Free A Death in Geneva by A. Denis Clift Page A

hands clasped tightly across her knees. “I do not expect to alter your idea of what is right and what is wrong, not this evening. You are wrong. People will . . .” She broke off. Her words had flowed quickly, with rising emotion. Tooms heaved himself upright in his seat.
    Starring had moved a step closer. “Mistaken idea? Hardly, Miss Renfro, and a perception on your part, my friend, I attach importance to correcting.”
    â€œOur mermaid is setting off on her own expedition, Tommie. She’ll be back, my personal crusade, for the complete two-dollar tour of this tub.”
    â€œExcellent, Miss Renfro. Towerpoint is about to embark on one of the most dramatic research projects ever conceived. If you are a scientist it might be of interest to you—”
    Tina’s champagne glass fell to the rug unbroken, swinging in a half-circle around its base before rolling to a stop at Anderson’s feet. He scooped under the stem and placed it on a waiting tray.
    â€œTina has given the signal. Ladies get their wraps; gents their canes and hats.” Tooms pushed himself to his feet. The others rose, except for Starring’s wife. As the candlelight played on her face and hair, she was so lovely, so composed, it was barely apparent she was asleep.
    â€œOats, are you seeing Miss Renfro ashore?”
    â€œTaxi’s just around the corner, Tommie.”
    â€œAhhhhh!” The entire party exclaimed, as the sky over the city exploded with brilliant bursts of fireworks: pinks, whites, golds, and green blossoming from thundering puffs into expanding, rolling, shimmering globes.
    â€œNight flares,” Anderson laughed. “Junkers on the way. Come on, Joe, got to get out to Luqa, get the Hurricane up to meet them.” Starring laughed with them.
    â€œChurch festival,” Ghadira said. “A true friend of Malta must love fireworks, Malta’s soul and passion.”
    â€œThe sky flashed again, flowering, banging bursts of red and white which opened, separating into petals before falling and fading into the night. Ship’s lights, playing on the submersible, spotlighted the Towerpoint Octagon ’s presence in the harbor as the party made its way to the ladder on the main deck.
    Tooms hesitated at the head of the ladder, shielded his eyes. “There he is, faithful skipper, Princess, lying off about twenty yards. He hailed the dghajsa, boarded with Leslie. The taxiboat sculled silently back across the harbor to the customs wharf, its way lit at intervals by the bursts of festival rockets.

Chapter 5
    A t the moment Ambassador Burdette had slumped dead in the smoke, blood, and shattered glass of her limousine in Geneva, the young lieutenant navigator of the Soviet cruise ship Omsk was bent over a chart penciling in his ship’s position north of Cape Hatteras.
    He checked his sun-line computations against the loran bearings and marked a circled X . This done, he slid the parallel rule across the chart, drawing a line from the ship’s location to the Chesapeake Light, then walked the rule to the nearest compass rose, took the reading, and jotted down the course heading.
    His mind ticked off the coming sequence of events. The pilot would swing aboard at the Light, take them through the bridge-tunnel channel cleaving Cape Henry and Cape Charles, and up the bay. He placed the points of his dividers on the breadth of the channel, too narrow, dangerous, the great engineering Americans.
    Emerging from the chart house, the navigator walked the twenty paces to his captain who was on the starboard wing of the bridge, legs set apart, binoculars to his eyes, studying a faint hull shape on the horizon. “One of their new cruisers, that pyramidal shape forward. What dreamers!” The young officer saluted, reported the Omsk ’s position and recommended new heading. The captain acknowledged the report, stepped into the bridge house, ordered left rudder, waited until the ship