The Mediterranean Caper (21 page)

“There is one opportunity,” Pitt said. “The ship stops at Marseille for fuel. INTERPOL would have to work fast. If they received the necessary evidence and rushed through the legal paperwork they could seize the ship in port.”

Gunn leaned against the doorway and gave Pitt a penetrating stare. “The catch is that you want to risk the lives of the people under my command.”

“It has to be,” Pitt said quietly.

“I think you're hedging,” Gunn said slowly. “You're up to your ears in stormy waters. I don't like any of it. I'm responsible to NUMA for this ship and its personnel. All that interests me is the safe completion of this expedition. Why us? I don't see why INTERPOL or the local police can't conduct their own search operation. Finding divers on the mainland is no problem.”

This was getting too damn awkward, Pitt thought. At this stage of the game he couldn't let on that Zacynthus was very much against even the slightest harassment of von Till. Pitt had known Gunn for a little over a year, and in that time they had become good friends. The commander was a smart customer. The next scene would have to be played cool, very cool indeed. Pitt gazed suspiciously at the busy radio operator for a moment, then turned back to Gunn.

“Call it fate, coincidence or any other term you wish to choose, that put the
First Attempt
at Thasos at the exact moment to expose a beautifully planned criminal conspiracy. Von Till's entire smuggling operation depends upon the use of a submarine, maybe more than one, we don't know yet. The heroin is the biggest job he's ever undertaken. It's damn hard for the mind to conceive, but he could easily net over two hundred million dollars on this one shipment. He planned well, nothing could stand in his way. Then one day he looks out of his window and there sits an oceanographic research ship, not over two miles away. Learning that you were scouting the water for a legendary fish he began to run scared. There was a good chance that one of your divers might discover his base of operation, and what's most important, his method of smuggling. He was desperate. He couldn't blow you out of the water. The last thing he wanted was a full-scale investigation into the loss of this ship. There was no hope of instigating anti-American riots or violence. The people who live on the island are fun-loving farmers and fishermen. They couldn't care less about staging a demonstration against a scientific expedition. If anything, they welcomed you. The local merchants aren't about to turn down free-spending researchers. Von Till gambled on a long shot. He staged that attack on Brady Field, hoping Colonel Lewis would order you out of the area as a safety precaution. When this failed he threw caution to the winds and came directly at the
First Attempt
.”

“I don't know,” Gunn said hesitantly. “You make it sound logical. Except for the submarines. No civilian can go to his nearest yacht broker and buy a submarine.”

“The only way von Till could lay his hands on a sub without attracting attention would be to raise one that was sunk in shallow water during time of war.”

“You're beginning to sound interesting,” Gunn said quietly. He was tuned in on Pitt's channel now. He had the shrewd look of an old prospector who just discovered a map to a hidden gold mine.

Pitt went on. “This is a job for professional underwater divers. By the time INTERPOL could put together a team of their own it would be too late.” The last was only a half-truth, but it served Pitt admirably to drive home the next point. “The time is now. And other than Cousteau you've got the finest divers and equipment in the Mediterranean. I'm not going to give you any crap about being the ‘last hope of mankind' or that ‘it's better to sacrifice a few to save millions.' All I'm asking you for is a few volunteers to help me explore the cliffs below von Till's villa. We may strike out and find nothing. On the other hand we may uncover enough evidence to impound the ship and the heroin and put von Till away for good. Hit or miss, we've got to try.”

Gunn said nothing. His expression indicated deep thought and concentration. Pitt looked at him, considering, and then threw in the hook.

“It would be interesting if we could find out what happened to the yellow Albatros.”

Gunn looked at Pitt across the cramped radio room and thoughtfully jangled some loose change in his pocket. A more hard-headed and determined man he had never seen. Gunn remembered that he had trusted Pitt's judgment on that Delphi Ea affair in Hawaii last year, and he hadn't been let down. If Pitt said he was going to kill every shark in the sea, Gunn mused, he would probably damn near do it. He studied the damp and, by this time, peeling bandages on Pitt's body, jangled the change in his pocket again, wondered what he would be thinking about this time tomorrow.

“OK, you win,” he said wearily. “I'll no doubt regret this decision at my court-martial. It's a small satisfaction to know that I'll go out with a blaze of headlines.”

Pitt laughed. “No such luck, my friend. Whatever happens, you merely ordered a routine hunt to collect marine specimens from a shelf under the cliffs. If we stumble into an embarrassing incident, you can say it was by pure accident.”

“I hope Washington will buy that.”

“Don't worry, I think we both know Admiral Sandecker well enough to be assured that he'll stand by us regardless of the consequences.”

Gunn pulled a handkerchief from his hip pocket and dabbed at the sweat on his face and neck. “Well, where do we go from here?”

“Round up your volunteers,” Pitt said briefly. “Assemble them and the equipment on the fantail at noon. I'll explain their mission with a few well-chosen words and then we'll go from there.”

Gunn glanced at his watch. “It's nine now. I can have them ready to dive in fifteen minutes. Why wait three hours?”

“I need the extra time to catch up on my sleep,” Pitt said, grinning. “I don't want to doze off sixty feet below the surface.”

“That's not a bad idea,” Gunn said seriously. “You look like the morning after New Year's Eve.” He turned and started through the cabin door, then stopped. “By the way, do me a favor and send that girl ashore as soon as possible. I'm going to be in enough hot water as it is without being accused of operating a floating bordello.”

“Not until I return from the dive. It's vital that she remain on board where someone can keep an eye on her.”

“OK, let's have it.” Gunn said quietly in a defeated tone. “You're holding out on me again. Who is she?”

“Would you believe von Till's niece?”

“Oh no.” Gunn looked stricken. “That's all I need.”

“Don't work yourself into a coronary,” Pitt said softly. “Everything will work out. You have my word on it.”

“I hope so,” Gunn sighed. He looked skyward and shrugged in helpless despair. “Why me, God?”

Then he was gone.

Pitt stared out the empty doorway for a long moment at the blue uneven sea. The radio operator was bent over the big Bendix set, transmitting, but Pitt didn't hear him. He was lost in the inner silence of concentration and the silence that comes with the blistering heat and its energy sapping partner, humidity. His body was numb—numb from too little sleep and numb from too much mental strain. His nerves were stretched like the support wires of a suspension bridge; if one snapped the rest would part strand by strand until the whole structure swayed and dropped into oblivion. Like a gambler who has bet his last big stake on a ten-to-one horse, he felt his heart pound against his rib cage, driven beyond its regular beat by the deep fear of uncertainty.

“Excuse me, Major.” The radioman's low, resonant voice seemed far away. “These communications are for you.”

Pitt said nothing. He merely extended his hand and took the messages.

“The one from Munich came in at 6:00.” The black man's tone was hesitating and unsteady. “It was followed at 7:00 by two transmissions from Berlin.”

“Thank you,” Pitt murmured woodenly. “Anything else?”

“This last one, sir, it's…well it's really weird. No call sign, no repeat, no sign-off, just the message.”

Pitt stared down at the top paper. A grim smile slowly moved his lips.

“Major Dirk Pitt, NUMA ship
First Attempt
. One hour down, nine to go. H.Z.”

“Any…any reply, Major?” the voice stammered unevenly.

Suddenly Pitt became aware of the sickly expression on the radio operator's face. “You feel all right?”

“To tell the truth, Major, no. Ever since breakfast I've had the worst case of bowel drizzlies in my life, and I've barfed twice.”

Pitt could not help grinning. “Compliments of the ship's cook. Is that it?”

The radioman shook his head and rubbed his eyes in one easy movement. “Can't be. Cooky's the greatest—strictly gourmetsville. Nah, it's probably the local version of the flu. Could even be a skunky bottle of beer or something.”

“Stay with it,” Pitt said. “We need a good man on the radio for the next twenty-four hours.”

“You can count on me.” The radioman forced a faint smile. “Besides, that chick you brought on board has been clucking over me like a mother hen. With that kind of attention, how much could I suffer?”

Pitt raised an eyebrow. “You must see something in her I don't.”

“She's not bad. Not my usual fancy, but not bad. Anyway, she's been bringing tea all morning—a regular Florence Nightingale.”

The young black suddenly broke off. His eyes went wide and he threw a hand to his mouth. Then he jumped to his feet, knocking over the chair, ran outside and hung like a dead man over the railing. Animal-like grunts carried back into the cabin, accompanied by low, agonizing moans.

Pitt walked out and lightly patted the ailing radioman on the back.

“I need you by the radio my friend. Hang in there while I send for the ship's doctor.”

The radioman slowly nodded his head and said nothing. Then Pitt turned and left, making sure he walked upwind.

After a few minutes spent looking for the ship's physician and asking him to look in on the radio operator, Pitt entered Gunn's cabin and found it dark, the curtains drawn. Cool air flowed from the ventilator, giving the steel cubicle a comfortable, inviting atmosphere, a vast improvement over the intolerable heat of yesterday. In the dim light he made out Teri sitting on the desk. Her chin was resting on a drawn-up knee. She looked up at him and smiled.

“What kept you?”

“Business,” he replied.

“Monkey business I'll bet.” Her face bore a distinct feminine pout. “Where is the big adventure you promised me? Every time I turn around you've disappeared.”

“When duty calls, dearheart, I must answer.” Pitt straddled a chair and leaned over the backrest. “A very intriguing bit of apparel you're wearing. Where did you get it?”

“Nothing to it really—”

“I can see that.”

She smiled at his remark and went on. “I simply snipped out a pattern from some pillow ticking. The halter is tied in the back with a bow and the pants are knotted on each side. See!” She stood and undid the knot over her left hip, letting the diminutive cloth dangle teasingly.

“Very, very clever. What do you do for an encore?”

“How much is it worth to you?” she asked seductively.

“How about an old Milwaukee streetcar token?”

“You're impossible,” she pouted. “I'm beginning to think you're daft.”

He had to force his eyes to ignore her body. “Right now I've got some details that need clearing up.”

She stared at him blankly for a few seconds, started to say something, then thought better of it; his face was unsmiling and serious. She shrugged, slowly retied the bikini and settled into a vacant chair.

“You're acting terribly mysterious.”

“I'll revert to my old sweet, lovable self after you've answered a few simple questions.”

She scratched at an imaginary itch above her left breast. “Ask away then.”

“Question number one: what do you know about your uncle's smuggling operations?”

Her eyes went wide. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“I think you do.”

“You're insane,” she said, glaring at him. “Uncle Bruno owns a steamship line. Why should a man of his wealth and social standing stoop to petty smuggling?”

“Nothing he does can be considered petty,” Pitt said. He paused a moment, monitoring her expression, and then continued. “Question number two: before you came to Thasos, when was the last time you saw von Till?”

Not since I was a little girl,” she answered vaguely. “My mum and dad were drowned when their sailboat overturned in a sudden storm off the Isle of Man. Uncle Bruno was with them at the time. So was I. He saved my life. Since that awful accident he has been very good to me; the best boarding schools, money when I needed it. He always remembers my birthday.”