldn’t remember where you’d put it? And no amount of searching would turn it up?”

  “If I had to admit to that under oath Remo, I would,” he joked.

  “Well, I figured that no amount of searching from an amateur like Marsh would unearth it. That’s why I decided to get my men to do it.”

  “And they found nothing.”

  Francesini nodded lamely. “That’s why I’m going over there.”

  *

  Marsh phoned Helen and told her that his place had been searched as well, but he didn’t think anything had been taken. There was little else for him to do there so he drove back to Helen’s place. She took Marsh into town and dropped him off near his bank. She gave him a kiss on the cheek and Marsh agreed to phone her the following day. He watched the pick-up truck disappear and walked into the bank.

  About two hours later, Marsh was back at his house when there was a knock on the door. He had almost finished a meal and wondered if it might have been Helen, but it was more wishful thinking than anything else. He opened the door and his heart dropped when he saw Julio Batista standing there. Beside him was one of the biggest men Marsh had ever seen in his life.

  “Hallo Julio,” he said the surprise evident in his voice. “What are you doing here?”

  “Hallo Marsh,” Batista replied. He turned slightly and gestured towards the giant standing beside him. “Allow me to introduce my friend, Malik.”

  Marsh looked up at him. “Malik, just that?” The big man nodded. “So what do you want Julio?”

  “May we come in?”

  Marsh knew from their body language that this was not going to be a social call. He tried to put them off.

  “I’m afraid it isn’t convenient,” he told them.

  Batista shrugged. “No matter, I can tell you what I want just as easy standing out here.”

  “So what do you want?” Marsh asked, the irritation clear in his voice.

  “Someone wishes to meet you.” He gestured. “We have a car. It’s only a short drive and we will not take up too much of your time.”

  The warning bells began to sound clearly in Marsh’s head, but there was nothing in Batista’s manner that was threatening. Perhaps that last statement was meant to put him at ease.

  “Who wants to see me?”

  “My employer, Hakeem Khan,” Batista told him.

  Marsh looked at Malik and felt just a slight shiver of apprehension slither down his spine. “I have already told you, Julio; I don’t want a job. I’m sure Mister Khan will find somebody else suitable for whatever it is”.

  “He wants you,” Batista insisted. “And he would prefer to hear your refusal himself.”

  “And what makes Mister Khan think I want a job?” Marsh wondered how far this would go before Malik was brought into the discussion, because he was quite certain that was the reason he was there. “I have plenty to do here.”

  Batista shrugged. “Well of course, that’s your choice. But you’re a businessman and this is business.”

  “What kind of business?”

  Batista shook his head. “I’m not at liberty to tell you, Marsh; I am just the messenger.”

  Marsh pointed at Malik. “So what’s he doing here?”

  “Why don’t you ask him, Marsh? He speaks English.”

  Marsh didn’t have to; he knew why Malik was there. Marsh either went willingly or he would be encouraged by Malik.

  He shrugged, deciding that discretion might just be the better part of valour, providing he could let Helen know. A kind of in
surance he reasoned.

  “What the hell, Julio. OK then. But give me a couple of minutes.”

  Batista face broke out into a little smile as though he was relieved that force would not be necessary. “Fine, we’ll wait here,” he told Marsh.

  Marsh went back inside and phoned Helen. The phone continued to ring until her answering service came on. He left a message and rang again, just in case she was away from the phone, but there was no reply; just the answering service. He put the phone down and frowned. It wasn’t like Helen not to have her cell phone with her, or close at hand anyway. He picked up his own cell phone and went out to the waiting car.

  Very little was said as Malik drove. Marsh was content to wait and consider the implications. He knew there was nothing to be gained by asking Batista what was going on, and any other conversation would just be small talk anyway.

  Malik drove into the Lucayan Beach Hotel forecourt and swung smoothly into a vacant parking lot. They climbed out of the car and Marsh followed Batista into the lobby. Malik remained in the foyer as Marsh and Batista went straight over to the lifts.

  Two minutes later, Marsh came face to face with Hakeem Khan.

  *

  Helen knew how a lot of people reacted to being burgled by saying it made them feel unclean for some reason. Now she was feeling traumatised by the shock of what she felt was almost like a physical violation, although the burglary was unlike others. Helen assumed that whoever had been in her villa were professionals and they were looking for something specific, although she had no idea what it might be. But she was determined to remain philosophical and try to get things back on an even keel. So it was for that reason that she believed she should carry on as though nothing had happened. Put it to the back of her mind. She decided to have something to eat but she didn’t feel like cooking, so a take away meal seemed to be the answer.