Malik had said little but Marsh had tried to make a judgement of the man from his manner and behaviour. A couple of times he had caught Malik watching him, but when challenged, Malik shrugged it off. As much as he tried, he could get nothing out of the man, so he gave up trying. He settled back on one of the leather chairs in the stern of the boat and tried to figure out the events of the previous week.
He tried to fit it all into a sane, logical pattern, but there was no logic because he had nothing to go on other than the fact that Hakeem Khan was involved in something unseemly, and certainly crooked; crooked enough to warrant the death of Greg Walsh and Helen’s kidnap.
And it was staggering to think that Khan was quite willing, despite his international reputation and unblemished character to sanction Helen’s kidnapping just to get Marsh to pilot the Challenger. None of it made sense.
Marsh gave up the effort of trying to work out why all this was happening. He gave up and eventually fell asleep, but he dozed more than slept. He stirred as soon as he felt the speed of the cruiser fall away and the engine note change. He stood up and looked out over the sea. They were closing in on the Taliba.
Romulus angled the boat in skilfully and tied up alongside the ship. Malik beckoned Marsh and they clambered aboard the Taliba using the short rope ladder. He heard the cruiser pull away as Romulus increased power. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the boat moving off, gathering speed as it headed back to the mainland. He also noticed as he stood on the deck that the helicopter was on its landing pad, which meant Batista and Khan were probably now on board.
Malik took Marsh immediately to the bridge where Captain de Leon was waiting. He greeted Marsh rather formally and asked them both to follow him through to his cabin. When they were settled there, de Leon offered Marsh a drink. Marsh noticed that he had completely ignored Malik.
“Thank you for joining us, Marsh,” he said surprisingly. Marsh wondered if de Leon was fully aware of the facts, but chose not to say anything with Malik standing there. “I know of your reputation and I am sure it means we shall see our project through to a successful conclusion.”
“What’s the project?” Marsh asked him.
De Leon’s face showed just a trace of sympathy. “I’m sure Mister Khan will appraise you of everything you need to know. But with regard to the Taliba, you must understand that although this is Mister Khan’s boat, I am the captain and you, as a member of the crew are my responsibility. So you obey my orders. Now, unless you have any questions, Malik will show you to your quarters.”
Marsh smiled. “Captain de Leon, I have a million questions, but I doubt if you’ll answer any of them.”
De Leon became quite serious. “Your role here is quite important, but I can only answer questions relating to the Taliba. Anything else you must direct to Mister Khan.”
“I understand,” Marsh acquiesced, “believe me. But I do need some clothes and toiletries. I was obliged to leave in a hurry, you see.”
Whether de Leon saw or not, wasn’t quite clear to Marsh, but the captain agreed to supply him with everything he needed.
“Malik will show you to your quarters. We’ll talk another time.”
Marsh could feel the gentle throb of the Taliba’s engines beneath his feet as she got under way again. He put his glass down and followed Malik out of de Leon’s cabin. As they walked through the small bridge, Marsh looked forward. He could see the helicopter sitting forward on the prow of the ship. And on the open deck space between the foc’sle head and the bridge, he could make out the shape of the Challenger, the sister ship to the Helena.
He felt a small sensation in the pit of his stomach. It was the thrill of anticipation that he would soon be piloting the submersible. He was trying to view it all with a professional detachment, allowing only those feelings to hunt around his senses, but he was aware of a strange excitement coupled with an edge of fear.
He thought about Helen and wondered if they would both have the strength and courage to see this reckless, dangerous adventure through and come out of it alive.
*
Inspector Bain stood in the driveway of Helen’s house looking at her orange pick-up truck. There seemed to be police officers everywhere. Some were dusting the Chevrolet with fingerprint powder, others scouring the vehicle and the surrounding area, all looking for minute clues. From time to time, one of them would pick something up and drop it into a small, plastic bag. There were others inside the villa. And as usual there was a group of curious onlookers standing beyond the line marked out by fluttering police tape.
A witness to Helen’s abduction had come forward and was talking to a police sergeant. Bain walked over to them and interrupted their conversation, smiling in a rather condescending manner.
“Mister Rackham,” he said to the witness, “would you mind telling me again exactly what happened?”
“Of course,” Rackham answered. “I didn’t see a great deal actually; I just happened to glance across the road when Helen, ah Mrs. Walsh,” he corrected himself, “drove in.”
“And where were you sir?” Bain asked.
Rackham pointed to a villa across the road from Helen’s house. “I was on my roof. Some work I had to do,” he explained unnecessarily. “I saw Mrs. Walsh get out of her car and then this Buick raced up the drive. They grabbed her.”
“Who grabbed her, Mr. Rackham?”
“Two men. One jumped out of the Buick and grabbed her and threw her into his car while the other one held the door open. It all happened very quickly.”
“Would you recognise the two men again?
Rackham shook his head. “I’m not sure.”
“Were they black or white?” Rackham said they were black. “And what about the number plate of the Buick? Did you get that?”
He shook his head. “Sorry, no. I didn’t think about that. You don’t, do you?”
Bain said ‘no you don’t’ and thanked him. “Would you give the sergeant your personal details, please? He’ll want a statement signed. You can do it at the station.”
He spun on his heels and walked over to his official car. He was furious because Rackham had failed to take the details of the car and wasn’t sure if he would be able to identify the kidnappers either. How could a witness be so blind, he wondered?
But more worrying for the inspector was why Helen Walsh had been kidnapped. He was quite sure that it couldn’t be for money, although that was more of an educated guess. It couldn’t possibly have anything to do with her late husband’s dreadful accident. And gang warfare was out of the question as were drugs. So what was it?
Bain walked down the drive and ducked beneath the police tape. He paused for a moment, imagining exactly what had happened. Then he shrugged and climbed into the back of his police car. He ordered the driver to take him back to police headquarters, and wondered if he would ever see Helen Walsh again.
Chapter 9
The sun had lifted over the horizon and was flooding the Santaren Channel in a light of pure gold. The Taliba had left the Bahamas behind and was heading south west towards the open waters of the Gulf. The sea lifted gently and a fine breeze swept across the water, picking up little wavelets that tossed their heads in flecks of white surf. The gulls weaved unseen patterns around the Taliba, waiting to pick up any scraps of food that might be thrown overboard by the crew.
When Marsh had arrived on board, the Taliba had remained on station for a while before heading out towards the open sea. Marsh had been quartered in crew accommodation and given assurances that he could move freely around the ship as he needed with the exception of the sea gallery where he would need to be accompanied. He was given no explanation why.
His cabin was quite small. Marsh hadn’t expected anything else because space was always at a premium on board ship, particularly for the crew. He had a single bunk with drawers beneath it plus a tall, single wardrobe and a small, bedside locker. There was a sink up against the bulkhead, but for his own ablutions, he would have to sha
re the communal showers in the alleyway that ran between the crew quarters.
The bed was made up for him. He lay on top of the covers for a while, reading a magazine; one of several that had been left for his use on the small table in the cabin. When he did finally succumb to drowsiness, he slept occasionally, worried about Helen and worried about his own predicament. But as the dawn light began to flood into his cabin through the porthole he decided there was little to be gained by lying in bed, so he got up and went off to find some breakfast.
One thing Marsh promised himself was to remain professional about this new turn of events. Whatever happened, it behove him to act in exactly the same way as he would if he had been working on one of his own commissions on board the Helena. It was vitally important that he kept this attitude to the forefront of his mind, because to let his concentration wander when diving in the submersible could cost him his life; and possibly that of the divers who would be working with him.
After he had eaten and completed his morning shower, Marsh went up to the bridge. It was his intention to open up a dialogue with Captain de Leon about studying charts and way points with a view to getting himself into the right frame of mind for when he began trial dives with the Challenge.
He had been chatting with the captain when the sound of the bridge squawk box cut into their conversation. It was the forward lookout.
“Bridge, there’s a Coast Guard cutter off the port side. It’s about five miles distant, four o’clock.”
Captain de Leon walked out on to the port wing of the bridge, taking a pair of binoculars with him and scanned the sea until he could see the Coast Guard ship heading towards them.
He hurried back into the bridge and picked up the telephone that connected him directly to Khan’s cabin. “Sir, this is the bridge. There’s Coast Guard cutter off the port side. They’re heading straight to us.”
Khan heard the buzz on his speakerphone and thumbed the talk switch. As soon as de Leon had finished the message, he told him to stop engines and get Malik into the sea gallery.
“Remind Malik to turn the transponder on before he lowers the device. And be sure to mark the position as we planned. Be quick,” he added.
On the bridge, de Leon ordered a crewman to get down to Malik’s cabin as he rang the engine room telegraph. Marsh watched as an obviously well-rehearsed plan swung into action. He felt the Taliba begin to slow as the engine room killed the power according to de Leon’s telegraph signal.
Marsh turned and looked out through the windows and saw the Coast Guard cutter coming towards them. Its demeanour was one of determination and it was obvious that the Taliba was their quarry. It came up in an arc behind them until it was level with them on their port side. Marsh could see the name of the cutter quite clearly. It was the Lincoln.
Below decks, Malik had hurried down into the sea gallery. He closed the watertight door behind him as he stepped into the sea gallery and pushed a button situated on one of the bulkheads. Immediately a motor burst into life and the bottom doors began to open, swinging down into the sea beneath the hull of the ship. Sea water sloughed in and ran down into the scuppers on either side of the deck.
Malik than sprinted to the end of the gallery where two nuclear bombs were stowed in a frame and locked together like a pair of conjoined twins. They were mounted on a steel pallet which was attached to a block and suspended from a running block on a gantry that spanned the open doors in the floor of the sea gallery.
Malik released the clamps holding the bombs in place and lifted the hoist controller from its stowage point. He pushed a button and the steel hawser that was attached to the pallet by an open hook, shuddered into life and lifted the bombs clear of the deck.
Malik then used the traverse button to manoeuvre them out over the open space. Once it was hovering over the opening, he lowered the pallet into the sea. He let the hoist motor run for what seemed like an eternity, but was only about ten minutes, when suddenly the hawser went slack.
Once the heavy pallet was resting on the sea bed, and the weight was no longer taken up by the steel rope, the open hook swung free. Malik immediately reversed the motor and lifted the steel rope back up into the gallery. As the hook appeared above the waterline, Malik dashed over to the button that operated the doors and rammed his thumb against it. The doors immediately closed.
The sea water stopped swamping into the gallery once the doors were shut and the last residue was sucked noisily through the scuppers by the bilge pumps.
Satisfied that the job was done, Malik left the sea gallery and made his way up to the bridge.
*
“Coast Guard vessel, Lincoln to motor vessel Taliba! Do you read me? Over.”
Marsh’s attention was drawn to the bridge speakerphone. He saw Captain de Leon pick it up and thumb the talk button.
“This is Captain de Leon on board the Taliba. What’s your business Lincoln?”
“We wish to board you, Taliba. Over”
“This is Taliba. State your business Lincoln. Over.”
“This is the United States Coast Guard working for Homeland Security in defence against drugs and terrorist activity. We are empowered to board and search any vessel operating within these waters. Over”
“We are not terrorists, Lincoln, and we are not carrying drugs,” came de Leon’s stern reply.
De Leon felt Khan’s presence behind him. He turned round. “They want to come aboard,” he said quietly.
Khan nodded. “We were prepared for this eventuality, Captain. We have no choice: we have to let them board us.”
“How do you want to transfer, Lincoln?” de Leon called over.
“Drop a ladder over the side. We will come over in the dinghy.”
The talking was over. The two ships parted to allow a reasonable distance between them. Marsh watched the cutter lower an inflatable craft with four sailors in it. The crew of the Taliba dropped two rope ladders over the side. Within thirty minutes of seeing the cutter, four American Coast Guard officers were boarding the Taliba.
Marsh was intensely curious like anybody would be, but was not privy to whatever was unfolding below decks. Nor would he be allowed to. De Leon had escorted the Coast Guard officers, informing them before they went searching round his ship that none of them were allowed to be unescorted.
Marsh would have given almost anything to know what the Americans were up to. He even harboured a naive wish that this was to be his and Helen’s rescue, with Khan being denounced and arrested for whatever evil practice he was involved in. But it was not to be. He remained on the bridge with Khan and Malik until the Americans appeared on deck with de Leon.
It was almost an hour after boarding the Taliba that the Americans finally disembarked and were on their way back to the cutter. The Coast Guard captain watched the Taliba pull away from them as he ordered his helmsman to set a course in the opposite direction.
When the boarding party were on board the cutter, the captain left the bridge and went down on to the deck to speak to them
“Well?” he asked.
“Nothing sir,” his bosun answered. “She’s as clean as a whistle.”
A few minutes after the boarding party left the captain, two other navy men appeared. They were wearing wet suits and had obviously been in the water. They saluted the captain.
“Well?” he asked. “Anything under there?”
They both shook their heads. “All that’s on that hull are a few barnacles and not much else. There’s certainly nothing hanging underneath her.”
He nodded, satisfied; job done. “Right, you get yourself changed and I’ll phone the admiral.”
*
Francesini sat opposite Inspector Bain having introduced himself and thanked him for seeing him at relatively short notice. As head of the Bahamian C.I.D., Horatio Bain had a well-appointed office within the heart of the police headquarters in Freeport. Francesini could see trappings of power, but decided it was all relative; the chief of detectives in New York w
ould probably inhabit a far superior office and hold the rank of Captain, yet still do a similar job to the inspector here in Freeport.
Bain ordered tea for them both and assured him that he was happy to help the CIA in any way he could and having dispensed with the niceties asked Francesini how he could help him.
Francesini wanted to explain everything he could to the big, black policeman, but he felt constrained in that much of what he knew was either guesswork, intuition or a State secret. But he did his best to accommodate the inspector’s questions and fill in as many gaps as he could. Francesini’s emphasis was on the fact that Greg Walsh had come to him, not the Bahamian authorities, because he believed the Americans might be under a terrorist threat which was to be launched from the Grand Bahamas. It was a poor lie, but there was little else Francesini could tell him, or wanted to for that matter.
While he was talking, a young police officer brought in a tray with two cups of tea, milk and sugar on the side. Bain was not only polite and reassuringly attentive but seemed a genuinely nice guy too. He put sugar into his own cup, splashed a little milk and lifted the cup to his lips. He sipped the first mouthful of tea and asked Francesini what he thought he could get from Marsh at this time that he had been unable to get when Marsh was in hospital in Miami.
“I did ask him to have a look through his partner’s papers,” Francesini admitted.
“And did he?”
Francesini shook his head. “I’ve no idea. I rang him a couple of times before I flew over here, but he’s not answering his phone.”
“There’s a good reason for that, I believe,” Bain said, putting his cup down with a degree of care. “You see, Marsh has disappeared.”
Francesini sat bolt upright in his chair. “Disappeared?”
Bain nodded and told Francesini about Helen’s kidnapping and believed that Marsh’s apparent disappearance was linked to it.
Francesini was used to knock-backs in his profession, but the speed of this development took him by surprise. He was quiet for a while as he tried to digest the implications of what the inspector had just revealed to him. And Francesini had to admit that everything had just got worse. The amazing turn of events had deepened his worry that Greg Walsh’s fears were now taking on a life of their own and running away from him.
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