Khan stared at it, fixed securely midway between the bridge and the foc’sle head. Was it all coincidence? He asked himself. Does someone know?
He got up from the desk and sat on the edge of his bed, removed his shoes and gave up pondering the imponderable. He settled back on the bed as the pain in his chest subsided and very soon was asleep.
About an hour later Khan was woken by a knock on the cabin door. It was de Leon. Khan called him in.
“We have received a reply,” de Leon began, “but I’m afraid it isn’t good news. We cannot get a pilot for the Challenger.”
The Challenger was a deep sea diving vessel, designed for underwater survey and exploration work. It was currently at the port of Havana in Cuba undergoing some essential maintenance under the watchful eye of Khan’s chief diver, Julio Batista.
Khan sat up and swung his legs off the bed. He ran his hand over his face. “It doesn’t surprise me,” he said. “We’re not exactly overrun with submersible pilots in this game.” He slipped his shoes on and stood up.
“You will have to pilot her. You were going to anyway.” de Leon told him.
Khan shot him a stern look. “You know I cannot; the risk would be too high.”
The pain in his chest was never far away. To risk a complicated dive could put too much strain on his heart. To attempt the three dives that they needed would almost certainly end in disaster, and their plan would certainly fail.
He walked over to his desk and switched on the light. Sitting there, with the light throwing a shadow over his features, it added an uncomfortable menace to his already dominant nature.
“Who is there who could pilot the Challenger?” de Leon asked him.
Khan considered that for a moment. “Only two; Riker, the American, but he’s currently working somewhere in the Pacific on a commission for the Woods Hole Institute. And the other is Harry Marsham. He is, or was,” he corrected himself, “a partner in the underwater business run by Greg Walsh. They own the Helena, the sister ship to our Challenger. Trouble is; if he was with Walsh he’ll be dead.”
“How long would it take to train someone? De Leon asked.
Khan shrugged. “Depending on the weather conditions, a competent submersible pilot could be trained within two weeks. But we would need to do test dives. And we don’t have the time. The weather is deteriorating, and we have been warned to expect a hurricane.” He shook his head irritably. “No time. The longer we are kept from completing our task, the more likely it is that the Americans will learn the truth and stop us.”
“If we cannot find another pilot, you will have to do it.”
Khan’s eyes hardened. They were like deep pools of water crystallising into ice. His hand strayed to his chest and his fingers gently touched the silk of his shirt.
“If only the accident had not happened,” he muttered angrily, looking up at de Leon. “The accident to Habib, I mean.”
Habib was the man that Remo Francesini found dying in the hospital in Miami.
“The bomb incident was unfortunate, but costly,” de Leon observed. “We were lucky your group were able to locate another.”
Khan nodded. “Replacing the bomb will turn out to be easier than replacing Habib.” His hand fell away from his chest. “But we must find another diver. We must!”
Francesini thought he had hit the equivalent of pay dirt: pure gold. But he had been in the game too long to count his chickens. The poor, unfortunate wretch who had been lying near death through radiation burns had whispered one word: Taliban. Or so Francesini had thought.
A report from the United States Coast Guard had linked the name of a man pulled out of the sea with a gunshot wound in his leg to that of the ‘Ocean Quest’ underwater survey company, operating out of the Bahamas. The man’s name was Harry Marsham, one of the directors of the company. The other two directors were Helen Walsh and her husband, Greg Walsh.
Francesini had ‘flagged’ Walsh’s name on the C.I.A. computers when Walsh’s suppositions and fears had landed on his desk. It wasn’t necessary to give a reason; simply a request to feed through anything that came into the C.I.A. network that might be of interest to a particular department.
It wasn’t until he recalled the information he had in a file on Greg Walsh that the truth hit him. Coupled with the seemingly outrageous supposition by Walsh, one that he could not trust himself to divulge to Admiral Starling, was the appearance in the report of the word ‘Taliba’.
Was that, he wondered, the name the dying man had whispered to him in the hospital? Taliba?
Francesini read the summation of his own, written discourse and tried not to let his imagination run away with him. If the dead man had come from the ship, Taliba, and was dying from radiation burns because of his association with that vessel, then he had a duty to put a high priority on it.
But he had to be careful.
And he had to be right.
Marsh opened his eyes, blinked briefly and stared into the face of a man sitting beside his bed. It was a pleasant face. His expression was cheerful; a countenance conspired probably to cheer the patient up. Marsh thought he could smell cigar smoke, but the man was not smoking.
“Hi.” Marsh felt tenderness in his throat and knew he would have to speak softly. He looked around the room. It was aesthetically clean, as though its sterility was forced, demanding to be seen without prejudice. Marsh frowned but welcomed the small vase of flowers that added a touch of contrasting colour. “Who are you?”
The man smiled. It was a pleasant smile. “My name is Remo Francesini, but my friends call me Remo.” He shrugged. “Some even call me Frankie. And you’re Harry Marsham. Do I call you Harry?”
Marsh liked him immediately. There was no affectation in his manner and he appeared relaxed and friendly.
“No, Marsh will do. Where am I?” he asked.
“Guantanamo Bay Naval hospital.”
Marsh lifted his head off the pillow. “How the hell did I get here?” he asked. “Did you pull me out of the water?”
“Hell no, the only time I get near water is when I take a shower.” He leaned a little closer, his expression changing a little. “Look, I said I would let them know if you woke up, ok?” He got up from the chair. “Just a few minutes, then I’ll be back.”
He left Marsh alone. It was quiet, and that slight smell of cigar smoke reminded him he was back with the living. He wondered how he was going to explain Greg’s death to Helen. Why they were actually where they were when the freighter struck. It was Greg’s insistence that they sailed out to that point but he never did give a reason. It wasn’t unusual for the two of them to spend a day or two out sailing, but they would often have Helen with them. This time, Greg had persuaded Marsh that they should leave Helen behind. For some reason, it didn’t seem to bother Helen.
He put his thoughts back to how he would explain such bizarre circumstances surrounding Greg’s death. Was it an accident? If he told her that the action of the ship that struck them was definitely hostile, would she believe him? Would anybody for that matter? And could he prove it?
During his life and death struggle, Marsh has wanted to get back on dry land and report everything to the authorities. But how could he explain it? Why would the crew of the freighter open fire on him? No doubt the authorities would put it down to smugglers where weapons were de rigeur. But more worryingly, if he made it known publicly what he had witnessed on the Taliba, and the switch of cargo, he knew without doubt he would put his own life in danger.
There was a noise outside in the corridor. The door swung open and a doctor came into the room with a nurse. Marsh gave up worrying about his immediate problem and let the doctor examine him.