The Mediterranean Caper (23 page)

Pitt moved first, entering the hole. Except for a few dim flashes of light reflected from the whites of his heels, he disappeared completely from view, swallowed by the yawning cavity.

He leisurely beat the water with his fins and let an incoming swell help carry him slowly through the tunnel. The bright blue-green of the sunlit sea rapidly transformed into a kind of deep twilight blue. At first Pitt could see nothing, but soon his eyes adjusted to the dark interior, and he began to make out a few details of his surroundings.

There should have been a myriad of marine life clinging to the tunnel walls. There should have been darting crabs, winking limpets and barnacles or crawling lobsters, sneaking about in search of tasty shellfish. There were none of these. The rocky sides were barren, and they were coated with a reddish substance that clouded the water whenever Pitt touched the smooth, unnatural material. He rolled face up and inspected the arched roof, watching in fascinated interest as his exhaust bubbles rose and wandered across the ceiling, like a trail of quicksilver seeking escape from a vial.

Abruptly the roof angled upward, and Pitt's head broke the surface. He looked around but saw nothing; a gray cloud of mist obscured everything. Puzzled, he ducked his head back in the water and dove, leveling out at ten feet. Beneath him a cylindrical shaft of cobalt light flowed in from the tunnel. The water was as clear as air; Pitt could see every nook and cranny of the cavern's submerged area.

An aquarium. That was the only way Pitt could describe it. But for the fact that there were no portholes in the walls, the cavern could have easily passed for the main tank at Marineland in California. It was a far cry from the tunnel; marine life abounded everywhere. The lobsters were here, and so were the crabs, the limpets, the barnacles, even a heavy growth of kelp. There were also roving schools of brilliantly colored fish. One fish in particular caught Pitt's eye, but before he could get closer, it saw his approach and flashed into a protective rock fissure.

For several moments, Pitt took in the breathtaking scene. Then suddenly, he started as a foreign hand grabbed his leg. It was Ken Knight, and he was motioning toward the surface. Pitt nodded and swam to the top. Again he was greeted by the heavy mist.

Pitt spit out his mouthpiece. “What do you make of it?” he asked. The rock walls amplified his voice to a roar.

“A fairly common occurrence,” Knight answered, roaring back matter-of-factly. “Every time a swell hits the entrance outside, the force runs like a piston through the tunnel, compressing the air already trapped in the cavern. When the pressure recedes, the expanded, moisturized air cools and condenses in a fine mist.” Knight paused to blow some mucus from his nose. “The swells are running at about twelve-second intervals, so it should start to clear up at any time.”

No sooner had he said it than the mist disappeared, revealing a dim cavern that arched to a dome sixty feet overhead. It was a drowned grotto and nothing more; no traces of man-made equipment. Pitt felt as though he had entered a deserted cathedral whose spires stood in ruined desolation from a World War I artillery shelling or a World War II aerial bombardment. The walls were twisted and broken in jagged fissures, and the shattered rocks at their base showed that another rockfall could come at any time. Then the mist returned and smothered all vision.

Pitt, in the few seconds it took to survey the cavern, was conscious of nothing but the gnawing fear of self-doubt. Then came a creeping wave of numbed disbelief, then the chagrin that he had bungled it.

“It can't be,” he muttered. “It just can't be.” Pitt's free hand curled into a white-knuckled fist, and he pounded the water in an outburst of temper and despair. “This cavern had to be von Till's base of operations. God help us from the mess that I've surely caused.”

“I'd still vote for you, Major.” Knight reached out and touched Pitt on the shoulder. “The geology bears out your hunch. This would seem the most logical spot.”

“It's a dead end. Except for the tunnel, there's no openings, anywhere.”

“I saw a ledge on the far end of the cave. Maybe if I—”

“No time for that,” Pitt interrupted impatiently. “We must get back out as fast as we can and keep searching.”

“Excuse me, Major!” Hersong had caught Pitt's arm, an action that surprised Pitt by seemingly coming out of nowhere. “I found something that might be of interest.”

The mist went through its cycle and then cleared again, revealing a peculiar expression on Hersong's face that caught Pitt's attention. He grinned at the lanky botanist.

“OK, Hersong, let's make it quick. We hardly have time for a lecture on marine flora.”

“Believe it or not, that's just what I had in mind.” Hersong grinned back; the glistening water trickled through the strands of his beard. “Tell me, did you notice that growth of Macrocystis pyrifera on the wall opposite the tunnel?”

“I might have,” Pitt answered flatly, “if I knew what you were talking about.”

“Macrocystis pyrifera is a brown algae of the Phaeophyta family, perhaps better known as kelp.”

Pitt stared at him, considering, and let him continue.

“What it boils down to, Major, is that this particular species of kelp is native only to the Pacific Coast of the United States. The water temperature in this part of the Mediterranean is far too warm for Macrocystis pyrifera to survive. On top of that, kelp, like its land plant cousins, needs sunlight to provide the process for photosynthesis. I can't imagine kelp thriving in an underwater cave. Nope, if you'll forgive the vernacular, it just ain't done.”

Pitt was slowly treading water. “Then if it isn't kelp, what is it?”

The mist was back, and Pitt couldn't see Hersong's face. He could only hear the botanist's rumbling voice.

“It's art, Major, pure art. Without a doubt, the finest plastic replica of Macrocystis pyrifera I've ever beheld.”

“Plastic?” Knight boomed, his tone echoing around the cavern. “Are you sure?”

“My dear boy,” Hersong said disdainfully. “Do I question your analysis of core samples or—”

“That red slime on the tunnel walls,” Pitt cut in. “What do you make of that?”

“Couldn't say for sure,” Hersong said. “Looked like some type of paint or coating.”

“I'll back him, Major.” The face of Stan Thomas suddenly materialized out of the fading mist. “Red antifouling paint for ship hulls. It contains arsenic; that's why nothing grows in the tunnel.”

Pitt glanced at his watch. “Time is running out. This
must
be the place.”

“Another tunnel behind the kelp?” Knight asked in a careful sort of voice. “Is that it, Major?”

“It's beginning to look encouraging,” Pitt said quietly. “A camouflaged second tunnel that leads to a second cavern. Now I can see why von Till's operation was never discovered by any native of Thasos.”

“Well,” Hersong purged the water from his mouthpiece. “I guess we keep going.”

“We have no other option,” Pitt said. “Are we all ready for another go?”

“All present and accounted for, except for Woodson,” Spencer answered.

Suddenly, at that instant, a flashbulb flooded the cavern in a bright blue light.

“Nobody smiled,” Woodson observed sourly. He had drifted off to the far wall of the cavern, trying for the widest possible lens angle.

“Next time, yell sex,” Spencer joked back.

“It wouldn't matter,” Woodson grunted. “None of you know what it means anyway.”

Pitt grinned and moved off. He rolled forward and jackknifed, diving to the bottom like an airplane on a strafing run. The others followed, spaced out at ten-foot intervals.

The forest of counterfeit kelp was thick and nearly impenetrable. Thin branches rose from the bottom to the surface, flaring into a wide, spreading canopy. Hersong was right; it was a work of art. Even at arm's length Pitt couldn't have told the plastic from the real thing. He unsheathed the knife and began slicing his way through the brown swaying stems. Working his way forward, stopping only to untangle his air tank, he finally broke into another tunnel. The second had a larger diameter than the first but was much shorter in length. After four stout kicks, Pitt surfaced in a new cavern, only to be enveloped in the unending white mist. Every few moments, the splash of a head breaking the water announced the arrival of another member of the team.

“See anything?” The voice was Spencer's.

“Not yet,” Pitt replied. Mechanically, his eyes strained unblinkingly into the damp gloom. He thought he saw something now, something more imagined than real. Gradually, he became aware of a dark shape, materializing out of the fog. And then suddenly, it was absolutely and concretely there—the smooth, black metal hull of a submarine. Pitt spat out his mouthpiece, swam over to the sub and grabbed hold of the bow planes, pulling himself onto the deck.

Pitt's mind became absorbed in the submarine. At least ten times he'd wondered how he'd react, how he would feel when he finally touched the heroin's underwater carrier. Elation at being proved right—that and more. Anger and disgust flooded over him. If they could only talk, what tales of insidious tragedies these steel plates could relate.

“Please drop your spear on the deck and keep very, very still.” The voice behind Pitt was hard, and so was the gun barrel that dug into his spine. He eased the pole spear slowly to the wet deck. “Good. Now order your men to drop their weapons on the bottom. No tricks. A concussion grenade in the water can turn a swimmer into an ugly mass of jelly.”

Pitt nodded at the five floating heads. “You heard the man. Drop the spearguns…the knives too. There's no sense in antagonizing these nice people. I'm sorry men. It looks like I've blown it.”

There was nothing else left to say. Pitt had led these five men into a trap from which they might never escape alive. All emotion left him, he was conscious now only of time. On cue, Pitt raised his hands over his head and slowly turned around.

“Major Pitt, you are an uncommonly aggravating young man.”

Bruno von Till stood on the deck of the submarine, grinning like Fu Manchu about to feed a victim to the crocodiles. His eyes were narrowed slits beneath the skin-topped head, and he seemed, at least to Pitt, to radiate a personal and long-practiced repulsiveness. But something was wrong, terribly wrong. The old German had both hands in his jacket pockets; he carried no gun. It was the man beside him who held the gun—a mountain of a man with a face of carved stone and a torso like a tree trunk. Von Till's eyes fully opened, and his voice rose in a mocking tone.

“Forgive me for not offering introductions, Major.” Von Till gestured toward his companion. “But I understand that you and Darius have already met.”

“
You seem surprised
to see me, Major,” Darius murmured satanically. “I can't tell you what a great pleasure it is to meet you again under more favorable terms.” He jammed the nasty looking Luger against Pitt's throat. “Please do not move and force me to kill you prematurely. Your quick and sudden death would only cheat me out of a great deal of personal satisfaction and pleasure. I said I had an account to settle with you and your ugly little friend; now the hour has arrived to repay my debt for the pain I have suffered at your hands or, more correctly, feet.”

Pitt did his damnedest to look casual. “Sorry to disappoint you but Giordino stayed home this trip.”

“Then his punishment shall be added to yours.”

Darius smiled pleasantly, then lowered the gun and calmly shot Pitt in the leg. The sharp crack of the Luger amplified to a thunderclap within the rock-walled cavern. A blow—like the thrust of a red-hot poker—jerked Pitt sideways and knocked him backward two steps. Somehow, he never really knew how, he managed to remain on his feet. The nine millimeter bullet had torn through the fleshy part of his thigh, missing the bone by a scant quarter of an inch and leaving a neat little reddish hole at the entrance and a slightly larger one at the exit. The burning sensation quickly left, and his leg became numb with shock; the real pain, he was sure, would soon follow.

“Come now, Darius,” von Till spoke reprovingly. “Let us not overindulge ourselves in crudity. We have more important matters to resolve before you pursue your little ‘eye-for-an-eye' sport. My apologies, Major Pitt, but you must admit, you have only yourself to blame. Your well-aimed kick in such a delicate location will require Darius to limp for at least another two weeks.”

“I'm only sorry I didn't boot him twice as hard,” Pitt said through clenched teeth.

Von Till ignored him. He said to the men in the water: “Drop your diving equipment on the bottom, gentlemen. Then climb up on deck. Quickly, we have little time to waste.”

Thomas raised his mask and threw an if-looks-could-kill stare at von Till. “We're damn well comfortable right where we are.”

Von Till shrugged. “Very well, it seems you need an incentive.” He turned and shouted into the dim shadows of the cavern. “Hans, the lights!”

Suddenly, a string of overhead floodlights burst on, illuminating the cavern from ceiling to water. Pitt could now see that the submarine was moored to a floating dock that began at a tunnel entrance on the far wall and extended two hundred feet across the water like an enormous wooden tongue. The domed ceiling was much lower in this inner cavern as compared to the outer one, but its horizontal area was several times larger; the square footage would have easily equaled a football field. Along the right wall, on an overhanging ledge, five men stood in frozen immobility, their hands gripped on leveled machine pistols. Each was dressed in the same style of uniform that Pitt had previously seen on von Till's chauffeur. There was no mistaking the business-like manner in which they aimed their weapons at the men in the water.

“I think you'd better do as the man says,” Pitt advised.

The mist returned, but the burning lights kept it to a minimum, dooming any chance for escape. Spencer and Hersong climbed aboard the sub first, followed by Knight and Thomas. Woodson, as usual, was last, still clutching his camera in defiance of von Till's commands.

Knight helped Pitt off with his airtank. “Let me take a look at your leg, sir.” Gently he eased Pitt to a sitting position on the deck. Then he removed the lead weights from his weight belt and wrapped the nylon webbing around Pitt's wound, stemming the blood flow. He looked up at Pitt and grinned. “It seems as though every time I turn around, you're bleeding.”

“A messy habit I can't rid myself of lately—”

Pitt stopped short. The mist was disappearing again, and the lights had now exposed a second submarine moored on the opposite side of the dock. He surveyed both subs, comparing them. The one he and his men rested on had a flush deck from stem to stern, no projections anywhere. The other sub was different; it still retained its original conning tower, a massive structure that sat on its hull like a distorted half-bubble. Three men, backs turned to the drama behind them, were busily removing the machine guns from a shattered airplane that sat on the broad deck.

“Now I know where the yellow Albatros materialized from,” said Pitt. “An old Japanese I-Boat, capable of launching a small scout plane. They haven't been in use since World War II.”

“Yes, a handsome specimen,” von Till said jovially. “I'm honored you could identify it. Sunk by an American destroyer off Iwo Jima in 1945, raised by Minerva Lines in 1951. I've found the combination of submarine and aircraft a most useful method of delivering small cargoes into areas that demand extreme discretion.”

“A handy toy for also attacking United States airfields and research ships,” Pitt added.

“Touché, Major,” von Till murmured. “At dinner the other night you guessed that the plane came from the sea. You were groping blindly, but you came much closer than you thought.”

“I can see that now.” Pitt shot a quick glance at the tunnel entrance. Two more guards leaned negligently against the walls of the opening, their machine pistols hung carelessly over their shoulders. Pitt started to say: “The antique Albatros—”

“Correction,” von Till interrupted. “A replica of an Albatros. For my purposes a slow, bi-wing aircraft was the most efficient means of landing and taking off on short fields, dark beaches or in water beside a ship; the lower wing can, or should I say could, fold downward in the shape of hydrofoil pontoons. I used the Albatros D-3 design with a more modern engine, of course, because the aerodynamics provided the perfect answer to my requirements. And an old shabby looking airplane would never be suspected of, shall we say, slightly illegal activities. A pity it will never fly again.”

Von Till pulled a box of cigarettes from his breast pocket and lit one. Then he went on.

“My delivery plane was never meant to be armed or flown in combat. It was only after I had no alternative but to assault Brady Field and your precious research ship that I had the guns installed; a drastic move perhaps but your Commander Gunn refused to be discouraged by my subtle efforts to sabotage his expedition. There was little to fear from a Sunday swimmer or a diving tourist discovering my little underwater modus operandi. However, a trained ocean scientist, that was something else again. I could not take the risk. The raid was, I am still convinced, an excellent plan. Colonel Lewis would have had no choice but to order the…its name escapes me, ah yes, the
First Attempt
to evacuate the Thasos coast if the attack had continued unhindered. You couldn't have known, of course, that the Albatros intended to make a token strafing run against the ship immediately after it neutralized the airfield. Inopportunely, Major Pitt, you blundered onto the scene and ruined everything.”

“The fortunes of war,” Pitt offered sarcastically.

“It is a shame Willie cannot be here to hear you say that.”

“Where is good old Peeping-Tom Willie?” Pitt asked.

“Willie was the pilot,” von Till answered. “When the Albatros crashed into the sea, poor Willie was trapped in the wreckage. He drowned before we could reach him.” Von Till's face abruptly became hard and menacing. “It seems you cost me my chauffeur and pilot as well as my dog.”

“Gullibility on Willie's part,” Pitt said quietly. “I suckered him with the same old balloon trick that the British used on Kurt Heibert. As to the dog, before you sic another one of your hydrophobic bitches on your next unsuspecting dinner guest, I suggest you count your table utensils.”

Von Till looked at Pitt curiously for a moment. Then he nodded knowingly. “Remarkable, quite remarkable. You killed my champion hound with a knife from my own dinner table. Most ungracious of you, Major, to say the least. May I ask how you were forewarned?”

“Premonition,” Pitt replied. “No more, no less. You should never have tried to kill me. That was your first mistake.”

“It is a pity your escape from the labyrinth only prolonged your existence by a few hours.”

Pitt nonchalantly glanced past von Till and Darius. The ominous black tunnel was now strangely empty; the two guards had disappeared. Not so the five guards who lined the cavern wall with the machine pistols—they looked as menacing as ever.

“Your reception committee leads me to believe you were expecting us,” Pitt murmured quietly.

“Of course we were expecting you,” von Till acknowledged matter-of-factly. “Good friend Darius here informed me of your impending arrival. The exact time became apparent when the
First Attempt
began acting suspiciously; no captain in his right mind would run his ship that close in to the Thasos cliffs.”

“How many pieces of silver did it take for Darius to turn traitor?”

“The exact sum wouldn't be of interest to you,” said von Till. “The fact is, Darius has been in my employ for ten years. You might say that our association has proved to be quite mutually rewarding.”

Pitt stared into Darius' coal-black eyes. “No matter how you slice it, it still adds up to treason. That's your second mistake, von Till. Hiring a slimy cockroach of a bastard like Darius, it's bound to backfire.”

Darius shivered in involuntary rage. The Luger protruded from his massive fist as if it were a mutant growth extension, and it was aimed unsteadily at Pitt's navel.

Von Till shook his head tiredly. “Antagonizing Darius will only make you very, very dead.”

“What's the difference? You're going to kill all of us anyway.”

“Premonition again, Major? It serves you well.” Von Till spoke cheerfully. Too cheerfully to suit Pitt.

“I hate surprises,” Pitt said caustically. “How and when?”

With a practiced flourish, von Till pushed back his sleeves and carefully studied the dial of his watch. “In eleven minutes to be exact. That is all the time I can afford.”

“Why not now?” Darius growled. “Why wait? We have other business at hand.”

“Patience Darius,” von Till chided. “You're not thinking. We can use the extra hands to load our supplies on board the submarine.” He gazed down at Pitt and smiled. “Because of your wound, Major, you're excused. The rest of your men can begin by carrying the equipment you see on the dock into the forward hatch.”

“We don't work for butchers.” Pitt spoke softly and evenly.

“Very well, if you insist.” Von Till beamed at Darius. “Shoot away his left ear. With your next bullet, take off his nose. After that his—”

“Stow it, you sadistic old hun.” The words fairly spat from Woodson's lips. “We'll load your goddamned pigboat.”

They had no choice. Pitt had no choice. He could only sit by helplessly and watch as Spencer and Hersong began attacking a small mountain of wooden crates on the dock and passing them to Knight and Thomas on the sub. Woodson vanished into the hatch; only his arms, rising occasionally above the deck to receive a crate, revealed his whereabouts.

The burning sensation returned to Pitt's leg in earnest now. If he hadn't known better, he'd have sworn that a microscopic little man was running back and forth through his wound with a flamethrower. One or twice he nearly blacked out; each time he fought desperately to hold on until the engulfing waves of darkness subsided. On sheer willpower alone he kept his voice on a conversational tone.

“You only answered the
when
half of my question, von Till.”

“Does the method of your demise really matter that much to you?”

“Like I said. I hate surprises.”

Von Till studied Pitt in cold speculation, then he shrugged. “I suppose it does no harm to hide the inevitable.” He paused to check his watch again. “You and your men will be shot. A bit barbaric and ruthless, I grant, but I prefer to think of it as a rather humane death, especially when compared to being buried alive.”

Pitt thought for a moment. “The loading of supplies and equipment, those men removing the guns from the wrecked Albatros, it all spells getaway. You're folding your tent, von Till, and stealing off into the night. Then after you've left, one minute, five minutes, maybe even half an hour, explosive charges will detonate and seal the cavern under tons of rock, entombing the six of us and erasing all evidence of your underwater smuggling operation.”

Von Till looked at Pitt in puzzled suspicion. “Go on, Major. I find your assumptions extremely fascinating.”

“You're running on a tight time schedule, and you're running scared. Under our feet, beneath this dock, rests a hundred and thirty tons of heroin—loaded into the sub at Shanghai and carried across the Indian Ocean and through the Suez Canal by a Minerva Lines freighter. I have to hand it to you; anyone else would have tried to sneak the heroin into the United States through the back door without fanfare. Not so Bruno von Till. BBD&O together with J. Walter Thompson and all the other agencies on Madison Avenue couldn't have created a more professional job of advertising the
Queen Artemisia
's illegal cargo and final destination. It was shrewd thinking. Even though INTERPOL agents have finally unriddled your underwater transportation, it makes little difference. All their eyes are still trained on the
Queen Artemisia
. Do you follow me?”