The Mediterranean Caper (15 page)

“Sorry to invade your privacy, gentlemen. I'm Inspector Zacynthus.”

Zacynthus was hardly
what Pitt had expected. There could be no doubt about it, the slurred accent, the neatly styled hair, the casual introduction: Zacynthus was an American.

Ten seconds, each spent scrutinizing every detail of Pitt and Giordino, elapsed before Zachynthus slowly turned and looked down at the moaning Darius. Zacynthus' face seemed glacial with elaborate indifference, but the tone of his voice betrayed bewilderment.

“Remarkable, truly remarkable. I didn't think it was possible.” He looked at Pitt and Giordino again, this time with mixed doubt and admiration written in his eyes. “For a highly trained professional to even lay a hand on Darius is considered a great accomplishment, but for a pair of sad looking underdogs like you to wipe the floor with him is nothing short of miraculous. Your names, my friends?”

A devilish glint flashed in Pitt's green eyes. “My little companion is David, and I'm Jack the Giant Killer.”

Zacynthus smiled a tired smile. “The day is long and hot, and you've incapacitated one of my best men. Please don't compound my misery with sick humor.”

“In that case, Dirk,” Giordino murmured slyly. “Tell him the one about the nymphomaniac and the guitar player.”

“Come now,” Zacynthus said, as if talking to children. “I have no time to waste on such drivel. Information if you please! We'll begin with your correct names.”

“Screw you,” Pitt snapped angrily. “We didn't beg to be dragged here by that ape who calls himself Zeno, and we didn't ask to be pushed around by Earthquake Ma-Goon there on the floor. We've done nothing illegal, immoral perhaps, but not illegal. If you hope to get any answers from us, I suggest you supply a few yourself.”

Zacynthus stared at Pitt, his lips pressed tightly together. “Your arrogance arouses my professional curiosity,” he said tartly. “During the years since I chose investigation as my life's work I've confronted scores of shrewd and dangerous felons. A few have spit in my face and threatened revenge, some stood immovable and silent, still others begged on their knees for mercy. But you, my bedraggled friend, have to be different.” He waved his pipe accusingly at Pitt. “By God, it's classic, truly classic. I look forward to matching my wits against yours at the interrogation.”

He broke off as Zeno stepped into the room. The Greek started to say something, but his mouth hung open and his great moustache appeared to droop in astonishment when he spied Darius, now sitting up in a tight ball. “Great thunderbolts of Zeus, my Inspector, what has happened?”

“You should have warned Darius to be more careful.”

“But I did warn him,” Zeno explained apologetically. “Even then, for Darius to be overpowered; I did not think it possible.”

“My words exactly.” Zacynthus knocked the ashes from his pipe. “See what you can do for our poor friend. I'm going to take these men to my office and determine if they're as cunning with words as they are with their hands and feet.”

“After what they did here, do you think it wise, my Inspector, to be alone with them?”

“I think they realize they have nothing to gain by further physical activity.” Zacynthus threw Pitt and Giordino a bantering smile. “Just to be on the safe side, Zeno, handcuff the little one's right wrist to this clever devil's left ankle. Not a foolproof restraint method, by any means, but at least it will make resistance somewhat inconvenient.”

Quickly Zeno pulled a pair of chromium plated handcuffs from a clip on his belt, unsnapped the ratchets and secured them into place, leaving Giordino in an awkward stooped position.

Pitt glanced up through the hole in the roof at the evening sky. It was darkening by the moment as the sunlight began to retreat. His back still ached, but he felt grateful that it was Giordino, and not he, who was bent double. He flexed his shoulders, wincing at the pain that erupted from every square inch of his torso, then he looked back at Zacynthus.

“What have you done with Teri?” he asked quietly.

“She's quite safe,” Zacynthus replied. “As soon as I can verify her claim of being von Till's niece, I shall release her.”

“What about us?” Giordino's voice reached up.

“In due time,” Zacynthus said curtly, motioning to the doorway. “After you, gentlemen.”

Two minutes later, with Giordino clumsily shuffling beside Pitt, they entered Zacynthus' office. It was a small room but efficiently furnished; complete with detailed aerial photographs of Thasos tacked to the walls, three telephones and a shortwave radio, conveniently placed on a table directly behind an old scratched and battered desk. Pitt looked around, surprised. The whole setup was too neat, too professional. Quickly he decided that his best hope still lay in a crude show of hostility.

“This looks more like the command headquarters of a general than the office of a two-bit police inspector.”

“You and your friend are brave men,” Zacynthus said wearily. “Your acts have proved it. But it's stupid of you to continue the role of an oaf. Though, I admit, you do it very well.” He walked around the desk and sat down in an obviously unoiled swivel chair. “This time the truth. Your names please?”

Pitt paused before replying. He was puzzled and angry at the same time. The strange, offbeat operation of his captors puzzled him.

There was a curious feeling, almost a cold certainty in his subconscious mind that he had nothing to fear. These people did not fit his conception of run-of-the-mill Greek policemen. And if they were on von Till's payroll, why were they so dead-set on merely obtaining his and Giordino's names; unless, perhaps, the cats were toying with the mice.

“Well?” Zacynthus' voice hardened to a sharp edge.

Pitt pulled himself erect, and took a gamble.

“Pitt, Dirk Pitt, Director of Special Projects, United States National Underwater Marine Agency. And the gentleman on my left is Albert Giordino, my Assistant Director.”

“Most certainly, and I'm the Prime Minister of—” Zacynthus broke off in midsentence; his eyebrows rose sharply, and he leaned across the desk, gazing directly into Pitt's eyes.

“Let's have that again. What did you say your name was?” His voice this time was soft and patronizing.

“Dirk Pitt.”

Zacynthus did not move or speak for a full ten seconds. Then he slowly settled back, visibly off balance.

“You're lying, you must be lying.”

“Am I?”

“Your father's name?” Zacynthus still stared unblinkingly at Pitt.

“Senator George Pitt of California.”

“Describe him: appearance, history, family—everything.”

Pitt sat down on the edge of the desk and pulled out a cigarette. He fumbled for his lighter, then remembered it was still lying on the floor of the room where it had fallen when he charged Darius.

Zacynthus struck a wooden match against a drawer and held it for him.

Pitt nodded a grateful thank-you.

Pitt spoke for ten minutes without stopping. Zacynthus listened thoughtfully, moving only once to switch on a dim overhead lamp as the daylight outside the window faded slowly away. Finally he raised his hand.

“That will do. You must be his son, the person you claim to be. But what are you doing on Thasos?”

“NUMA's Chief Director, Admiral James Sandecker, assigned Giordino and myself to investigate a series of strange accidents that have recently plagued one of our oceanographic research vessels.”

“Ah yes, the white ship anchored beyond Brady Field. Now I'm beginning to understand.”

“That's nice,” Giordino said sarcastically from his uncomfortable stance. “I'm sorry to interrupt, but if my bladder isn't relieved soon, you're going to have an accident right here on the office floor.”

Pitt grinned at Zacynthus. “He'd do it too.”

A speculative look crossed Zacynthus' eyes, then he shrugged and pressed a hidden button under the desk top. Instantly the door flew open, revealing Zeno with the Glisenti firmly gripped in one hand.

“Trouble, my Inspector?”

Zacynthus ignored the question. “Put away your gun, remove the handcuffs and show—ah—Mister Giordino to our sanitation facilities.”

Zeno's eyebrows lifted. “Are you certain—”

“It's all right, old friend. These men are no longer our prisoners, they are our guests.”

Without another word or any outward sign of surprise, Zeno holstered the automatic and released Giordino, escorting him down the hall.

“Now it's my turn for answers,” Pitt said, exhaling a transparent cloud of bluish smoke. “What's your connection with my father?”

“Senator Pitt is well known and respected in Washington. He serves honorably and efficiently on several senate committees. One of which is the Narcotic Drugs Committee.”

“That still doesn't explain where you come in.”

Zacynthus pulled a well-worn tobacco pouch from a coat pocket and idly filled his pipe, carefully tamping it with a small coin.

“Because of my lengthy experience and my investigations in the field of narcotics I have often served as liaison between your father's committee and my employer.”

Pitt looked up puzzled. “Employer?”

“Yes, Uncle Sam pays my salary just as he does yours, my dear Pitt.” Zacynthus grinned. “My apologies for the late formal introduction. I'm Inspector Hercules Zacynthus, Federal Bureau of Narcotics. My friends just call me Zac, I'd be honored if you do the same.”

All doubts flew from Pitt's mind and the relief of certainty covered him like a comforting cool wave from the sea. His muscles relaxed, and he became aware of how tense he had been, how keyed-up his thoughts and nerves were against the unknown dangers of the situation. Carefully, holding back an urge to tremble, he crushed his cigarette in an ashtray.

“Aren't you a little out of your territory?”

“Geographically yes, professionally no.” Zac paused to puff his pipe into life. “About a month ago the Bureau received a report through INTERPOL that a massive shipment of heroin was loaded aboard a freighter in Shanghai…”

“One of Bruno von Till's ships?”

“How did you know?” Zac's voice was quizzical.

A wry smile crossed Pitt's lips. “Just a guess. I'm sorry for interrupting, please continue.”

“The ship, a Minerva Lines freighter called the
Queen Artemisia,
left the Shanghai harbor three weeks ago with a seemingly innocent cargo manifest of soybeans, frozen pork, tea, paper and carpets.” Zac could not help grinning. “Quite a variety, I admit.”

“And the destination?”

“The first port of call was Colombo in Ceylon. Here the ship unloaded the Communist Chinese trade goods and took on a new cargo of graphite and cocoa. After a fuel stop at Marseille, the
Queen Artemisia
's next and final port is Chicago via the Saint Lawrence Seaway.”

Pitt thought a moment. “Why Chicago? Surely New York, Boston or the other eastern seaboard ports are better equipped by the underworld to handle foreign drug shipments.”

“Why not Chicago?” Zac retorted. “The Windy City is the greatest distribution and transportation center in the good old United States. What better place to dump one hundred and thirty tons of uncut heroin.”

Pitt looked up, disbelief etched on his face. “That's impossible. No one on this earth could get that kind of an amount through a custom's inspection.”

“No one, that is, except Bruno von Till.” The voice was a low murmur, and Pitt suddenly felt cold. “It's not his real name of course. That was lost somewhere in his past, long before he became an elusive smuggler, the most diabolic and crafty purveyor of human misery of all time.” Zac swung around and gazed unseeing out the window. “Captain Kidd, the blockade runners of the Confederacy and all the slave traders rolled into one couldn't hold a candle to von Till's setup.”

“You make him sound like the arch villain of the century,” Pitt ventured. “What did he do to deserve the honor?”

Zac flickered a glance at him, then looked again through the window.

“The numerous revolutionary bloodbaths suffered by Central and South America in the last twenty years would never have occurred without secret arms shipments from Europe. Do you recall the great Spanish gold theft of nineteen fifty-four? Spain's already shaky economy nearly toppled after a large government gold reserve vanished from the secret vaults of the Ministry of Treasury. Shortly after, India's black market was glutted with gold bars bearing the crest of Spain. How was a cargo that size smuggled seven thousand miles? It's still a mystery. But we do know a Minerva Lines freighter left Barcelona the night of the theft and arrived in Bombay a day before the gold appeared.”

The swivel chair squeaked, and Zac refaced Pitt. The inspector's melancholy eyes looked vague and lost in contemplation.

“Immediately prior to Germany's surrender in World War II,” he continued, “eighty-five high ranking Nazis suddenly materialized in Buenos Aires on the same day. How did they get there? Again, the only ship arrival that morning was a Minerva Lines freighter. Again in the summer of nineteen fifty-four an entire bus load of teenage schoolgirls disappeared on an outing in Naples. Four years later an Italian embassy aide discovered one of the missing girls wandering aimlessly through one of the back alleys of Casablanca.” Zac paused for nearly a minute, then went on very quietly. “She was completely insane. I saw photographs of her body. It was enough to make a grown man cry.”