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

steadied on her new heading, then returned to the wing.
    â€œThey are a strange nation, Mr. Navigator. That unit is standing out for their Sixth Fleet where he will join the rest of their fish in the Mediterranean barrel. Meanwhile, Mr. Navigator, do you not find it strange the Omsk is permitted to proceed along their coast without so much as a patrol plane? Can you imagine an American ship steaming off the Soviet Union unsurveilled? Quite remarkable, isn’t it?
    â€œIrresponsible, Captain.”
    â€œYes. They place their faith and their defense in God. They believe that coastal defenses are a strategy of the past—no more ships, no more planes, no more troops. They build their automated lighthouses, fit them with modern navigational aids free to all, and God will provide. Remarkable isn’t it? He does provide—illegals, undesirables swarming ashore stealing, robbing the American worker of his job, parasites infesting their nation. He provides narcotics by the ton, heroin, cocaine, and the rest poisoning their sick society. Quite remarkable.” He stepped back inside the bridge house, placed his binoculars in the rack beside his chair, left instructions with the watch, brushed his uniform, and departed on a stroll of the passenger decks.

    Hundreds of miles to the north, well above the entrance to the bay, Memorial Day traffic moved smoothly over the twin spans of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, despite construction on the westbound span which had reduced the flow from three lanes to two. Orange fluorescent cones and an arrow of blinking yellow lights diverted the traffic from the left lane just beyond the first tower of the bridge’s suspension span. At the highest point, 187 feet above the 1,500 foot main channel, three white aluminum trailers and an electrical generator unit were parked at intervals behind the cones. The generator’s engine periodically coughed into life, its electricity flowing to the trailers in cables laid along the bridge curbing. Five gallon cans of red lead and aluminum paint were stacked in two piles. Air compressors and coils of line added to the maintenance clutter.
    Funnels of yellow plastic fitted to the open doors of each trailer on the side facing the bridge rail ran over the rail, down to the span’s catwalk beneath the roadway. Additional yellow sheltering material had been rigged to provide a roof connecting the three funnels.
    Four men sat beneath this roof waiting. Their leader, Hanspeter Sweetman, shifted uncomfortably on the aluminum case he wasusing for a seat. Tall, in his early thirties, bald with a monk’s fringe of black hair, he looked down through the gray rails of the catwalk at the weekend yachts cutting along the bay. Sweetman had a delicate, almost boyish face for so big a man, a high Irish tenor voice, thin nose, fine lips and white, freckled skin, all of which were very deceptive given his great strength and his profession.
    A breeze ruffled his fringe of hair. Oblivious to the hum of traffic above, he shifted his gaze to the bridge’s second span, and beyond, farther to the south, to the hazy hulls of the ocean traffic anchored in the Annapolis roadstead, ore carriers, coal carriers, container ships, a few earlier generation cargo ships studded with masts and king posts. They were riding out the weekend, many prepared to remain at anchor for weeks to come, awaiting pier assignments before proceeding to the sprawling port of Baltimore.
    Sweetman yawned. He continued to give his watch an occasional glance as the digital seconds flicked past. “Coming up on 1600.” He spoke loudly enough for each man to hear. The words were directed to the team communicator. The four wore painters coveralls, splattered with impressionistic orange and grays. “Radio check, all stations; confirm twelve hours.” Sweetman leaned back, enjoying the bay air, eyes closed, hands behind his head, listening to the clipped professional