The Rich Man’s House

by Andrew McGahan

  Rita looked up towards the hidden peak of the Mount, the sheer cliffs thrusting brutally into the clouds, and felt her stomach roll. It was unthinkably bad to be in a helicopter at any time, so naked to the forces of the air, but to be stuck in one while the pilot was trying to land upon some tiny platform high on a windblown peak: utterly awful.

  A deep horn-blast rent the air, making her start, followed by two blasts more. Back across the dock the gangway had been hauled in, and the sound of frothing water was scaling up as the Wanderer prepared to pull away. Rita slipped into the passenger seat, watching the ship, while the major-domo crossed around to the driver’s side and got in.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind that I’m the only one who came down,’ Clara said. ‘I could have brought some of the others along to say hello, but I didn’t think you’d want a big fuss made.’

  Rita shrugged. ‘To be honest, I was worried it would be Richman himself.’

  ‘Oh, he’s not actually here yet. He’ll be flying in tonight from Hobart.’ The smile again. ‘But there’s no need to be nervous. He’s quite a normal person when you meet him. No ogre, certainly.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Rita. She waited as the major-domo started the car and swung it around to head towards the Mount. Then added, ‘So the others are all here already?’ Rita had been told in advance of the guest list for Richman’s small gathering, but the names had meant little to her.

  ‘Oh yes, Kushal and Madelaine got in last night. And Eugene has been here all along, fine-tuning the last of the smart systems.’

  They drove in silence a short time. The road—tarmac, freshly laid—curved around the arm of the harbour, climbing as it did so. Sheds and huts slid by, some with aerials sticking up, some surrounded by high fences with locked gates. Though the arrangement had appeared ramshackle from a distance, up close Rita could see that everything was neat and well maintained.

  ‘So all this down here,’ she said with a gesture to a building they were passing, a Quonset-hut type structure, ‘still belongs to the military? What do they do here exactly? Or is it all secret?’

  Clara shook her head. ‘There’s no military here, that’s just one of the rumours we don’t deny. It helps to keep the tourists away.’

  ‘None at all?’

  ‘Oh, there was once. Back before the days of satellites there was a US tracking station here, quite an important one. It caused all sorts of trouble in the nineteen fifties, because the mountain climbers attempting the Wheel in those days needed to use the port here as their base, and the military didn’t like sharing the island one bit. But the Americans are long gone. The Australian weather service took over the island in the seventies, in cooperation with the Lighthouse Commission. But they’re gone too; the weather equipment and the lights are automatic these days. Otherwise, well, there have been people living here one way or another since the early eighteen hundreds. There is history everywhere. The very first settlement was a whaling station, and you can still find a few rusty old iron rendering vats lying around, even from those days.’

  ‘But if there’s no military, why the regulations that close the waters here over winter?’

  ‘That goes back to the fifties again. When the US set up their tracking base here they wanted privacy while they did their calibration tests and so on, so they got the Australian government to close the waters around the Wheel for one full winter—and from there it just stuck, year after year. The military were happy, it gave them three months of privacy out of every twelve, and afterwards the weather people felt the same. It was just so much easier for everyone, not having to worry about climbers or cruise ships getting into trouble here in winter conditions.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Well, when Mr Richman acquired the lease to the island and agreed to shoulder the expense of maintaining the weather and navigational equipment, as well as improving the port facilities, one of his conditions was that the winter ban remain in force. It was part of the great attraction for him of building his home here, the fact that for at least three months a year he has the Wheel to himself.’

  Rita felt dimly appalled. It was one thing that the military and government departments could lock a wonder like the Wheel away for a quarter of every year, but for one man to do it?

  Clara might have been thinking something similar. ‘The conditions of the lease are confidential, I should add. As you can imagine, it would have made all the protests even worse, if people had known. As it was, the trouble only really began when Mr Richman announced his plans for the Observatory. But in fact he’d already been in possession of the island for ten years by then, with no one the wiser.’

  Rita had to nod. She remembered the protests all too well, because of the involvement of her father’s name. Environmental groups, nationalist groups, climbing groups, and others beside had all reacted with fury when construction of the Observatory was announced. Hue and cry was raised. Sovereignty of an Australian landmark was being handed over to an American! Observatory Mount, historic since the days of Captain Cook, was going to be torn apart and desecrated! Why, it was as outrageous as if Walter Richman had been granted the right to move, lock and stock, into the Sydney Opera House! It must be stopped!

  Alas—said both governments involved, the federal and the Tasmanian—everyone’s hands were tied. The lease had been arranged under earlier administrations, the terms were watertight, nothing could be done. And after all, while yes, the Wheel was a National Park and protected, Theodolite Isle had never been anything of the sort. It had already been used for all manner of purposes, from carving up whales to serving as a junkyard for mountaineering expeditions. Far from desecrating the place, Richman would actually tidy up two centuries of accumulated mess, and also improve the port. In truth, it was a great deal for the nation.

  Of course, everyone understood what was really going on. Richman was pumping money into the coffers of the relevant political parties, lots of it. Legal challenges were mounted, fleets of protest boats blockaded the harbour at Theodolite Isle, unions placed work bans on construction, the High Court made rulings, and the kerfuffle drove the sitting Tasmanian government from power at the subsequent election. None of it made any difference. Richman’s house was delayed by a year maybe, but it was built all the same, and Australian voters got the message, if their history hadn’t made it clear already: billionaires make their own rules.

  In the rain, the car was approaching the top of the rise now. Clara Lang pointed out the last two buildings that lay before them.

  ‘On the right,’ she said, indicating a large concrete structure, screened by young pine trees, ‘is the power station. It is diesel-fuelled and big enough to power a small town, which this place effectively is. And on the right’—she nodded towards the multi-storey hotel-like building—‘is the accommodation and recreation block. It has been home to the construction crew these last five years or so, and will be home from now on to the household staff and general island workers.’

  Rita asked, ‘How many staff are there? How many people live on the island?’

  Clara considered. ‘The household staff consists of about sixty people: cooks, cleaners, maintenance workers, various technological specialists. Some of them have their families here during their rotations. Then there are the power station staff, the port facilities staff, the security staff, the island groundskeepers—in all, that comes to about another seventy people, some with families also. All together, there can be over two hundred people living here, depending on the season.’

  ‘You weren’t kidding about it being a town,’ Rita said.

  The major-domo was nodding. ‘It’s a lot of people, I know. But when you’re up in the Observatory there’s no sense of a crowd. Up there, you wouldn’t know that Base even exists.’

  ‘Base?’

  ‘That’s what everyone calls the town down here. Officially it’s Port Fresne, but everyone just says Base. Observatory up top, Base down below. And up top, you feel like you’re alone in
the world—you can’t see anything of Base, or hear it. There’s only the sky and the wind and the view. All credit to your father’s amazing design.’

  Rita leaned forwards a moment to stare up through the windscreen in hope of catching a sight of the Mount’s peak far above. The rain had eased a little, but the cloud still defied her, chopping off the upper Mount clean. But presumably the Observatory was not visible from this angle in any case, if Base was invisible from the residence above.

  They drove on. The road led them by the accommodation block, then passed through a gate in a high fence. They entered now into a formal landscape of heaths and grasses and small pines, and of sculptured rock terraces, dripping with water. ‘Do you like it?’ Clara enquired, driving slowly now to give Rita a chance to see. ‘I do. It is what is known as a sub-Arctic style of garden. Which is apt, for here on Theodolite we’re as far south in latitude as the tip of South America. The Antarctic Circle itself is only a thousand kilometres further south.’

  ‘It’s lovely,’ said Rita, feeling cold.

  Finally, the foot of Observatory Mount loomed up through the rain, a wall of wet stone leaping massively. The drive became a circle, passing beneath a large awning that extended out from the Mount’s foot, roofed in slate and supported by a heavy timber frame.

  ‘This is the front door,’ said Clara, pulling up beneath the awning. Warm golden light bathed the vehicle from overhead. ‘So to speak, anyway. The journey up starts from here.’

  Under the shelter of the awning, a path of flagstones led to a portico set into the Mount. The doorway was a great carven arch, almost like the entrance to an ancient cathedral, its two huge wooden doors folded back. From within, more golden light streamed out into the grey day.

  A young man emerged as they climbed out of the car, with the air of having been waiting for them. Clara made the introductions. ‘Rita, this is Eugene Morris. He’s Mr Richman’s private technical consultant, and there’s one or two small items he’ll need to attend to before we go on.’

  ‘I’m the IT nerd, is what she means,’ the man said, offering his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Ms Gausse, and welcome to the Observatory.’

  Rita shook the hand, noting that he looked very much the part. He was maybe thirty, had boyishly long blond hair, a pale clean-shaven face, thick glasses, and his dress was casual, a rawhide leather jacket over a T-shirt, jeans and sneakers. Rita was not normally one for IT types—they could be so superior—but for once she felt an immediate liking, if only perhaps because of his broad accent, which marked him as Australian.

  ‘Let me get your bags,’ he insisted.

  The bags retrieved, the three of them passed beneath the archway and entered what Rita could now see was a foyer, not unlike that of a grand hotel. To the left was a discrete counter, upon which a computer terminal glowed, while to the right, leather armchairs and sofas were arranged before a baronial fireplace in which a great fire blazed. Dead ahead, where in a real hotel a bank of elevators might have waited, another great arch opened, and through it a wide hallway receded away to what seemed to be infinity. Except it wasn’t a hallway, it was a tunnel—its walls panelled, its floor laid in stone tile, its ceiling hung with tasteful chandeliers, but a tunnel all the same, piercing deep into the mountain.

  Eugene ushered Rita to the counter, his air apologetic. ‘Now, Ms Gausse, I do have one request on behalf of Mr Richman before you go on up. I’m assuming you have a mobile phone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘May I have it for a moment, please?’

  Rita retrieved her device—an iPhone, two years old and somewhat battered—from her coat pocket and handed it over. ‘Why?’ she asked, not with any hostility, merely curious.

  The IT expert was plugging the phone into the computer. ‘Well, as you’d understand, Mr Richman is an immensely public figure, and so has to be cautious about his personal safety. He would be one of the most tempting targets in the world for a kidnapping, especially in a remote location such as this. Under the advice of his security team, therefore, he has been careful to keep the interior layout of the Observatory secret. There is no greater tool for a prospective kidnapper, I’m reliably informed, than to know the interior of a target’s house.’

  He was fiddling with Rita’s phone now, tapping something on the screen.

  ‘To that end,’ he continued, ‘it’s forbidden to take photos within the residence upstairs. Now, it’s easy enough to ban cameras, but these days, cameras aren’t the main worry: it’s phones. And we can hardly demand that all visitors give up their phones. After all, we have excellent cellular access here, if I say so myself. So the least invasive way, we’ve discovered, is to install a simple app on everyone’s devices.’

  ‘An app? For what?’

  He smiled. ‘All it does—while your phone is in range of the wifi or cellular network here in the residence—is disable your phone’s camera. Everything else works exactly as normal—texts, email, browsing, whatever. But you can’t take videos or photos.’

  He was handing the phone back. Rita, in her surprise, could not even tell if she was annoyed. ‘There’s an app that does that?’

  ‘Well, we have one, but it’s not in public release. It was a special favour from the folks at Apple to Mr Richman, who is an old friend and investor. Don’t worry, I’ll wipe it from your phone when you leave.’

  She had recovered a little now. ‘And will you be scanning my luggage too?’

  The smile crinkled. ‘We could, of course. We have the equipment right here. But there’s no need. Your luggage was thoroughly x-rayed on the ship when you boarded, and just now when you disembarked. That’s how I already knew that you don’t have a camera.’

  Rita gave up and turned to the major-domo enquiringly: what was next?

  Clara was reassuring. ‘That’s it for the security checks. But it’s some way yet to the Observatory itself, so just so you know, there are bathrooms here, if you wish to freshen up before going on.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Then this way, please.’

  Clara now ushered Rita through the inner arch. Parked in a discrete alcove just within were three golf carts, upholstered in burgundy leather.

  ‘We could walk if you liked,’ she said, ‘the tunnel is only three hundred yards long. But with the luggage we may as well ride.’

  Eugene had trailed along with Rita’s bags. He loaded them onto one of the carts, then gave a small wave. ‘I’ll be up later,’ he said to the major-domo. And to Rita, ‘I’ll be seeing you again at dinner tonight, but if you have any trouble in the meantime with the facilities in your suite, let me know.’ Then he disappeared back into the foyer.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Rita asked, staring into the vanishing perspective of the tunnel. ‘I thought we’d be heading up, in a lift.’

  ‘We will be,’ answered Clara. ‘But not yet. It makes sense when you think about it. The lift shaft goes all the way to the top of the Mount, so that means it has to begin directly beneath the Mount’s peak, not here on the outer edge of the mountain. So, to go up, first we have to go in.’

  Rita hadn’t thought of that. But of course it was logical. She slipped into the cart. ‘It must be a hell of a shaft, if it goes all the way to the top.’

  The major-domo nodded, taking the driver’s seat. ‘Two thousand five hundred metres, straight up. The Mount is two thousand eight hundred metres high, but we’re already at three hundred metres here.’ She put the cart in gear, and turned smoothly into the tunnel, the electric motor all but silent. ‘However, you must not think of it as a normal lift, the same as you would find in any high-rise building. This is something quite different. The design is borrowed from diamond mining, where shafts can go down for many thousands of metres. Mr Richman owns one or two such mines, so he had the expertise to do something similar here.’

  ‘I see,’ Rita commented faintly. ‘Well, I suppose it’s better than having to take the stairs.’

  ‘Actually, there are stairs. There
’s a second shaft aside from the main one, and apart from housing the service elevator, it is also home to an emergency staircase. Like a fire escape. Best hope you never have to use it though; the flights are steep, and there are thousands upon thousands of steps. I’m told it’s the longest internal staircase in the world.’

  The cart rolled smoothly down the tunnel. The road was of flagstones, but to one side a railing fenced off a carpeted walkway, lit by sconces set into the panelled walls. The air was warm, artificially heated presumably, scented with tones of wood and stone. And once again a sense of unreality washed over Rita. The cost of all this. An entrance hall so big you had to drive down it. A staircase—not even meant for regular use, a mere back-up safety feature—that was the longest in the world. An elevator borrowed from diamond mines. Just so that one man could build a house atop a mountain. It was staggering in its extravagance.

  Which was strange, because in all that she had read about Walter Richman since receiving his invitation, he was not a man known for extravagance, not of the vulgar, gold-plated cars and diamond watches and vast mansion kind. And yet now in his old age he had embarked upon building the most expensive private residence in recent world history. Maybe Roman emperors had conceived of more indulgent projects, or Louis XIV perhaps with Versailles. But otherwise …

  Clara seemed to be aware of her train of thought. ‘Trust me, you haven’t seen anything yet.’

  Ahead, the end of the tunnel was in sight, widening out into an area of brighter illumination. As they drew closer, Rita could make out another parking bay, and another archway. Beyond was a spacious salon furnished with armchairs and couches, and a wood-panelled bar. There was no sign of the lift. Then, as the major-domo drew the cart up to the parking bay, Rita realised with a shock that the salon was the lift.

  Clara was amused as she turned off the cart, following Rita’s gaze. ‘I told you not to think of an average elevator. Go on through.’