A Death in Geneva (24 page)

The presentation had good color, schematics, the right mix of statistics aimed at bringing the stockholders aboard, giving them the plankowners' view of each ship's weapons suite, the engineering plants, armor, and seakeeping built into each fighting hull. Starring ordered another run-through. The slides flashed by quickly. The directors were a study in concentration.

“Tight. A good report on the present, with good flow into the yards' modernization for the future—excellent report. What is your opinion, Mr. Counsel?”

“We've given it a good look, Mr. Chairman. The presentation is solid from the legal viewpoint.”

The board's secretary turned a tab divider in his book. The lights came up in the room. “Mr. Chairman, looking to the actual meeting, we anticipate a goodly number of questions from the floor following this presentation, a few plants from known detractors—fed from the left and, of course, from official circles.”

“Of course.” Starring turned his pen end over end. “Of course there will. I plan to preside during the Q-and-A session. We're going to emerge from that session, my friends, with the stockholders and the media on our side.”

He leveled the pen at the secretary. “We will want a complete transcript, unedited, of that session ready for distribution by the second
day. For my own use, I will want identification of each questioner. We'll break now for ten minutes, airport next.”

Muriel Sullivan met Starring at the door prepared to receive his next volley of instructions. She followed him into his office, past the clusters of furniture, across the enormous rug, to the view of the harbor. He put an eye to the long glass to take a closer look at the Staten Island ferry beginning her swing, to line up with the Manhattan slip. “What's up?”

“When you and Mrs. Starring were in Rome, you met with an agent, a Mr. Sweetman, investigating your sister's death.

Starring looked up momentarily, returned to the glass. “I remember.”

“Mr. Sweetman called this morning to ask for your personal intervention—”

“Nothing to report?”

“I tried to draw him out. He was very noncommittal, said it was essential that he have your authority to examine all, he underlined the all, of your sister's London TOPIC files—”

“Nothing on leads?” The long glass swung up-harbor, settled on a tug shepherding a fuel barge.

“He said that the evidence was such that they could not rule out anything, even the possibility of a British connection—”

“What do they have?”

“He wouldn't go any further, Mr. Starring.”

“I understand.” Starring moved his examination to the far reaches of the harbor, pushed the long glass away. “He's a good man—an Irishman, Sullivan. Of course he has my permission. Damn it; it's going on a month now. Connie's blood still dripping from those bastards. Give London the necessary instructions.” He gave an enormous stretch, checked his appearance, and returned to the conference room.

“
This
is Sea Star!” At the sound of Starring's voice, the directors melted away from the eight-foot-square scale model. He bobbed his head as he peered through the Plexiglas dome. “Remove the cover—and keep it off for the stockholders—reflects the light.” He studied the detail, the airfield runways, hotel, ports for the surface effect shuttles, recreational craft, and commercial shipping. “Far superior to that damned film. Proceed.”

The curtains closed and the Towerpoint symbol appeared on the screen with
SEA STAR
—
SUPERPORT COMPLEX
. “Mr. Chairman, this coming fiscal year marks the beginning of Stage Two of the Sea Star complex, as approved by vote of the Towerpoint International stockholders a year ago.”

The next slide presented a bird's-eye view of the five-pointed, star-shaped airfield afloat in the open ocean. Two eight-thousand-foot runways angled along the star's edges, one running from the northern point to the southeastern, the other from the western point to the eastern, crosswind runways designed for the new and projected generations of commercial and military aircraft. The control tower topping off the structure of the terminal was spotted in the center of the star. Tree-lined access roads ran to the base of the southwestern point where they merged with the fountains and gardens at the front-entrance drive and side-serviceways of the terraced Sea Star resort hotel.

A semi-submerged breakwater curved from the tip of this point, sheltering the passenger transit and recreational harbor. Another breakwater, sheltering the cargo piers, curved south from the eastern tip, giving the entire ocean complex the appearance of counterclockwise motion. The next slide showed a hazy photograph of twenty jetliners stewing in their jet exhausts, the skyline of New York in the background, awaiting clearance for take-off.

“With the coming of Sea Star, America enters a pioneering new era of transportation, relaxation, safety, efficiency, and commercial progress unique in the world.”

“‘Relaxation, safety'? . . . Hold those points; build them in later.”

“Yes, Mr. Chairman . . . enters a pioneering new era of transportation, efficiency, and commercial progress unique in the world.” Successive slides reported on the complex strata of planning being devoted to Sea Star, the consortium organization, the stages One to Four of financing, the time-phased meshing of industrial participation, construction, and final assembly outlays, projected employment in the tens of thousands, projected revenues—the timetable from first letting of contracts through the first landings and takeoffs.

Starring's voice cut into the presentation again. The lights came up and the drapes slid open. He looked sharply from one director to the next. “Sea Star is more than a leap into the next century. It is the essence of Towerpoint, the superior technology, the concept, the sheer volume of construction, and the benefits to the nation. This presentation is uninspired; give it a lift!” He turned to the project manager. “How many semisubmersible columns support Sea Star?”

“Two thousand plus, Mr. Chairman.”

“What are the dimensions of each column?”

“Three hundred feet long, sir, thirty-five feet in diameter—”

“The length of a football field, the diameter of a nuclear submarine—more than two thousand. That's the theme you want to build on! The unparalleled manufacturing in graving docks along the eastern seaboard; the talented thousands of men and women; that's the message. The shaping of Sea Star, the fleet of ocean tugs towing each column to the site, the technology—greater than the space shots—tipping each column vertically into place, joining them together on the open ocean, module by module, the physical phenomenon of this stable, semi-submersed city with the decks, the airfield riding above the energy of the waves.” He glanced at a police helicopter darting over the tip of Manhattan, “and, Sea Star contributes to the nation's defense. You have a line on that?”

“In the event of national need, the Sea Star port and airfield could make an immediate contribution to America's security.”

“Vague—good, as it should be. We know we are looking at a tactical air base, a refueling and replenishment field, a carrier capable of projecting air and sea power. My friends”—Starring stood with one hand on the model, the other on his hip—“it is your task to present this message—experience and brains; no one else can match us—audacity and tenacity. We have vision; we have guts; we succeed.”

Muriel Sullivan was at his side. “Mrs. Starring sir, calling from the ship. Shall I tell you will call her back? You should be leaving for your meeting with the secretary-general.”

Starring nodded at the whispered message, returned to the conference table. “We're going to have an outstanding meeting this year. The year's record is superb, every division. You should all take great pride. This model leaves for Washington tomorrow for my meeting with the president.” All rose as he left the conference room.

The blue Continental slowed, passed the Washington Square Arch, and rolled to a stop in front of Starring's brownstone town house on Washington Square North. An unmarked New York City police car was parked a third of a block away. The three detectives were relaxed, windows open, enjoying the balmy late afternoon. Starring chatted for a moment with the plainclothes UN security guard, a member of the secretary-general's personal detail, at the entrance. He spotted the slender, transparent two-way radio tubing running from the guard's ear beneath his collar. “Is the secretary-general on schedule?”

“Yes sir, still showing arrival 5:30 P.M.”

Starring trotted up the steps into the house, showered, dressed in fresh clothes, and was at the door when the black UN limousine arrived. He bounded back down the steps to greet the secretary-general. A cluster of agents formed an immediate protective perimeter around the two men.

“Lars, you do me great honor.”

“Quite to the contrary, Tommie, it is always a reinvigorating pleasure for me to see you again.”

Starring pointed across the park. “Did you know that FDR used to keep an apartment on the Square, that tall brown building?”

“Truly? No, I didn't know that. Campobello, Hyde Park, Hot Springs; I thought I knew them all.”

“He used to arrive as only he knew how to, an open car behind a swift, flying-vee of scarlet motorcycles. They stopped for no one.”

The secretary-general shook his head. “I'm afraid open cars are a luxury of the past, at least for some of us. You've just come back from Europe, haven't you? Any developments about those responsible for your poor sister?”

“Those bastards. It's promising, Lars; nothing firm, but I think our people are about to pop it. I should have a better picture in a very few days.”

They started into the house. Still another police car had halted traffic a block away. The three New York detectives were at work, stationed on either side of the street, scanning the buildings, watching the movements of the curious who had gathered to observe the event whatever it might be.

“I have just returned from Europe, Lars, Malta, in fact. Tina, by the way, is coming home by sea, making the crossing now. I just got off the phone; she sends you her most affectionate love.”

The secretary-general beamed. “Tina, such a lovely lady. You're very generous to share her with the world. I am a devout admirer and an opening-night regular. You know that!” He laughed again.

“She has your tickets; the Fourth of July, if you're going to be in town. Now, come inside my friend. I want to tell you what we're doing with the international Oceanic University program in Malta.”

The door closed. Two agents remained outside at the head of the steps. The detectives returned to their car to wait for the departure. The curious thinned. The roadblock was removed, and yellow cabs resumed their flow along the city street.

Chapter 11

T
he light was as soft as the evening rain when Sweetman emerged from the TOPIC skyscraper on the south bank of the Thames. Straggler river boats swept past him speeding up-river, home, on the incoming tide. The raindrops felt refreshing after the stale air of the sealed building. He creased the papers in his hand, tucked them into a breast pocket, and, paralleling the Thames, lengthened his stride toward Battersea Park.

The letter from the president, then congressman; the terrorist threats against the off-shore rigs; the loss of the driver; the hate mail, hiss and cry of the press, strikes threatened and real, raced through his mind after a full day, locked in a vault, submerged in Constance Starring Burdette's most private files. One letter, almost corny, stuck in his mind: “An eye for an eye Burdette. Their murders shall be avenged.” Words and letters cut from newsprint and glued to the inside of an air-letter form postmarked Amsterdam. It had been sent to Scotland Yard along with the rest, returned—dead end, inconclusive analysis. The thread of Amsterdam, not limey hate mail, too many players moving through Amsterdam—could be a visceral threat, just for the principle of the thing, no intention of action—maybe not, a thread worth hanging onto.

And there was that other correspondence. He pulled the papers from his pocket, kept them partially folded against the rain, and again read the top letter.

Darling, dearest Connie,