The Devil's Trinity

by Michael Parker

Francesini was not worried about losing his job; it was other people’s lives he was concerned about. Starling’s urgent diktat to dig deep was not an idle suggestion but a hint at working outside the realms of legality and going deep into the grey world of covert operations; a world which was no stranger to Francesini. The devil was, he didn’t know where next to go. He already had agents working in and around Freetown, searching for Marsh and Helen Walsh. He had a security sweep in progress on Hakeem Khan and his known associates in America and across the globe. He had electronic surveillances in place wherever he could but had failed in an attempt to get listening devices installed on the Taliba, and all that satellite imagery turned up were some clever photographs of the ship.

  He closed the folder and pushed it to one side. Beneath it were several photographs of the Taliba which had been taken from the Coast Guard cutter while the boarding party had been on the ship. He thumbed through them, idly speculating on what might or might not be there when he stopped and looked a little closer at one of the photographs. He then shuffled through the others but returned to the one that had caught his attention.

  He pulled a magnifying glass from his desk drawer, turned on his desk light even though the sunlight was flooding through the windows, and began to study the photograph carefully.

  The shot of the Taliba was quite good, but it was the people on the upper deck that he was interested in, not the ship. He studied one in particular, leaning on the ship’s rail rather like a disinterested bystander. The image was too blurred to make a positive identification, but something had drawn Francesini’s eye to it.

  Two minutes later he raised his head in frustration and got up from his desk. He shovelled the photographs back into the folder and locked it in his safe with the exception of the one he had been studying, and walked out of his office.

  Disappointments were not unusual in the murky world of espionage; most of the time you worked on hunches, luck and sometimes hard evidence. He had a hunch that he was right, but his limited technology in the form of a desk light and a magnifying glass needed corroboration. It was with that in mind that he was on his way to the satellite imagery department and the very clever people who worked there.

  Francesini was no stranger to the graduates, analysts, scientists and eggheads who worked in the imagery department, and one in particular, Bob Cooke, had often helped him before.

  Cooke was a university graduate with an honours degree in an unpronounceable subject that had something to do with computer intelligence. He also loved using fuzzy logic to solve problems that would have required the nous that old time agents used once upon a time in problem solving.

  Cooke had written a software programme, using the mathematics of fuzzy logic that had always been ‘Greek’ to men like Francesini. Cooke had once explained to him that fuzzy logic was like extrapolating a point, or a position, in a logical step, to another position often before that second position was known.

  “You amaze me,” Francesini had said to him when Cooke had explained the theory. “What are you talking about?”

  “Well,” Cooke said, warming to his subject, “when you are about to make a move, like take a step in another direction or reach out for something, the movement you make will put you into an indeterminate position relative to the position you are in at the moment, unless it was a planned and purposeful move; like taking a step. Clear?”

  “As mud!”

  “But it may be to the left, the right, forward or back. What isn’t known at the time is the reason for you making the move. But if we know the reasons, like you were about to cough or were about to leave the room, excitement, melancholy, anything; we could feed that information into a mathematical expression and determine exactly where you are moving to or what you are about to do.

  Cooke had gone on further to leave Francesini even more confused and thanking his lucky stars he was not as clever as young Cooke. But on reflection, he mused, perhaps if he had have possessed the young man’s gift of higher intelligence, he would not have been as deep into the dark as he was now.

  He laid the photograph of the Taliba on Cooke’s desk. The picture was taken from a distance of about 150 feet. The Taliba was in close up and several of the crew could be seen on the deck.

  “I need a favour,” Francesini told him.

  “Fine,” he answered. “How can I help?”

  Francesini pointed to a figure in the photograph leaning on the ship’s rail looking across to the Coast Guard cutter. The man’s features were very grainy, which made it difficult to determine the face and the nationality.

  “Can you tell me who that is?” Francesini asked.

  “Sure, you got his birth certificate?”

  Francesini laughed. “Sorry Bob, I meant can you enhance that for me. I really need to identify the guy.”

  “And you haven’t got a negative, have you Remo?” he said. Francesini shook his head. Cooke shrugged. “Makes it difficult, but I’ll give it my best shot.”

  He picked up the photograph and scanned it into his computer. When the picture came up, he boxed in the figure and brought it up on screen, doing away with the rest of the imagery.

  “Do you know his nationality?” Cooke asked.

  “Put him down as Caucasian.”

  “Height?”

  And so it went on. Cooke asked Francesini as much as he could about the subject. Francesini filled him in with as much as he dared, but didn’t want to presume too much in case he was entirely wrong. Disappointments were pretty common in his game.

  Cooke began enhancing the picture in small sections while feeding information into the fuzzy logic programme he was running. He talked as he put the information in. He asked if the figure was one of the crew. Was he in repose? Were the crew all of one nationality. Francesini answered as truthfully and as carefully as he could.

  As the picture on the screen changed, so Francesini’s excitement level rose. He could see where this was going and was glad that he had backed one of his hunches and brought the photograph to Bob Cooke.

  Eventually the young man punched the print button and the printer coughed out an almost perfect print of the figure on the rail, now in glorious colour. He handed it to Francesini.

  “Your man?” he asked.

  Francesini breathed a sigh of relief and a smile brightened his face. Bob Cooke was holding up a photograph of Harry Marsham; known as Marsh to his friends.

  *

  Marsh thought about something strange that had occurred during the evening of the previous day. Shortly after the Taliba had been boarded by the Coast Guard, Captain de Leon had ordered a change in course and the ship had headed back to the position, as far as Marsh could determine, where the Coast Guard had stopped them.

  He had gone up on deck to see why they had stopped and also to ask the captain why the ship had turned round. He saw Khan talking pointedly to Batista who was in his diving suit. It puzzled Marsh, particularly when another diver, who Marsh didn’t recognise joined them.

  The Taliba dropped anchor and Batista went below with the second diver. Khan went up to the bridge and then reappeared with Captain de Leon. It was completely intriguing to Marsh and he knew something unusual was about to happen. He decided to push his luck and followed the two men when they went off in the same direction as the two divers.

  It was then that he discovered they were heading for the sea gallery. He stayed with them even though he had not been specifically invited, but as nobody questioned his right to be there, he assumed they were not the least bit concerned by his presence.

  He saw the two divers go into the water followed by the diving bell, which was lowered from the running block above the open doors. Its floodlights were on and as it disappeared into the water; their luminescence began to fade as it sank lower into the depths.

  Khan was also there, along with Captain de Leon who was controlling the dive. The divers had gone into the water with one tank of air each on their back, so Marsh knew it wouldn’t be a long dive. Wi
thin twenty minutes Batista and the other diver were back in the sea gallery. It was then that Khan told Marsh that there was no reason now why the two of them should remain and escorted Marsh from the sea gallery.

  The whole operation puzzled him intensely and he could only assume that Batista and the other diver had gone down to locate something. And whatever it was, Khan decided that he and Marsh should not be in the sea gallery when they brought it up to the ship. Perhaps for safety reasons or working on the premise that there was no need for people to be there who were not directly involved in the operation?

  He had made one or two informed guesses about the strange occurrences of the night before but eventually had given up trying to figure it out. He was sure that he would learn of the reason for the dive eventually. Having still been given no idea when Khan would be asking him to begin diving with the Challenger, he decided it would help pass the time if he took a stroll round the upper deck of the Taliba.

  He admired her lines with the admiration of a man who has known the sea all his life and seen all manner of ships used in oceanography. Taliba’s superstructure bristled with modern, marine equipment and sprouted aerials like a forest. He had no doubt that her electronics would be of the highest calibre and her navigational aids would also be sophisticated and modern.

  He heard a footstep and Malik appeared on deck. He came over and acknowledged Marsh.

  “Good morning my friend. Have you breakfasted yet?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Marsh answered.

  Malik seemed satisfied. “Good. In that case Mister Khan would like to see you in his cabin.” He turned on his heel and Marsh followed.

  Khan’s cabin was luxuriously appointed, which Marsh had expected it to be. Apart from one wall, the whole of it was given over to creature comforts of the kind one would normally find on a very expensive yacht. But here in Khan’s cabin there was a subtle difference; the wall that remained unfurnished was more like a control centre than a cabin. Marsh had little time to study it except to notice that it was a curious change to the regal splendour which surrounded him.

  Khan greeted Marsh and asked him to sit down. His body language told Marsh that it was to be a practical, business like meeting rather than a cordial chat.

  “Now Marsh,” Khan began straight away. “We are running behind schedule but I am sure we can make up the time. I want to begin sea trials with the Challenger this afternoon. I cannot factor in many more delays, so will take it that you understand the urgency.”

  “Urgency I can understand,” Marsh replied, “but it might help if I know the reason for the urgency.”

  Khan shook his head. “That is not for you to know. Just understand that we are working to a tight schedule.”

  Marsh didn’t like it, but there was little he could about it except try to frustrate Khan as much as possible. “If I am piloting the submersible I need to go over the sea trials with my co-pilot. It’s mandatory, as you well know.”

  Again the shake of the head. “There will be no co-pilot, Marsh. I know you will cope admirably on your own. Batista will lead the dive. He is an exemplary diver.”

  Marsh couldn’t argue with that. Nor could he argue with Khan because the man held all the cards. The best thing he could do in the circumstances was to act as professionally as he could, but at least he could try and unsettle Khan’s plans.

  “What about Helen Walsh?” he asked.

  Khan’s expression changed and he looked a little nonplussed. “What about her?”

  “I want to know where she is,” Marsh told him levelly. “I will not dive unless I know where she is.”

  Khan regained his composure, but Marsh’s stance was a little unexpected nevertheless.

  “I do not want any histrionics Marsh,” he warned him. “Helen Walsh is safe and well and will remain so until you have completed the dives. If you refuse to cooperate you will jeopardise not only yourself but her also.” He leaned forward. “Do you understand that Marsh? Do I make myself clear?”

  There was something unsettling in Khan’s reaction. Unless Marsh was mistaken, there was an inordinate fear in Khan’s manner. Nothing he could actually put his finger on, but underneath the surface, Marsh thought he could see a man who had no way out of the dilemma he was in and would go to extremes to ensure success. Murder and kidnap were already part of Khan’s world, so Marsh considered discretion was really the better part of valour in this case. But he knew he would have to keep alert and find a way of spoiling whatever plans Khan had in mind.

  “Can you show me where we are diving then?” Marsh asked reluctantly. “At least do me that courtesy.”

  Khan breathed a quiet sigh of relief and got up from the desk. He looked in pain as he walked over to the control centre. There was a chart table there and he beckoned Marsh over to it.

  “Here,” he said, putting his finger on the chart. “We shall begin our first dive here in the southern channel.” He was pointing at a bearing about one hundred and fifty miles south of the Florida Keys in the Santaren Channel.”

  “What depth will we be diving at?”

  “No more than 300 feet.”

  “Have you computed the drift rate?”

  “We shall remain on fixed line,” Khan told him. “But the drift rate has been computed at about three knots. The dive should last no more than three hours.”

  Nine or ten miles, Marsh thought to himself. Plenty of room in the channel for that. He looked up from the chart table.

  “I would like to look over the Challenger” he said.

  “Of course,” Khan replied. He walked over to his desk. There was glass of water and a small bottle there. He reached for the bottle and shook two tablets on to the palm of his hand. He swallowed them down with the water. “Of course,” he said again, and reached for the phone. “Captain de Leon? I shall be going forward with Marsh to inspect the Challenger. Have Batista there, will you. Thank you.” He put the phone down. “Good. Let’s go.”

  *

  The Challenger was secured across the Taliba’s forward deck, just below the foc’sle head. It was a familiar and thought provoking sight to Marsh. She had been freshly painted and the name stood out boldly in brass lettering on the lower ballast tank.

  Marsh climbed up her ladder to the topside and lowered himself through the access hatch. He could see the modifications that Khan had undertaken but was only aware of them because they were unlike anything on his own submersible, the Helena. He stopped halfway down the central chamber. Batista followed him down.

  “What’s this chamber for?” Marsh asked him.

  “Retrieval,” Batista answered and opened the door into the decompression chamber. This was where the divers would decompress after a deep dive. Marsh realised that Batista had studiously ignored any explanation after saying, “retrieval”, but chose not to pursue it; no doubt he would learn more as time went on.

  Marsh looked around the chamber. It was cramped and there was barely sufficient room for two divers, but there was enough. There was a control console with some basic controls on it from where the Challenger could be operated in an emergency. There was also a couple of television monitors. Although Marsh had never known of a submersible being operated from the decompression chamber, it was an exercise he and Greg had conducted with Helen and other divers in the past.

  There was sufficient space for two divers to sleep and relax while decompressing plus an assortment of charts, lockers, small drawers and an outdated calendar.

  He climbed out of the Challenger, going up through the central chamber and back on to the deck of the Taliba then made his way forward to the cockpit. It was a round bubble of acrylic co-polymer plastic, six inches thick, and was designed to withstand a pressure of two thousand pounds per square inch up to a depth of over 1500 feet.

  Inside the cockpit the pilot worked at normal atmospheric pressure. Everything needed to control the submersible, including the remote arms and external monitoring cameras was within easy reach.

  Ma
rsh opened the door of the cockpit and climbed in, settling himself comfortably in the pilot’s seat. There was another seat beside him for a second crew member, whether pilot, engineer or simply an observer.

  He looked at the controls in front of him. The instruments were lifeless except one, which showed that the submersible was connected to an external power source; in this case the Taliba. He reached forward and flicked the master switch. The panels and screens flickered into life and the instrument readouts flashed on in a glow of colours and digits. He scanned from left to right: battery power, air conditioning, oxygen and carbon dioxide content, forward sonar display, gyro compass, scanning sonar, explosive collar arming switch, GPS navigation system, television monitors, trim monitor, repeater and depth gauges.

  Marsh unwittingly enjoyed the unashamed luxury of settling into a world where he was probably the master. He was like a child with a new toy. All thoughts of the reasons why he was here had vanished, tucked into the recesses of his mind; locked away.

  Marsh was home, comfortable: like a foetus in a womb.

  *

  Francesini lifted his head at the sound of someone rapping knuckles on his office door. He called whoever it was to come in and Cooke, from the satellite imagery department poked his head round the door. Francesini was surprised to see him.

  “Hallo sir, have you got a moment?”

  Francesini put his pen down and leaned back in his chair. He signalled Cooke to sit down. “What can I do for you, Bob?” he asked.

  Cooke put some photographs on the desk. “Well sir, you know we’ve been looking out for those nukes?” Francesini said he did. Cooke continued. “Well, I’ve been looking at the images we recorded at the time they disappeared, and I think I might have come up with something.”

  Francesini leaned forward. There were various satellite images showing dates, times, satellite identification etcetera. He could see trace lines over the images like the fine, gossamer threads of a spider’s web. “Go on,” he said, and wondered if there was to be more talk of fuzzy logic. But whatever the young man had to tell him, Francesini knew he would not be wasting his time.