Dead Bishops Don't Lie, page 15
“Don’t let them contact anyone. No, especially not their lawyer. No one until I return, is that clear?” said Dulac to Cotini.
Karen, Basso, and Dulac entered the harbor master’s office. Dulac looked at the weary -old man behind the large counter. “Dulac, Interpol. Get me the navigation reports. I want to see where the Eastland was anchored last night, before clearing customs.”
Furrowing through his records, the harbor master pointed to a mooring buoy, about three quarters of a mile offshore.
Dulac turned to Basso, “How quickly can you get a dive team here?”
“About fifteen minutes.”
“Hurry. We may be already too late.”
* * *
Basso made a few phone calls and twenty minutes later, an emergency dive team arrived.
“You can borrow one of our patrol boats,” said the harbor master to Dulac.
While Karen waited at the harbor master’s office, Dulac, Basso, and the two divers headed out to the mooring buoy.
The men dove, and Dulac leaned over the boat’s side, looking anxiously at the bubbles rising, breaking the surface, and marking the slow route of the divers as they progressed methodically over the ocean floor. They stopped, and after a moment, the bubbles increased in frequency and size until one of the divers broke the surface. His arm outstretched upwards, he held a small package and swam clumsily over to the boat.
Dulac took the mud-covered packet nervously, almost dropping it back into the water. “Give me a knife,” he said to Basso. Dulac cut the wrapping twine and noticed the letter M printed on the material underneath the transparent, waterproof envelope. As he unwrapped the last remaining folds, he exclaimed, jubilant, “Bingo!”
A small lead weight fell onto the floorboard. Atop, four wads of hundred dollar bills, neatly stacked. Dulac counted fifty in each wad. Basso stared silently in amazement, as the other diver surfaced with two packets,
“How many more?” Dulac yelled to the diver.
“Molto, molto.”
Dulac signaled the divers to come in, and the men, looking perplexed, climbed over the stern of the patrol boat.
“We must get a net,” said Basso.
“No, not now,” replied Dulac, “we’re after bigger fish. The bait stays here,” he said, pointing at the water.
Dulac instructed the boat’s driver to head toward shore, while he carefully put the muddy packets in a plastic bag.
* * *
Dulac ordered Basso to have the Eastland lifted out of the water, under strict surveillance. “Everything should look as if the maintenance work is proceeding as planned,” he said to Basso. “Get me Interpol, Italy, Inspector Belli”, said Dulac. He waited until the familiar voice answered. “I’ll need four armed patrol boats and a helicopter on standby” said Dulac.
“No problem,” said Belli.
“Get down here as quickly as you can and wait for me at the harbor master’s office.”
Chapter 41
“But you can’t interrogate him. That’s our job,” said Basso to Dulac, as Dulac walked into the cell area were Stephanopoulos was kept.
“You’re wrong. The Interpol-Italian police agreement allows me to interrogate a suspect I’m chasing cross-border. What do you think this is?”
Basso complied and opened the cell gate, in complete ignorance of what Dulac was talking about.
“Where did you get them?” Dulac showed Stephanopoulos the two white plastic bags.
“Get what?” replied the captain, defiant.
“These.” Dulac took a packet out of the plastic bag.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about. I want to see a lawyer.”
“Later. You’re facing fifteen to twenty years in an Italian prison, Captain. I’m told they rate with the best. You’re no longer a young man, Captain. They like old men in prison: they can’t defend themselves as easily.”
“For what?”
“Try money laundering, smuggling, obstruction of justice for a start.”
“You have no proof.”
“Captain, as we speak, the other packets are being sent to Lyon. We’re raising the Eastland tomorrow. Your crew tell me they have done this many times with you before.”
Dulac stepped closer, smiling smugly, looking directly into the captain’s eyes. “For the last time, where did you get these? Who is in on this? Did you get orders from the marchioness? Where are the packets going?”
Stephanopoulos was sweating again, trying desperately to avoid Dulac’s eyes. They seemed to be bolted onto his as Dulac came closer, inches from his face. “I, I know nothing.”
“As you wish.” Dulac slowly released his stare and lit a cigarette.
“Smoke?”
“No.”
“You’re on your own, Captain. This ship is sinking. Fast. It’s every man for himself. I’m your only lifeboat. Cooperate and I’ll help. Don’t, and I’ll see you get twenty years. Think about it.”
Dulac opened the cell gate and left.
* * *
Stephanopoulos knew it was over. Tomorrow, they’d find the double bottom he’d had installed on the Eastland. They would find the bypass valve that linked the pumps. He also knew that his only hope of survival was to show Them he would not flinch. He must take the rap on his own. He knew the rules. They warned him that if he was ever caught and he betrayed Them, then he and his family, were dead.
These weren’t threats. Simply the rules. No exceptions. He thought of his wife Aspasia and their two children, Theo and Paul, and his eyes welled with tears. How could I have done this to them? How could I have been so stupid as to forget washing the hoses? He had to warn Them, but how? Basso wasn’t about to let him make any calls, at least not now. Besides, with a good lawyer, he could still beat this. They had bought judges in Naples before, many a time. But Dulac. What did he have up his sleeve? Could he have him extradited? To where? The ship was going down, but he had to shut up and stick to his guns. He steeled himself for the imminent suffering he knew he would face.
Chapter 42
Dulac returned from the precinct and went to the harbor master’s office to meet Belli. There, poring over a map of the bay, they conferred with the harbor master on the size of his boats, their speed, and their armament. Once the money was on board the pickup boat, the three patrol boats would intercept it. The helicopter would assist on request.
“It has to be tonight,” intoned Dulac. “They can’t leave these packages in the water much longer.”
“Hope you’re right,” said Belli.
A half-hour later, Belli confirmed the arrival of the patrol boats, and synchronized the VHF radio channel. As dusk fell, Belli and Dulac stared at the large radar screen covering the bay.
“Now, the waiting game,” said Dulac.
Dulac and Belli settled into their chairs, trying to rest, like generals on the night before the battle. The harbor master continued fielding calls from the boats at anchor in the bay, giving customs clearance instructions and allocating berthing schedules. Midnight, and still no sign of anyone approaching the mooring. Maybe it’s not the night, Dulac thought. He felt tired, his eyes watered, straining to see the dots on the radar screen, ships quietly at anchor in the bay.
“Maybe they called it off,” said the harbor master.
Dulac arose to stretch, and lit a Gitane. He looked at Belli for any reaction to the harbor master’s comment. He didn’t trust the Italians as far as he could heave them. Had someone from the police tipped off the crooks? Belli or Basso could have easily made a phone call. If so, they could all go home.
Belli got up to pour another coffee and, returned, shouting, “Look, something is moving on the screen.”
Dulac got up and peered at the radar. A small white dot was creeping inwards from the outside edge of the radar screen, but not in the direction of the mooring.
“Probably a night fisherman,” said the harbor master.
The three men watched intently and the dot started to turn slowly.
“They may be checking for boats,” said Belli.
After making a slow, complete circle, the boat turned suddenly towards the mooring ball.
“That’s them,” exclaimed Dulac. Turning to Belli he said, “Get on the radio.”
“We have suspects on radar. Can you see them?” said Belli to the patrol boats.
“No, we don’t see any navigation lights.”
The boat reached the mooring ball and stopped.
“Let them get the packages on board,” said Dulac to Belli.
“Patrol boats on standby,” whispered Belli over his radio.
The three stood breathless, captivated by the radar screen, knowing the timing had to be perfect: too early, or too late, and the crooks would escape. Minutes dragged by slowly.
Dulac coughed nervously and looked at the large wood-framed clock. Twenty-five minutes gone. The pickup boat was still at the mooring ball. The harbor master looked at Dulac, expectantly, the ticking of the large clock beating away like an old metronome.
* * *
What is he waiting for? thought Belli, sweat dripping from his eyebrows.
“Now,” exclaimed Dulac.
“Go,” shouted Belli on the VHF.
The three patrol boats’ drivers each gunned their twin 300 horsepower Yamaha outboards, and aimed their boats straight at the mooring ball. The onboard policemen ratcheted their machine guns, crouching, shielding their eyes from the incoming phosphorescent spray.
Suddenly, one of the patrol boats turned on its spotlight, and shone it in the direction of the mooring ball.
“Not yet, idiot,” exclaimed Dulac in disbelief.
“Stupido!” yelled Belli.
* * *
The driver of the modified forty-three foot Donzi ZR speedboat looked up, dazed for a moment by the glare of the rapidly approaching spotlight. The crane operator on the stern of the Donzi, busy hauling the large net, froze. At that moment, a second spotlight, coming from the opposite direction, flooded the other side of the Donzi. The driver reacted instantly. No time to haul the net or cut the line. He shoved the throttles full forward and turned the wheel twenty degrees.
The Donzi reared onto its stern like a mad stallion. Its twin 525 horsepower Mercury V-8 straight-piped inboards exploded into a deafening roar, their propellers digging furiously into the warm Mediterranean, spitting a wave of white foam behind the Donzi.
Let the cable run, the driver signaled the crane operator. The speedboat flattened out, still accelerating, the wheel of the crane spinning furiously. Suddenly, a sickening crack. The boat lurched slightly and the crane broke clean off the stern into the water.
The third patrol boat now converged at a forty-five degree angle onto the speedboat’s bow, while one of the men yelled over his megaphone, “Stop or we shoot.”
The men on the Donzi answered with a hail of bullets, shattering the patrol boat’s spotlight. The first and second patrol boats, directly behind, opened fire. The Donzi zigged and zagged, then veered and aimed straight for a large tanker at anchor. The patrol boats stopped firing. At the last possible second, the Donzi swerved to avoid the tanker, swerved again, and aimed for a freighter a few hundred yards away. The patrol boats followed helplessly, quickly losing ground.
“We’re losing him,” yelled one of the patrol boat drivers to Belli.
“Get the helicopter up,” called Belli on the VHF.
The Donzi veered again, missing the freighter by inches. The patrol boats opened fire again as the Donzi made a tight left turn. Then it straightened, aimed at a fishing trawler. The patrol boats, oblivious to safety, opened fire.
The Donzi closed at full throttle onto the fishing trawler, when suddenly the driver fell forward, inert on the controls.
“Get him off!” yelled one of the crew to the man nearest the limp driver. The man reached under the driver, frantically trying to turn the steering wheel. Too late. The Donzi slammed into the trawler, exploding into a fireball of fiberglass, human flesh, and gasoline. Seconds later, the fiery debris bombarded the trawler, igniting its wooden decks. Soon the small trawler was engulfed in flames, lighting the bay with its eerie yellow and orange tinge.
Dulac, Belli, and the harbor master stood for a moment, frozen in stupefaction.
Finally, grabbing the VHF radio from a thunderstruck Belli, the harbor master yelled,
“Look for survivors, check that trawler, assist in any way.” Switching his radio to the emergency channel, the harbor master ordered, “Get the firefighter boat out there.”
A few moments later, the flames began to abate. Then a second explosion rocked the harbor. The trawler, tilting heavily to starboard, disappeared slowly in a wall of fire.
“Catastrophe,” said Dulac under his breath, peering through the binoculars at the sinking inferno.
* * *
The next morning, Dulac rose from his hotel bed, went to the door, and picked up the Corriere Della Sera. Its bold headline read: “High-speed chase in the Bay of Naples. Speedboat and trawler sink. Four dead, three wounded. Police suspect drug connection.”
He phoned Belli. “Get the net up, find out who owned the Donzi. Send me the autopsy reports.”
“Sure” said Belli. “In the meantime we’ll work on Stephanopoulos.”
Dulac’s plan had failed miserably. The four men in the Donzi were dead. The three badly burned fishermen on the trawler were barely alive. He felt unwell. In the afternoon, an exhausted Dulac flew back to Paris, recounting the previous night’s events to an amazed yet compassionate Karen.
“What now?” she asked.
“They’re working on Stephanopoulos. The marchioness must be in on it, but unless I have direct evidence, I can’t press charges.”
“What about my testimony?
“Circumstantial. No, actually, hearsay. We’re getting court orders for wiretaps. I have to find out about the Eastland. I’ll know more when they haul it out.”
* * *
Stephanopoulos always called Lady Sarah after the Eastland docked in Naples:
“They did the usual search and found nothing,” reported Stephanopoulos the day before Dulac boarded.
“I will bring the Eastland to the shipyard tomorrow for maintenance,” the captain had said.
That was the last communication she had with the captain. The following day, Lady Sarah received a phone call. “They’ve arrested Stephanopoulos.”
“That’s impossible, I spoke to him yesterday and everything was fine,” replied the marchioness.
“Didn’t you read today’s Italian newspapers?”
“We get them two days late here.”
“Go to the Internet. Interpol has intercepted the shipment. The men on the Donzi are dead.” The voice hung up.
Sarah slumped in her chair as the disastrous news sank in. God, Dulac will be down here at any moment. I must call my lawyers. No, if Kostas had cracked, Dulac would be here already. Kostas won’t crack. He was tortured by the Greek government before the overthrow in 1967 and didn’t reveal any names of the resistance members. That’s why we chose him, she reminded herself, trying to remain calm. He’ll take the punishment. After a few years, he’ll come out a rich man. He’ll do it for his family; family is everything for Greeks.
Chapter 43
Nicola was getting impatient. She had overstayed her welcome at her friend’s house, and she wanted desperately to get the exchange over and done with. She tried to imagine how a new life, a normal life, would be outside of Russia. No more intrigues, no more hiding from the FSB, no more policemen breaking into apartments, violating what little privacy she had. Every aspect of Russian life seemed darker, more oppressive than ever before. From her aunt’s letters, Canada could give her all of the normalcy she could hope for.
Sometimes, she felt herself almost forgiving Sergei. Without the sacrifice of his life, this couldn’t have happened. What is taking Petrov so long? She phoned the FSB.
“Petrov,” answered the familiar, gruff voice.
“Vasilieva. What is happening?”
“I’m waiting for Dulac. All passport papers are ready.”
“Good. When is the visa coming?” she said, trying to control her anxiety and impatience.
“Don’t worry. Soon.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
* * *
Petrov hadn’t heard from Dulac in three days. Was this French cooperation? He asked for FSB reports on his whereabouts and got his answer.
Interpol Thierry Dulac in Naples. Italian police seized Eastland, Caribbean flag vessel. Police arrested Kostas Stephanopoulos and crew for attempted money smuggling Drug connection suspected. Eastland owned jointly by Marchioness of Dorset and Maritime Museum of Rome.
Petrov phoned Dulac.
“The Canadian visa came yesterday, while I was in Naples,” said Dulac.
“Naples?” said Petrov, feigning ignorance.
“You didn’t know?”
“Niet.”
“We have arrested the captain and crew. They were smuggling drug money. We retrieved $5.2 million US.”
Petrov whistled. “Where was the money going?”
“We don’t know yet. The sting operation went badly.”
“What about the marchioness?”
“How do you know about her?” said Dulac.
Silence. They both knew Petrov had blown it. Before he could answer and try and dig himself out, Dulac let him off the hook “Anyway, let’s talk about Nicola. What’s your plan?”
“Send the visa. We will put with passport and acceptance in her bank. She will put money and Vasiliev’s letter in the safety deposit box.”
Chapter 44
As Sarah sat sipping her gin and tonic, the southerly Caribbean breeze was just starting to fill in over the bay, and its first gusts were beginning to cool the air of the hot terrace. The phone rang. Nervous, she answered and immediately, her fears were confirmed.
