A Death in Geneva (27 page)

“Oh, ho! Over here, Tina, better camerabait still.” Tooms was pointing to the north, his arm following a speck paralleling the ship, level with the horizon. “Got 'im; good lady. That's going to look just fine when Tommie throws it up on the screen. That bird, here, he's circling back—take a few more—that's the greater shearwater, one of the true oceangoing birds, distinguished by his black burglar's mask. See it? They breed on Tristan de Cunha, eight thousand miles south of here, circle the North Atlantic for the better part of a year, then fly south to breed again. He's a rare sight this time of year, usually further north by now—and a fine specimen.”

“It must be terribly boring. He just looks lost zooming around out there.”

“Joanie, I don't think you'd be too good at it, not even with feathers.” He hugged her ample waist. “That shearwater has more navigation systems than this entire ship. Celestial—the sun, the moon, the stars—and we're only beginning to understand.”

“Does he have a glove compartment for his little charts?”

“Used to, Joanie, but that's been overtaken. He carries all he needs in that onboard computer just aft of the beak. Now! See yon speck, off to the east, beyond the bows? Yon speck approaching is the Honorable Thomas Madison Starring, roll of drums.”

The helicopter settled on the flight deck. Starring and Darcy Parsons emerged, their heads low beneath the cut and wash of the blades. Two
steps behind them, immigration and customs officers jumped to the deck; the Towerpoint front office had done its job well. The formalities of port entry would be met without the rigors of formal inspection.

The helicopter refueled and departed. The Chesapeake Light Tower was abeam. The black hull of the pilot's boat rolled along in the bow wave of the starboard hull; the pilot transferred to the catamaran.

In an hour, a helicopter returned, bigger than the
Octagon
's own, carrying TV remote crews—two reporters, two cameramen, two sound technicians—the twins of the electronic media with their Towerpoint escort. They set up quickly, the reporters—one man, one woman—selecting the angles for their crews.

A
Reliance
-Class Coast Guard cutter led the welcoming flotilla, a Newport News fireboat, chartered press boat, and a growing gaggle of power and sail spectator boats. One of the launches came alongside; more staff and guests transferred to the flagship. Amid the growing chatter, watches were checked. The press conference was scheduled for 4:00 P.M.; the remote crews and their videofilm would be ashore again in time for the evening network news. The senior member of the Towerpoint media team cupped his hands to his mouth, set the ground rules and identified the participants for the “on the record” press conference. Starring, Senator Parsons, Tooms, the members of the expedition, and the directors of the participating Chesapeake Bay marine research institutes were announced. The TV remotes were told to be back on the helicopter deck immediately after the conference ended. All others were invited to the owner's deck for a buffet and cocktails.

The press was led down a ladder, forward. Klieg lights were playing on the port side of the ship, and on the yellow, cylindrical habitat and its glow-white-and-orange supporting legs, suspended from the bridge crane and lowered in the center well to a point of maximum display, with its top even with the main deck.

Across the center well, on the port side of the ship, Starring and his supporting cast, each in an expedition windbreaker, were arranged in a semicircle at the center well railing. One of the two midnight-blue-and-gold work chariots gleamed in its cradle behind them. The
Towerpoint Octagon
was lying still in the water, the captain keeping her on a northerly heading with an occasional touch of the main screws and bow thrusters to hold the afternoon light at the back of the cameras.

“Ladies and gentlemen . . . I trust we have the acoustics right”—Starring was at the microphone, one hand on the shoulder of Senator Parsons—“we are delighted you have found time to join Senator Darcy Parsons and Towerpoint International this afternoon as we prepare to embark on one of the most exciting scientific expeditions ever launched in the bay region, or indeed, on this side of the Atlantic.”

“The findings from this research will translate directly into benefits for the people of Virginia, Maryland, and Delaware—and the entire Chesapeake system and the headwaters of the great rivers which feed that system”—he followed the pencils scratching across the notepads—“the Rappahanock, York, James, Potomac and Susquehanna.” Starring broke his introduction to point to a class of forty-foot racing sloops, hulls well over in the freshening breeze, good background footage for the cameras.

“You have press kits, I believe.” Starring turned to Tooms who nodded, used to fielding his boss's questions whether he was certain of the answer or not. “Tomorrow, this ship will be at the dive site, which we have already surveyed. The habitat before you will be lowered into place, and the first team—I should emphasize, international team of marine scientists and technicians—will be in the water aboard their work chariots. This first phase of research, most fittingly, will be launched on Independence Day.”

Starring's smile broadened as he looked across the center well to the media corps. “It is now my pleasure to introduce those with me. I look forward to showing the members of the press around the ship following some important remarks by Senator Parsons and Dr. Tooms and, of course, following your questions.”

Parsons and Tooms were brief; the questioning began.

“Mr. Starring, Jerry Harrison,
Evening Herald
.”

“Yes Jerry?”

“This Sunday, July third, the LNG tanker
Towerpoint Partner
is scheduled to depart Baltimore—”

“Yes.”

“It has been suggested, that Sunday, given the triple-wage scale and”—Starring winked at Senator Parsons, ran his hand along the microphone shaft—“given the fact that it's a holiday, make it an unusual time for sailing. My questions are: First, are you attempting to avoid more public protest by sneaking out over the weekend? Second, isn't this diving expedition—laudable as the goals described by
Dr. Tooms may be—really a cover for the ecological damage to the bay caused by your new ships and shore facility?”

“Very fine, my friend.” Starring paused; he had their attention. “On the timing of the
Towerpoint Partner
's departure, that has been set to mesh with the launching of the Chesapeake Divequest International expedition. The
Partner
's pioneering run, her delivery to our new bay LNG facility, and the arrival of the ship you are now aboard, the
Towerpoint Octagon
with her embarked expedition, mark two significant new pages in this nation's seafaring history. These ships will salute each other in the best maritime tradition as the
Partner
stands down the bay and the
Octagon
delivers her scientific team to the bay floor over the Fourth of July holiday. The timing, Jerry, my friends, marks a page in history.”

“Now, tuning to the goals of the expedition: As my colleagues from the leading research institutes on the bay will confirm, we have consulted closely. One cannot invest too much in the marine research that gives us the data, the baselines, the knowledge we require if we are to understand the marine environment from the creek marshes and coastal wetlands to the deepest ocean toughs . . . if we and future generations are to enjoy this bay's bounty”—his hand chopped the air—“and to take fullest advantage of all that our splendid natural resources hold out to us . . .”

Another voice from across the well: “Mr. Starring, you haven't answered the question. What about the damage your ships . . .?”

“In just a few minutes, you will all be enjoying the most succulent seafood in the word, freshly steamed, chilled blue crab claws from this bay. Towerpoint has followed the development of the bay over many years, studied each new commercial enterprise, fed it into the Towerpoint data base to understand its impact on the bay—nuclear power, the first LNG projects, the challenging, inspiring march out of decay that we have witnessed with the redevelopment of Craney Island, Portsmouth, Hampton Roads, the Patapsco River, and Baltimore. We have analyzed the associated dredging and improvements to aids to navigation required to bring new ships to those ports.

“The Towerpoint ships bringing the sorely needed, clean, natural gas energy from the Yucatan to the mid-Atlantic United States are the best engineered, the finest, pollution-free ships in the world!
Towerpoint would not be here, Mr. Harrison, ladies and gentlemen, if it meant damage to the region!”

“Didn't lay a glove on you, Tommie; masterful!”

“Oats, too many people are afraid of their own shadows. We ought to do more of these. People like someone who will take an honest question and give an honest answer.” Starring and his chief scientist emerged from the owner's suite and proceeded to the reception.

In Yarmouth, it was 3:00 A.M. the following morning. The night desk clerk had had to ring Sweetman's room six times before the bedside telephone had cut through the deep blanket of Lord Nelson lager.

“Telephone call for you, from the States, a Mr. Fisker; shall I put him through?”

“Good, yeah, Fisker?” He waited, clicks on the line, sounded as if the connection was falling through. Lancaster wanted him back in Washington, no time to make the trip to Arbroath, Scotland. He had called Fisker on the open trans-Atlantic commercial line as soon as he and Harry Jones had parted company, told him that business was good, new orders coming in for Trade, prospect for more in Scotland. The Trade Washington office should put a call through to jarhead Tully, should find his address in the forty-fifth group of the customer printout, tell him Trade wished to be of service. “Fisker? Yeah, what have you got?”

“Mr. Tully is delighted to learn of your interest, sir, and is looking forward to hearing from you. He wanted you to know that their new address is double two, not thirty-seven, that he would be pleased to receive you any time after eight-thirty-five, but that he will be catching a flight at four-eighteen. Otherwise, give him a ring again in two days; he'll be in from nine-fifteen to five-twenty.”

“Thanks, Fisker; stay sober.” Sweetman hung up, copied the chain of numbers down a second time, this time more neatly, and extracted the telephone number Fisker had neatly laced in them. Sweetman checked out at dawn and had the green Jaguar coupe halfway back to London before he pulled off the road and searched out a pay phone.