A Death in Geneva (32 page)

Standing on the wing of the
Partner
's bridge, the pilot took his eyes off the catamaran to glance at the tiny crab pot float off to starboard, cocked at a strange angle . . . looks like it's moving with us . . . tricks of the eye. They were abreast of the
Octagon,
and the tanker's great, bass horn shook the bay in sounding her salute to the Towerpoint flagship. When the salute ended, the baritone of the
Octagon
rolled across in response. The swallow-tailed pennant snaked gracefully from the forward mast. The
Partner
's master was elated; Starring's message was in his hand.

The work chariot faced south, hovering six feet beneath the surface, the braided line disappearing to the west through the grip of the manipulator's claw. The slow beat of the
Partner
's propeller increased in volume, letting them track her approach. Tonasi glared through his mask, ordering his eyes to see the ship they could not see. Forward, Leslie Renfro was concentrating on the instrument panel. She had to maintain depth, to anticipate the split-second maneuvers required when the submersible and ship were joined.

The thump of the blades was so close, so loud, she thought the propel . . . they surged forward! The
Towerpoint Partner
's bow nose had slipped under the line stretched across the channel at the same time the tanker had thundered its salute. The bow had the line in its teeth, drawing it taut in a vee, bringing the chariot and the sea anchor aft, and in toward the port and starboard sides of the enormous hull.

Pulled by the line in its claw, the submersible fought against its controls, began an arcing slide, then leveled and steadied under its pilot's command. The compass was swinging wildly under the influence of the tanker's hull. The propeller beat was fierce. The tow continued to draw them inward, now in that darker water of the ship's shadow. The chariot pulled hard against the line, yawing, attempting to roll. Strain was tearing at her legs. She bit hard as a sharp jolt of pain shot from arm to arm across her chest. She snapped her head to the side,
straining to see through the water . . . the ship had to be there! Nothing! . . . Green blindness, pain! The chariot bucked, fought to roll. She leaned hard against the stick in the turbulence of the tons of water being forced along the sides of the great hull. Then it was there! In the swirling chaos, a wall of orange-red rushed toward them.

The starboard bow plane . . . she knew she had to guard it. She fought for more port rudder, swung the submersible in stern first. Now, now, now! Her mind blocked out the violence engulfing them, screamed out to Tonasi,
Now!
She heard the thud.
Green!
He had hit the surface signal. The mine was on the tanker.

Tonasi had seen the approaching hull first. He was standing, legs braced, half turned, unaware of the weight of the mine he held against his chest. Maybe not? Maybe not? His worry drummed in cadence with the propeller. He had not expected such violence. As the chariot bucked and veered toward the hull, there seemed only one possibility. They would smash. The chariot rolled again—his left elbow! The sea was a tempest. The pain struck so severely he thought his arm had gone, but he still held the mine. With a sharp twist, he reached across the hammering, battering divide, shoved the black shape from his chest, His hands stayed with the mine after impact. He pulled; the magnets held.

At the flash of his signal, she thrust herself half onto the bow, feet locked behind her. With two slices of her knife, the line slipped through the padeye, through the claw, and was gone. She banked the chariot into a long, circling dive away from the leviathan they had just condemned to death.

They surfaced, exhausted, struggling for breath, watching the high, open stern draw rapidly away. Tonasi kissed her hooded head, patted her shoulders. The left sleeve of his wetsuit had torn away at the shoulder. Blood was flowing freely from the gash. His voice was slow, deep. “I'll live. The big one won't. She didn't like having her belly tickled.” He took a strap from the cargo rack, wrapped it tightly around his upper arm.

The chariot began its return run, working to the north and west in a methodical zigzag course until they spotted the surface buoy. Tonasi stowed the line beneath him in the aft compartment. The sea anchor came back aboard. They altered course for the
Octagon,
dove, and returned the chariot to its habitat cradle.

Chapter 14

A
chalky film of limestone dust settled on Pierce Bromberger's shoes during his walk up the path of crushed white rock winding from the road to the walled residence. The nameplate carried
CAPTAIN WILLIAM ROGER RENFRO, DSC, ROYAL NAVY RETIRED
in two lines of engraved brass. He rang the dolphin clapper of the bell mounted beside the gate in North Bluff, St. Georges, Malta.

This intrusion on the silence of the Sunday afternoon brought the high answering bark of a dog. Bromberger had Sweetman's message with him. The quest for the Burdette killers had just entered its second month and, finally, the first cracks were beginning to appear. Grabner had been true to his word. His men were excellent. A week before, the Swiss had taken an interest in the activities of a hotel caterer in the resort town of Lugano. He had several vans, one parked at night inside a small garage, others on the street outside his flat. His specialty was Italian delicacies for the Swiss hotel trade. The vans were well known at the border for their regular runs to the markets of Milan, fifty miles to the south. The pattern had begun to vary in June, more runs, different hours. This had not made an impression on the border police until Grabner's special units had reinforced the posts with the sharper eyes, minds, and the newest computers of counterterrorism.

The vans were placed under surveillance but not challenged; their runs to Lugano, Milan, Zurich, Lenx, and Geneva were plotted.
While the number of runs had increased, the number of hotel deliveries had stayed the same. In Geneva, a van had gone twice to the same city garage for gasoline, disappeared down an inner ramp, then reemerged for the return drive to Lugano.

Grabner personally had authorized night entry of the garage. Swiss security then discovered another van under canvas, snap-on license plates, and with hidden storage compartments, including a cargo hold beneath removable floor decking.

The GIS in Rome was given this information. The authorities in Milan observed one of the vans being unloaded from a closed truck on the outskirts of the city. Within less than an hour, the van which had driven from Lugano to Milan was aboard the truck, and its replacement was heading back toward the Swiss border.

This exercise had led the GIS to Naples, Palermo, and a stunning raid forty-eight hours before on the Messina faction. Half the stolen NATO munitions had been recovered, two terrorists killed, and three others captured in the harbor aboard a stolen powerboat. Official silence was maintained. A harsh interrogation had begun.

Bromberger rang the bell again . . . more barking and, this time, a voice. An elderly woman in a white-collared black dress was watching him from the second floor of a neighboring house. Someone, still out of view, was coming. He reread Sweetman's message:

SHATTERED FLAG—FOR BROMBERGER

Pierce—UK investigation has produced lead requiring immediate follow-up. Burdette years loaded with controversy. Findings here have narrowed-in on death of Burdette company diver—name Renfro—R-E-N-F-R-O, killed in TOPIC offshore rig disaster. Wife—name Mary—M-A-R-Y—took life. Rig foreman subsequent victim hit and run. Surviving member Renfro family, daughter Leslie—L-E-S-L-I-E—apxm. 25 years old, left UK following parents' deaths. Subject has history of contacts in Amsterdam, Paris, Berlin. Reliable source indicates subject radical. Source further indicates subject may be residing in Malta with Ret. Navy Capt. William Roger Renfro—W-I-L-L-I-A-M R-O-G-E-R—brother of deceased diver, address North Bluff, St. Georges, Malta.

Based on Rome investigation, reviewed with you and Pitsch, Malta possibly more than coincidence. Essential you interrogate
subject soonest. Would handle myself. However, Lancaster has called me on quarterdeck, returning Washington this P.M. Regards, H.S.

“I'll be right back there; be quiet!” The voice called first to Bromberger then to the dog.

“Mr. Bromberger?”

“Pierce Bromberger. Good afternoon, Captain.”

“I do apologize for having kept you out here in this sun, and for the misconduct of Mr. Ajax.” The elderly man took a gentle swipe at the black-and-white springer spaniel sniffing at the visitor's trousers. Captain Renfro extended his hand; it was cold, with heavy blue veins crisscrossing the bones along the frail white arm.

“Do follow me. We will have our talk on the veranda. I kept you waiting, you know”—he laughed softly, his eyes on the path ahead—“because I couldn't find a slipper. Imagine! Do you know Malta?”

“My first visit.”

“Quite a lovely place. My home now. My wife is buried here. The gardens never looked this way while she lived . . . a shambles isn't it?”

He paused, surveyed the half-empty flower beds, the grass in need of a cut. “This is a juniper tree. Do you know juniper?” He broke off a bit of the evergreen and gave it to the American. “Gin! That's what juniper does so well.”

He continued toward the house. “This is a lemon, still bearing, and”—he swung his cane toward the next trunk—“a palm; you will know that one from the States.” He stopped again, bent slowly to pick up a fallen tan frond. “The one creature who causes us to keep our heads high is lovely lady wisteria.” He halted at the edge of the path, his hands planted on the cane, the hollows of his thin face folding into a deep smile. “My wife and I planted lady wisteria when we retired here in St. Georges. My wife fancied lavenders and lilacs—clothes, flowers, jewelry, scent—Lovely, isn't she?” The lush flowers of the great vine twisted and looped across the entire front of the house looking out over the Mediterranean.

“Do have a seat, Mr. Bromberger.” Captain Renfro took the chair beside that of his visitor, studied the face. “I shan't offer refreshments; I do not feel up to that. I do apologize, but we will have our talk. Ajax, Ajax!” The dog left Bromberger, lay down beside his master on the cool tiles of the porch.

“Captain Renfro, please do not go to any trouble. If this is inconvenient—”

“No, no. We will have our talk. As I told you this morning on the telephone, you are fortunate to find me here—to find me at all.” He nodded and smiled toward his guest, heads and hands trembling. “As I told you, I have just come from the hospital—pneumonia. I dare say, a few of the staff lost a pound or two—that is, a dollar or two—on me. But the fates would seem to have decreed another summer at St. Georges, my last command, sir—HMS
Vegegarden,
greens of course, and tomatoes. They love it here.” Captain Renfro drew himself straighter in the lounge chair. “Now, then, Mr. Bromberger, you have asked to talk to me about my niece, Leslie.”

“Yes.”

“And, if I sounded reluctant this morning to make our appointment it is”—the voice stopped, eyes fluttered closed, his head resting against the creaking caned back of the chair—“because there is so precious little I may tell you about dear Leslie.”

“I had been advised, Captain Renfro, that your niece might be living with you. Apparently, she is not. Do you have an address . . .?”

“Really, Leslie does not have an address here, not in the usual sense. I am not certain, indeed, Mr. Bromberger, if she is in Malta. She most certainly did not visit me while I was in hospital, lest it was while I was unconscious or asleep.” He slowly brought himself forward again, struck by the implication of his last remark. “She's a lovely girl, sir, but she has caused me sadness, a sense of frustration, you know, at being unable to do more for her. You say you're a detective?”