A Death in Geneva (23 page)

“I'm with you; keep going.”

“When the command post received the call from the residence staff that the ambassador had departed, I took about five minutes to close up, then headed home . . . knowing that I could monitor communications from my car.”

“The chauffeur had established contact with the command post?”

“Yep, from the residence; you have that statement from the command post watch.”

It was a phone call, from the kitchen, not a radio check, right?”

“Right. He had had a quick coffee in the kitchen—”

“In your car, you had the same voice set, the same bands the chauffeur had?”

“Correct.”

“But not the backup radio telephone, the one in the limo's rear seat?”

“Well, it's not a backup, Mr. Sweetman. It's a separate circuit dedicated to the ambassador's—”

“You didn't have that equipment, right?”

“That's correct.”

“Go ahead.”

“The ambassador had been enroute ten minutes. Her location was somewhere on the Avenue de France, by my calculations, when I received the first attempted transmission.”

“You have stated this was a click, repeated clicks, no voice?”

“Yes sir; the driver, as we have established, was triggering the mike with a thumb switch, raising the mike and tilting it toward him to speak. Each time he did so, he broke the connection, wiring worn at the base of the mike, no voice. I knew when I heard them that the clicks had to be from his transmissions. No one else is on that band. I radioed the sergeant of the watch; he was getting the same thing. . . .”

“You returned to the mission?”

“I spun around, tore back. I was only a minute or two out when it happened—the first clicks.”

“Did you have the sergeant of the watch contact the limousine; you didn't, right?”

“I radioed him to stand by. I was on my way back. I didn't want to run the risk of an unnecessary foul-up. You know, this was an important evening for the ambassador, and—”

“You returned to the mission?”

“To the command post.”

Sweetman ran a hand across his bald head. “A call was coming in, the first clear transmission from the limousine, as you entered?”

“Yes sir. I was winded. I could see from the sergeant of the watch's expression that we had a problem. I dove for the second receiver.”

“The sergeant has stated he heard the driver's voice, the call sign, the word ‘Urgent,' then all hell breaking loose, and it was happening fast.” “Tell us what you heard, Howard.”

“Automatic weapons' fire, unmistakable, a collision, tires, more weapons—”

“All this was coming from the ambassador's set?”

“Correct. Either she or the driver had the button down the entire time—”

“You tried to raise the ambassador?”

“Yes sir. I had just given the call sign, when her voice came through—”

“Calling for help.”

“Shouting, screaming—someone was killing her.”

“Then?”

“Then—another salvo, silence. I tried one more time to raise the limo, dropped it, ordered the watch to keep trying, contacted the Geneva police and took off to find the limo. I was on the scene in eight minutes.”

Sweetman walked over to the framed front page of the newspaper, studied the photos, the diagram, the story as he spoke. “You're a professional, Weems. You've got a good memory. What you just told us tracks exactly with what you've said before—right, Pierce?”

“More detail each time.”

“Now Howard, you haven't built a career on memory; that would always have been your word against someone else's. You're a professional. You run a taut ship, keep good files, logs; I can see it myself. The sergeant of the watch keeps a communications log—”

“Correct, Mr. Sweetman.”

“What sort of log did you keep of that evening, Howard?”

The security officer sat straighter in his chair, both palms on the desk in front of him, his eyes narrowing on Sweetman. “Of course I keep records, Mr. Sweetman—”

“Come on, goddamnit, Weems; cut the bullshit! We've spent a week with you! You're holding back!” Sweetman was half across the desk, shouting. “What is it?”

Weems remained motionless for a full thirty seconds, only the sound of the clock in the room. His hand slid open the center drawer, withdrew a pocket tape recorder, placed it on the desk between them.

“A tape? You taped the goddamned killing? Jesus Christ!”

“I only wish I had taped those communications, gentlemen.” He gave the recorder a small shove, dropped his eyes. “Background noise, gunfire, nothing more; it's worthless. I was winded, probably half in shock, holding the tape too far from the telephone. You know . . . I was trying to hear, to raise the ambassador, and to record at the same time. Worthless!” He gave the recorder another shove. It dropped into Sweetman's pocket.

Sweetman departed for Washington the next morning. On Monday afternoon, June 20, Harold Fisker had the first lab analysis of the tape. The words were indistinct. But, unmistakably, there were two women's voices.

Chapter 10

S
ea gulls, hundreds, lifted in a gray-white fluttering from their perches on the Victorian roof and clock tower of the pier A Marine firehouse jutting out from the Battery into New York Harbor at the southern tip of Manhattan. Circling and screeching, they swooped low toward the food in the outstretched hand, veering away in fear only at the last second.

“Sullivan, did you know these sea gulls are retired harbor pilots gone to their reward?” Tommie Starring tossed a chunk of bagel into the harbor air, whooped at the steep plunge of two of the birds, the snatch and flight of the victor. “Tell that pushcart vendor we've got some hungry pilots on our hands, Sullivan. We need another one of these things, two more. A splendid, splendid morning; good meeting coming up today. I smell success!”

In the days following his return from Malta, he had been closeted with the Towerpoint inner team preparing for the July stockholders' meeting. His Mediterranean tan gave him a look of extraordinary fitness. His spirits were soaring with the morning birds. He was on the verge of tying the last knots in the multibillion-dollar Sea Star consortium. Oats had reported from the
Towerpoint Octagon
that the ship had cleared Gibraltar, the research team in the traces pulling hard. The president had called the night before to report a promising lead in Connie's case, one that he
could not discuss over the phone. He had encouraged Starring to come to Washington; he would personally bring him up to date.

Starring and his secretary started up the west-side waterfront, followed at a discreet distance by another of his blue Continental convertibles. The president's call had led him to make a two-fold decision. First, Muriel Sullivan was instructed to arrange his call at the White House, if possible, for the first weekend in July. Second, she was instructed to reserve the Octagon mansion two blocks west of the White House for his personal use over that entire weekend.

For years, Starring had toyed with the notion of staying at the historic Octagon, President Madison's home following the burning of the White House. Now, he would do it, take the time he needed . . . alone . . . in retreat, within those historic walls to put his hand personally to the stockholder's speech he would deliver in mid-July. It would be far more than the usual bookkeeping account. He wanted to relate the Towerpoint programs to preceding and future generations, to provide the conceptual underpinnings that would make the corporation's contributions lasting.

“You don't build on sand, Sullivan. Look at this deserted harbor, piers in decay, not even a garbage scow in sight. Just a few years ago, the Hudson River, these buildings, trembled with the powerful horns of maritime commerce. Mile after mile of piers, six hundred miles of waterfront, were teeming with ships and cargo. The old Ellerman Bucknell and United Fruit had piers just ahead on the left. The U.S. Lines, Panama Pacific, Cunard White Star, our STARCO, Grace, Clyde Mallory, dozens and dozens more were up-river. It was a sight—national strength, maritime leadership, employment! Now, mismanagement, poor politics, a vanishing act. Those ships still working have gone across the river, south to the gulf—thirty to forty shipping lines. The mind aches at the loss.”

They steered away from a sanitation truck giving the streets their morning washdown. “The Octagon house, what arrangements have you made?”

“I have been assured by the Institute's hostess that nothing is booked other than normal visiting hours for the entire summer. She told me the house may be leased any weekend you wish. She did ask for the courtesy of a week's advance notice, as there is often touch-up repair work going on.”

“Book it. What is today, the twenty-fourth?”

“The twenty-fourth.”

“Oats and company are due on the twenty-ninth; we'll have the bay arrival ceremonies. Book it for the entire Fourth of July weekend.
Confirm the appointment with the president's staff. Then organize me, organize my papers for the Octagon.”

“You alone. No Mrs. Starring, no staff?”

“Absolutely no one; a retreat, Sullivan, a retreat!” He scowled at the question. They crossed West Street, arrived at the southern face of the World Trade Center's twin towers. “Ha-ha! Here's Adrian looking well washed and combed. Mother would be pleased.” They entered One World Trade Center, swept upwards seventy, eighty, ninety floors to the corporate headquarters of Towerpoint International. A coterie of executives fell in behind the two brothers. The procession moved through the reception gallery in the direction of the boardroom.

“I won't be two minutes, Adrian. Have everyone take their places.” The younger brother relayed the order and caught up with Tommie who had passed the first of two, internal security checkpoints enroute to the corporation's plot center. Watch officers jumped to their feet. Starring strode past them, halting before the thirty-foot by ten-foot electronic chart of the world. Towerpoint ships, yards, offshore platforms, and support facilities glowed in color-coded lights. He addressed the senior watch officer. “You have us running smoothly this morning.”

“A fair amount of activity, sir; nothing unusual.”

“Where do you make the
Towerpoint Octagon?
”

“South of Santa Maria Island, sir; the Azores, 35 degrees 16 minutes north, 26 degrees 30 minutes west.”

“To the south?”

“Yes sir. There's a good-sized storm building to the north. The skipper made the course change fifteen hours ago.” A green light flashed with increased intensity on the display screen. An orange dotted line appeared, flicked across the screen to the western Atlantic seaboard. “Her projected track, Mr. Starring; she's still on schedule.”

“Landfall the twenty-ninth?”

“Chesapeake Light, 1600 the twenty-ninth.”

“The LNG tankers?”

The orange light of the catamaran faded. Two new green lights grew in intensity. “The
Towerpoint Partner
has just arrived in Baltimore; she'll be offloading . . .”

“Not as much ruckus as predicted.”

“No sir. She'll berth there until the third. The
Towerpoint Mayan
is in the gulf, enroute Baltimore.” Another orange, projected track appeared,
marking a long curve from the Mexican coast around the tip of Florida northward into the Atlantic. Starring moved left a few paces, studied the Pacific, then left the plot center, giving the watch a brisk, saluting wave.

The board of directors' portraits lined the entrance to the conference room, one heavy gold frame draped in black. Cumulus clouds reflected in the gleaming mahogany table which paralleled the wall of glass looking down on lower New York Bay, past the Statue of Liberty, Governor's Island, Staten Island, the Verrazano Narrows Bridge to the opening to the Atlantic, a spectacular panorama of the famous harbor.

Starring beckoned his directors to take their chairs. The next two hours were dedicated to an intensive review of the planned report on the Towerpoint Defense Weapons Systems programs: the
Staghound-
Class antisubmarine heavy destroyers, the
Cunning
-Class nuclear attack submarines, the
Neptune
submarine rescue class and the newest,
Valor
-Class nuclear command cruisers. The corporation's production, yard-by-yard, class-by-class, played on the conference room screen. There had been seventeen launchings over the past twelve months, in the black, orders on the rise despite the problems with Washington.