Sun Dance

by Iain R. Thomson

  The Agent warming to the stratagem talked it through his mind. Swap my Cayman account the moment their money’s safe in it, maybe into my Swiss holding. I’ll think about that detail. Main thing, don’t get separated, stay in the hotel and keep a wall at your back. Above all, don’t trust them. The bastards could blackmail me, try and get their bloody cash back. Worse, I could end in the Hudson River. “Not on your life, not me,” he gloated aloud, “This briefcase could be loaded and I don’t mean stuffed stupid with science.”

  His mind began to tick. Where would a man with a bloody Scotch name make for? Picking up the internal phone, a backroom boffin answered immediately, “Yes, Sir?” “Get me any address, bank reference, occupation, size of collar, know what I mean, everything the cross computers can pick up; everything we have on anyone with movements on a U.K. passport in the past twelve months with the name, Hector MacKenzie. There won’t be many with that amount of Scotch mist for a handle. Eliminate those under thirty, over fifty-five, get a line on them all, pronto. Have the info. on my screen by midday, without fail.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Action invigorated The Agent. Swinging out of his office, he hurried down back stairs to a secluded exit and into a side street. A few hundred yards of smart walking put him discreetly away from the building. Confidence mounting, he looked carefully about the street and hailed a taxi.

  Now to deal with arrangements for that secretary bitch. The wife could wait. Two arrangements close together would not be wise.

  “Gentlemen, we face serious issues so I make no apology for calling a meeting at such short notice. Some of you I know will have had to fly in from holiday and I fully realise the inconvenience this may have involved. I myself have flown up from the British Virgin Islands this morning, nevertheless, let me assure you gentlemen, I am not wasting your time. The international energy business and other related matters are moving more rapidly then we anticipated.”

  Nuen Chairman, Andrew Anderson rapped on the table. “May I have your attention?”

  Chaffing conversations faltered. Smiles faded. Anderson kept the meeting awaiting his next words, a tactic he used to great effect in enhancing his position. Around the boardroom table, tropical island suntans turned gravely toward a Chairman who chose his words with precision.

  “Our first item, gentlemen. The initials, S.S.P. may mean nothing to you for the moment but I guarantee they will do so before too long. Their impact on Nuen’s future prospects and far beyond could be considerable.”

  Practised at handling a board of directors, the Chairman’s deliberate phrasing imparted the level of gravitas with which he sought to impress its members. Chosen in relation to their shareholding and influence within a particular business sphere they were certainly important by their own estimations and required careful handling for best results.

  Anderson played the aloof card, “The Companies scientific advisor and our new U.K. board member, whom I introduced to you at our previous meeting, are now in a position to report to us on their several joint visits and meetings with heads of State in Bahrain and elsewhere in that region. The rapid fall off in world trade coupled with the bailing out of national banking systems which over egged their assets and to some extent concealed their liabilities, has seen a great deal of wealth, shall we say, on the move.”

  Grey heads being in the majority, a more youthful Anderson, albeit his hair was dyed, realized that lecturing from the chair would be counter productive, not least given some of his Board were now a great deal wealthier by neatly anticipating the monetary cash which they themselves had no small hand in creating. “Sir Joshua, would you care to elaborate on the current financial position?”

  “Thank you, Chairman.” Sir Joshua Goldberg rose laboriously to his feet. Sweat marks were already staining his shirt. “Excuse me, do you mind if I turn up the air conditioning?”

  Anderson waved a hand. Their scientific advisor stepped over to the door, adjusted the control and puffing slightly, returned to stand at the back of his chair. Goldberg also an expert in holding a meeting’s attention knew the value of suspense.

  Privately during these past months Sir Joshua had set his mind on controlling Nuen. Not gifted with modesty, he believed that a judicious manipulation of his contacts in the rarefied stratas of high finance, coupled with his adroit understanding of how to apply the latest scientific advances would yield him, not only the Chairmanship but given a little time, also a significant shareholding.

  His first step in the game, gain an insight into Nuen’s overall position. He had befriended the Finance Director. “Sir Joshua, stagnation is fatal. We look to you, in some degree, to deliver the extra capital required to ensure the expansion needed to alleviate our present downturn.” The Directors words rang like the chimes of a cash register. Negotiate the company’s latest monetary requirements, keep it on hold. Engineer a cash crisis, call for an extraordinary board meeting, propose a vote of no confidence. Announce his negotiated financial deal. Bingo, Anderson deposed. Who would the members elect? They’d vote for me, or see their inflated director’s fees, plus any shareholdings, sailing down the Hudson.

  Tailoring his delivery carefully, “Gentlemen,” he began, his intense dark eyes deep within black circles of jet lag and rich living, “Gentlemen, our Chairman is perfectly correct in warning that the situation which Nuen faces is serious,” nothing beats the oil of sycophancy before a going for the kill, “and for several reasons.” Faces round the table looked equally serious.

  “The developed world’s finances, in terms of government’s debts, are a rising percentage of their various GDP’s. Falling company profits equal a lower taxation take. Rising unemployment equals higher benefits and so forth. An angry and frightened consumer society turning on the instruments of control needs careful handling.” Nothing like suggesting a hint of social unrest.

  “However banking systems, now subject to inappropriate levels of political meddling, are set to retrench for their own survival. No matter where one turns, the world of finance is not only tight, but very finely balanced, as some of you at this table are only too well aware.” He inclined his head to the coterie of bankers who sat at the far end of the table avoiding his gaze. “None the less, my Middle Eastern trip, if not as yet delivering the funding I sought for the extending of our nuclear programmes, did yield some extremely important information.”

  At this point Sir Joshua asked that the company secretary should, ‘lift his pen’, as he put it. The Chairman nodded and minute taking was suspended. Goldberg reached for his glass of water.

  “I was favoured, not least in view of my scientific credentials,” a comment Sir Joshua inserted with a complacent smile. “I was favoured by two strictly private meetings with the heads of a certain oil cartel, in fact the largest grouping in that region. Our discussions were far reaching.”

  Adopting a statesman like pose, “Naturally the cartel is concerned over falling oil revenues, obviously due to world recession. Slashing interest rates is one thing but of considerably more concern is the extent of the fiscal stimulus taken by the U.S. and U.K. governments. The term used is ‘quantative easing’, which you bankers recognise as simply politicians printing money. Both these measures, designed to counter what may yet turn into a mammoth global depression, have our oil rich friends, to put it mildly, rather alarmed.”

  Not a paper shuffled, two lines of faces watched Goldberg intently. “Falling sales are compounded by the weakness of the petro-dollar. Privately and under pressure from the relatively buoyant Chinese economy, the major oil producers are toying with the concept of ditching the pricing of their output in dollars and turning to a more favourable currency. Dare I say the petro-yen?” This bold suggestion registered in a shock wave round the room. “Meantime gentlemen the cartels main concern, down the line, is dollar inflation. They know sure as geese lay golden eggs, inflation will kill the goose.”

  Heads nodded. Sir Joshua drew himself up, not without sound reason, to deliver the m
ain thrust of his speech. “The power of oil as an energy source will decline over the next decade, a fact which our Middle East friends find uncomfortable. Depressions come and go, global energy consumption, by comparison, is a steady linear curve upwards. Having enjoyed the crown of oil worship, they don’t intend to vacate its lordly throne.”

  Goldberg primed himself for the dagger blow. “Make no mistake, gentlemen, they are looking to transfer the sovereignty of oil into the next source of wealth creation. Whilst there remain funds which are still interested in nuclear, the initials, S.S.P. stand for,” he paused for dramatic effect, “Sahara Solar Power.”

  A look of surprise registered round the table, board members glanced at one another. Gratified at the impact on his listeners, Sir Joshua allowed the name to sink in. “Gentlemen, a consortium of oil producers is putting an initial three billion dollars into this project. The challenge of accelerating climate change requires joined up planning. Already here in the U.S. I must say, trusting I give no offence, at last we have some intelligent leadership from the White House.”

  Several heads nodded, the bankers, Republican to a man, remained stony faced. Making a mental note of the various reactions to his comment, he continued, “The intention to develop a national grid network of super cooled electricity cables to carry Californian sunshine to the Eastern States of America, using high voltage direct current, is attracting much interest in the Middle East. Transmission of high voltage DC is vastly more efficient than lines carrying the Alternating Current. Obviously the installation of a series of transformer stations is required at strategic points of uptake to convert the current into household and general usage.”

  He allowed his supercilious manner to dominate the table, “Sahara Solar Power envisages the export of North African sunshine right across Europe using similar generating technology and employing a comparable network of power lines. They intend also to integrate wind and wave generation within the system so as to level out variations in generating flow. Sub-sea cables would link remote areas into a mega pan-European grid. Indeed, such is the scale of this proposed system it could well make coal and gas generation obsolete in fifty years time.”

  Sir Joshua had the board where he wanted them, dependent on his scientific understanding. Now to deal his next hand, finance. “Gentlemen, this is major thinking, its costs will run into trillions of dollars. More importantly for Nuen, not only is it diversion of funds away from our needs, it could prove a colossal threat to the future nuclear generation. Naturally we are not without allies, in particular the Pentagon over here and in UK the Ministry of Defense.”

  Important shareholders in the room studied his words. Any undercurrent of meaning might translate into share movement. Aware his last comment might sound too down beat, their scientific guru hastened to add more reassuring words, “All is not lost, far from it. The recent bailing out of numerous banks resulting their semi- nationalisation by a number of governments, gives us a great opportunity to find useful funding.”

  This touched a raw nerve with already nervous banking members on the board. “UK is a case in point. Two Scottish banks, now virtually taxpayer owned, happen to have a number offshore subsidiaries to help with their clients’ profits at both company and individual level which are not subject to record in Britain. Guernsey, Gibraltar, Cayman, etc. all maintain offshore registrations which do not fall under UK taxation schedules. It’s rather uncomfortable for holders of funds in these tax havens to find the eyes of Her Majesties Collector of Taxes now able to pry into their accounts.”

  An uneasy shuffle went around the boardroom. “Indeed, as a result of this possible exposure, billions of pounds have already moved very smartly to new homes, Hong Kong, Panama, Singapore, and of special interest to me, into Dubai. I shall say no more except to add, it is in the latter United Emirates that I have considerable influence and some of the funds to which I just have referred can, I’m sure, be made available to Nuen. Thank you for your attention gentlemen.”

  Sir Joshua resumed his seat. Smiles, nods, and gushing words of thanks came from the Chairman. It went exactly as he planned. What he didn’t disclose, two a billion dollars, just a phone call away, were available from an oil sheikh wishing to diversify into nuclear Let the board sweat a little, thought their scientific advisor, timing will be of my choosing.

  Coffee, biscuits and general chatter, Chairman Anderson signalled Goldberg to his side. They moved away from the table and displaying an obvious concern he spoke quietly, “Well done Josh, but look, do you think I should inform the directors of the thwarted cyber-attack on the control system of our Sea Island reactor last week? After all, the virus was deflected without having an emergency shut down, or God help us, worse. If that bit of news leaked out, Nuen’s equity will fall like a stone.”

  Anderson was an anxious man. Another implication alarmed him to an even greater extent. A precipitous jail sentence would result from an oversight of this magnitude. He’d lain awake for the past few nights, wondering, worrying. Who could he depend on who was completely discreet, shrewd enough to offer sound advice? Who to trust? It had to be Goldberg.

  “By the way, Josh I haven’t told the UK Atomic Energy Authority either. I’ve kept it in house. Only your good self and that chap on the monitor knows, so far as I’m aware. I’m ninety-nine percent certain that’s the case. Anyway, a useful bonus should keep him on our side. I am bit worried about the data records, they might show up on the next inspection. It’s kept me awake for a week. What do you think?”

  Far better that Anderson be solely to blame should this gross oversight come to light. Privately delighted at his Chairman’s invidious position, Goldberg, looking deliberately over the man’s head, allowed several minutes go by before bending confidentially and speaking in a low voice, “Don’t trust any of your Board Members, especially not the bankers. Say nothing and don’t think bonuses, it’s a bad principle. Just give that employee a few shares and maybe he’ll not want to damage the Company,” Inwardly amused at the thought of creating more sleepless night for the Chairman he added in his silkiest voice, “unless of course some ferreting media outlet offers him mega bucks.”

  A look of alarm registered in Anderson’s eyes but conscious of showing weakness he snapped, “Sir Joshua, one other matter, I want action on that UK nuclear waste facility and pronto; a hell of a lot rides on it.”

  Furious at the Chairman’s superior manner Goldberg abruptly turned his back and left the meeting without replying. Descending the wide marble stairway he paused to view a full length portrait in oils of the first Andrew Anderson, founder of Nuen. It hung at a turn in the stairs and clever lighting ensured the painting dominated the Company’s spacious hallway. Under his breath Goldberg sneered, another aloof bloody Scot. They always imagine they’ve an ancient pedigree somewhere in the cupboard. I hate the lot of them.

  A sardonic smile reached the corners of Sir Joshua’s flabby mouth,

  “That portrait deserves a fresh coat of paint.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Long Climbing days

  Eilidh lay asleep. I stood watching her quiet breathing. I’d lain on the wooden floor beside her bed all night and in the closeness of reaching up to hold her hand sleep had been immeasurably happy. She lay with an arm still outstretched, more attractive than I had possibly imagined in all my months of seeing her in my thoughts. No need of makeup, health shone from a clear skin tinged with the vigour of fresh air and sunshine, her face elegant and refined, slender jaw, thin shapely nose, her lips slightly parted in the tranquility of untroubled sleep. A beautiful woman, natural and feminine. How could a single glance on a train bring us together, forge the strength of my emotions? Her golden hair, thick and wavy spread loose across the pillow. I reached to stroke it but drew back, afraid to waken her.

  An empty island awaited sunrise. Early light reflecting off the bay flittered through the tiny window onto my night’s crumpled covering. Silently folding the rough woollen blankets, I put them
to one side and in the half light my hand touched something which felt like leather.

  Gingerly my hand traced to a cut handle. My cursed briefcase. Any memory of the wretched item being in the house had been forgotten, completely erased by the mystery of yesterday. Its half bent shape leant repulsively against the wall. Dimly on its flap I could make out the black initials, H.M. Without any reason it produced a grotesque feeling of menace. Its God-forsaken contents, my reports on the dangers of radio- active material, imbued a simple briefcase with a presentiment of catastrophe, awful and sickening. Did it stand between me and escape? I glanced to the bed- stand between us and our future?

  Did it move? I recoiled. Impossible and yet its shrunken blood stained leather became a hideous malformed object shrivelling before me. In dread, I backed to the door and stepped outside.

  Out into a crispness, the herald of sunrise and the freshness of atmosphere innocent of malice. Revulsion towards the briefcase vanished as quickly as I’d been affected. The harmony of my surroundings lifted any unease. I set my face to climb the hill. Away from the back of the house ran ground that once supported family after family. A thousand years, three thousand, who would know what history rested below this soil? And my people, the last to turn a furrow. Affection for its uncared acres grew at each upward step, urging possession, demanding what by dint of a thousand years was mine.

  Reaching the crest of the hill and unprepared for what lay below, I sat on an outcrop of rock to gaze down upon a vast open bay. Gently shelving sand followed a perfect curve. Without cliffs, its enclosing headlands tapered into an expanse of sea, cast in a deep mauve. Far, far distant, ranging away to the northeast, jagged mainland peaks tipped the horizon, indigo and mystical. I waited, absorbed by the immensity of an unfolding landscape. Revolving, unknowable, indifferent to the despoiling of what it had spawned, as it had breasted earth’s peaks and ridges longer than life had existed, so the sun burst across the sea, glorious and golden and I longed for Eilidh.