The Devil's Trinity

by Michael Parker

  “You come to see the girl?” he asked the smaller of the two men who appeared to be the spokesman although he had said nothing yet.

  But it was Malik who answered. “How is she?” He had seen the machine gun in Maclean’s hand and his stance was not that of a man who was simply carrying it about as an accessory. Malik decided to show caution. “May we see her?”

  Maclean glanced at Swain as if to seek an answer to his unasked question, but whatever it was, he thought better of it and pointed the barrel of the Uzi towards a small path.

  “This way,” he said and turned round, letting them go by.

  Swain took the lead followed by Batista and Malik. Maclean brought up the rear, his senses still on alert. Eventually the path brought them to a small hut in a clearing, another one of the many retreats that dotted the archipelago; each small island as secluded as the next.

  Swain paused by the door, ready to open it. Malik and Batista came up behind him and all of them turned to Maclean. He stood away from them, guardedly and nodded to Swain who opened the door. The sun was low in the evening sky and shadows were beginning to lengthen. They chose not to walk in but to peer inside instead. It was Batista who recoiled in horror. Malik merely turned away with a look of disgust on his face.

  Helen was sitting on the dirt floor with her back to the wall. She was covered in grime and dried blood from a patchwork of scratches and bruises that could be clearly seen on her exposed skin. There was a dog’s bowl on the floor beside her which had the remains of something in it. There was no sign of water. Against the far wall of the hut was a bed frame but no mattress on which to sleep. The hut was windowless and, although the evening air was cooling, it was still hot and stifling inside. Helen looked up from where she was sitting but didn’t seem to be aware of them; probably because she could only see Swain, and his presence was unlikely to bring her hope of release. She turned her head away and her chin dropped to her chest.

  A smile hovered on Malik’s lips, but in his heart he wanted to tear Maclean apart with his bare hands.

  “She is still alive,” he said. “That is good.” He stepped away from the hut and beckoned Maclean to follow. When Maclean drew a little closer to Malik, the big man brought his head closer and dropped his voice into a conspiratorial whisper.

  “She has been good sport for you?” he asked, feigning interest.

  Maclean shrugged dismissively. “She’s no good for me. She’s woman of Obeah man.”

  Malik arched his eyebrows. “You mean she will tell her man. But she is here. What can she say?”

  Maclean tapped his head. “They talk with their minds. They know.”

  “But she is a white girl,” Malik pointed out.

  Maclean shook his head. “She is Bahamian. That is enough.”

  As he said it, Maclean looked in the direction of the hut. It was the moment that Malik had been waiting for. He drove his fist into the side of Maclean’s ribs with such a force that the big, black man’s breath locked in his throat as his rib cage literally folded in on him. He dropped to his knees and the Uzi fell from his grasp.

  Malik scooped up the machine gun, pointed the barrel at Maclean’s head and pulled the trigger. Maclean’s head burst open like an exploding melon and he pitched forward without a sound.

  Swain came running from the hut the moment he heard the crackling burst of machine gun fire. Malik lifted the barrel aimed it towards him. The bullets flew from the snout of the stuttering gun and tore his chest away. The force of the blast flung him back against the flimsy wooden shack. It collapsed inwards beneath his dead weight and long fingers of rotting roof thatch slipped down and covered his twisted, bloody body.

  Malik waited for Batista to bring Helen out. As soon as he appeared with her, they took off down the path to where the boat was tied up. Malik lifted Helen on board and Batista helped her down into the small cabin amidships.

  Before slipping the painters and moving off, Malik aimed the Uzi at the diesel tank of Maclean’s boat, emptying the magazine into it. Then he tossed the machine gun into the water.

  Twenty minutes later, on board the Freeport gunboat, Inspector Eustace looked through his binoculars in the fading light and saw a spiral of smoke curling upwards from one of the small islands. It bent its head in the evening breeze and drifted out towards the setting sun.

  Chapter 14

  The knock on Marsh’s cabin door was short and perfunctory. Marsh was lying on his bunk reading a yachting magazine, although his mind was not wholly absorbed by what he was reading but more on what he had threatened at the debrief. He wondered if he really had the courage to carry his threat through. Marsh was not by choice a brave, fearless fighter of a man, although his unquestionable courage in working beneath the ocean surface was undeniable; but he was wise enough to see the folly of standing up to someone like Malik in a physical confrontation, which is surely what he believed this whole thing could lead to.

  The Taliba was sailing on a course that took them in a south easterly direction, away from the site of their first dive. Naturally Marsh was not privy to Khan’s plans, but the ship had turned on to the new heading immediately after the dive. About the same time, Batista and Malik had left in the helicopter. That had been twenty four hours ago. Now the helicopter had returned. He wondered idly why the two men had left the ship for that short time. Not that it mattered; it was none of his business.

  He began to think about their new heading and from the feel of the wind buffeting the ship; it seemed that they were heading towards the growing hurricane. He wondered if this was the change in schedule Khan had referred to when he asked de Leon about the freighter. The strengthening wind was beginning to affect the smooth passage of the ship as it moved across the growing wave tops.

  He put the magazine to one side and swung his legs off the bed. He pulled a pair of shorts on and went to the door. He was not surprised to see Malik standing there because he was usually the errand boy.

  “Mister Khan wants to see you on the bridge,” he told Marsh, and waited.

  Marsh picked a tee shirt up off the bed, slipped it over his head and followed Malik out of the cabin.

  On the bridge, Khan waited a little impatiently, not because of the deteriorating weather, but because of the recent turn of events. They had not been of his choosing but the elimination of the two men guarding Helen Walsh could only add to the preponderance of police now looking increasingly closer at any link he might have with their murders. On the brighter side though, he hoped the turn of events would lead to a lessening of Marsh’s truculence.

  Khan turned as he heard Malik open the door and step onto the bridge with Marsh.

  “We have something for you,” he said sharply to Marsh, and pointed to Captain de Leon’s cabin behind the bridge.

  Marsh hesitated at first but then he walked over to the cabin and opened the door. At first he saw nothing, so he stepped inside. Helen was sitting on a chair, her head bowed. She looked up and turned towards the door. As her eyes fell on Marsh she stood up quickly, her hand flying up to her mouth in a gasp. Marsh just stared for a moment, then closed the door behind him and went over to her. He barely had time to clear the threshold and she was in his arms.

  They said nothing, just held each other tight, blotting out the memory of what had been and what might come. Their circumstances were not of their choosing, but they both needed the warmth and pleasure of each other’s contact. Marsh held her so tightly he wondered if she would cry out in pain. Soon he had to release her, push her back gently and look into her eyes.

  He could see pain there, but not from him. The pain had been inflicted deep within her, in her soul. Her face looked drawn and frightened. He could see the extensive scratches and bruising on her exposed flesh as he held her at arm’s length.

  “In God’s name, what did they do to you?” he asked softly.

  “The man who did this is dead.” She shivered. “Oh Marsh, it was horrible.” She buried her head in her hands and began sobbi
ng fitfully. He pulled her in close again and held her tight until her tears stopped.

  Suddenly the cabin door opened and Khan stepped into the room with Malik. Marsh turned towards him.

  “Was there any need for this, Khan?”

  “No,” Khan agreed. “But the man responsible has paid for it. As you can see, I’ve kept my word; your woman is safe now, which means we can continue with our work and you will make the dive.” He turned to Malik. “Take them aft.” Then he turned and walked away without another word.

  *

  Francesini had been weighing up all the pros and cons until his head was busting open and had finally managed to doze off when the phone rang. He opened his eyes, slightly disorientated because of his strange surroundings. He reached for the phone and plucked it from its cradle, held it to his ear and sank back on to his pillow.

  “Sir? This is Cooke.”

  At first he didn’t recognise the voice at the other end of the line, but that was probably because he hadn’t expected to hear from him.

  “Cooke? Oh, Bob. Hi!” It was the young man who worked in the photographic intelligence section at C.I.A. headquarters. “What can I do for you?”

  “Is this a secure line, sir?” Cooke asked.

  Francesini smiled and shrugged, looking round the hotel room. Not exactly five stars he thought to himself.

  “Didn’t know I was coming here myself until a couple of hours ago. You can say what you like, so long as it isn’t a State secret.”

  “Thank you, sir. Well, it’s like this. You know the ship we’ve been keeping an eye on?” Francesini was pleased he hadn’t mentioned the Taliba by name. Cooke carried on before waiting for a response. “Well, the helicopter left the ship yesterday with two men on board. It returned today with three people; one of them a woman. I enhanced the image and she looked to be in some distress. Does this mean anything sir?”

  Francesini sat up immediately. Helen Marsh; it had to be Helen Marsh!

  “Mean anything?” he repeated. “Cookie, if we get through this unscathed, I’m going to recommend you for a medal. Do me a favour and fax me the photo to this hotel. Do it now, will you?” He searched round for the hotel information booklet and found the hotel’s fax number. He read it out to him and put the phone down. The he got dressed and went down to the hotel reception to wait for the photograph to come through.

  *

  Marsh leaned on the aft rail with Helen. The Taliba was in open water. The Bahamian Islands had long since disappeared into the distance behind them and could no longer be seen. It was now early morning and the Atlantic Ocean looked unwelcoming and threatening. But for the two of them it seemed to offer a haven of tranquillity; an escape from the events that had happened to them. The wind that Marsh had been concerned about had all but disappeared, although he knew from questioning the captain that the wind was approaching from a southerly direction and they had sailed through the rim of a low pressure system.

  The night before, the two of them had talked long into the night. They had talked of what had happened to Helen, what had happened to Marsh. They had talked of their fears and their futures, if they had one. Helen had told Marsh how she convinced Sweeting Maclean that she was the wife of an Obeah man. Marsh had commented that it was ‘powerful medicine’.

  “And he fell for it,” Marsh had said.

  “I’m not sure if he really did fall for it,” Helen had replied. “But I had sown the seed of doubt. It was enough; it seemed to work anyway. He’s dead now, poor man.”

  “Poor man?” echoed Marsh. “He tried to rape you.”

  “Nobody deserves to die like that,” she reflected, “with the back of his head blown off.”

  Marsh stood up from the rail and breathed in a lungful of the sea air. “You told me last night that Malik also killed another man.”

  “Yes,” Helen agreed.

  “I think that must have been Romulus Swain, poor bastard,” he added. “They mean business then.”

  Helen thought she detected a note of resolution in his voice. “They mean to kill us, don’t they Marsh?”

  The previous evening he had avoided coming to that conclusion for Helen’s sake. But he knew it was pointless trying to hide it from her, but he tried and came up with an indirect answer.

  “We’ve got two more dives.”

  “And then?”

  He stared into the Atlantic. “Nothing has been decided.”

  She touched his arm, closing her fingers round it tenderly. “Marsh, I do understand, but we must find a way of getting out.”

  He closed his hand over hers. “If there is a way,” he said ruefully, “it’s going to take a lot of finding.”

  *

  “We have found Sweeting Mclean,” Inspector Bain informed Francesini solemnly, “with the back of his head blown off. Swain was there too; dead I’m afraid.”

  “What about Helen Walsh?” Francesini asked even though he knew where she was.

  Bain shook his head. “Gone.”

  “Any idea where?” Francesini asked.

  “No.” It was final.

  Inspector Bain had phoned Francesini at the hotel. His voice sounded disappointedly dull. Francesini knew immediately that it wasn’t good news. He was already dressed because of his early morning phone call from Bob Cooke at C.I.A., so within five minutes he was driving his rented car over to Freeport Police headquarters.

  After the preliminary discussion about the events of the previous evening, plus Francesini’s concern that he hadn’t been informed earlier, he tossed a manila envelope on to the desk in front of Bain.

  “What’s this?” Bain asked.

  “Open it,” Francesini told him.

  Bain did as he was asked with a little difficulty because of his injured arm and studied the enhanced satellite photograph of three people walking away from the helicopter on board the Taliba. After a while he looked over the desk at Francesini without lifting his head, staring over the top of his glasses. He jabbed his finger at the picture.

  “Helen Walsh?”

  Francesini nodded. “She was taken on board the Taliba early last evening.”

  Bain settled back in his chair and let the photograph drop on to his desk. He didn’t look too pleased.

  “Why have you waited until now to inform us?” he demanded to know. “We could have boarded the Taliba and brought this whole episode to a conclusion.”

  “It’s not that easy, Inspector,” Francesini told him. “I didn’t receive this until about two o’clock this morning. By the time we’d organised a boarding party, the Taliba would have been long gone.”

  Bain eyebrows met in a deep frown. “What do you mean, long gone?”

  “It looks like Khan has gone. By now the Taliba will be about two hundred miles away. At this very moment she is heading out into the Atlantic Ocean, and goodness knows where she’s going, but with luck, she won’t return.”

  But as much as Francesini wished it were true, he doubted that was the end of Hakeem Khan and the Taliba.

  *

  It was night and the Taliba moved slowly through the water, the thrust of her engines almost gone, but with just enough power to keep her on station. The ship lifted with each wave that passed beneath its belly, but fate was being kind and the gentle swell was giving no trouble to those on board. There were no lights showing and she rode the waves like a ghostly chariot; a silent phantom on its unlawful occasions.

  Marsh peered through the porthole of his cabin. He had no lights because all electrical power to the accommodation section had been turned off. Helen stood beside him, her arm round his waist. Malik had warned them not to venture outside their cabins until morning for reasons of safety. He wouldn’t explain quite what he meant by that, but Marsh saw no reason to antagonise the man.

  Marsh was soon aware of the arrival of two ships. From his vantage point he saw one of the ships slide alongside the Taliba while the other disappeared from his view, but its speed suggested it had taken up station on the
other side. He could hear shouted commands in a language he did not understand, but soon he understood that a cargo was being transferred from the ship that was now alongside the Taliba.

  His mind went back to the night Greg Walsh had been killed, and in his mind’s eye he could see the loading operation taking place. So deep was the nightmare burned into his brain that he could see the two ships locked in a graceful embrace while one transferred the seed in its belly into the care of the other.

  The whole operation lasted less than an hour, and soon the water boiled beneath the freighter in luminous phosphorescence as she edged away. Moments later she was gone, fading into the darkness like a wraith, and only Marsh’s sanity kept him from believing that it had never happened at all. He felt the Taliba’s engines power up and soon they were under way. He wasn’t sure of the heading but he guessed they were on their way back to the Gulf to plant another demonic seed.

  As dawn broke over the Atlantic, Marsh woke and could feel the rollers lifting the ship with more power than previously. The Taliba was a sturdy vessel and could handle almost anything the sea could throw at it. He felt there was very little to concern him so he went up on deck with the intention of spending ten minutes there before having breakfast. He decided not to wake Helen who was now in her own cabin.

  As Marsh came out on to the after deck and turned towards the bridge superstructure, his eyes gaped in amazement. The Taliba had taken on a different outline! He shook his head and looked again, but it was there as clear as day. He walked forward slowly, looking at other changes he could see. Around the superstructure he noticed that canvas awnings had been erected at strategic points, changing the outline of the ship. He ventured further forward and saw that the Challenger was hidden beneath a canvas awning stretched right across the deck. Parts of the deck and the bridge had been painted to give a subtle change to the appearance of the ship’s lines. He couldn’t believe it, but there was no mistake; under close scrutiny, certainly from overhead observation and even from a passing ship, the Taliba had ceased to exist.