The Devil's Trinity

by Michael Parker

  He walked over to his desk and switched on the light. Sitting there, with the light throwing a shadow over his features, it added an uncomfortable menace to his already dominant nature.

  “Who is there who could pilot the Challenger?” de Leon asked him.

  Khan considered that for a moment. “Only two; Riker, the American, but he’s currently working somewhere in the Pacific on a commission for the Woods Hole Institute. And the other is Harry Marsham. He is, or was,” he corrected himself, “a partner in the underwater business run by Greg Walsh. They own the Helena, the sister ship to our Challenger. Trouble is; if he was with Walsh he’ll be dead.”

  “How long would it take to train someone? De Leon asked.

  Khan shrugged. “Depending on the weather conditions, a competent submersible pilot could be trained within two weeks. But we would need to do test dives. And we don’t have the time. The weather is deteriorating, and we have been warned to expect a hurricane.” He shook his head irritably. “No time. The longer we are kept from completing our task, the more likely it is that the Americans will learn the truth and stop us.”

  “If we cannot find another pilot, you will have to do it.”

  Khan’s eyes hardened. They were like deep pools of water crystallising into ice. His hand strayed to his chest and his fingers gently touched the silk of his shirt.

  “If only the accident had not happened,” he muttered angrily, looking up at de Leon. “The accident to Habib, I mean.”

  Habib was the man that Remo Francesini found dying in the hospital in Miami.

  “The bomb incident was unfortunate, but costly,” de Leon observed. “We were lucky your group were able to locate another.”

  Khan nodded. “Replacing the bomb will turn out to be easier than replacing Habib.” His hand fell away from his chest. “But we must find another diver. We must!”

  *

  Francesini thought he had hit the equivalent of pay dirt: pure gold. But he had been in the game too long to count his chickens. The poor, unfortunate wretch who had been lying near death through radiation burns had whispered one word: Taliban. Or so Francesini had thought.

  A report from the United States Coast Guard had linked the name of a man pulled out of the sea with a gunshot wound in his leg to that of the ‘Ocean Quest’ underwater survey company, operating out of the Bahamas. The man’s name was Harry Marsham, one of the directors of the company. The other two directors were Helen Walsh and her husband, Greg Walsh.

  Francesini had ‘flagged’ Walsh’s name on the C.I.A. computers when Walsh’s suppositions and fears had landed on his desk. It wasn’t necessary to give a reason; simply a request to feed through anything that came into the C.I.A. network that might be of interest to a particular department.

  It wasn’t until he recalled the information he had in a file on Greg Walsh that the truth hit him. Coupled with the seemingly outrageous supposition by Walsh, one that he could not trust himself to divulge to Admiral Starling, was the appearance in the report of the word ‘Taliba’.

  Was that, he wondered, the name the dying man had whispered to him in the hospital? Taliba?

  Francesini read the summation of his own, written discourse and tried not to let his imagination run away with him. If the dead man had come from the ship, Taliba, and was dying from radiation burns because of his association with that vessel, then he had a duty to put a high priority on it.

  But he had to be careful.

  And he had to be right.

  *

  Marsh opened his eyes, blinked briefly and stared into the face of a man sitting beside his bed. It was a pleasant face. His expression was cheerful; a countenance conspired probably to cheer the patient up. Marsh thought he could smell cigar smoke, but the man was not smoking.

  “Hi.” Marsh felt tenderness in his throat and knew he would have to speak softly. He looked around the room. It was aesthetically clean, as though its sterility was forced, demanding to be seen without prejudice. Marsh frowned but welcomed the small vase of flowers that added a touch of contrasting colour. “Who are you?”

  The man smiled. It was a pleasant smile. “My name is Remo Francesini, but my friends call me Remo.” He shrugged. “Some even call me Frankie. And you’re Harry Marsham. Do I call you Harry?”

  Marsh liked him immediately. There was no affectation in his manner and he appeared relaxed and friendly.

  “No, Marsh will do. Where am I?” he asked.

  “Guantanamo Bay Naval hospital.”

  Marsh lifted his head off the pillow. “How the hell did I get here?” he asked. “Did you pull me out of the water?”

  “Hell no, the only time I get near water is when I take a shower.” He leaned a little closer, his expression changing a little. “Look, I said I would let them know if you woke up, ok?” He got up from the chair. “Just a few minutes, then I’ll be back.”

  He left Marsh alone. It was quiet, and that slight smell of cigar smoke reminded him he was back with the living. He wondered how he was going to explain Greg’s death to Helen. Why they were actually where they were when the freighter struck. It was Greg’s insistence that they sailed out to that point but he never did give a reason. It wasn’t unusual for the two of them to spend a day or two out sailing, but they would often have Helen with them. This time, Greg had persuaded Marsh that they should leave Helen behind. For some reason, it didn’t seem to bother Helen.

  He put his thoughts back to how he would explain such bizarre circumstances surrounding Greg’s death. Was it an accident? If he told her that the action of the ship that struck them was definitely hostile, would she believe him? Would anybody for that matter? And could he prove it?

  During his life and death struggle, Marsh has wanted to get back on dry land and report everything to the authorities. But how could he explain it? Why would the crew of the freighter open fire on him? No doubt the authorities would put it down to smugglers where weapons were de rigeur. But more worryingly, if he made it known publicly what he had witnessed on the Taliba, and the switch of cargo, he knew without doubt he would put his own life in danger.

  There was a noise outside in the corridor. The door swung open and a doctor came into the room with a nurse. Marsh gave up worrying about his immediate problem and let the doctor examine him.

  “You’re still quite weak, Marsham,” the doctor told him. “You’ve taken a terrible battering.” He flexed Marsh’s knee gently. “How on earth did you get this?”

  Marsh shook his head. “I can’t remember,” he lied.

  The doctor straightened. “Well, no matter. Our job is to fix you up and get you out here. The military police here will want to talk to you, I’m sure. Couple of days and you should be ok to leave. We’ll give you a sedative later this evening. Help you rest.”

  When the doctor and nurse had left, Francesini popped his head round the door.

  “Everything ok?”

  Marsh smiled, “I’ll get by.”

  Francesini closed the door behind him and sat down beside the bed.

  “Right,” he said, “where shall we begin?

  “Well, how about you tell me who you are and what it is you want,” Marsh suggested.

  Francesini opened his hands apologetically. “Good idea. I’m from the United States Immigration Department,” he lied. “We thought it important to ask you a few questions, informally so to speak. That will give you a chance to get your strength up before we sit you down and take a statement.”

  He made himself more comfortable. “We’re concerned, naturally, about the gunshot wound to your knee. How you got it.” He held his hand up. “No need to answer that yet. We would also like to know what happened. What we know is that you and your friend Walsh were out sailing. The boat has disappeared and you’ve turned up on your own, without your partner.”

  Marsh stopped him. “How did you know I was sailing with Greg?”

  “You had your wallet on you when you were pulled out of the water. Your business cards tol
d us who you were. So, we contacted your boatyard in Freeport. Mrs. Walsh has told us that you and her husband, Greg Walsh went out sailing a couple of days ago.”

  Marsh said “oh,” and laid his back on his pillow.

  “Naturally she’s very distressed. So, as soon as we have the right answers, we can get you back to Freeport.” He was quiet for a while. “So, what happened?”

  “We ran into something,” Marsh explained evenly. It was almost the truth.

  “Where?”

  Marsh almost told him then, but there was no way he could have made it from the middle of the Caribbean Sea, eight hundred miles from Cuba without help, and he didn’t feel that he could explain the truth to this man. Not yet.

  “It happened a few miles offshore, just south of Jamaica. “He brought his hand up to his head. “I can’t remember much about it.” He hoped that Jamaica sounded about right because he really didn’t have a clue what landfall it was he saw from the lifeboat on board the Taliba, it was simply his own version of dead reckoning.

  “What about the gunshot wound?”

  Marsh shook his head. “It’s like I told you Remo; I can’t remember.”

  A thoughtful expression clouded Francesini’s face. “Your partner’s death will have to be explained considering you’ve been shot. It could mean a delay before you can get back home.”

  “What kind of a delay?”

  Francesini shrugged. “Well, because your boat must have sunk close to Jamaican territorial waters and you got yourself shot, it could be a matter for local, Jamaican authorities. Someone will want to know what happened to Walsh. Was there a gunfight? Were you attacked by pirates? There are several possibilities of course.” He lifted his hands in an empty gesture. “The police there might want to keep you in custody for a week, minimum. They could release you on bail I suppose.”

  Francesini hoped he was piling on the pressure enough to force Marsh to open up about what really happened. Because he had more of an insight into Walsh’s affairs than Marsh probably knew, he had to drag every possible gem from the man that he could.

  Marsh felt he was getting into something quite messy. Because he had lied when he said the Ocean Quest had sunk just off the coast of Jamaica, he had put himself into a difficult situation. If he changed his story now, the police would probably think he was lying anyway just to save his own skin. He wondered if he would be able to stand extensive interrogation and keep coming up with the same story.

  He had been lying on his back, propped up by his pillows. He struggled to sit up. Francesini leaned forward and helped him.

  “So why is the immigration department interested in me?” he asked.

  Francesini gave that some thought; now it was his turn to be careful. “Well,” he said eventually, “you’re on American soil at the moment. After all, it was the Coast Guard that picked you up.”

  Marsh realised that his visitor hadn’t answered the question, so he decided to stall a little.

  “Look, I can’t wait around for this mess to be sorted out; I’ve far too much to do.”

  “Like what?”

  Marsh looked at him. “Once we get over this, Helen and I, that’s Greg’s wife; sorry, widow, we still have a business to run. We have a lot of investment in our boatyard. Greg’s affairs have to be put in order. You get me home and I’ll go to the police myself. I’m certainly not going to hide from anyone.”

  Francesini ignored him. “You’re financed through the bank, right?”

  “Yes,” Marsh replied warily, wondering where this was going. “Usually when we take on a commission we ask the bank for a short term loan. At the moment we are have no loans and only a mortgage to service. Why do you ask?”

  Once again Francesini ignored him. “So, what’s your business? Fishing trips, cruises, that kind of thing?”

  Marsh laughed. “Goodness me no; we are an underwater exploration company: ‘Ocean Quest’. We take commissions from the some of the biggest institutions in the world. We do survey work for oil companies. Underwater geological surveys for construction companies. We sometimes do a commission for international magazines like the National Geographic. Our equipment is expensive to buy, expensive to run and expensive to maintain.”

  “Have you been doing much work lately?” Francesini asked him.

  Marsh glanced at him and shook his head. “No. Why?”

  “Why not?”

  Marsh didn’t answer for a while. Just lately, Walsh had been putting off some of the smaller commissions that had been coming in. At first it hadn’t bothered Marsh but soon it became something of a stand-off between the two of them. Helen had noticed the tension developing and occasionally Marsh had seen her arguing furiously with her husband.

  “I don’t know why not,” Marsh replied.

  “So what do you do when you don’t have any work coming in?”

  Deep dives was the answer that Marsh should have said, but not for any institution. For a few weeks now, Walsh had wanted Marsh and Helen to help him on some deep water compression dives, dives that had something to do with the survey work Walsh had carried out for Hakeem Khan. He had been quite evasive about the reason why he wanted to go over work that had already been completed and paid for but often muttered something about not being convinced that their figures had been accurate and it wouldn’t do to give clients erroneous figures, particularly when they had paid handsomely.

  “Oh, we do maintenance around the yard, chase up new business; that kind of thing.” It was a poor effort.

  “Did you and Walsh always work on the same jobs?” Francesini asked him.

  Marsh shook his head. “Why?”

  “If you worked separately, would you talk to each other about your work?”

  “Sometimes, but not always. It would depend on customer privilege and privacy. As long as the money rolled in, we were quite happy.” He wondered where this was going.

  “Mercenaries,” Francesini said lightly.

  Marsh laughed again. “Yes, you could say that. But we were never armed.”

  “Could anything you or Walsh have done recently be the reason for you getting shot?”

  The question went straight to Marsh’s heart. Like a bullet finding its target. The answer was yes, Marsh was convinced of that now, but he couldn’t say why, nor could he explain to Francesini what was running through his mind right then, and the seeds of panic growing inside him.

  He decided to get rid of his visitor and try desperately hard to recall some of the many conversations and arguments between him and Walsh within the last few months. Only then would he be able to understand the surprising turn of events his life had taken. He made his excuses to Francesini.

  “Look, I’m tired. Can we continue this some other day?

  Francesini nodded and stood up. “Sure thing.” He put his hand out. Marsh shook it. “You take care now and I’ll see you again.”

  He closed the door behind him as he left and Marsh stared at it for ages.

  Whoever he said he was, thought Marsh, he was not from the immigration department, and the web that he was convinced Walsh had been weaving was beginning to unravel with disastrous and dangerous consequences.

  *

  Khan stepped into the access hatch through the upper, watertight door on the submersible, the Challenger. It was in the centre of the submersible and opened into a vertical shaft. At the bottom of this shaft was a watertight door. It was locked mechanically and while the Challenger was submerged, the door could not be opened against the pressure of the water until the shaft was flooded. It was the same with the upper hatch door through which Khan was now descending.

  He climbed down the ladder and stopped beside a small platform which could be raised into a recess in the curved bulkhead wall of the shaft. Just above him was a small door set flush into the curved wall. He opened it. Inside was a steel snap-hook attached to a metal cable, half an inch thick. This cable snaked round two pulleys and dropped vertically into a concealed cable drum.

&n
bsp; Attached to one of the pulley wheels was a strain gauge. It was a self-contained, waterproof electronic unit converted to read a distance in feet. Khan examined the assembly carefully. It was pivoted so that it could be swung out into the vertical shaft. The pivot and locking pins were as thick as a man’s thumb.

  Looking down, Khan slipped his feet into two, recessed openings in the chamber wall and raised the platform, carefully latching it into place. He continued his descent until he was at the bottom of the shaft. He spun the locking wheel of the lower door and allowed it to swing open against a small counter weight.

  Beneath him he could see the metal plates of the Taliba’s forward deck. A small ladder had been attached to the underside of the Challenger’s hull at the point where an underskirt would normally be fitted. He went down the ladder and ducked beneath the ballast tanks, then straightened and looked into the brilliant sunshine.

  Julio Batista, his chief diver was standing there. He could see that Khan was satisfied with the modifications that had been carried out. Batista was smiling. He was always smiling. A young man, twenty eight years of age, he had lived most of his life in or around the sea. It was his life. Whether he was surfing, belly boarding, scuba diving or just swimming, he was never happier. He was a little over six feet tall, well-muscled because of his lifestyle and, unusually for a Spaniard, he had tight, blond curly hair.

  Julio Batista had worked for Khan now for about three years and was very fond of his boss. Khan trusted him, and he trusted Khan. As much a professional as Batista was, he was also unscrupulous and would work for anybody if the money was right. And as far as he was concerned, Hakeem Khan was the most generous man he had ever worked for. He waited for his boss to speak.

  “The modifications are fine, Julio. Perfect.” He put his arm round Batista’s shoulder. “Now I have to ask you to do something for me. I want you to go to Freeport at Grand Bahamas, to Greg Walsh’s boatyard. I am hoping you will find Harry Marsham there. There has been an accident that cannot be explained, and his partner, Walsh is dead. I want you to ask him to pilot the Challenger.”