The Mediterranean Caper by Clive Cussler
Darius stayed on the radio at the warehouse, traversing wave lengths in case there was any transmission between the shore and ship.”
“Sounds like a thorough effort, but unfortunately a waste of time.” Pitt toweled his black hair, then ran a comb through it. “Where can a man find a drink and a cigarette around here?”
Giordino nodded toward the truck cab. “I can’t help you on the drink, but there’s a pack of Greek cancer sticks on the front seat”
Pitt leaned in the truck cab and removed an oval shaped cigarette from a black and gold box of Hellas Specials. He’d never tried one before and was surprised at the mildness. After his ordeal of the past two hours, rolled seaweed would have tasted good.
“Someone kick you in the shins?” Giordino asked matter-of-factly.
Pitt exhaled a cloud of smoke and peered down at his leg There was a deep red gash below the right knee and blood was oozing slowly along its entire length. For two inches in every direction the skin was a colorful combination of green, blue and purple.
“I had a bit of bad luck, a run in with a bulkhead door.”
“I’d better fix that for you.” Giordino turned and pulled an Air Force issue first aid kit from the glove compartment. “A minor operation like this is mere child’s play for Doctor Giordino, the world renowned brain surgeon. I don’t mean to brag, but I’m rather good at heart transplants too.”
Pitt tried to suppress a laugh, but failed. “Just make sure you put the gauze on before, not after the tape.”
Giordino feigned a pained expression. “Such a terrible thing to say.” The sly look returned. “You’ll change your tune when you get my bill”
There was no choice left for Pitt except to shrug in resignation and place his bruised leg in Giordino’s hands. Nothing more was said for the next few minutes. Pitt sat and absorbed the silence, gazing at the sky-dyed blue water and the shoreline that rested under the white sands of antiquity.. The narrow beach below the road stretched southward for six miles before it faded into a thin line and disappeared behind the western tip of the island. There wasn’t a soul to be seen anywhere along the surf’s edge; the emptiness possessed all the mystic allure and romantic charm so often pictured on South Seas travel posters. It was indeed a fragment of paradise.
Pitt noted that the surf was running at two feet with eight second intervals between crests. The waves broke low and at least one hundred yards out. Then in a final burst of fury, they surged forward in majestic Spray plumed rows, only to slowly dissolve and die in small eddys at the tideline. To a swimmer, the conditions were perfect; to a surfer, they were fair; but to a diver, the shallow sandy bottom and the dark blue water spelled barren waste. For sheer underwater adventure it is the greener, reef strewn waters that attract the diver, for it is there that the beauty of sea life abounds. Pitt panned his eyes a hundred and eighty degrees and looked to the north. Here it was a different story. High craggy cliffs, barren of all vegetation, rose out of the sea, their faces worn and etched by the endless onslaught of the breakers. Great fallen rocks and yawning fissures bore mute testimony to what old mother nature could do when given the tools of her trade to work with. There was one particular stretch of rugged cliffline that intrigued Pitt.
Strangely enough, this one sector was not pounded like the others. The waters below the sheer, straight up and down rock mass were calm and flat, a garden pond bordered on three sides by foaming swirling waters. For a hundred square yards the sea was green and still, the boiling white ceased to exist It seemed unreal.
Pitt speculated on what wonders a diver might find there. Only God alone could have observed the ageless formation of the island, the coming and going of the great ice ages, the changing levels of the ancient sea. Maybe, he thought, just maybe the mountainous breakers carved their fury into the sides of these cliffs, creating an underwater pockmarked surface of sea caves.
“There you are,” Giordino said in a humorous tone. “Another triumph for medical science by the great, Giordino.” Pitt wasn’t fooled for a second by the outward display of exaggerated vanity. Giordino’s comic dialogue was forever used to camouflage his genuine concern for Pitt. Giordino stood up, running his eyes; over Pitt’s body, and shook his head in mild wonder. “With all those bandages on your nose, chest and leg you’re beginning to look like a spare tire out of a nineteen thirties, depression era comic strip.”
“You’re right.” Pitt took a few steps to relieve increasing stiffness in his leg. “I feel more like a bum tire on a tugboat”
“Here comes Zac,” Giordino said pointing. Pitt twisted and looked in the direction of Giordino’s ex tended finger.
The black Mercedes was approaching down a trail from the mountains, pulling a cloud of brown dust behind its rear bumper. A quarter of a mile away swung onto the paved coastal road, dropping the dust cloud, and soon Pitt could hear the steady purr of the diesel engine above the beat from the surf below. The car rolled to a stop beside the truck and Zacynthus and Zeno unreeled from the front seat. They were followed by Darius, who made no attempt to disguise a painful limp. Zacynthus was dressed in old faded army fatigues, and his eyes were tired and bloodshot He gave the impression of a man who had spent a dismal and sleepless night. Pitt grinned sympathetically at him.
“Well Zac, how did it go? See anything interesting?”
Zacynthus didn’t seem to hear him. He wearily pulled his pipe from a pocket, filled the bowl and lit it. Then he sank slowly to the ground, stretching out and leaning on one elbow.
“The bastards, the dirty cunning bastards,” he swore bitterly. “We spent the whole night straining our eyes and sneaking around trees and boulders, with mosquitoes attacking us at every turn. And what did we find?” He took a deep breath to answer his own question, but Pitt beat him to it.
“You found nothing, you saw nothing and you heard nothing.”
Zacynthus managed a faint smile. “Does it show that much?”
“It shows,” Pitt replied briefly.
“This whole business is exceedingly exasperating.” Zacynthus accented his words by pounding his fist into the soft earth.
“Exceedingly exasperating?” Pitt echoed. “Is that the best you can do?”
Zacynthus sat up and shrugged his shoulders helplessly. “I’ve just about reached the end of my rope. I feel as though I’ve just clawed my way up a steep mountain, only to find the peak enshrouded in fog. Possibly you understand, I don’t know, but I’ve dedicated my life to tracking down scum like von Till.” He paused for a moment, then went on very quietly. “I’ve never failed to crack a case. I can’t give up now. That ship must be stopped, and yet, thanks to our lily white code of justice, it can’t be stopped. God, can you imagine
what will happen if that cargo of heroin reaches the States?”
“I’ve given it some thought.”
“Screw your code of justice.” Giordino seemed vexed. “Let me stick a limpet mine on that old tub’s hull and bang,” he formed a blast cloud with his hands. “The fish inherit the drugs.”
Zacynthus nodded slowly. “You have a direct approach, but a—”
“Simple mind,” Pitt interrupted again. He grinned at Giordino’s scornful glance.
“Believe me, I would much prefer to see a hundred schools of doped-up fish than one drug crazed school boy.” Zacynthus’ voice was grim. “Destroying that ship would only solve the immediate problem; it’s like cutting off one tentacle of an octopus. We’d still be left with von Till and his able gang of sea-going smugglers, not to mention the unanswered riddle of his—I am forced to admit—ingenious operation. No, we must be patient The Queen Artemisia hasn’t docked at Chicago yet We’ll get another chance at her Marseille.”
“I don’t think you’ll have any better luck in Marseille,” Pitt said doubtfully. “Even if one of your phony French dockworkers slips on board, you have the gilt-edged Pitt guarantee that he won’t find anything worth writing home about.”
“How would you know that for certa
“With him, anything’s possible,” Giordino murmured. “He was seaward of the ship when it anchored. I lost him through the night glasses for almost half an hour.”
Now all four men looked at Pitt questioningly.
Pitt laughed and flipped his cigarette over the embankment. “The time has come, the walrus said, to speak of many things. Gather round gentlemen and listen to the cloak and dagger adventures of Dirk Pitt, the naked cat burglar.”
Pitt finally leaned back against the truck and became silent. For a long moment he stared at the thoughtful faces in front of him.
“There you have it. As neat a little set-up as you can find.” He smiled wryly. “The Queen Artemisia is in reality nothing but a false front. Oh sure, it sails the briny blue, picking up and delivering cargo. That’s where any similarity between a bona fide cargo freighter and Queen ends. She’s an old ship, true, but beneath her steel skin beats a complete up-to-date centralized control system. I saw the same equipment on an old ship in the Pacific just last year. No large crew is required. Six or seven men can handle her easily.”
“No fuss, no muss,” Giordino said admiringly.
“Precisely,” Pitt nodded. “Each compartment, each cabin is set up as a stage prop. When the ship reaches port the crew materializes from the wings and turns into a cast of actors.”
“Pardon this humble man’s blind perception, Major.” The peasant choice of words failed to mask the Oxford accent of Zeno’s voice. “I do not understand how the Queen Artemisia can engage in commercial shipping without the necessary maintenance during long voyages.”
‘It’s like a historical landmark,” Pitt explained.
“Let’s say a famous castle where the fires in the fireplaces still burn, the plumbing still works, and the grounds are always trimmed and neat. Five days out of the week the castle is closed, but on the weekends it opens for the tourists, or, in this case, the Customs Inspectors.”
“And the caretakers?” Zeno asked quizzically.
“The caretakers,” Pitt murmured, “live in the cellar.”
“Only rats live in cellars,” Darius ventured dryly.
“A very, appropriate observation, Darius,” Pitt said approvingly. “Particularly when you consider the two-legged variety we’re dealing with.”
“Cellars, stage props, castles. A crew buried somewhere in the hull. What are you driving at?” Zacynth demanded. “Please get to the point”
“I’m coming to it. To begin with, the crew isn't quartered in the hull. They’re quartered under it.”
Zacynthus’ eyes narrowed. “That’s not possible.”
“On the contrary,” Pitt grinned. “It would be entirely possible if the good Queen Artemisia was pregnant.”
There was a brief incredulous silence. All four stared at Pitt in blank skepticism. Giordino broke the silence first.
“You’re trying to tell us something, but I'll be damned if you’re getting through.”
“Zac admitted that von Till’s method of smuggling is ingenious,” Pitt said. “And he’s right. The ingenuity lies in the simplicity. The Queen Artemisia and the other Minerva ships can operate independently or they can be controlled by a satellite vessel attached to their hulls. Think about it for a minute. It’s not as ridiculous as it sounds.” Pitt spoke with a calm surety about him that began to crack any doubts. “The Queen didn’t:’ cruise two days off her course just to blow kisses at von Till. Contact must have been made somehow.” He turned to Zacynthus and Zeno, “You and your men, watched the villa and saw no sign of a signal.”
“Nor did anyone enter or leave,” Zeno added.
“Same goes for the ship,” said Giordino eyeing Pitt curiously. “No one set foot on the beach except you.”’
“Darius and I make it unanimous,” said Pitt. “He heard no radio transmissions and I found the radio cabin deserted.”
“I’m beginning to see your point,” Zac said thoughtfully. “Any communication between the ship and von Till could only have taken place underwater. But I’m still not sure I buy your satellite vessel theory.”
“Try this one.” Pitt paused. “What travels long distances under water, carries a crew, has the capacity to hold a hundred and thirty tons of heroin, and would never be searched by Customs or the Bureau of Narcotic Inspectors? The only logical answer Is a full scale submarine.”
“Nice try, but it won’t pass.” Zac shook his head.
‘We’ve had divers search beneath the waterline of every Minerva ship at least a hundred times. They have yet to discover a submarine.”
“They most likely never will.” Pitt’s mouth felt dry and his cigarette tasted like burnt cardboard. He flipped the butt out into the middle of the road and watched it smoke until the tar beneath the glowing ember melted into a tiny black pool. “It’s not the method that’s at fault. Your divers are missing the boat—if you’ll forgive the pun—because of timing.”
“Are you suggesting the sub is released before the ships dock?” Zacynthus asked.
“That’s the general idea,” Pitt agreed.
‘What then? Where does it go?”
“For the answers let's begin with the Queen Artemisia in Shanghai.” Pitt paused a moment, collecting his thoughts. “If you had been standing on the wharves of the Whangpoo River, watching the ship take on cargo you’d have seen an ordinary loading operation. Cranes lifting sacks—they would be easiest to handle the heroin into the ship’s holds. The heroin came first, but It didn’t remain in the holds. It was transferred to the sub, probably through a hidden hatch that wouldn’t show up on any Customs detection gear. The legitimate cargo was then loaded on board and the Queen shoved off for Ceylon. There, the soybeans and tea were exchanged for the cocoa and graphite—another legitimate cargo. The detour to Thasos came next. For orders from von Till most likely. Then on to Marseille for fuel and the final drop in Chicago.”
“There’s something bugging me,” Giordino murmured.
“Such as?”
“I’m no expert on pigboats so I can’t figure how one could play baby kangaroo with a freighter or where it could accommodate two hundred and sixty thousand pounds of drugs.”
“Modifications had to be made,” Pitt acknowledged. “But it wouldn’t take any great engineering feat to remove the conning tower and other projections until the top deck fitted flush against the mother ship’s keel. The average fleet-type sub of World War II had a displacement of fifteen hundred tons, a length of over three hundred feet, a hull height of ten feet, and a beam of twenty-seven feet—roughly twice the size of a suburban house. Once the torpedo rooms, the eighty man crew quarters and the unnecessary paraphernalia were cleared out there would be more than ample space to store the heroin.”
Pitt saw that Zacynthus was regarding him in a very peculiar manner: there was a deep look of contemplation on his face. Then his features showed the first traces of genuine understanding.
“Tell me, Major,” he asked. “What speed could the Queen Artemisia make with a sub fastened to her hull?”
Pitt thought a moment “I’d say about twelve knots. Unencumbered, however, the ship’s normal cruising speed would be closer to fifteen or sixteen.”
Zacynthus turned to Zeno. “It’s quite possible the Major’s on the right track.”
“I know what you are thinking, my inspector.” Zeno’s teeth parted beneath the great moustache. “We have often concerned our thoughts with the puzzling variance of the cruising speeds among Minerva ships.”
Zacynthus’ eyes came back to Pitt “The heroin drop, when and how is it made?”
“At night during high tide. Too risky during the day. The sub could be spotted from the air—”
“That checks.” Zacynthus interrupted. “Von Till’s freighters are always scheduled to reach port after sunset.”
“As to the drop,” Pitt hadn’t even taken notice of the interrupt
“No doubt they’d have a pilot on board who was familiar with every inch of the harbor,” Zacynthus said thoughtfully.
“A first rate harbor pilot is an absolute necessity for an operation like von Till’s,” Pitt agreed. “Dodging underwater obstacles over a shallow bottom in the dark is no exercise for an amateur yachtsman.”
“The next problem on the agenda,” Zacynthus said slowly, “is to determine the location where the sub can unload and distribute the heroin without fear of detection."
“How about a deserted warehouser Giordino volunteered. His eyes were closed and he looked like he was dozing, but Pitt knew from long experience that he hadn’t missed a word.
Pitt laughed. “The evil villain who slinks around deserted warehouses went out with Sherlock Holmes. Waterfront property is at a premium. An idle building would only arouse instant suspicion. Besides, as Zac here can tell you, a warehouse would be the first place an investigator would look.”
A faint smile crossed Zacynthus’ lips. “Major Pitt is right All docks and warehouses are closely watched by our Bureau and Customs, not to mention the County Harbor Patrols. No, whatever the method, it must be extremely clever. Clever enough to have worked smoothly and successfully all these years.”
There was a long pause, then he went on quietly.
“Now at long last we have a definite lead. It’s only a thread, but if it’s attached to a rope and the rope is attached to a chain, then with a bit of good fortune von Till will be found at the other end.”
“If you wish to pursue the Major’s supposition, It is vital that Darius Inform our agents in Marseille.” Zeno’s tone was that of a man trying to convince himself of something that was not a positive fact
“No, the less they know, the better,” Zacynthus shook his head. “I want no action taken that might put a bug in von Till’s ear. The Queen Artemisia and the heroin must reach Chicago without Interference.”