The Mediterranean Caper (20 page)

“You will suffer the indignity of forcible arrest if you don't.” Zacynthus patted a holstered forty-five automatic that clung to his hip.

Giordino lazily rose from the ground and grabbed Pitt by the arm. He was grinning. “Don't you think this would be a pretty good time for Giordino the Kid to practice his quick draw?”

Giordino was wearing a T-shirt and khaki pants; there was no sign of a telltale bulge. Pitt was mystified, but his confidence in his old friend was firm. He looked at Giordino with a mixture of hope and suspicion in his eyes.

“I doubt if you'd ever find a more opportune moment.”

Zacynthus unsnapped the holster flap over the forty-five. “What the devil have you got up your sleeve this time? I must warn you—”

“Wait.” The rasping voice came from Darius. “If you please, Inspector.” The murderous intent. “I have an account to settle with these two.”

Giordino was not to be hurried. He ignored the threat from Darius and spoke as calmly as if he were asking Pitt to pass the potatoes. “My cross draw is sheer art, but actually I'm faster from the hip. Which would you like to see first?”

“About now,” Pitt said, more curious than amused, “I'd settle for a fast draw from the crotch.”

“Stop! Enough!” Zacynthus gestured with his pipe irritably. “I suggest you be sensible and cooperate.”

“How do you intend to keep us on ice for three weeks?” Pitt asked.

Zacynthus shrugged. “The jail on the mainland has excellent accommodations for political prisoners. Colonel Zeno here might be persuaded to use his influence and get you a cell overlooking the—” Zacynthus' mouth abruptly dropped open in midsentence; his brown eyes narrowed in helpless rage and he froze as immobile as a city park statue.

A tiny gun, no larger than an ordinary cap pistol, had suddenly materialized in Giordino's hand, the pencil-thin muzzle pointed directly at the spot between Zacynthus' eyebrows. Even Pitt was caught off guard. Pure logic told him that Giordino had been bluffing; the last thing he or anyone else expected was for Giordino to produce an honest-to-God firearm.

A gun, no
matter if it looks small and insignificant or massive and downright mean, is always a perfect attention getter. To say that Giordino was the center of attraction would be a classic understatement. He played the role to the hilt; the automatic held at full arm's length, a grim smile on the face. If Academy Awards were given for sheer bravado, he'd have won at least three.

For a long moment no one spoke. Then finally Zeno rammed a fist into one hand. A wan smile etched his swarthy face. “It was I who said you two men were cunning and dangerous, and yet I am foolish enough to keep offering you new opportunities to prove it.”

“We don't relish these embarrassing little scenes any more than you do,” Pitt said equably. “Now if you gentlemen will excuse us, we'll close up shop and go home.”

“No sense getting shot in the back.” Giordino waved the baby automatic negligently at the three narcotics officers. “We'd better borrow their guns before we exit stage right.”

“That won't be necessary,” Pitt said. “No one is going to pull any triggers.” He looked into Zacythus' eyes, then into Zeno's—and found them thoughtful and speculative. “It's really a standoff. You're tempted, but you won't shoot us from behind because you're all honorable men. Besides, it wouldn't be practical, the investigation of our deaths would only prove to be a messy affair. Von Till would love that. On the other hand, you know damn well we won't shoot back because we don't have nearly enough at stake to kill any one of you.

“Patience, I ask nothing but patience on your parts for the next ten hours. I promise you, Zac, we will meet again before sunset, and on much friendlier terms.” Pitt's voice seemed strangely prophetic, and the speculative look in Zacynthus' eyes changed to blank puzzlement.

Pitt was briefly tempted to prolong the game of cat and mouse, then he thought better of it. Zacynthus and Zeno appeared resigned to defeat, but not Darius. The huge brute moved two steps forward, his face was flushed with anger and his fists opened and closed like the shells of two giant South Pacific clams. It was clearly the time to beat a quick and orderly retreat.

Pitt moved slowly around the front of the truck, using the hood and fenders as a barrier between him and Darius. He climbed behind the steering wheel, wincing slightly as the sun splashed seat burned his naked thighs and back, and started the engine. Giordino followed him into the cab, never taking his eyes off the men beside the Mercedes, the gun very level in his hand. Then calmly, without any sign of desperate speed, Pitt smoothly shifted gears and aimed the truck toward Brady Field and the
First Attempt
's whaleboat dock. He glanced in the rearview mirror, then to the road and back to the mirror again several times until the three figures in the road disappeared when the truck rounded a curve through an ancient grove of olive trees.

“Nothing like a gun to even the odds,” Giordino sighed, leaning back comfortably against the seat.

“Let's see that popgun.”

Giordino passed it butt first. “You'll have to admit, it came in damn handy.”

Pitt studied the lilliputian gun, looking up from time to time to dodge potholes in the road. He recognized it as a vest pocket Mauser, twenty-five caliber, the type European women favored for protection; it could easily be concealed in a purse or garter. It was only good for close-in work; past ten feet the accuracy, even in the hands of an expert, was hopeless.

“We must consider ourselves extremely lucky.”

“Lucky, hell.” Giordino grunted flatly. “That little baby evened the odds. Why do you think the old-time gangsters called a gun an equalizer?”

“Would you have pulled the trigger if Zac and his boys had decided not to cooperate?” Pitt asked.

“Without hesitation,” Giordino replied confidently. “I'd have only winged them in the arms or legs. No sense in killing someone who keeps you supplied with Metaxa brandy.”

“I can see you have a lot to learn about German automatics.”

Giordino's eyes narrowed. “What do you mean by that?”

Pitt slowed to pass a small boy who was leading a heavily laden donkey. “Two things. First, a twenty-five-caliber gun is hardly a man stopper. You could have emptied the clip into Darius, but without a killing shot to the heart or head you'd never have even slowed him down. And second, the expression on your face when you squeezed off the first shot would have been a sight to behold.” Pitt casually tossed the gun onto Giordino's lap. “The safety catch is still on.”

Pitt glanced briefly across the truck cab at Giordino. Giordino's eyes fell blankly to the gun in his lap. He made no attempt to pick it up. His face was expressionless, but Pitt knew him well enough to recognize an acute case of bafflement.

Giordino shrugged and gave Pitt a thin smile. “Kind of looks like Giordino the Kid just won the idiot award of the year. I just plumb forgot about the safety.”

“You've never owned a Mauser. Where did you get it?”

“It belonged to your little playmate of the month. I discovered it when I was lugging her through the tunnel. She had it taped to her leg.”

“You little bastard,” Pitt said evenly. “You mean you had it all the time we were having our brains beat out by Darius?”

“Sure.” Giordino nodded. “I concealed it inside one of my socks. I never had a chance to use it. You jumped Frankenstein before I was ready. After that, the brawl happened too fast. The next thing I knew I was flat on my back getting my head crushed. Then it was too late, I couldn't reach the peashooter.”

Pitt became silent; already his mind was on another subject. It was still early in the morning and the trees edging the road threw their long misproportioned shadows toward the west. He drove mechanically, a hundred questions, a hundred doubts circulating through his mind. He didn't know where to start, and there was the plan that had taken form back there overlooking those surf-pounded cliffs. The plan at best was a gamble, a long shot backed by nothing but an overpowering urge to carry it out. And then he was automatically depressing the brake pedal, slowing the truck down and stopping at the Brady Field main gate.

Forty minutes later they were climbing the boarding ladder of the
First Attempt
. The deck was deserted, but a chorus of hearty male laughter accompanied by the high-pitched giggle of a woman echoed from the mess-room. Pitt and Giordino entered and found Teri surrounded by the entire crew and scientific staff of the ship. She was dressed, or undressed, in a knotted makeshift bikini that looked as if it would come unfurled at the first sign of a passing offshore breeze. She perched prettily on the mess table, the center of attraction, a queen holding court, and it was obvious that she enjoyed every male eyeball. Pitt bemusedly studied the men's faces for a moment. It was an elementary task to separate the scientists from the professional crewmen. The latter stood quietly and gazed lecherously at the generous display of feminine skin, their minds throwing pornographic scenes on the inside walls of their skulls like movie projectors. Most of the vocal activity came from the scientists. The marine biologists, the meteorologists, the geologists, each vying with frantic zeal for Teri's attention and behaving like schoolboys whose dormitory had just been invaded by a box office sex queen.

Commander Gunn saw Pitt and came over to him. “I'm glad you're back. Our radioman is about to go psycho. Since dawn this morning he's been receiving signals faster than he can write. Most of them are marked for your attention.”

Pitt nodded. “OK, let's go and read my fan mail.” He turned to Giordino. “See if you can tear our queen bee away from her ardent admirers for a few minutes and escort her to Gunn's cabin. I want to ask her one or two very personal questions.”

Giordino grinned. “From the looks of that crowd I'll probably get lynched if I try.”

“If things get too tough just flash your gun,” Pitt said sarcastically. “But don't forget to remove the safety.”

Giordino's mouth dropped open like a landed fish. Before he could recover, Pitt and Gunn had left.

The radioman, a young black in his early twenties, looked up when they entered. “This one just came in for you, sir.” He handed the message to Gunn.

Gunn studied it for a moment, then his lips slowly arched into a wide smile. “Listen to this. ‘To Commander Gunn, officer commanding NUMA ship
First Attempt
. What in the goddamn hell kind of hornet's nest have you people stirred up in the Aegean. I sent you out there to study sea life, not play cops and robbers. You are hereby ordered to render every assistance, repeat every assistance at your command to the local INTERPOL authorities. And don't return home without a goddamn
Teaser
. Admiral James Sandecker, NUMA, Washington.'”

“I'd say the admiral is a bit off his usual form,” murmured Pitt. “He used ‘goddamn' only twice.”

“Please lead me out of the dark,” Gunn asked mildly. “What possible assistance could we be to INTERPOL?”

Pitt pondered a moment. Gunn would have to be led up to a crucial decision; it was decidedly too early to bare all the facts. Pitt dodged the question.

“We may be the only hope left to destroy von Till and his empire. It may mean taking a few risks, but the stakes are high.”

Gunn removed his glasses and stared sharply at Pitt. “How high?”

“Enough heroin to hop up the entire population of the United States and Canada,” Pitt said slowly. “A hundred and thirty tons' worth to be exact.”

Gunn betrayed no sign of surprise. He calmly held up his glasses to the light, examining the lenses for smudges. Satisfied there were none, he replaced the horn-rims over his low set ears.

“Offhand I'd say that's a pretty fair amount. Why didn't you tell me about this last night when you brought the girl on board?”

“I needed more time and more answers, and right now I'm still short on both. But I think I've run on to something that will put this whole insane puzzle into a transparent pattern.”

“I still don't know what you expect from me.”

“We've got to hit von Till below the belt, way below the belt. This is an underwater show. I need every able-bodied man you can spare with scuba gear and weapons that can be carried in water; diving knifes, spear guns, anything.”

“What guarantee can you give me that no one will get hurt?”

“Absolutely none,” Pitt said quietly.

Gunn stared at Pitt for a full ten seconds, his face expressionless. “You realize the seriousness of what you're asking me? Most of the men aboard this ship are scientists, not commandos. They're tigers with a salinometer, a nansen bottle or a microscope, but their skill at knifing another man in the guts or shooting a barbed spear into a navel leaves much to be desired.”

“What about the crew?”

“All good men to have on your side in a barroom brawl, but like most professional seamen, they have an unhealthy dislike for any activity below the surface. They can't, or rather won't, put on a face mask and dive.” Gunn shook his head. “I'm sorry Dirk, you're asking too much—”

“Come off it,” Pitt snapped rudely. “This isn't the Little Big Horn and I'm not asking you to send the Seventh Cavalry against Sitting Bull and the Sioux nation. Look, not fifty miles from here a Minerva Lines freighter is churning across the Aegean with a cargo that is as lethal as any nuclear bomb. If that amount of heroin were dumped on the market in the States, our grandchildren would still be suffering from the cultural shock waves. It's a nightmarish thought.”

Pitt paused, letting his words sink in. He lit a cigarette and then continued.

“The Bureau of Narcotics and the Customs Department will be waiting. They've set a trap. If, and that's a big if, all goes well, the heroin and the smugglers, plus half the illegal drug sellers in the States, will be neatly scooped up and salted away behind bars.”

“Then what's the problem?” Gunn pressed. “Where do the divers fit into the picture?”

“Let's just say I have a nagging doubt. Von Till hasn't come within a nautical mile of being caught with the goods, so to speak, for decades. Legally, our government agents can't board the cargo ship until it touches the United States' continental shelf, three weeks away. By then von Till might sense that INTERPOL is behaving overly cagey. Rather than cooperate with the good guys and sail into the trap, he'd have to reroute the ship at the last minute or else dump the heroin in the Atlantic. That leaves the narcotic agents and the customs inspectors standing around with nothing to do but play with themselves. The only sure way, the safe way, is to stop the ship now, before it leaves the Mediterranean.”

“You're the man who said it—legally it can't be done.”

“There is one way.” Pitt drew on the cigarette, then slowly let the smoke trickle through his nose. “Prove a solid case against von Till and Minerva Lines before morning.”

Gunn shook his head again. “Even then, boarding a ship in international waters, particularly a ship that is registered to a friendly nation, can lead to political repercussions. I doubt if any country would want to touch it.”