The Devil's Trinity

Chapter 10

Francesini was back in his office, his mind fixed on the problems that the death of Greg Walsh had brought to the department and quite possibly the people of America. Or was it probably? He felt he was on the edge of something so big that it was almost unbelievable. And unbelievable seemed to be the key word. Who would believe that something so outrageous and despicable was being planned by terrorists? Who would believe that such organisations were capable of such an atrocity?

The papers that Inspector Bain had passed on to him were now lying open on his desk. A report from one of the C.I.A’s intelligence analysts, sworn to absolute secrecy, naturally, was pinned to the inside cover of the folder. A note from James Starling was attached. It read:

‘Don’t worry about me firing you if this turns out to be an accurate assessment of Walsh’s fears because I won’t have a job either! Get off your backside, Remo and dig deep!!’

It was signed with the admiral’s usual, indecipherable signature.

Francesini was not worried about losing his job; it was other people’s lives he was concerned about. Starling’s urgent diktat to dig deep was not an idle suggestion but a hint at working outside the realms of legality and going deep into the grey world of covert operations; a world which was no stranger to Francesini. The devil was, he didn’t know where next to go. He already had agents working in and around Freetown, searching for Marsh and Helen Walsh. He had a security sweep in progress on Hakeem Khan and his known associates in America and across the globe. He had electronic surveillances in place wherever he could but had failed in an attempt to get listening devices installed on the Taliba, and all that satellite imagery turned up were some clever photographs of the ship.

He closed the folder and pushed it to one side. Beneath it were several photographs of the Taliba which had been taken from the Coast Guard cutter while the boarding party had been on the ship. He thumbed through them, idly speculating on what might or might not be there when he stopped and looked a little closer at one of the photographs. He then shuffled through the others but returned to the one that had caught his attention.

He pulled a magnifying glass from his desk drawer, turned on his desk light even though the sunlight was flooding through the windows, and began to study the photograph carefully.

The shot of the Taliba was quite good, but it was the people on the upper deck that he was interested in, not the ship. He studied one in particular, leaning on the ship’s rail rather like a disinterested bystander. The image was too blurred to make a positive identification, but something had drawn Francesini’s eye to it.

Two minutes later he raised his head in frustration and got up from his desk. He shovelled the photographs back into the folder and locked it in his safe with the exception of the one he had been studying, and walked out of his office.

Disappointments were not unusual in the murky world of espionage; most of the time you worked on hunches, luck and sometimes hard evidence. He had a hunch that he was right, but his limited technology in the form of a desk light and a magnifying glass needed corroboration. It was with that in mind that he was on his way to the satellite imagery department and the very clever people who worked there.

Francesini was no stranger to the graduates, analysts, scientists and eggheads who worked in the imagery department, and one in particular, Bob Cooke, had often helped him before.

Cooke was a university graduate with an honours degree in an unpronounceable subject that had something to do with computer intelligence. He also loved using fuzzy logic to solve problems that would have required the nous that old time agents used once upon a time in problem solving.

Cooke had written a software programme, using the mathematics of fuzzy logic that had always been ‘Greek’ to men like Francesini. Cooke had once explained to him that fuzzy logic was like extrapolating a point, or a position, in a logical step, to another position often before that second position was known.

“You amaze me,” Francesini had said to him when Cooke had explained the theory. “What are you talking about?”

“Well,” Cooke said, warming to his subject, “when you are about to make a move, like take a step in another direction or reach out for something, the movement you make will put you into an indeterminate position relative to the position you are in at the moment, unless it was a planned and purposeful move; like taking a step. Clear?”

“As mud!”

“But it may be to the left, the right, forward or back. What isn’t known at the time is the reason for you making the move. But if we know the reasons, like you were about to cough or were about to leave the room, excitement, melancholy, anything; we could feed that information into a mathematical expression and determine exactly where you are moving to or what you are about to do.

Cooke had gone on further to leave Francesini even more confused and thanking his lucky stars he was not as clever as young Cooke. But on reflection, he mused, perhaps if he had have possessed the young man’s gift of higher intelligence, he would not have been as deep into the dark as he was now.

He laid the photograph of the Taliba on Cooke’s desk. The picture was taken from a distance of about 150 feet. The Taliba was in close up and several of the crew could be seen on the deck.

“I need a favour,” Francesini told him.

“Fine,” he answered. “How can I help?”

Francesini pointed to a figure in the photograph leaning on the ship’s rail looking across to the Coast Guard cutter. The man’s features were very grainy, which made it difficult to determine the face and the nationality.

“Can you tell me who that is?” Francesini asked.

“Sure, you got his birth certificate?”

Francesini laughed. “Sorry Bob, I meant can you enhance that for me. I really need to identify the guy.”

“And you haven’t got a negative, have you Remo?” he said. Francesini shook his head. Cooke shrugged. “Makes it difficult, but I’ll give it my best shot.”

He picked up the photograph and scanned it into his computer. When the picture came up, he boxed in the figure and brought it up on screen, doing away with the rest of the imagery.

“Do you know his nationality?” Cooke asked.

“Put him down as Caucasian.”

“Height?”

And so it went on. Cooke asked Francesini as much as he could about the subject. Francesini filled him in with as much as he dared, but didn’t want to presume too much in case he was entirely wrong. Disappointments were pretty common in his game.

Cooke began enhancing the picture in small sections while feeding information into the fuzzy logic programme he was running. He talked as he put the information in. He asked if the figure was one of the crew. Was he in repose? Were the crew all of one nationality. Francesini answered as truthfully and as carefully as he could.

As the picture on the screen changed, so Francesini’s excitement level rose. He could see where this was going and was glad that he had backed one of his hunches and brought the photograph to Bob Cooke.

Eventually the young man punched the print button and the printer coughed out an almost perfect print of the figure on the rail, now in glorious colour. He handed it to Francesini.

“Your man?” he asked.

Francesini breathed a sigh of relief and a smile brightened his face. Bob Cooke was holding up a photograph of Harry Marsham; known as Marsh to his friends.

Marsh thought about something strange that had occurred during the evening of the previous day. Shortly after the Taliba had been boarded by the Coast Guard, Captain de Leon had ordered a change in course and the ship had headed back to the position, as far as Marsh could determine, where the Coast Guard had stopped them.

He had gone up on deck to see why they had stopped and also to ask the captain why the ship had turned round. He saw Khan talking pointedly to Batista who was in his diving suit. It puzzled Marsh, particularly when another diver, who Marsh didn’t recognise joined them.

The Taliba dropped anchor and Batista went below with the second diver. Khan went up to the bridge and then reappeared with Captain de Leon. It was completely intriguing to Marsh and he knew something unusual was about to happen. He decided to push his luck and followed the two men when they went off in the same direction as the two divers.

It was then that he discovered they were heading for the sea gallery. He stayed with them even though he had not been specifically invited, but as nobody questioned his right to be there, he assumed they were not the least bit concerned by his presence.

He saw the two divers go into the water followed by the diving bell, which was lowered from the running block above the open doors. Its floodlights were on and as it disappeared into the water; their luminescence began to fade as it sank lower into the depths.

Khan was also there, along with Captain de Leon who was controlling the dive. The divers had gone into the water with one tank of air each on their back, so Marsh knew it wouldn’t be a long dive. Within twenty minutes Batista and the other diver were back in the sea gallery. It was then that Khan told Marsh that there was no reason now why the two of them should remain and escorted Marsh from the sea gallery.

The whole operation puzzled him intensely and he could only assume that Batista and the other diver had gone down to locate something. And whatever it was, Khan decided that he and Marsh should not be in the sea gallery when they brought it up to the ship. Perhaps for safety reasons or working on the premise that there was no need for people to be there who were not directly involved in the operation?

He had made one or two informed guesses about the strange occurrences of the night before but eventually had given up trying to figure it out. He was sure that he would learn of the reason for the dive eventually. Having still been given no idea when Khan would be asking him to begin diving with the Challenger, he decided it would help pass the time if he took a stroll round the upper deck of the Taliba.

He admired her lines with the admiration of a man who has known the sea all his life and seen all manner of ships used in oceanography. Taliba’s superstructure bristled with modern, marine equipment and sprouted aerials like a forest. He had no doubt that her electronics would be of the highest calibre and her navigational aids would also be sophisticated and modern.

He heard a footstep and Malik appeared on deck. He came over and acknowledged Marsh.

“Good morning my friend. Have you breakfasted yet?”

“Yes, thank you,” Marsh answered.

Malik seemed satisfied. “Good. In that case Mister Khan would like to see you in his cabin.” He turned on his heel and Marsh followed.

Khan’s cabin was luxuriously appointed, which Marsh had expected it to be. Apart from one wall, the whole of it was given over to creature comforts of the kind one would normally find on a very expensive yacht. But here in Khan’s cabin there was a subtle difference; the wall that remained unfurnished was more like a control centre than a cabin. Marsh had little time to study it except to notice that it was a curious change to the regal splendour which surrounded him.

Khan greeted Marsh and asked him to sit down. His body language told Marsh that it was to be a practical, business like meeting rather than a cordial chat.

“Now Marsh,” Khan began straight away. “We are running behind schedule but I am sure we can make up the time. I want to begin sea trials with the Challenger this afternoon. I cannot factor in many more delays, so will take it that you understand the urgency.”

“Urgency I can understand,” Marsh replied, “but it might help if I know the reason for the urgency.”

Khan shook his head. “That is not for you to know. Just understand that we are working to a tight schedule.”

Marsh didn’t like it, but there was little he could about it except try to frustrate Khan as much as possible. “If I am piloting the submersible I need to go over the sea trials with my co-pilot. It’s mandatory, as you well know.”

Again the shake of the head. “There will be no co-pilot, Marsh. I know you will cope admirably on your own. Batista will lead the dive. He is an exemplary diver.”

Marsh couldn’t argue with that. Nor could he argue with Khan because the man held all the cards. The best thing he could do in the circumstances was to act as professionally as he could, but at least he could try and unsettle Khan’s plans.

“What about Helen Walsh?” he asked.

Khan’s expression changed and he looked a little nonplussed. “What about her?”

“I want to know where she is,” Marsh told him levelly. “I will not dive unless I know where she is.”

Khan regained his composure, but Marsh’s stance was a little unexpected nevertheless.

“I do not want any histrionics Marsh,” he warned him. “Helen Walsh is safe and well and will remain so until you have completed the dives. If you refuse to cooperate you will jeopardise not only yourself but her also.” He leaned forward. “Do you understand that Marsh? Do I make myself clear?”

There was something unsettling in Khan’s reaction. Unless Marsh was mistaken, there was an inordinate fear in Khan’s manner. Nothing he could actually put his finger on, but underneath the surface, Marsh thought he could see a man who had no way out of the dilemma he was in and would go to extremes to ensure success. Murder and kidnap were already part of Khan’s world, so Marsh considered discretion was really the better part of valour in this case. But he knew he would have to keep alert and find a way of spoiling whatever plans Khan had in mind.

“Can you show me where we are diving then?” Marsh asked reluctantly. “At least do me that courtesy.”

Khan breathed a quiet sigh of relief and got up from the desk. He looked in pain as he walked over to the control centre. There was a chart table there and he beckoned Marsh over to it.

“Here,” he said, putting his finger on the chart. “We shall begin our first dive here in the southern channel.” He was pointing at a bearing about one hundred and fifty miles south of the Florida Keys in the Santaren Channel.”

“What depth will we be diving at?”

“No more than 300 feet.”

“Have you computed the drift rate?”

“We shall remain on fixed line,” Khan told him. “But the drift rate has been computed at about three knots. The dive should last no more than three hours.”

Nine or ten miles, Marsh thought to himself. Plenty of room in the channel for that. He looked up from the chart table.

“I would like to look over the Challenger” he said.

“Of course,” Khan replied. He walked over to his desk. There was glass of water and a small bottle there. He reached for the bottle and shook two tablets on to the palm of his hand. He swallowed them down with the water. “Of course,” he said again, and reached for the phone. “Captain de Leon? I shall be going forward with Marsh to inspect the Challenger. Have Batista there, will you. Thank you.” He put the phone down. “Good. Let’s go.”

The Challenger was secured across the Taliba’s forward deck, just below the foc’sle head. It was a familiar and thought provoking sight to Marsh. She had been freshly painted and the name stood out boldly in brass lettering on the lower ballast tank.

Marsh climbed up her ladder to the topside and lowered himself through the access hatch. He could see the modifications that Khan had undertaken but was only aware of them because they were unlike anything on his own submersible, the Helena. He stopped halfway down the central chamber. Batista followed him down.

“What’s this chamber for?” Marsh asked him.

“Retrieval,” Batista answered and opened the door into the decompression chamber. This was where the divers would decompress after a deep dive. Marsh realised that Batista had studiously ignored any explanation after saying, “retrieval”, but chose not to pursue it; no doubt he would learn more as time went on.

Marsh looked around the chamber. It was cramped and there was barely sufficient room for two divers, but there was enough. There was a control console with some basic controls on it from where the Challenger could be operated in an emergency. There was also a couple of television monitors. Although Marsh had never known of a submersible being operated from the decompression chamber, it was an exercise he and Greg had conducted with Helen and other divers in the past.

There was sufficient space for two divers to sleep and relax while decompressing plus an assortment of charts, lockers, small drawers and an outdated calendar.

He climbed out of the Challenger, going up through the central chamber and back on to the deck of the Taliba then made his way forward to the cockpit. It was a round bubble of acrylic co-polymer plastic, six inches thick, and was designed to withstand a pressure of two thousand pounds per square inch up to a depth of over 1500 feet.

Inside the cockpit the pilot worked at normal atmospheric pressure. Everything needed to control the submersible, including the remote arms and external monitoring cameras was within easy reach.

Marsh opened the door of the cockpit and climbed in, settling himself comfortably in the pilot’s seat. There was another seat beside him for a second crew member, whether pilot, engineer or simply an observer.

He looked at the controls in front of him. The instruments were lifeless except one, which showed that the submersible was connected to an external power source; in this case the Taliba. He reached forward and flicked the master switch. The panels and screens flickered into life and the instrument readouts flashed on in a glow of colours and digits. He scanned from left to right: battery power, air conditioning, oxygen and carbon dioxide content, forward sonar display, gyro compass, scanning sonar, explosive collar arming switch, GPS navigation system, television monitors, trim monitor, repeater and depth gauges.

Marsh unwittingly enjoyed the unashamed luxury of settling into a world where he was probably the master. He was like a child with a new toy. All thoughts of the reasons why he was here had vanished, tucked into the recesses of his mind; locked away.

Marsh was home, comfortable: like a foetus in a womb.

Francesini lifted his head at the sound of someone rapping knuckles on his office door. He called whoever it was to come in and Cooke, from the satellite imagery department poked his head round the door. Francesini was surprised to see him.

“Hallo sir, have you got a moment?”

Francesini put his pen down and leaned back in his chair. He signalled Cooke to sit down. “What can I do for you, Bob?” he asked.

Cooke put some photographs on the desk. “Well sir, you know we’ve been looking out for those nukes?” Francesini said he did. Cooke continued. “Well, I’ve been looking at the images we recorded at the time they disappeared, and I think I might have come up with something.”

Francesini leaned forward. There were various satellite images showing dates, times, satellite identification etcetera. He could see trace lines over the images like the fine, gossamer threads of a spider’s web. “Go on,” he said, and wondered if there was to be more talk of fuzzy logic. But whatever the young man had to tell him, Francesini knew he would not be wasting his time.

“It’s like this. There’s a lot of shipping spilling out of the Gulf into the Indian Ocean, right? Looking at the tracks, most of it travels in much the same direction whether it’s west, east or south. It’s all impossible to track really. But the further away from the Gulf and major continents, the thinner the tracks become until we can begin to identify the individual ships more easily. If we want to, that is.”

This began to sound extremely interesting to Francesini. “Have you identified something then, Bob?” he asked.

Cooke shook his head. “Well, not really; it’s just a theory. Possibly,” he added pointedly. Francesini thought about Einstein. He let the youngster go on.

“There are two ships heading for South Africa, right? Nothing unusual in that. But these two haven’t stopped; they’ve sailed round the Cape and are now heading northwest towards the mid-Atlantic. That’s the long way round, you know.”

“I know,” Francesini agreed.

“Why didn’t they go through the Suez? Much quicker.”

“What are you getting at?”

“It’s just a hunch. It’s like the second ship was riding shotgun. If you’ve got something really valuable on you, why let anyone know? So you avoid docking at any port. And it always helps to have a little security along for the ride. It’s just a gut feeling I’ve got sir.”

“Rather like your fuzzy logic, eh Bob?” He couldn’t resist that.

“Nothing to do with it sir,” Cooke replied with a self-conscious, almost apologetic chuckle. “It’s like I said: just a hunch.”

Francesini liked the young man. He trusted him too. And if Cooke’s hunches were anything like his ability to interpret obscure imagery and apply mind blowing logic to problems, Francesini knew he would probably be on good ground by going along with him. And if Cooke was right; they might even know where the nukes were.

But like the man told him, it was just a hunch, and Starling would have his balls if he relied on hunches when something as serious as missing nukes was concerned; so had to let it go, reluctantly.

He settled back in his chair. “You know, Cookie, I could start a major diplomatic incident if I went along with this; to say nothing of losing my job.” He shook his head gently, wrestling with his own conscience and took a cigar from a humidor on his desk. He lit the half corona and let the smoke drift from his mouth.

“Damn it Cookie, why couldn’t you give me facts?” He wasn’t angry; just frustrated. “You’re probably right, but I can’t put this in front of the admiral; he’d throw it out.” He put his hand on the photos. “Leave them with me anyway, and thanks again.” He winked at Cooke. “I’ll buy you and your lovely wife dinner at the restaurant of your choice if your right. OK?”

Cooke grinned. “No sir, it’s not ok,” he answered. “It will have to be my wife’s choice.” He laughed and left Francesini sitting at his desk with a rueful expression on his face.

They launched the Challenger shortly after noon. Marsh had switched from external power supply to the submersibles own power plant and unplugged the umbilical cord that brought power in from the ship’s generators. The sea was reasonably calm although there was a fairly stiff breeze blowing. The Challenger settled into the water and Marsh ran a few checks before securing the entry door to the cockpit. This was just a precautionary measure.

Batista entered the water and clambered on to the submersible’s starboard ballast tank. His job was to connect the ship to sub communication line to a watertight port on the Challenger’s pressure hull. Normally this would not be used; transmission was usually by a sonar device, but because this was a practice dive, it was decided to use a hardwire link.

Marsh was wearing espadrille shoes, loose fitting, denim trousers and a tee shirt. He had also taken with him a woollen jersey and a canvas jacket. Although the cockpit was heated he knew that the temperatures at depth could drop dramatically. The extra clothing was a precaution. He swung the clear, transparent door shut and wound the lock in, then strapped himself in using a simple lap strap. He then began his pre-dive checks.

Above and behind his head were the lithium hydroxide panels used to filter the air he breathed. Below them were the oxygen bottles used to replace the spent oxygen if the carbon dioxide content shown on the instrument gauge rose above two per cent. The pressure inside the cockpit was carefully monitored because of the risk of over pressurising should the bottles bleed too much oxygen into the air.

Marsh set the internal cabin temperature to twenty degrees Celsius, checked communications with the Taliba’s bridge and began opening the air valves on the ballast tanks to allow the sea water to flood in.

When he had completed his immediate checks, he looked round for Batista. The diver was still in the motor dinghy forward of the Challenger. Marsh put a thumb up and Batista acknowledged. This signal told Marsh there were no divers in the vicinity and it was safe to run the propulsion motors. He powered them up one at a time, checking their power levels. When submerged he would only be running them at twenty per cent of their full power.

When Marsh was finally satisfied that it was safe to dive, he informed the Taliba.

“Challenger clear to dive. Have Batista stand by. Lowering to thirty feet.”

He watched as the water lapped over the curved surface of the cockpit. It was a sensational effect, one that Marsh never tired of. The Challenger stopped and Marsh looked up. The sun’s rays poured through the surface of the water like threads of gossamer and above him the sea burst into a million tiny bubbles as Batista plunged in.

Marsh checked the depth reading. It had just moved off the zero mark and would probably not register accurately until he had dived another thirty feet or so. He switched on the submersible’s interior monitor, giving him a wide angle view of the decompression chamber. Warning lights in front of him on the control panel told him which water tight doors were open and which were not.

The upper access hatch was open and its warning light was flashing red. It stopped and remained permanently lit as Batista entered the submersible. Once he had secured the hatch, the light changed to green. Although Batista had entered the diving chamber, closed and secured the hatch, the chamber was still full of water.

Marsh thumbed a panel switch. There was a gentle vibration as compressed air forced the water out of the chamber. A green light came on which meant Batista could now open the door to the decompression chamber safely.

Marsh watched the monitor. Batista appeared on the screen and gave him a ‘thumbs up’ signal. Another light came up on the panel telling Marsh that the decompression chamber door was now locked and secured and they could begin the dive.

For the next hour, Marsh and Batista conducted exercises which involved Batista leaving and entering the submersible, practising hand signal manoeuvres, diving to depths in stages and holding there, and generally testing themselves and the men watching everything on the bridge of the Challenger.

It was just before the dive commenced that another diver joined them. He came down by way of Taliba’s diving bell, known as a Galeazzi Tower. Marsh was to learn later that his name was Zienkovitch. He was a safety diver, which was a requirement under diving legislation.

Marsh settled into the routine of piloting the submersible quite happily. It was as if he had been doing it all his life. He manipulated her so that she performed with the grace of a sea creature, following Batista and Zienkovitch in complete circles under the powerful on board spotlights. A ballet of man and machine; two hundred pounds of flesh and blood against fifty thousand pounds, over twenty tons, of sophisticated technology, floating in a marine universe.

The only limit to their stay beneath the surface was physical. The divers were breathing a mixture of helium and oxygen which was absolutely essential to guard against nitrogen narcosis; the euphoric state some unfortunate divers get into which usually leads to death.

That was the reason the Galeazzi Tower was being used. It was suspended from the Taliba at a depth of one hundred feet. Inside were two other divers. If an accident occurred where Batista or Zienkovitch were overcome, they could be taken up to the diving bell by the two safety divers and returned to the surface.

At the end of their planned dive, Batista and Zienkovitch returned to the submersible’s decompression chamber. When Marsh was satisfied they were both in the first chamber, he expelled the water and brought the air pressure up to that at which they had been diving. Then they opened the door of the decompression chamber and acknowledged Marsh on the monitors. Marsh noted the time and logged it. He knew Batista would do the same. They would now remain in the decompression chamber for an hour or more to allow them to decompress safely.

Marsh signalled to the Taliba that the dive had ended and he was now about to bring the Challenger to the surface. He blew the sea water out of the ballast tanks, filling them with compressed air. He felt good; it has been a successful dive. Slowly and gently the Challenger rose to the surface.