The Devil's Trinity

Chapter 11

The police picked up Sweeting Maclean about mid-day; bounced him on a traffic violation and suspicion of a crime committed the previous day. The officers claimed he fitted the description given by a witness and was required for an identity parade.

It was easy picking Maclean up because men of his character broke the rules as regularly as drawing breath. He protested vigorously when they told him they wanted him down at police headquarters for the identity parade, but all his protestations about human rights, being allowed to contact his lawyer, arrest warrants and claims that they couldn’t do this to him simply fell on deaf ears and he ended up at police H.Q.

Inspector Bain knew they had no real grounds to hold the man, but they were buying time and needed him out of the way while they searched his house during the process of recording his traffic violation and putting him into a line-up of five, off duty policemen.

There was nothing grand about the place Maclean lived in. It was situated in the poorer district of Freeport, but men like Maclean had no use for grandeur; their money was usually spent on drink, women, drugs and fast cars.

The police searched Maclean’s place thoroughly. It didn’t take long and they made sure that everything they touched was returned to its proper place. The two men searching noticed that the bed appeared to have been slept on, rather than slept in; as though somebody had lain there. The room itself was typically male but there was a pair of ladies shoes that looked as though they had been tossed carelessly on to the floor. One of the men picked them up.

“Look at these,” he said to his colleague. “And the bed.”

The other policeman was puzzled. “What am I supposed to see?” he asked.

“Girl’s shoes. If Maclean had a woman here last night, the bed would have been in one helluva mess. But the bed’s made. If a woman had made the bed before she left this room, it would have been tidy, and she wouldn’t have left her shoes behind.”

The other man nodded. “I see what you mean; the girl’s been here and gone.”

His companion put the shoes down and shrugged. “Might as well get back to the station; tell the inspector what we’ve seen.”

They let Maclean go, not because they had nothing on which to hold or charge him, but because they needed him back out on the street: he was their only lead to Helen Walsh.

He left the building with the air of someone who had cocked a snook at the police, but beneath the veneer, Maclean was angry. He was like a disturbed wildcat. He climbed into his car. It wasn’t the Buick; that was now a pile of scrap, and pulled away from the parking lot. He drove back to his house, parked the car on the roadway outside and let himself in through the front door.

The moment he stepped inside he could sense there was something wrong. He could almost feel it. Just inside the door was a tallboy drawer unit. He opened the top drawer and took out a small .22 calibre Beretta pistol, a ladies gun, but useful if needed. He walked from room to room with a growing feeling that somebody had been there. Although Maclean was not a particularly tidy man, he was a man of habit and knew where things were.

But everything seemed a little too precise. Everything was in its place, but they had another spirit on them. His Obeah instincts manifested themselves in a growing belief that his house had been searched while he had been held by the police. And now he knew the reason they had picked him up; because they had a suspicion he was involved in the woman’s kidnap and wanted him away from his house while they searched it. He knew now that he would have to be very careful.

When he walked into his bedroom, he saw Helen’s shoes. They were placed neatly at the foot of the bed. He knew they had not been like that when he took the girl away. He picked the shoes up and held for a while. Then he smiled and lifted his finger in silent rebuke.

“Oh, mister policeman,” he intoned, “you have made a big mistake.”

He knew then what the police were up to; they wanted him back on the street to lead them to Helen Walsh. He gave up looking round the house and went to the windows, looking from each one until he saw the car with two men in it, sitting there waiting. He wondered if the police were being deliberately stupid.

So be it, he thought, let’s give them something to follow. He would not go back to Helen Walsh for some time. Instead he would stay in Freeport.

He thought about the shoes and how absent minded someone had been to put them back so neatly. He laughed.

“Oh yes, mister policeman; a very big mistake.”

After the dive, Marsh asked Khan to tell him exactly why he wanted him to pilot the Challenger and what for. He was in Khan’s cabin with the Captain and Malik. Malik always seemed to be around. Marsh wondered if it was protection for Khan. He noticed also that Khan’s face had taken on a very pallid colour and he wondered just how ill the man really was.

“Very well Marsh, I suppose you are entitled to know what it is we want you to do and why we need your skill and experience.” Khan was sitting in a comfortable chair. Marsh was leaning against the desk, facing him.

“The Challenger,” Khan began, “will dive on to a capped well-head. It is a dry well. The cap of the well-head is designed to allow the submersible to anchor on to it using the skirt that is attached to the underside of the Challenger. Batista and Zienkovitch will take care of that procedure. Your job is to guide the Challenger on to the well head following precise instructions from either of the divers.” He coughed and reached for a glass of water, his face mirroring the discomfort he felt in his chest. When he had drank a little of the water, he continued.

“There is sufficient room for one diver to work inside the skirt. Zienkovitch will do that while Batista remains in the central chamber to prepare the device for lowering into the well.”

“What device?” Marsh asked.

Khan held up his hand. “Later. The device will be lowered into the well head to a depth of one thousand feet. Once it is secure in the well, Zienkovitch will recap the well head and you will all return to the surface.”

“What’s the device?” Marsh asked again. “Was that what you were lifting when you asked me to leave the sea gallery?”

Khan then breathed in deeply and looked like he had come to a decision. He struggled to his feet, pausing as he stood to regain his breath. “Very well,” he said tiredly, “We shall go below; then all your questions will be answered.”

They filed out of Khan’s cabin and into a wind that seemed to be getting stronger and Khan, more than the others had to lean into it to make headway. Malik shadowed him all the way. They reached a door just beneath the foc’sle head and went down the companionway to the sea gallery.

Marsh recalled his brief visit there before. He took in all that he could see, which included a pallet on top of which was a tarpaulin cover. Malik immediately went towards the pallet and removed this cover, dropping it on to the deck and beckoned Marsh forward.

Marsh walked towards Malik and the pallet which was quite small, but on it were two cylinders. At first Marsh assumed they were small, oil drums, but saw quite clearly that they were nothing as simple as that. What he saw was two cylinders strapped together.

Marsh looked at them beneath the light from the bulkhead lamps. Malik watched him with a curious expression on his face; like someone who was about to reveal something remarkable. The others, Khan and de Leon all seemed to look at it with a kind of reverence. Marsh could see the cylinders had been highly polished and had markings on their sides which he was unable to decipher. The others continued to watch him as he peered closer. On top of each cylinder was a lifting ring. He saw lettering on the far side of one of the cylinders. He was quite sure it was Russian. There was also a series of numbers there which meant nothing to Marsh.

Then he saw something which did, three black segments within a yellow circle: the international sign for radiation.

Marsh straightened and looked directly at Khan, whose face was washed in the poor light from the bulkhead lamps.

“They’re nuclear bombs,” Marsh whispered as though the sound of his voice might trigger the thing.

He looked back at the cylinders, strangely fascinated by them, by their incongruity. Then it struck him that the Coast Guard had failed to find them. He was also surprised at how small they were. Although he had never seen a nuclear bomb before, he had always assumed they were quite large. But he had also heard of battlefield devices which could be carried in the trunk of a medium size car. He decided these were probably typical of such bombs.

“But the Coast Guard, why didn’t they find them?”

Khan smiled. “They weren’t here when the Americans searched our ship.”

Marsh realised now exactly what had happened when he saw Batista diving and the Galeazzi tower being lowered. They were retrieving the bombs from their hiding place on the sea bed where they had been dropped when the Coast Guard appeared. The tower had only been used as a source of lighting because Batista had finished the dive within twenty minutes or so.

Marsh shook his head in dismay. “You’re an evil bastard, Khan. I don’t know what it is you are up to, but that’s why Greg died, wasn’t it? Because he knew about the bombs and was trying to stop you.”

Khan shook his head. “Walsh was in the wrong place at the wrong time. And it was the providence of Allah that you were spared, so that you could complete the work against the great Satan, America.”

With that he signalled that the demonstration was over and walked out of the sea gallery leaving Marsh standing there with Malik.

Sweeting Maclean spent the day moving from one place to another, trying to make himself look busy and give the police something to watch. He made a couple of phone calls from a public telephone box in the early part of the afternoon, and continually checked to make sure the police were still following him.

He called into a Pizza Hut and spent some time there, later moving on to a beach bar where he had a drink with some of his other acquaintances. He spent a couple of hours on the beach before returning home where he took a shower and watched some TV.

As evening drew near, he made another phone call. Maclean’s plan depended a great deal on the answers he received. But being the kind of man he was, the answers were favourable, and he came out of the phone booth feeling quite confident. And because the sky was darkening nicely, he felt pretty good about the whole thing.

He drove down to the quayside and parked his car in a parking lot while keeping an eye on the car tailing him. He got out of the car and walked along the quayside a little, past the shops and bars and the bobbing boats and cruisers that lined the boardwalks, and found the bar he was looking for. He went inside.

One of the policemen following Maclean got out of his car and went into the bar. He saw Maclean ordering a drink at the bar and making small talk with a girl. They walked over to an empty table and sat down. It wasn’t long before Maclean was nibbling at the ear of the girl. Soon some others joined them and more drinks were ordered. It seemed so normal that the policeman went back to his car and the other officer to wait.

Maclean finished his drink, slipped a few dollars to the girl and went to the back of the bar, through the kitchen and out through the back door. He walked quickly and as quietly as he could along the boardwalk until he could see the boat he wanted among the line of boats tied up there.

He stepped on to the boat, slipped the ropes fore and aft, and then pushed the boat away from the boardwalk. He dropped into the cockpit and found the ignition key which had been taped beneath the driver’s seat. The diesel engine coughed and rumbled into a low throated raw and he piloted the boat out of the marina and into the open sea.

In the waiting, unmarked police car, one of the watching men saw the boat and realised what had happened. He climbed out of the car and went into the bar. A minute later he was back.

“That was Maclean,” he said to his companion. “The bastard’s conned us.”

Sweeting Maclean was laughing as he opened the throttles once he was out into open water. The wind was up and the boat began to rise and fall in the swell. He turned the boat on to a northerly heading, reckoning that he would reach the swash land beneath the safe-house before dawn.

One of the phone calls he had made confirmed his suspicions that the police were on to him. In the same way that the police had informers, so to did Sweeting Maclean. But he also got word off the street that the police might know where the safe-house was. Maclean’s only advantage lay in the fact that the house was up on the northern shore and he could get to it by sailing inland through the mangrove swamps. He knew that the police could not tail him, but if they did learn of the whereabouts of the safe-house, it would be a close run thing.

He looked up at the clear, bright moon, checked that the fuel tank was full and set the boat on autopilot. Then he dived into the cabin for the food he knew had been left for him.

As he ate, Maclean studied the charts. He had asked for a full tank because his intended journey was going to be lengthy. Picking up the girl was only going to be part of it. He finished a can of Budweiser beer and went back up on deck clutching more sandwiches. He had a jacket on which had also been left for him.

He disengaged the autopilot and took control. Apart from the strengthening wind, Maclean knew his course would be fairly straightforward; but once he had closed in on the swamps, it would take a certain science, and a bit of luck, to locate the creek that would lead him up to the safe-house.

He felt pretty good. He had the girl and he began forming a little plan that might make him a few dollars. Perhaps even plenty of dollars. He would take the girl for himself too, he decided. Yes, he felt pretty good, he mused, and there was nothing to prevent him from coming out of this a good deal richer. And once he had used the girl, he would dispose of her.

Inspector Bain’s eyes snapped open when the phone rang. He had been watching the news on television and fallen asleep. The shrill ringing of the phone slashed into his brain like the savage assault of a wild animal and he sat upright immediately, his heart thumping in his chest. The television sound had been muted, and he knew that his wife had been into the room to do that while he had been asleep in the chair.

He reached for the phone. “Bain here.”

“Sir,” the voice said. “We’ve lost Maclean.” Bain was instantly awake and sat bolt upright. “The voice went on. “He duped the boys tailing him and took off in a boat. He’s heading north and we think we know where he’s going.”

“Where?”

“He has a place up in the north swash land. We’re going now, sir. Do you want us to pick you up?”

Bain frowned. “How long have we known that he has a place up in the swash land?” he asked.

“I know what you’re thinking, sir, but we only learned about it fifteen minutes ago. We had to lean on the owner of the bar; threatened him with closure. He put us on to one of Maclean’s associates. We had something on him,” he said unnecessarily.

“I’ll be out front,” Bain told him and put the phone down.

Maclean throttled the engine back until the boat had lost most of its forward motion. The wind rocked the boat and the sea splashed against the sides, sending the occasional wavelet into the boards. He studied the shoreline, picking out salient features in the moonlight. He had been cruising at a near walking pace for thirty minutes, searching for the creek he wanted.

Suddenly he saw it and edged the throttle forward, guiding the boat gently towards the open mouth of the creek. It was about fifty feet wide where it spilled out into the open sea. He kept the boat in mid channel, using the moonlight to guide him.

The creek split into two and he took the left fork. The gnarled mangrove roots closed in on him, bumping against the hull. He followed this narrow inlet for about a mile. From time to time he would close the throttle right down and listen very carefully for any unusual sounds, allowing the boat to drift under its own inertia.

He looked up at the moon and then at the low skyline. There were no hills to mark and no man made features, just an endless miasma of pine and mangrove. But Maclean knew exactly where he was.

A light flickered in the corner of his eye. At first he thought it was a light from a cabin; there were several dotted around the swash land area he was in, but it was very early in the morning and he hadn’t expected any sign of life.

The light appeared again; a flicker behind the trees. It came from a road in the distance, Maclean was sure of that. It had to be a car. Then he saw another light and frowned; there was more than one car, which probably meant trouble. He moved the throttle forward, pushing the boat faster through the narrowing creek. He figured he had about another half mile to go before the creek split into several meandering streams.

It had to be the police, he decided. And if it was, they would have to stay on that road for a further ten miles or so before it swung north east. Then they would be on little more than a track, which meant slow progress. Twenty minutes perhaps. No more.

The hull of the boat bumped into submerged roots, throwing Maclean forward. He fell into the cockpit and struggled to get back up. Then he reversed the boat away from the obstruction and inched forward again.

He encountered more obstacles, which he would normally have avoided, but the situation was fraught and it was not the best time to try and negotiate these narrow creeks. And because he believed the police might be in those cars up on the headland, he could not use the boat’s powerful searchlight for fear of drawing attention to himself.

When he finally reached the landing stage, no bigger than a table, he knew he had taken much longer than he wished. The creek was too narrow to turn the boat round so he had no choice but to tie her up facing inland.

He jumped ashore and carefully negotiated the rough-hewn path through the mangroves to the safe-house. It was in total darkness. He waited on the edge of the clearing and listened. Faintly, but without any doubts in his mind, he could hear the cars in the distance. He knew they were coming this way.

He sprinted across to the house; a ramshackle affair, weathered and needing paint. The stiff breeze was rattling some of the timbers on the roof and threatening to rip them off. When he reached the house he went in through the back door, but did not switch on any lights. He dragged the kitchen table across the floor until it was beneath a ceiling hatch. He clambered on to the table, reached up and pushed the small door up out of the way, then put his hand in the opening and began feeling around.

His hand touched the cold metal of an Uzi machine gun. Beside it were two magazines taped together in such a way that either could snapped into the gun. He jumped down from the table, checked the magazines. Both were full; a total of sixty four rounds. He opened a cupboard door in the kitchen, still without light and pulled out a box of cartridges, stuffing them into his jacket pocket. Then he grabbed a flashlight and went out of the house at a run.

Helen was asleep inside the shack. Her sleep was a sleep of total exhaustion. She hadn’t eaten for twenty four hours and had been in fear of her life and her sanity. All her attempts at escape had simply reduced her to a hysterical wreck. Several cages had been knocked over. One had burst open and the rats inside had scattered, leaving Helen living on the edge of her nerves.

The first she knew of Maclean’s presence was when the door burst open and he stood framed in the moonlight. The light from his torch stabbed through the darkness.

Helen didn’t scream because she knew instinctively it was Maclean. She shrank away from him in terror, shielding her eyes against the glare of the flashlight. He kicked the door shut and flicked the torch beam around the shack until he saw a length of chord hanging from a hook from on a wall. He pulled it down and stood over Helen.

“What are you going to do?” she cried in alarm.

“We’re going away, missy: you and me.” He passed the chord around her waist and knotted it tight. Then he tied a loop round his own waist and dragged her to her feet. He paused at the open door, taking care not to leave the torch switched on and looked out. Then he turned to Helen and pulled her through the door. As they stepped out into the yard, a loud, hollow voice boomed out.

“Maclean, this is the police. Give yourself up!”

Maclean pulled Helen in front of him, lifted the Uzi machine gun and fired a scything arc at the shadows. Helen screamed in mortal fear. Maclean grabbed her hair and started to run. The voice boomed after him.

“Maclean, leave the girl. Maclean!”

Maclean raked the shadows again, peppering the darkness with bright flashes from the breech. Someone cried out and Maclean laughed. Helen was still screaming as he dragged her down towards the boat.

Each time Helen fell, he just lifted her bodily to her feet. He wasted no time, clutching her like a sack and urging her to keep up with him. They reached the boat and he pushed her on board. He slipped the painter, started the diesel and whipped the gear stick into reverse.

Not afraid now to use the powerful spotlight now, Maclean turned it on and swivelled the beam along the creek. He could hear the police crashing through the trees in their desperation to get to him, but he was in his element now: in control.

He changed the magazine on the Uzi and hammered the mangroves until the last round of ammunition was gone. Then he swung the boat round and opened up the throttle and headed out towards the open sea.

“Missy,” he cried elatedly. “Now we’re going away where they’ll never find us.”