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Pitt laughed and flipped his cigarette over the embankment. “The time has come, the walrus said, to speak of many things. Gather round gentlemen and listen to the cloak and dagger adventures of Dirk Pitt, the naked cat burglar.”
Pitt finally leaned back against the truck and became silent. For a long moment he stared at the thoughtful faces in front of him.
“There you have it. As neat a little set-up as you can find.” He smiled wryly. “The Queen Artemisia is in reality nothing but a false front. Oh sure, it sails the briny blue, picking up and delivering cargo. That’s where any similarity between a bona fide cargo freighter and Queen ends. She’s an old ship, true, but beneath her steel skin beats a complete up-to-date centralized control system. I saw the same equipment on an old ship in the Pacific just last year. No large crew is required. Six or seven men can handle her easily.”
“No fuss, no muss,” Giordino said admiringly.
“Precisely,” Pitt nodded. “Each compartment, each cabin is set up as a stage prop. When the ship reaches port the crew materializes from the wings and turns into a cast of actors.”
“Pardon this humble man’s blind perception, Major.” The peasant choice of words failed to mask the Oxford accent of Zeno’s voice. “I do not understand how the Queen Artemisia can engage in commercial shipping without the necessary maintenance during long voyages.”
‘It’s like a historical landmark,” Pitt explained.
“Let’s say a famous castle where the fires in the fireplaces still burn, the plumbing still works, and the grounds are always trimmed and neat. Five days out of the week the castle is closed, but on the weekends it opens for the tourists, or, in this case, the Customs Inspectors.”
“And the caretakers?” Zeno asked quizzically.
“The caretakers,” Pitt murmured, “live in the cellar.”
“Only rats live in cellars,” Darius ventured dryly.
“A very, appropriate observation, Darius,” Pitt said approvingly. “Particularly when you consider the two-legged variety we’re dealing with.”
“Cellars, stage props, castles. A crew buried somewhere in the hull. What are you driving at?” Zacynth demanded. “Please get to the point”
“I’m coming to it. To begin with, the crew isn't quartered in the hull. They’re quartered under it.”
Zacynthus’ eyes narrowed. “That’s not possible.”
“On the contrary,” Pitt grinned. “It would be entirely possible if the good Queen Artemisia was pregnant.”
There was a brief incredulous silence. All four stared at Pitt in blank skepticism. Giordino broke the silence first.
“You’re trying to tell us something, but I'll be damned if you’re getting through.”
“Zac admitted that von Till’s method of smuggling is ingenious,” Pitt said. “And he’s right. The ingenuity lies in the simplicity. The Queen Artemisia and the other Minerva ships can operate independently or they can be controlled by a satellite vessel attached to their hulls. Think about it for a minute. It’s not as ridiculous as it sounds.” Pitt spoke with a calm surety about him that began to crack any doubts. “The Queen didn’t:’ cruise two days off her course just to blow kisses at von Till. Contact must have been made somehow.” He turned to Zacynthus and Zeno, “You and your men, watched the villa and saw no sign of a signal.”
“Nor did anyone enter or leave,” Zeno added.
“Same goes for the ship,” said Giordino eyeing Pitt curiously. “No one set foot on the beach except you.”’
“Darius and I make it unanimous,” said Pitt. “He heard no radio transmissions and I found the radio cabin deserted.”
“I’m beginning to see your point,” Zac said thoughtfully. “Any communication between the ship and von Till could only have taken place underwater. But I’m still not sure I buy your satellite vessel theory.”
“Try this one.” Pitt paused. “What travels long distances under water, carries a crew, has the capacity to hold a hundred and thirty tons of heroin, and would never be searched by Customs or the Bureau of Narcotic Inspectors? The only logical answer Is a full scale submarine.”
“Nice try, but it won’t pass.” Zac shook his head.
‘We’ve had divers search beneath the waterline of every Minerva ship at least a hundred times. They have yet to discover a submarine.”
“They most likely never will.” Pitt’s mouth felt dry and his cigarette tasted like burnt cardboard. He flipped the butt out into the middle of the road and watched it smoke until the tar beneath the glowing ember melted into a tiny black pool. “It’s not the method that’s at fault. Your divers are missing the boat—if you’ll forgive the pun—because of timing.”
“Are you suggesting the sub is released before the ships dock?” Zacynthus asked.
“That’s the general idea,” Pitt agreed.
‘What then? Where does it go?”
