A Death in Geneva (13 page)

“When we joined forces, two years ago, Les,”—he was on his feet, hands on the shrouds, shouting at her over his shoulder—“we were in the struggle. We had . . .” He spun toward them. “Scuttling that boat was a crime! I'll tell you this, Les; you too, Italian. We see the hatred! The people . . . everywhere are humiliated. With each day, they are bloody weaker, the oppressors bloody stronger. But, you can still feel and see the hate. They have guts; they want liberty, to destroy the Facists crushing them. They want
us
to cut down the pigs. They go to bed; they wake up . . . waiting for leadership!

“Are we waging war against the pigs . . . armed revolution? No! We sink the weapons of struggle!

“The Mediterranean sun is too strong for you, brave Zulu Paulo. It's baking your brave warrior's brain. Better pack your head in ice.” The sneer spreading across Tonasi's face sent a surge of fury through Head. His body tensed, poised to leap. He turned his back, spat, made his way forward, the challenge unanswered, his breathing still heavy with anger. Leslie's hand was on Tonasi, commanding silence.

A single, davit-mounted brass kerosene lamp lit the
Matabele
's main cabin at nightfall. They had slept, swum again, then in mid-afternoon
begun their plans in an intense meeting, which ran through the tinned dinner and half the second plastic liter of red wine. The cabin was clouded with the two men's smoke. Head was morose, Tonasi impassive. But, he and Head were agreed: The time was right, with the turmoil on land, to catch the pigs off-balance, while they were manning their stakeouts, prowling their empty alleys; catch them at sea. Take the struggle to the Mediterranean as planned. Start sending their ships down. Spread them thinner. Defeat the pigs; it was what they had planned.

They had followed her orders, the unexpected orders for the Geneva hit against the American. Now, they must return to their original plan—strike from the
Matabele
by night, fade back into Malta. Months had been dedicated to the
Matabele
cover, the chartering, the dives. Why fester in Malta if they were not prepared to strike? The weapons were aboard. The struggle demanded that they proceed.

The
Matabele
's cabin could have as easily been a mountain cave or a carefully screened hideout in Berlin. Leslie Renfro listened. She was in command. They would follow her orders, just as they had sunk the weapons runner, immediately, on her orders. They were seated on the bench bunks on either aide of the main-cabin table. A chart of Malta's coast and off-shore waters lay before them half covered with the evening meal's plates. She refilled each cup, her thumb wiping a few drops of the coarse Algerian wine from the pouring neck. When the two had finished, she gave them her appraisal of the faction's responsibilities. They absorbed her message, the quiet power of her words. Only once did her voice rise. She snapped her head from one to the other, her teeth clenched, fists balled. “If one Fascist walks free, I am a prisoner. If one pig lives, I am dead. We live for one purpose: the struggle. If we are to win . . .
if
we are worthy of the struggle,
if
we are to wage the war, you must obey—total commitment, total unity. You must use your heads; it counts for everything—
everything
!” She studied their faces; they were with her. They listened as she continued to lay out her plans.

At 2:00 A.M., beneath a sky white with stars, they weighed anchor, motored out of the cove, set sail, and laid an easterly course. Tonasi was at the helm. Renfro and Head worked through the night restowing the crates from Naples, sealing the forecastle, and dressing the cabins to restore the ketch's charter-yacht appearance.

By mid-morning, with the ketch on a broad reach boiling along at hull speed, they were topside again, touching up rust spots, polishing bright work, checking out the diving sled before relashing it to the rail. The sun sharply defined the slender, finely muscled figure of the leader as she surveyed the rigging and sails. “That shadow; there's the beginning of play in the mainmast hounds. We'll have to rig the chair. Filippo, there are four holes in the mainsail, new; they will have to be patched as soon as we're in port.”

It was late afternoon when the
Matabele
rounded Dragutt Point and nosed into her mooring in Marsamxett Harbor. The telephone operator was uncooperative. The pay-booth caller was asking her for something that had never been done. Leslie stood her ground, switching from English to the harsh Semitic of the Maltese tongue to drive home her resolve. With great complaint, the operator discovered and acknowledged the existence of the ship-to-shore connection. Within ten minutes of coming ashore, the captain of the
Matabele
was speaking to Dr. Oswald “Oats” Tooms aboard the
Towerpoint Octagon.

The blue-and-gold Towerpoint crest was emblazoned on the twin scuba tanks and heavy duffel Tooms slung aboard the
Matabele.
Heaving himself up from the rubber zodiac with an enormous grunt of accomplishment, he stood on deck, clasped Leslie's hand.

“Princess, I am delighted. This is high honor.” He beamed, turning as he held her hand to admire the
Matabele
. “A fine ketch, not Maltese. A fine boat, yes sir.”

“I told you Dr. Tooms, there was no need for you to bring diving gear. We are fully equipped.”

“I had to pocket that advice, Princess. Didn't want to impose, and when you're barrel-hulled like me, the fit's not always that easy. I appreciated the offer.” He tossed his duffel onto the cabin top, yanked open the zipper, and extracted a small box which he opened to reveal a gold-and-silver filigree dolphin. “Respectfully presented, Captain.” His heavy fingers, with surprising dexterity, attached the delicate pin to her collar.

“Thank you, Dr. Tooms. How very kind.” She gave the pin a touch. “Prepare to get underway. We'll clear the harbor under power.”

Tooms watched the two men respond smartly to the order, bringing the zodiac aboard at the same time that their skipper ducked below to start the engine. She reemerged, gestured to Head and Tonasi to cast off
the mooring, kicked the gear lever into reverse, pushed the tiller hard over, then reversed the process catching the lever with her foot, snapping it forward, swinging the
Matabele
clear of the adjacent moorings, and steering her into the harbor's main channel. She scanned the scattered clouds, the flags gently waving on the buildings of Valletta off to starboard. “There will be a good breeze as soon as we clear the point, Dr. Tooms. You may take the sail stops off now; stow them in the lazaret. We will be under sail in five minutes.”

Valletta faded astern as the
Matabele
again rounded Dragutt Point outbound into the Mediterranean. Tooms, delighted with his new surroundings, alternated his gaze between the slim woman sailor and the ancient fortifications ashore.

“There's a tale to be told about that breakwater.”

“What is that, Dr. Tooms?”

He was looking aft, at the band of rock jutting seaward from St. Elmo's Point. “The run Il Duce's frogmen made on the British fleet anchored in the Grand Harbor back in '41 or '42. Speedboats packed with TNT, human torpedoes shipped over from Italy; they left mamma destroyer in the middle of the night, formed up and headed in—gutsy bunch.” Tonasi and Head had joined them in the cockpit; the three listened to the contented drawl of the American.

“They wanted to crack Malta, top priority for Il Duce, but they knew they were facing some stiff defenses. They didn't attempt the main entrance—tried to blow a hole through the chains and nets under the small bridge connecting the breakwater and the point. A grand production—just before dawn—terrible mess. Those in the lead boats blew themselves up; the rest were like porpoises in a net, chopped up by shore defenses.”

“Dr. Tooms?”

“Oats, please, Princess. I much prefer to go by Oats in distinguished company such as this.”

“Right then—Oats, if you . . . will stop using that asinine ‘Princess'; my name is Leslie. Meet my mates, Oats—Paul Head and Filippo Tonasi. We've been cruising as a team for several months—”

“Thought you said the other night you were heading off for a week; you're back early?”

“Five days early, Oats. A member of the party took ill shortly after we entered open water. The others lost spirit shortly thereafter. We had to return to port before the first dive. Tell me, Oats, what have you been
doing with your time when you haven't been poring over Malta's history. I should imagine Starring has been keeping you quite busy?”

“Yesterday morning, I journeyed west—company car, the Continental”—he gave a coughing chuckle—“joined the citizens of Rabat as a spectator at the donkey races. Dusty, to be sure, but a festive crowd and willing beasts—No idea who won—no program, no daily double.”

“Bloody donkey races?”

Leslie cut in quickly. “Horse races, Paul, a course through the streets, donkeys owned by local families.”

“Well,” Tooms continued, “following the Kentucky Derby, a dandy Rabat hotel, well situated in the hills overlooking the entire island, was able to offer me a much-needed gin and tonic, two in fact—after which I returned to the ship and, to my great pleasure, received your call.” He watched the glistening sea foam along the lee rail. The yacht slid past Sliema and St. Julian's Point, gradually drawing further and further from the shoreline.

When they arrived over the submerged ruins of the Roman convoy off the north coast of Gozo, the
Matabele
was sailing easily, enough wind to tow the diving sled through the thirty to forty feet of clear water. From the deck, the wrecks appeared beneath the surface from time to time as faint, dark shadows.

Tooms had stirred, was in black trunks, swim fins, watch, and leg-scabbarded diving knife. Scratching his chest, he surveyed the scene, put his scuba regulator mouthpiece in his teeth, flipped his air tanks over his head onto his back with the heavy straps settling on his shoulders, and clipped the waist strap over his stomach. He cinched the weight belt, fitted the mask over his eyes, wiggling into place against the chrome regulator, then pushed the mask high on his face and spat out the mouthpiece which dangled from its hose against his chest.

“Don't know, Captain,” he was wheezing slightly. “I used to be able to rig myself out a lot faster than that. How do I check out? Everything in place? I have a depth gauge in the duffel, don't think that's required this afternoon.”

She circled him. His straps were tight. She gave the tank valve a quarter turn clockwise, then hard over counterclockwise; it was open. She slapped one of the tanks. “You are good for at least a month down there. Bring her into the wind, Paul.” The
Matabele
headed up, losing way with her sails flapping and the sled bobbing in her wake.

“Remember, you are buoyant. The sled's hull is filled with Styrofoam. You will run on the surface until
you
are ready to dive. Keep the soles of your fins against the bar stirrups; the backward thrust of the water will make that quite natural. Keep your arms against the sides of the sled, your hands on the plane controls. As you bring your hands back, the planes will take you down, at the same time as your body streamlines—”

“Fond hope—”

“—the tow is set to give you a maximum depth of twenty-five to thirty feet. You will find, given the primitive nature of the rig, that you will have very little lateral maneuverability. Lean to one side or the other. We have designed a rudder, controlled by the stirrups, but that has to await the proceeds from a few more charters and a week or two in the machine shop.”