“Des peches pour l’Afrique was my guiding standard, sewn on my nightshirt. I would come swinging through from the Head Office. We had two good professional fisheries types in the West African region, and a few stellar, nationally sponsored local research stations manned mostly by Frenchmen—good scientists, lousy politicians; not your usual Frenchman. All in all, a team with great promise.
“Now then, Miss Renfro, spicing this particular bouillabaisse was my discovery that the fisheries research and the catches were almost totally eclipsed by the politics of it all. Skilled international folks, not the scientists, the bureaucrats flown in from capitals, would convene one of their regular conclaves. There’d be tough, nationalistic infighting by the big boys working the waters—the Russian bear, France, Portugal, Spain to name a few, and no one in sight interested in the pious thoughts of FAO, the little boys ashore, or the coastal states of West Africa. There was good fish to be sure—mackerel, sardine, tuna—but not much making its way to the average residence of Pointe-Noire, Accra, and Dakar.
“The little boys were just getting their freedom in those days. It was slow at times. There would be opening speeches at each conclave, with the newly independents glowering at the imperialists and the former overlords returning the compliment. But my colleagues and I were undeterred. We continued to plug for improved regional research and a level of catch that could renew itself and still set aside the required amount of protein for the new African small fry.
“You’re very patient, Miss Renfro, and if there is a point to this, it is that I enjoy your newfound company and am prepared to filibuster to keep it, and . . . when we were working with these West Africans, we didn’t say ‘No’ to anybody. We didn’t pretend that the tropical Atlantic was some sacred reserve to be locked away!”
“Every time you come to one of these clambakes, doesn’t matter where . . . Valletta, Kingston, London, Tokyo, Turtle Bay . . . you can always count on some wild-eyed grantee to regurgitate his ‘freshly minted’ thesis on demilitarization of the Pacific, of the Atlantic, of the Caribbean, the Indian Ocean, or the Med. It makes no sense to natter about demilitarization, about creating international machinery to stop this or stop that. It’s simply not what the oceans are about.
“The Mediterranean is the perfect example.” He waved toward the distant speedboat. “Resorts, fishing, commercial shipping, defense of the Free World . . . the U.S. Navy, the allies; that is what the water is there for. The trick is not to say ‘No’ but to say ‘How,’ to shape our use of this sea and the rest in a way that keeps them useful, doesn’t wear them out. And, Princess, history teaches mighty plainly that the little guy on a rolling deck hauling for his life on a net—the entrepreneur—private enterprise and competition have brought more good and rational use of the seas than any international organization ever could. In there”—he jerked his head back in the direction of the conference hall—“I was just reminding folks not to sell private enterprise short. If there’s a real hypocrite, Miss Renfro, it’s my audience.”
“You’re Starring’s chief scientist, aren’t you?” Her words came quickly. He squinted, flattered himself with the thought that he detected a hint of conciliation.
“You can call me that—I’m part, a small part, of his corporate brain. Towerpoint is a big operation. I suppose I’m the one person on the payroll who’s paid to keep the profits down, help Tommie Starring fold some of his money back into the ‘pure’ side of the ocean business. Starring is a pioneer, writing a positive page in the history of the world. He gives considerable thought to his legacy. . . . And what about you, Miss Renfro? You’re too tan to be a bureaucrat. Judging by that arm, looks like you might be a lion tamer.”
She glanced down at the long, shallow cuts, half-healed on her left forearm. “The boat,” she said, smiling at Tooms for the first time, “just a scratch from a frayed hawser.”
“I’ve met a few in my time. They come looking for me—hawsers, booms, blocks—main cabin lanterns have always liked my head. What kind of boat?”
“A ketch, Dr. Tooms; I sail it out of Marsamxett. That is my living. I sail tourists on day cruises, overnight, by the week—skin diving, scuba diving, snorkeling, marine archeological expeditions.”
“Outstanding; strange that I haven’t come across your name. I always read the local rags, even when I don’t know the native tongue. I’ve got a good eye for that sort of ad—”
“No advertising, Dr. Tooms, word of mouth, regulars, fairly steady in season, and not too bad out. I gather you have done some diving, the watch you are wearing?”
“A bit, a bit.” He paused, drained his ale. “Diving is what brought me and my current benefactor together. I had cast my net wider than West Africa by then, done a hitch teaching coastal research, mariculture. We included some diving, really just for the sheer pleasure of it—one atmosphere, is that what you’re doing?”
“Yes, primarily one atmosphere, bottled air.”
“Well, back then when I was mariculturing, we were thinking a bit bigger as a nation, dreaming, designing laboratories on the continental shelf—return to Atlantis, you know. I got caught up in a fancy operation, Navy-funded, plenty of dollars, and we put together a long-endurance saturation diving program. When I wasn’t underwater or compressed in a steel pipe somewhere,” he said, laughing, “I was talking to folks—second only to the astronauts in those days. people loved to hear about the pressures, what they did to a person, the dangers, the prospects for sustaining researchers and work crews underwater, the prospects for those ‘colonies’ on the deep-sea floor.”
“Tommie Starring got wind of one of my talks, probably had Sullivan pull together some of my papers, asked me to meet him. Halfway through the first cup of coffee, I was telling him that the Gulf of Guinea was lousy with Soviet bloc trawlers and factory ships, that this was the tip of the iceberg, bigger than fishing . . . and, that we were in the process of losing an important game.” He looked at her. “Do you follow, Miss Renfro? You couldn’t put into a single port for thousands of miles without bumping into one or more trawlers flying the hammer and sickle. Well, Starring and I swapped a few yarns, found we liked each other’s politics, and I joined him. Towerpoint was expanding its wings, out front in offshore technology . . .”
“Go on!” The harshness had returned.
Tooms seemed not to notice. “Well, started out with some diving. The science role emerged in the second year. I’ve been with him now for upwards of twelve, thirteen years. Ummph!” He started to heave himself to his feet. “I’d like to learn more about your charter operation, Miss Renfro. I’m due inside again, a panel.”
“Yes, the future of Mediterranean resources.”
“That’s it; glad you knew at least. I’d like you to take me diving, Miss Renfro—haven’t had the pleasure of looking around off Malta, long overdue. In the meantime, given my sanctified bachelor’s status, perhaps you will do me the honor of joining me for dinner this evening. There used to be a nice joint up the coast from here, the Green Dolphin, very tasty Mediterranean resources. What do you say?”
She was on her feet. “No thank you.”
“Tomorrow evening, Miss Renfro, Starring is having a reception in the Grand Harbor. He has the flagship here—six o’clock on the fantail for cocktails. I’d like you to meet him, might do you both some good. Come to think of it, half of Malta will be there . . . all the grantees. Best to let them work the trough over first. The second sitting will settle in at a more genteel pace at about seven o’clock. Do you accept, or is there a husband lurking in the forecastle?”
“Thank you, Dr. Tooms, I would like to attend your reception—”
“Grand, grand. You continue to surprise me. Tell me again, where will I find your ketch? You said the Marsamxett . . . ?”
“I will meet you at the customshouse wharf at six-thirty, Dr. Tooms.” She turned away from him. They entered the conference hall separately. At the tables along the rear wall, she scanned the conference literature unti
l she found the schedule for the following day, confirming:
1700—reception hosted by the Honourable Thomas M. Starring, Grand Harbour. Apply at conference administration centre for transportation.
She swept this and various other papers into her envelope, and turned toward the dais, the raised tables covered in blue felt, a spotlight playing on the Ocean University’s emblem of sea creatures imposed in a swimming circle on a Maltese Cross, in turn centered on a field descending from emerald green to indigo.
Tooms, blinking in the change of light, scratched at an ear, made his way up the stage steps to his panelist’s chair. He swiveled toward the pale, bald, little rabbit of a man beside him. “Lemaire, Monsieur Dr. Lemaire! Well, well, well; we’re really going to give them their money’s worth today. The late fifties Lemaire, in Tunis; we were both handsome then. I’d hate to think I might learn something, but I just might this afternoon.” Tooms’s hand darted out, squeezed the Frenchman’s knee. Lemaire, with a flash of teeth, kicked his chair out of Tooms’s range.
With the thunk, thunk of the chairman’s pencil on his microphone, Tooms settled down, peered out through the lights. Leslie Renfro had departed.
Chapter 4
The following evening, the freighter Thrakikon Pelagos, a ten-thousand tonner, rounded Ricasoli Point, leaving St. Elmo Lighthouse to port and setting a northeasterly course for her return voyage to Greece. Her empty, rusting hull, coated gray with dust from the cargo of cement just delivered, rode high in the water. Her propeller broke the surface with each blade’s revolution, chopping a frothy green marble wake in the blue of the Grand Harbor.
Towering astern, the fortress city of Valletta rose on the spiny peninsula of Mount Sciberras. At the seaward tip lay Fort St. Elmo, behind it, bank upon bank of white and pastel-colored houses, apartments, and shops reaching high above the harbor walls, presented a façade of urban and natural grandeur of a magnitude, sweep, and architectural impact unparalleled through the centuries.
The far side of the harbor was more intricate. At the narrow entrance, Ricasoli Fort guarded the seaward approaches. Inside the breakwaters, five creeks divided five peninsulas, each jutting into the harbor’s main basin. Looming over all stood the great rock rampart of Fort St. Angelo, before independence the headquarters of the Royal Navy’s Flag Officer Malta and three hundred years before that the home of Grand Master La Valette and the Knights of St. John. Tucked behind this enduring fortress, the shipyards of Malta, so vital to her livelihood, lay at the headwaters of Dockyard Creek and French Creek. The community of Senglea divided the creeks with shoulder-to-shoulder houses rimming the waterfront, many with tunneled stairways, carved in the living rock, running down to the water’s edge. From Senglea, a ferry running to the customshouse linked the two sides of the harbor.
Tooms’s cigarette died with a hiss in the water flowing past the customshouse. He was on the wharf leaning against a bollard, arms folded, observing the skyscraping caged elevator rising slowly from harbor level to the streets of Valletta. Starring had laid the wood to him that morning, a classic performance. “Here’s what I want done; why the hell don’t you have it done?” Tooms had closeted himself for the rest of the day, with charts and papers, inventory records covering every working surface of his shipboard laboratory. It was coming, he had reflected with some satisfaction, but damnation, I’m getting too old for these instant creations.
The workday also was over for the Maltese; the harbor was at peace. Only the tourist boats, Arabesque, double-prowed dghajsas, rowed by capped Maltese oarsmen standing amidships, continued to ply the waters. The light, the sun low in the west, was good for photographs at this hour, and the temperature was cooler.
Tooms watched an elderly couple, fair-skinned, Scandinavian to his eye, maybe German, embark in a dghajsa, the taximan holding the graceful craft steady. The gentleman assisted the lady to the bench in the stern, and then immediately helping her up again, they turned around holding each other by the waist and exchanged places. From beneath his green plastic visor, the man gave a nod of approval to the taximan, gesturing with a broad sweep of the harbor to confirm his order for the deluxe tour. The taximan repeated the gesture, tipped his cap to the couple, shoved off with a foot, and headed up harbor, pushing the dghajsa with short sweeps of the oars.
“Well, Dr. Tooms, you are punctual, necessary I suppose when you place yourself in someone else’s hire. Punching time clocks must be the same even in the grasping clutches of Towerpoint.”
“Miss Renfro, charming as ever. You do me great honor keeping this date; the current crop of Knights of St. John would have arrested me for loitering in another minute.” He pushed away from the bollard extending his hand in greeting, which in a glance was seen and ignored.
“You are looking absolutely charming, Miss Renfro, the belle of the Towerpoint ball.” His admiring gaze took in the pale blue shirt and matching espadrilles, the white skirt and familiar shell necklace. He scanned the waterfront, spotted a kelly green hull with gold scrollwork and waved the skipper over. Tooms was pleased to have Leslie Renfro in tow. He valued his psychological insights; they helped in his game. He had savored the impact of her harsh words, had played with the language in his mind since their first conversation on the hotel terrace. Throughout the day he had been toying with various roles for her in his new scheme. None had fully crystallized, but there had been a place for her each time, and it had worked well. This was the extra facet of Tooms’s character that Tommie Starring valued. Starring expected, demanded, that he keep pulling rabbits out of hats. Tooms was looking forward to showing off the young mermaid to the boss.
Leslie stepped lightly into the dghajsa. Tooms eased himself down into the small craft with a grunt. “You have a seaman’s manner, Miss Renfro, and that’s said as a compliment. Have you been on the high seas today or back at the front office sorting through your investments?” He waved his cigarettes toward her knowing she would decline and took one for himself, pausing to give directions to the dghajsa skipper before flicking his lighter.
“I have had a good day, Dr. Tooms. Two couples, three children, have booked for a week’s cruise. They are neophytes, here for a fortnight, and in a hurry to get under way. Actually, it is much easier with the beginners, no ingrained errors to correct. I sent them into the city with a shopping list, and my crew and I have spent the day outfitting the ketch. We sail tomorrow.”
“Where to?”
“West, along the north coasts; circumnavigate Gozo and Comino; skin diving; a night at anchor in the Blue Lagoon; a side excursion to the Blue Grotto Caves; good variety. I would invite you, Dr. Tooms, but we are already at full capacity. Do you speak again at the conference? I will miss the closing session.”
“God forbid, God forbid! You ought to book some of the grantees, Princess, let them work a little mal de mer into their next presentations. As for me, there’ll be time. I’ll make time—your cruising invitation’s accepted.”
The dghajsa’s long oars, lashed with heavy line to the wooden peg oarlocks, continued their rhythmic splashing sweeps through the water. As the taxiboat pushed further into the harbor, the port bows and hull of the Towerpoint Octagon, flagship of Starring’s Towerpoint International, loomed before them riding at her black iron mooring buoy.
“It’s an ugly ship.”
“The very finest in the world, Miss Renfro, a sweetheart, an able ship; the best oceangoing research platform you or I will ever see.” Tooms turned to the taximan. “The accommodation ladder’s rigged on the outboard starboard hull, skipper; take us once around before we board.”
More than a flagship, the Towerpoint Octagon epitomized Tommie Starring’s determination to prevail, displaying his defiance of the general decline of sea power in America. An oceangoing catamaran, she ran some three hundred feet from bow to stern. Her twin hulls were divided by a thirty-five foot well, giving her a maximum beam of more than eighty feet. The hulls were a glistening midnight blue with TOWERPOINT OCTAGON painted in eig
ht-foot block letters of gold on each outboard hull. The octagonal superstructure was white, with the twin stacks taking up the blue of the hull, each with the corporation T in gold.
Leslie Renfro scanned the ship’s profile.
“One of a kind, custom-built, alive with machinery—helo platform aft.” Tooms leaned back, one elbow on the dghajsa’s thwart, following the line of her observations. Her skin glowed golden in the sunset’s rays, a filmy down on the arm raised to shade her eyes. “Massive overhead crane, submersible, no . . . yes, two of them, buoys on the forward decks . . . built for underseas support.”
“Damned good,” Tooms growled. “You have a keen eye. She’s a converted submarine rescue ship, Neptune class.”
“You mean a warship.”
“She’s civilian, alright, but don’t let the paint fool you. She’s was laid down for the Navy. Starring built her in his yards, one of a new class—one too many as it turned out. Starring kept the Navy’s feet to the fire, wouldn’t let the brass hats cut corners on quality. The Neptunes were built to handle rescue missions for the nuclear missile subs. He wanted them to be as good as the submarines. There were God-awful contract disputes, entire armies of lawyers maneuvering on the Potomac flats, more budget cuts wringing more money out of the Navy’s hide. Then—they put a hold on the entire class, no more construction while the folks in Washington read their bones. Starring laid them flat, Miss Renfro, knocked the air out, left the Pentagon, White House, Capitol Hill, and points east gasping. With the last of the hull plates not even welded, he renegotiated, closed out the contract, took over the ship as she stood in the ways and finished the job with Towerpoint money—quite the sensation at the time.”
A Death in Geneva Page 4