“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 ther
eafter. 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.”
He lifted the weights on his hips, let them settle again. “Tell you what, Skipper; I’ll have the boys on the Octagon fit you out as soon as we can bring the ketch alongside; same-day service, everything imaginable in those hulls.”
She continued to brief him without acknowledging the offer. “Once you are aboard the sled, I will watch for your signal. We will make three runs over the site. When we come about each time, you will surface with the loss of tow, but you will be able to dive again in less than a minute. Signal if you are having trouble. You can, of course, always swim to the surface, but that should not be necessary given your experience.”
“I’m shooting for at least three gold chalices, figure you’ll claim one as the captain’s share. What’s your cut, Paul?”
Head had not been following the conversation. “Cut? What the hell do you mean, cut?” His eyes narrowed at Tooms; a hand, in reflex, ran down the front of the T-shirt which concealed his damaged side.
“Settled, one-tenth share; at least a sculpted handle for the helmsman. Over we go!” Tooms again brought the mask over his face and, with one hand against the glass, took an exaggerated parade step into the sea, legs spread to keep his head above water. His fins carried him back in a quick flutter kick to the orange sled. Tonasi, in the water waiting for him, forced the stern down. Tooms mounted; the young Italian pulled himself hand over hand to the ketch. Tooms raised an arm, thumb down, ready. The Matabele fell off, filling her sails until Tooms, splashing in wake, engaged the planes and disappeared beneath the surface.
Leslie took the helm, checking her course against the Gozo landmarks.
“Cut the line. I’ll pick him off when he blows, the bloody bastard!”
“Likes to hear himself talk, like you, Zulu.”
“Keep your eyes on the tow”—her voice was with them—“learn to love him.” She laughed ruefully, “Our new partner.” The braided white line stretching down into the sea trembled against the strain of its cargo.
After three long passes, Tooms was back aboard, towel around his neck, shaking his head with pleasure. Tonasi placed a chilled Hopleaf ale in his wrinkled hand.
“You folks; you’re quite a team, much to be admired. I’ve done diving enough for three men in my day, but this afternoon was something mighty special. That sled, under sail power, the clarity”—he rubbed the towel vigorously through his hair—“and, the sightseeing, first rate. How long was I down?”
“Not quite one hour, deck to deck.”
“Not nearly long enough . . . a dandy sensation . . . like a twenty-foot ray surveying his realm.”
She encouraged his enthusiasm. “What would you say the Maltese have down there?”
“Captain, several hulls by the looks of them, broad o’ beam, what’s left beneath the limestone growth . . . broad o’ beam, cargo ships, ordinary merchantmen back when Caesar’s crowd was in full sway.”
“It has been well picked over. Fortunately, the Maltese have now acted to preserve the site as a national trust. It is officially a crime to remove anything or to disturb the site in any way . . . like the rest of the sea, abused by the selfish few with no respect of the past, no regard for the present, except their own pockets, no thought to the future. . . . Well, Oats; do have another ale. The ice chest is on the starboard side.”
Tooms collected her words. There was a purity that went beyond the ancient hulls, beyond Malta; a dedication and purity in that half-naked young woman that would hang a veritable halo over the bay research project taking form in his mind. “Damned Maltese! Haven’t learned screw-off caps. Where the hell’s the grog wrench on this able craft?” He followed this bellow with another. “Got it! Sorry, crew.” He half-emerged from the cabin. “A beer, a wine, some medicinal spirits, Captain? A salute is in order.”
“Right at home. Very good, Oats. The Algerian would taste very nice. You will find some cups over the chart table.”
The Matabele was running home, now, coasting along on a following sea, her running lights lit. Tooms handed out the wine, tossed his cigarettes and lighter to Head, and growled happily in the evening air. “To the Matabele, her master, and those who serve on her.” He drained the ale and reached behind him for the opened replacement on the cabin sill.
Leslie watched the fat scientist relax. He was propped against the cabin, heavy legs straight out on the cockpit bench, with arms alternating in the delivery of smoke and ale. She prompted him again. “The great Thomas Starring seemed quite keen on some research in America the other night, Oats. I suppose that was no more than the show for that night’s guests?”
“You caught me daydreaming, if that’s possible at this hour, Captain.” He lurched higher into a sitting position and pulled on his bottle. “Today’s adventure had me thinking about an earlier dive, a dive ashore—an
d that relates to your question, which I was about to raise myself. Paul, Filippo, what’s the deepest you’ve been off this ketch?”
They both looked to Leslie, silhouetted in the twilight. “Last year, one hundred and twenty-five feet, off Greece wasn’t it Paul? Yes. We had to rig a new decompression line—”
“A hundred and twenty-five feet.” Tooms scratched a shin. “About five atmospheres, real diving . . . takes skill. I took a team of four down to sixteen hundred feet a few years back, sixteen hundred feet in a chamber built to my specs at Towerpoint—part of Starring’s thrust into deep ocean engineering.”
He had them listening. “It’s a strange world at that depth. You suck in the helium and oxygen. The human body is flexible, tough, but it’s mighty easy to screw up. It’s rough at that depth, hard to do the easiest tasks. You get the shakes, your stomach goes, head hurts, can’t sleep worth a damn. Then you start the decompressing, not minutes—day after day, a week goes by. You think you’ll go nuts with the boredom, but you’re fighting fear at the same time. You have to make constant checks, keep the nitrogen from boiling over in the blood, turning you into a burnt-out kettle of mush—”
“Ease the main.” Leslie uncleated the mizzensheet, allowing the line to slip through her fingers until both sails trimmed to the shift in wind.
A Death in Geneva Page 9