Francesini knew what his boss meant. An illegal strike at Khan would reap all kinds of repercussions spinning down on them from the Whitehouse. But if it meant stopping the madman, Starling was willing to do it. All Francesini had to do was load the gun; Starling would pull the trigger.
Marsh sat through the debriefing with as much professional interest as he could muster but managed to feel completely wooden about the whole business. He answered Khan’s questions, responded to Batista’s suggestions and generally behaved as though he was cooperating willingly, and in a professional manner, but there was little he could add to the meeting. One small distraction he had was a germ of an idea that was growing in him, and he flirted with it in the likelihood that it might at least bring some hope and a little encouragement into his current predicament.
He let the mechanics of the debriefing drone on and thought also about the Khan’s plans, convinced now that he knew what the madman was up to. The picture of Greg Walsh’s body being peppered with bullets came into his mind, and then the realisation at the time that Khan was part of some murderous scheme. He could now make educated guesses at Walsh’s involvement in it and wondered why his partner had never shared the secret with him. Perhaps, in some perverse way, it was to protect him and Helen. But despite the reasons for Walsh’s secrecy, the whole aspect of what had gone before and what was likely to come filled him with horror.
He thought about the idea that had germinated in his mind to raise the odds a little. If he could persuade Khan to bring Helen to the Taliba, he believed it might give the police at Freeport a chance to pick up the trail, providing they were actually aware of her kidnap. He was sure that Mac, the technician at the boatyard would have reported Helen’s disappearance by now and the police would be searching for her. It was a long shot but he was willing to try it. Besides, he desperately wanted to see Helen again.
“How many more dives?” he asked suddenly.
Khan was talking to Batista. He stopped and looked at Marsh. “Two. Why?”
“When is the next dive?”
Khan appeared irritated. He glanced at de Leon. “I presume the freighter captain is aware of the change of schedule?”
De Leon concurred. “We should rendezvous with her tomorrow evening.”
“Seventy two hours perhaps,” Khan told Marsh, “weather permitting. Why do you ask?”
Marsh bit the bullet; he had nothing to lose. He stood up slowly, making them all wait. Khan’s eyes followed him, his expression folding into one of deep curiosity.
“Before I dive,” Marsh told Khan, “I want to see Helen Walsh.”
Khan bridled and seemed to grow a few inches. “That is impossible Marsh. And impractical! I can assure you Helen Walsh is in good health and being well looked after.”
Marsh walked over to the cabin door. Pausing at the door, he turned and looked directly at Khan. It was dramatic, but he wanted Khan to know that he was serious.
“Khan, your word is not good enough. If there are any assurances to be made, I will be the one to make them. If Helen Walsh and I do not meet before the next scheduled dive, I promise you I will not pilot the Challenger.” Marsh knew instinctively that he held the whip hand for the moment. “You can threaten me if you wish, or threaten Helen, but it will have no effect on my decision. Unless I see her alive, I will not pilot the Challenger.”
He walked out of Khan’s cabin without waiting for a reply. If it was possible to feel like a million dollars at that moment, Marsh did. He took a few, good deep breaths of the cool, ocean air and went aft to his cabin.
The presence of Francesini at the police headquarters in Freeport left the police with no doubt now just how serious the Americans viewed the degree of escalation in the Helen Walsh kidnapping, and the presence of police commissioner Henry Cleve gave credence to that realisation. Any officers who might have assumed otherwise were now in no doubt that however serious a crime one considered kidnap to be, there was something else that put this one at the top of the pile.
Henry Cleve was a large, rotund man; Bahamian by birth, black with grey, tight curly hair. He was well over six feet tall and dominated everyone and everything around him. Even Inspector Bain managed to loose stature alongside him. With his arm in a sling from the gunshot wound inflicted on him by Sweeting Maclean, Bain had paled into the position of an interested onlooker.
Cleve’s voice boomed out. “Admiral Starling and I have spoken at length on this,” he was telling Francesini, “and we both understand how difficult it is to do anything about Mister Khan and the Taliba unless he steams into Bahamian territory. To date he has committed no crime, none that we can prove anyway, and your Coast Guard failed to find anything incriminating on him or his ship. And we have nothing to link him with Helen Walsh.”
Francesini knew the business of protocol, international relations and all that ensued, and the difficulty of a C.I.A. operation working smoothly without the knowledge of the local police force, but there were times when it was necessary to involve the local security forces even when he was extremely reluctant to do so. He also understood how corrupt some minor police forces could be and their lack of internal security could jeopardise a complete operation. But for Francesini it was mea culpa and he had no choice but to ask the help of the police commissioner and to feed him as much information as he dared.
“I understand sir, but we consider your cooperation to be of the highest priority. It’s vitally important that we find Helen Walsh and the man who kidnapped her. That way we might be able to link him directly to Hakeem Khan and give us the evidence we need to arrest him.”
Commissioner Cleve turned his attention to Bain who was sitting alongside him. “Inspector Bain is aware of the high priority you have placed on this and he has expressed his wish to continue as officer in charge of this investigation.” He looked back at Francesini, the condescending look barely leaving his face. “And I am quite happy he should do that,” he went on, “but it is appropriate, I think, that he should be informed of all the relevant facts.” He made the point of emphasising the last sentence.
“I’m sure he will be sir,” Francesini answered lamely.
“Admiral Starling has left this to your own judgement, I believe. But I can tell you that I will be favourably disposed to your request for our continuing assistance only if you show good judgement. You do understand, don’t you?”
Touché! Francesini admired the commissioner’s style. Diplomatic gobbledegook and framed in such a way that left Francesini in no doubt who was in charge and that he expected to know as much as the C.I.A.
With that, Cleve stood up and took his leave.
One hour later, Francesini was sitting in Inspector Bain’s office enjoying a coffee and a cigar. He had spoken at length with Starling on the phone to confirm that he would be taking the police Inspector into his complete confidence and assured his boss that he would keep him informed of developments.
“How secure is your intelligence network?” Francesini asked the Inspector.
“What we have is reasonable, but we are usually dealing with drug smugglers.” He considered the importance of the question for a while. “In normal circumstances I could rely on our security, but I cannot regard this as normal.”
Francesini drew heavily on the cigar and drank another mouthful of coffee. Bain had offered him tea before remembering his last attempt at getting the American to drink his own favourite brew.
“We need to know where Maclean disappeared to after your last contact,” Francesini told him. He didn’t want to refer to it as a ‘debacle’, but in his opinion it was nothing short of a bloody catastrophe, particularly considering the loss of a police officer.