A Death in Geneva (37 page)

“A woman? He says there was a woman—and two or three of them, either British or American? That's a surprise, an entirely different direction, isn't it, Mr. President?”

Her breath stopped. The president hesitated, struck by her intense stare. “Mr. Starring's sister, Ambassador Burdette, Miss Renfro—a brutal murder.”

Her eyes engaged his, the easy smile she had offered earlier to the agent returned to her lips. “May I?” she asked, glancing at the folder.

The president bent forward as she spoke, raised the briefcase lip, and tossed the file inside. It carried a high classification, marked for his eyes only. He had already stretched one of his strictest rules having shown it at all. He covered his action by returning to Starring's question. “No, you're right, Tommie. Ernie still expects the main break to come from Italy. I'll continue to keep you posted. God rest her soul. My God, how I do miss her—dearest Connie—I had such hopes.”

They both rose with the president. The Continental was at the end of the canopy, a cab drawn up behind. Starring stopped inside the entrance. “Mr. President, I blasted the networks, sent telegrams to all three a couple of weeks ago, over the unfair play they're giving your programs.”

The president laughed a full laugh, clenched his fist, and tapped him on the shoulder. “We can't let those boys get us down. We're sitting pretty for the midterm elections, Tommie. They're bored, trying to stir things up a bit, make better news. But, thank you! Keep after them. Now then, you're heading just down the street, aren't you?”

“I am. You were just lamenting the lack of time these days for thought, analysis. I'm prescribing my own remedy, an evening to myself at the Octagon mansion. I've left strict instructions, no calls, no interruptions. I am to be left alone, sir. How it does rankle a staff—our annual stockholders meeting is coming up, and I'm going to see if I can't go beyond the usual boilerplate, try to place Towerpoint International in perspective, give fresh meaning to our philosophy, our principles, our future direction.”

“Oh, I envy you your night with James and Dolley. They were a good pair, Tommie—Madison a good president in a difficult time. His problems were enormous. With firmness in the right, Tommie. Keep up the spectacular work. You and Towerpoint are the heartwood of America.”

The president and his protective envelope of agents had already returned inside when the convertible and battered black-and-orange cab began to roll slowly down the White House drive. The cab, with the two women, turned north on Seventeenth Street. The Continental continued straight ahead for another block before rounding the corner and parking in the back courtyard of the Octagon mansion. The deep-red-brown bricks of the Federal period structure formed a unique architectural achievement, rounding in a curve above the steep front steps and pillared entrance, continuing from this frontal bow along straight sides in a set of faces to shape the octagonal shell housing an elegant, intricate collection of circular, triangular, and rectangular rooms in three main stories. It was 4:00 P.M. The gates closed behind the convertible.

The excitement of Starring's meeting with the president was far from Tooms's mind in mid-afternoon as he rode the sling of the overhead crane down to the surface and plunged into the water on his dive to the habitat. Those bastards! Those bastards! He pulled hard against the guideline, working his way deeper, repeating the curse again and again. He was furious. He had called each of their cabins, no answer. He had checked with the ship's watch only to learn they were already below. His anger continued to build. The guideline markers bumped through his fingers.

He could make out the glow of the access trunk, the dark outline of the habitat. With no breathing gear on, his lungs were already hurting. He kicked hard, came level with the submersible platform. The chariot . . . one still topside, the other gone . . . where the hell were they? He twisted his heavy body into the diver's final approach to the trunk, painfully banging a knee. Inside, he struggled to his feet, bracing for the confrontation.

The habitat, full of strewn gear, was at the same time eerie in its emptiness. He blotted at the water streaming into his eyes, flung the
towel in frustration at one of the dead cameras. Damn it to hell!

His mind raced. . . . Bring the second chariot down, get out there and herd them back. His air tanks clanked against the hull as he snatched them from their rack. He cursed the jumble of equipment, wrestled halfway into his scuba gear before he decided against the plan.

Running across the other submersible out there in that soup would be sheer chance. If he missed . . . he had to take control. They'd be back, damn it to hell. He'd wait them out. He made his way to the far end of the deck where one of the Renfro research cylinders lay open. What the hell? He kicked the side. Packing shifted, strips of rubber fabric that had compressed into a streamlined cushion tapering back to a smooth semicircular hollow with a mate in the facing side. His breath still came heavily. The bay water on his brow had turned to sweat. He gave his face another wipe, knelt down, rubbed a forefinger along the erased metal plate on the interior of the cylinder. A double game . . . what kind of game? He had seen or read every piece of oceanographic gear ever built, give or take a few, even the unsuccessful prototypes. This jury-rigged casing didn't ring a bell, looked more like military gear from the impression it had left in the packing. A bomb? . . . military gear . . . driving that damned chariot around out in the bay . . . planting some sort of gear on the bay floor. The bastards were saboteurs; they were going to sabotage the habitat or the Octagon . . . but that didn't square . . . they were already aboard, didn't need a submersible to do the job.

His finger again stroked one of the smooth packing hollows . . . Use the submersible as an escape vehicle, maybe . . . nuts; it's nuts. They wouldn't be making a run from something with Leslie due back the following evening. The shape intrigued him. He knew what it was, but his mind was holding back the answer . . . some sort of circular base . . . circular, for what? . . . The form worked in his mind's eye slowly, then sharply took focus as a shroud.

“Bridge, this is Tooms.” He had dashed the length of the habitat and had the intercom mike at his lips. “Give me a position on the
Towerpoint Mayan
.”

“
Mayan
is up-bay, sir; passed abeam maybe five minutes ago moving at ten to twelve knots, right on schedule”

“She's okay?”

“Pretty as a picture, Mr. Tooms. Right on schedule enroute to Baltimore.”

It didn't register on Tooms that the tanker's speed was ten knots faster than the planning had called for. She was already up-bay, safe; at that speed no submersible could touch her. What the hell were they up to?

“Bridge, I'll be below in habitat. Relay any incomings from Mr. Starring. Tell the comm shack that I'll want to be patched through to the boss as soon as we show him we're finished with this afternoon's schedule. Keep a weather eye out for one of the chariots, and give me a shout if you see it, or any unusual small craft activity around the ship or the dive site.” He thumbed a triple sign-off click.

With a great grunt, Tooms heaved the tanks off his back, propped them on the deck and, grim-jawed, again surveyed the habitat. The failure of the TV monitors had taken on new meaning. Gotta be something in here to show their hand. Gotta go through the place inch by inch! He yanked open the drawers of the lab's file cabinet . . . manuals, research reports relating to the Divequest program. He turned to the crew's quarters, swept gear off the locker shelves, ripped open the zippered pockets of the coveralls . . . nothing: cigarettes, a roll of tape, ballpoint pens. He had started toward the bunks when he again spotted the white cylinders at the end of the habitat, not the two open halves on the desk, but the two others. He rubbed at a string of sweat, glanced at the seals, lumbered to the workbench, pawed through the tool drawer, then returned with a compact metal-frame hacksaw and a pair of needle-nosed pliers. He turned both cylinders to get the right angle. One was heavy as lead; the other was light. Its two halves sprung open . . . empty . . . as he set it on the desk again . . . empty, identical packing. He swung around to the third white can. The saw's rasp filled the habitat chamber.

Paul Head had very nearly died in the disastrous attack on the
Mayan.
He had slammed hard against the tanker's hull, cut free in the chariot, then spun away, his entire right side numb, hauling back on the controls with what little strength remained, fighting desperately for deliverance. The submersible was severely damaged. The Italian was gone!
From the cockpit, awash on the surface, Head struggled to orient himself. He knew he had broken a shoulder, maybe more. He did not try to stand for fear that he might lose his balance, pass out, and drown. He told himself he would hear Tonasi. He forced himself to search, twisting in the cockpit beyond the limits his body would bear, and screamed in a voice torn with rage and pain: “Italian! Italian! . . .” Nothing . . . “Tona-a-a-s-i! Goddamn you, bloody Italian!” The sight of the
Mayan
's massive stern, already half a mile away, told him Tonasi was dead. He sensed his own quick, shallow breath. He had to move; the submersible might go down. The starboard plane had snapped and was floating alongside, held only by a cable. The port plane still answered to the stick. He applied power; the chariot responded, moving in a slow circle. He could not see the stern . . . bloody bent rudder! With the controls hard, he found he could force the chariot on a near-straight course. There was nothing to be gained from searching for Tonasi; the hell with him. He steered for the Octagon's triangle of flags, possessed by the pounding in his brain, the need to rig the last mine, blow the bloody catamaran, and, he knew, himself with it.

With the thud on the hull, Tooms dropped his pliers on the one restraint still to be broken, turned on one knee, and glared at Head, obviously injured, clawing his way up through the habitat's trunk and gasping for breath on the deck. He stood over him, arms at his side, fists clenched. “Well, well, well, the cat's away and the two mice do play! Missed the point of my last speech, you little bastard. Where the hell's Tonasi? First, he damned near rips off his arm, and now you're a basket case! You dumb little bastards! Where's Tonasi? What the are you up to, you little bastards?—all over now!”

Tooms turned away, spun back, enraged by the silence. Head couldn't speak. He kept shaking his head, his eyes on the American. He hunched himself onto an elbow, then onto his knees. The bunk he had to reach was several feet away. He crawled, his tanks banging the back of his neck, his right arm wedged against his crippled side. Ignoring Tooms's ranting, he maneuvered his left side to the expedition bag at the foot of the bunk. With a gasp, his back to Tooms, he found the pistol.