by Wilbur Smith
powerful to deny, although he tried desperately.
What was it-" He did not hear the husk in his voice, but she did and
recognized it as readily as he had the flicker Of her tongue. She
reached across the table and took his wrist, and she felt the leap of
his pulse under her fingers.
Duncan wants you to come back into Christy Marine/ she said. And so
Duncan sent you to me. And when she nodded, he asked, 'Why does he want
me back? God knows what pains the two of you took to get rid of me. And
he gently pulled his wrist from her fingers and dropped both hands into
his lap.
I don't know why Duncan wants it. He says that he needs your expertise.
She shrugged, and her breasts moved under the silk. He felt the tense
ache of his groin, it confused his thinking. It isn't the true reason,
I'm sure of that.
But he wants you. Did he ask you to tell me that? Of course not. She
fiddled with the stem of her glass; her fingers were long and perfectly
tapered, the painted nails set upon them with the brilliance of
butterflies wings. It was to come from me alone., Why do you think he
wants me? There are two possibilities that I can imagine. She surprised
him sometimes with her almost masculine appraisal. That was what made
her lapse so amazing; as he listened to her now, Nicholas wondered again
how she could ever have let control of Christy Marine pass to Dun - can
Alexander - then he remembered what a wild and passionate creature she
could be. The first possibility is that Christy Marine owes you six
million dollars, and he has thought up some scheme to avoid having to
pay you Out, Yes, Nicholas nodded. And the other possibility?
There are strange and exciting rumours in the City about you and Ocean
Salvage - they say that you are on the brink of something big. Something
in Saudi Arabia.
Perhaps Duncan wants a share of that, Nicholas blinked. The iceberg
project was something between the Sheikhs and himself, then he
remembered that others knew. Bernard Wackie in Bermuda, Samantha
Silver, James Teacher - there had been a leak somewhere then.
And you? What are your reasons? I have two reasons, Nicholas/ she
answered. I want control back from Duncan. I want the voting rights in
my shares, and I want my rightful place on the Trust. I didn't know
what I was doing, it was madness when I made Duncan my nominee. I want
it back now, and I want you to get it for me. Nicholas smiled, a bitter
wintry smile. You're hiring yourself a gunman, just the way they do in
the Western serials. Duncan and I alone on the deserted street, spurs
clinking. The smile turned to a chuckle, but he was thinking hard,
watching her - was she lying? It was almost impossible to tell, she was
so mysterious and unfathomable. Then he saw tears well in the depths of
those huge eyes, and he stopped laughing. Were the tears genuine, or
all part of the intrigue?
You said you had two reasons. And now his voice was gentler. She did
not answer immediately, but he could see her agitation, the rapid rise
and fall of those lovely breasts under the silk, then she caught her
breath with a little hiss of decision and she spoke so softly that he
barely caught the words.
I want you back. That's the other reason, Nicholas. And he stared at
her while she went on. It was all part of the madness. I didn't
realize what I was doing. But the madness is over now. Sweet merciful
God, you'll never know how much I've missed you. You'll never know how
I've suffered. She stopped and fluttered one small hand.
I'll make it up to you, Nicholas, I swear it to you. But Peter and I
need you, we both need you desperately. He could not answer for a
moment, she had taken him if by surprise and he felt his whole life
shaken again and the separate parts of it tumbled like dice from the cup
of chance.
There is no road back, Chantelle. We can only go forward. I always get
what I want, Nicholas, you know that/ she warned him.
Not this time, Chantelle. He shook his head, but he knew her words
would wear away at him.
Duncan Alexander slumped on the luxurious calf-hide seat of the Rolls,
and he spoke into the telephone extension that connected him directly
with his office in Leadenhall Street.
Were you able to reach Kurt Streicher? he asked.
I'm sorry, Mr. Alexander. His office was unable to contact him. He is
in Africa on a hunting safari. They did not know when to expect him
back in Geneva., Thank you, Myrtle. Duncan's smile was completely
lacking in humour. Streicher was suddenly one of the world's most
industrious sportsmen - last week he had been skiing and was out of
contact, this week he was in Africa slaughtering elephant, perhaps next
week he would be chasing polar bears in the Arctic. And by then, it
would be too late, of course.
Streicher was not alone. Since the salvage award on Golden Adventurer,
so many of his financial contacts had become elusive, veritable
will-o'-the-wisps skipping ahead of him with their cheque books firmly
buttoned into their pockets.
I shall not be back at the office again today, he told his secretary.
Please have my pending tray sent round to Eaton Square. I will work on
it tonight, and do you think you could get in an hour earlier tomorrow
morning? Of course, Mr. Alexander. He replaced the handset and glanced
out of the window.
The Rolls was passing Regent's Park, heading in the direction of St
John's Wood; three times in the last six months he had taken this route,
and suddenly Duncan felt that hot scalding lump deep under his ribs, He
straightened up in his seat but the pain persisted, and he sighed and
opened the rosewood liquor cabinet, spilled a spoonful of the powder
into a glass and topped it with soda-water.
He considered the turbid draught with distaste, then drank it at a gulp.
It left an after-taste of peppermint on his tongue, but the relief was
almost immediate. He felt the acid burn subside, and he belched softly.
He did not need a doctor to tell him that it was a duodenal ulcer,
probably a whole bunch of them - or was that the correct collective
noun, a tribe of ulcers, a convocation? He smiled again, and carefully
combed his brazen waves of hair, watching himself in the mirror.
The strain did not show on his face, he was sure of that.
The facade was intact, devoid of cracks. He had always had the
strength, the courage to ride with his decisions. This had been a hard
ride, however, the hardest of his life.
He closed his eyes briefly, and saw Golden Dawn standing on her ways.
Like a mountain. The vision gave him strength, he felt it rising deep
within him, welling up to fill his soul.
They thought of him only as a money-man, a paper man.
There was no salt in his blood nor steel in his guts - that was what
they said of him in the City. When he had ousted Berg from Christy
Marine, they had shied off, watching him shrewdly, standing aside and
waiting for him to show his guts, forcing him to live upon the fat of
Christy Marine, devouring himself like a camel in the desert, running
him thin.
The bastards, he thought, but it was without rancour.
They had done merely what he would have done, they had played by the
hard rules which Duncan knew and respected, and by those same rules,
once he had shown his guts to be of steel, they would ply him with
largesse. This was the testing time. It was so close now, two months
still to live through - yet those sixty days seemed as daunting as the
hard year through which he had lived already.
The stranding of Golden Adventurer had been a disaster.
Her hull value had formed part of the collateral on which he had
borrowed; the cash she generated with her luxury cruises was budgeted
carefully to carry him through the dangerous times before Golden Dawn
was launched. Now all that had altered drastically. The flow of cash
had been switched off, and he had to find six million in real hard money
- and find it before the 10th of the month. Today was the 6th, and time
was running through his fingers like quicksilver.
If only he had been able to stall Berg. He felt a corrosive welling up
of hatred again; if only he had been able to stall him. The bogus offer
of partnership might have held him just long enough, but Berg had
brushed it aside contemptuously. Duncan had been forced to scurry about
in undignified haste, trying to pull together the money.
Kurt Streicher was not the only one suddenly unavailable, it was strange
how they could smell it on a man, he had the same gift of detecting
vulnerability or weakness in others so he understood how it worked. It
was almost as though the silver blotches showed on his hands and face
and he walked the city pavements chanting the old leper's cry, Unclean,
Beware, Unclean. With so much at stake, it was a piddling amount, six
million for two months, the insignificance of it was an insult, and he
felt the tension in his belly muscles again and the rising hot acid
sting of his digestive juices. He forced himself to relax, glancing
again from the window to find that the Rolls was turning into the
cul-de-sac of yellow-face brick apartments piled upon each other like
hen-coops, angular and unimaginatively lower middle class.
He squared his shoulders and watched himself in the mirror, practising
the smile. It was only six million, and for only two months, he
reminded himself, as the Rolls slid to a halt before one of the
anonymous buildings.
Duncan nodded to his chauffeur as he held the door open and handed
Duncan the pigskin briefcase.
Thank you, Edward. I should not be very long. Duncan took the case and
he crossed the pavement with the long, confident stride of an athlete,
his shoulders thrown back, wearing his top coat like an opera cloak, the
sleeves empty and the tails swirling about his legs, and even in the
grey overcast of a March afternoon, his head shone like a beacon fire.
The man who opened the door to him seemed only half Duncan's height,
despite the tall black Homburg hat that he wore squarely over his ears.
Mr. Alexander, shalom, shalom. His beard was so dense and bushy black
that it covered the starched white collar and white tie, regulation
dress of the strict Hasidic Jew.
Even though you come to me last, you still bring honour on my house/and
his eyes twinkled, a mischievous sparkling black under thick brows.
That is because you have a heart of stone and blood like iced water,
said Duncan, and the man laughed delightedly, as though he had been paid
the highest compliment.
Come, he said, taking Duncan's arm. Come in, let us drink a little tea
together and let us talk. He led Duncan down the narrow corridor, and
halfway they collided with two boys wearing yamulka on their curly heads
coming at speed in the opposite direction.
Ruffians/ cried the man, stooping to embrace them briefly and then send
them on their way with a fond slap on their backsides. Still beaming
and shaking the ringlets that dangled out from under the black Homburg,
he ushered Duncan into a small crowded bedroom that had been converted
to an office. A tall old-fashioned pigeon-holed desk filled one wall
and against the other stood an overstuffed horse-hair sofa on which were
piled ledgers and box files.
The man swept the books aside, making room for Duncan. Be seated, he
ordered, and stood aside while a jolly little woman his size brought in
the teatray.
I saw the award court's arbitration on Golden Adventurer in Lloyd's
List/ the Jew said when they were alone.
Nicholas Berg is an amazing man, a hard act to follow - I think that is
the expression. He pondered, watching the sudden bloom of anger on
Duncan's cheeks and the murderous expression in the pale eyes.
Duncan controlled his anger with an effort, but each time that somebody
spoke that way of Nicholas Berg, he found it more difficult. There was
always the comparison, the snide remarks, and Duncan wanted to stand up
and leave this cluttered little room and the veiled taunts, but he knew
he could not afford to, nor could he speak just yet for his anger was
very close to the surface. They sat in silence for what seemed a long
time.
How much? The man broke the silence at last, and Duncan could not bring
himself to name the figure for it was too closely related to the subject
that had just infuriated him, is not a large amount, and for a short
period - sixty days only. How much?
Six million, Duncan said. Dollars. Six million is not an impossibly
large amount of money, when you have it - but it is a great fortune when
you do not. The man tugged at the thick black bush of his beard.
And sixty days can be an eternity. I have a charter for Golden Dawn/
Duncan said softly.
A ten-year charter. He slipped the nine-carat gold catches on the slim,
finely grained pigskin briefcase and brought out a batch of Xeroxed
sheets. As you see, it is signed by both parties already. Ten years?
asked the man, watching the papers in Duncan's hand.
Ten years, at ten cents a hundred ton miles and a guaranteed minimum
annual Of 7 5,000 miles. The hand on the man's thick black beard
stilled. Golden Dawn has a burden of a million tons - that will gross a
minimum of seventy-five million dollars a year. With an effort he
managed to disguise his awe, and the hand resumed its gentle tugging at
the beard. Who is the charterer? The thick eyebrows formed two thick
black question marks.
Orient Amex, said Duncan, and handed him the Xeroxed papers.
The El Barras field. The man's eyebrows stayed up as he read swiftly.
You are a brave man, Mr. Alexander. But I never once doubted that. He
read on in silence for another minute, shaking his head slowly so that
the ringlets danced on his cheeks. The El Barras field. He folded the
papers and looked up at Duncan. I think Christy Marine may have found a
worthy successor to Nicholas Berg - perhaps the shoes are even a little
small, maybe they will begin to pinch your toes soon, Mr. Alexander. He
squirmed down
in his chair thinking furiously, and Duncan watched him,
hiding his trepidation behind a remotely amused halfsmile.
What about the environmentalists, Mr. Alexander? The new American
Administration, this man Carter is very conscious of environmental
dangers., The lunatic fringe/ said Duncan. There is too much invested
already. Orient Amex have nearly a billion in the new cadmium cracking
plants at Galveston, and three of the other oil giants are in it. Let
them fuss, we'll still carry in the new cad-rich crudes. Duncan spoke
with the force of complete conviction.
There is too much at stake, the potential profits are too large and the
opposition is too weak. The whole world is sick of the doom-merchants,
the woolly-headed sentimentalists/ he dismissed them with a short abrupt
gesture.
Man has already adjusted to a little oil on the beaches, a little smoke
in the air, a few less fish in the sea or birds in the sky, and he will
go on adjusting. The man nodded, listening avidly. Yes! he nodded.
You are a brave man. The world needs men like you. The important thing
is a cadmium catalyst cracking system which breaks down the high carbon
atoms of crude and gives back a 80% yield in low carbon instead of the
40% we hope for now. go % yield, double-double profits, double
efficiency - and double danger. The man smiled behind his beard.
There is danger in taking a bath. You might slip and crack your skull,
and we haven't invested a billion dollars in bathing. Cadmium in
concentrations of 100 parts to the million is more poisonous than
cyanide or arsenic; the cad-rich crudes of the EIL Barras field are
concentrated 2000 parts to the million. That's what makes them so
valuable, Duncan nodded, To enrich crude artificially with cadmium would
make the whole cracking process hopelessly uneconomic. We've turned
what appeared to be a hopelessly contaminated oilfield into one of the
most brilliant advances in oil refining. I hope you have not
underestimated the resistance to the transportation of Duncan cut him
short. There will be no publicity. The loading and unloading of the
crude will be conducted with the utmost discretion, and the world will
not know the difference. just another ultra-tanker moving across the
oceans with nothing to suggest that she is carrying cadrich. But, just
suppose the news did leak? Duncan shrugged. The world is conditioned