The Mediterranean Caper (Dirk Pitt 2)

Pitt stripped off the tank and let it fall to the soft wet sand along with the breathing regulator and his mask and snorkel. Exhaustion curled its numbing tentacles around him and he succumbed to it, dropping to his hands and knees. His body felt sore and beat, but his mind hardly noticed these things; it was busy with something else.

Pitt could find no indication of the heroin on board the ship, nor would the Bureau of Narcotics or the Customs Inspectors. That much was certain. Below the waterline, that was a possibility. But surely the wary investigators would have divers examine every inch of the hull when the ship docked. Besides, there was no way a cargo of that size could be removed, unless it was dropped in the water and recovered Later. That wouldn’t work either, he thought, it was too obvious; retrieving a watertight container filled with a hundred and thirty tons of solid material would require a full scale salvage operation. No, there had to be a more ingenious method, one that had successfully defied detection for so long.

He took the diver’s knife and idly began sketching the Queen Artemisias outline in the wet sand. Then, quite suddenly, the idea of a diagram intrigued him. He stood up and traced a hull that stretched for approximately thirty feet. The bridge, the holds and engine room, every detail he could recall was etched into the yielding white sand. Minutes passed and the ship started to take shape. Pitt had become so totally absorbed in his work that he didn’t notice an old man and a donkey, trudging wearily along the beach.

The old man stopped in his tracks and stared at Pitt from a ripened old face that had seen too many decades of strife to show an expression of bewilderment. After a few moments he shrugged uncomprehendingly and ambled off after his donkey.

Finally the diagram was nearly complete, down to the last companionway. The knife flashed in the new sun as Pitt added a final humorous touch; a tiny bird on a tiny ventilator. Then he stepped back to admire his handiwork. He stared at it for a moment, then laughed aloud. “One thing’s certain, I’ll never be acclaimed for my artwork. It looks more like a pregnant whale than a ship.”

Pitt continued to absentmindedly gaze at the sand drawing. Suddenly his eyes took on a trance-like glaze and his rugged face lost all expression. The spark of a novel and fanciful idea lit dimly in his conscious mind. At first the idea seemed too outlandish for him to consider, but the more he dwelt on its possibilities, the more feasible it became. Quickly he traced additional lines in the sand. Completely absorbed again, he raced to match up the diagram with the picture in his mind. When the last change was finished, his mouth slowly twisted into a grim smile of satisfaction. Damned clever of von Till, he thought, damned clever.

He wasn’t tired anymore, his mind was no longer burdened with unsolvable questions. It was a new approach, a new kind of answer. It should have been discovered long before. Quickly, he gathered up the diving equipment and started to hike over the incline that separated the beach from the coastal road. There was no thought of quitting the game now. The next inning would prove to be the most interesting. At the top he turned and looked back at the sketch of the Queen Artemisia in the sand.

The rising tide was just washing over and erasing the ship’s funnel, the funnel marked with the big Minerva “M.”

14

Giordino lay stretched out beside a blue Air Force pickup truck, dead asleep, his head resting on a binocular case and both feet propped carelessly on a large rock. A trail of ants tramped across his outflung forearm and, ignor

ing the obstacle in their path, continued their uninterrupted journey toward a small mound of loose dirt. Pitt looked down smiling. If there was one thing Giordino could do, and do well, he thought, it was sleeping anywhere at anytime and under any condition.

Pitt shook his fins, letting the salty dampness dribble on Giordino’s composed face. No drowsy babble, no sudden reaction greeted the rude sprinkling. The only response came from one big brown eye that popped open, gazing straight at Pitt in obvious annoyance.

“Aha! Behold! Our intrepid guardian with the watchful eye!” There was no mistaking Pitt's sarcastic tone. “I shudder to think of the death toll if you should ever decide to become a lifeguard.”

The opposite lid slowly raised like a window shade, revealing the matching eye. “Just to set the record straight,” Giordino said wearily. “These tired old eyes were glued to the night glasses from the time you got into your packing crate to the time you came ashore and started playing in the sand.”

“My apologies old friend.” Pitt laughed. “I suppose that doubting your unflagging vigilance will cost me another drink?”

“Two drinks,” Giordino murmured slyly.

“Consider it done.”

Giordino sat up, blinking in the sun. He noticed the ants and casually brushed them off his arm. “How’d your swim go?’

“Robert Southey must have had the Queen Arteinisia in mind when he wrote ‘No stir in the air, no stir in the sea, the ship was still as she could be.’ You might say that I found something by finding nothing”

“I don’t get it.”

“I’ll explain later.” Pitt lifted the diving gear and loaded it in the truck bed. “Any word from Zac?”

“Not yet.” Giordino trained the binoculars on von Till’s villa. “He and Zeno took a platoon of the local gendarmerie and staked out von Till’s baronial estate.

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.”