The Mediterranean Caper (Dirk Pitt 2)

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

in?” Zacynthus suddenly looked up, surprised. “Unless. . . unless. you somehow searched the ship yourself.”

“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.