by Wilbur Smith
Great. Keep him that way. Did I tell you I love you, I forget? Wake
up. Shake yourself. I've got something to tell you. I'm awake - well,
almost anyway. Samantha, what would happen if somebody dumped a million
tons Of 40,000 parts concentration of cadmium sulphide in an emulsion of
aromatic Arabian crude into the Gulf Stream, say thirty nautical miles
off Key West? That's a freaky question, Nicholas. For three in the
morning, that's a bomber. What would happen? he insisted.
The crude would act as a transporting medium/ she was struggling to
project a scenario through her sleepiness, it would spread out on the
surface to a thickness of quarter of an inch or so, so you'd end up with
a slick of a few thousand miles long and four or five hundred wide, and
it would keep going. What would be the results? It would wipe out most
of the marine life on the Bahamas and on the eastern seaboard of the
States, no, correct that - it would wipe out all marine life, that
includes the spawning grounds of the tuna, the freshwater eels and the
sperm whale, and it would contaminate - she was coming fully awake now,
and a stirring horror altered her tone -'You're macabre, Nicholas, what
a sick thing to think about, especially at three in the morning. Human
life? the asked.
Yes, there would be heavy loss, she said. As sulphide, it would be
readily absorbed and in that concentration it would be poisonous on
contact, fishermen, vacationers, anybody who walked on a contaminated
beach. She was truly beginning to realize the enormity of it. A large
part of the population of the cities on the east coast - Nicholas, it
could amount to hundreds of thousands of human beings, and if it was
carried beyond America on the Gulf Stream, the Newfoundland Banks,
Iceland, the North Sea, it would poison the cod fisheries, it would kill
everything, man, fish, bird and animal. Then the tail of the Gulf
Stream twists around the British Isles and the north continent of Europe
- but why are you asking me this, what kind of crazy guessing game is
this, Nicholas? Christy Marine has signed a ten-year contract to carry
one million ton loads of crude from the El Barras field on the South
Arabian Gulf to the Orient Amex refinery in Galveston. The El Barras
crude has a cadmium sulphide constituent of between 2,000 and 40,000
parts per million. Now there was trembling outrage in her voice as she
whispered, A million tons! That's some sort of genocide, Nicholas,
there has probably never been a more deadly cargo in the history of
seafaring. In a few weeks time Golden Dawn will run down her and when
she does, the seeds of ways at St Nazaite catastrophe will be sewn upon
the oceans., Her route from the Arabian Gulf takes her around Good Hope.
One of the most dangerous seas in the world, the home of the
hundred-year wave/ Nicholas agreed.
Then across the southern Atlantic and into the bottle-neck of the Guff
Stream between Key West and Cuba, into the Devil's Triangle, the
breeding ground of the hurricanes You can't let them do it, Nicholas,
she said quietly.
You just have to stop them. It won't be easy, but I'll be working hard
on it this side, there are a dozen tricks I am going to try, but you
have to take over on your side, he told her. Samantha, you go get Tom
Parker. Get him out of bed, if necessary. He has, to hit Washington
with the news, hit all the media - television, radio and the press. A
confrontation with Orient Amex, challenge them to make a statement.
Samantha picked up the line he was taking.
We'll get the Green-Peacers to picket the Orient Amex refinery in
Galveston, the one which will process the cadmium crudes. We'll have
every environmental agency in the country at work - we'll raise a stink
like that of a million corpses/ she promised.
Fine, he said. You do all that, but don't forget to get your chubby
little backside across here for the launching of Sea Witch. 'Chubby
obese, or chubby nice? she demanded.
Chubby beautiful/ he grinned. And I'll have room service ready to send
up the food, in a front-end loader. Nicholas sat over the telephone for
the rest of the day, 4 having his meals brought up to the suite, while
he worked systematically down the long list of names he had drawn up
with the help of the tape-recording of Lazarus report.
The list began with all those who it seemed had loaned capital to
Christy Marine for the construction of Golden Dawn, and then went on to
those who had written lines of insurance on the hull, and on the
pollution cover for the tanker.
Nicholas dared not be too specific in the summation he gave to each of
them, he did not want to give Duncan Alexander an opportunity to throw
out a smoke-screen of libel actions against him. But in each case,
Nicholas spoke to the top men, mostly men he knew well enough to use
their Christian names, and he said just enough to show that he knew the
exact amount of their involvement with Christy Marine, to suggest they
re-examine the whole project, especially with regard to Golden Dawn's
underwriting and to her contract of carriage with Orient Amex.
In the quiet intervals between each telephone call, or while a name was
tracked down by a secretary, Nicholas sat over the Place Vendome and
carefully re-examined himself and his reasons for what he was doing.
It is so very easy for a man to attribute to himself the most noble
motives. The sea had given Nicholas a wonderful life, and had rewarded
him in wealth, reputation and achievement, Now it was time to repay part
of that debt, to use some of that wealth to protect and guard the
oceans, the way a prudent farmer cherishes his soil. It was a fine
thought, but when he looked below its shining surface, he saw the shape
and movement of less savoury creatures, like the shadows of shark and
barracuda in the depths.
There was pride. Golden Dawn had been his creation, work, was going to
be the culmination of a laurel crown on his career. But it had been
taken from him, and bastardized - and when it failed, when the whole
marvelous concept collapsed in disaster and misery, Nicholas Berg's name
would still be on it. The world would remember then that the whole
grandiose design had originated with him.
There was pride, and then there was hatred. Duncan Alexander had taken
his woman and child. Duncan Alexander had wrested his very life from
him. Duncan Alexander was the enemy, and by Nicholas rules, he must be
fought with the same single-mindedness, with the same ruthlessness, as
he did everything in his life.
Nicholas poured himself another cup of coffee and lit a cheroot;
brooding alone in the magnificence of his suite, he asked himself the
question:
If it had been another man in another ship who was going to transport
the El Barras crudes - would I have opposed him so bitterly? The
question needed no formal reply. Duncan Alexander was the enemy.
Nicholas picked up the telephone, and placed the call he had been
delaying. He did not need to look in the red calf -bound notebo
ok for
the number of the house in Eaton Square.
Mrs. Chantelle Alexander, please. I am sorry, sir. Mrs. Alexander is at
Cap Ferrat. Of course/ he muttered. Thank you. Do you want the
number? That's all right, I have it. He had lost track of time. He
dialled again, this time down to the Mediterranean coast.
This is the residence of Mrs. Alexander. Her son Peter Berg speaking.
Nicholas felt the rush of emotion through his blood, so that it burned
his cheeks and stung his eyes.
Hello, my boy. Even in his own ears his voice sounded stilted, perhaps
pompous.
Rather/ undisguised delight. Dad, how are you - sir?
Did you get my letters? No, I didn't, where did you send them?
"The flat - in Queen's Gate. I haven't been back there for/ Nicholas
thought, for nearly a month. I got your cards, Dad, the one from
Bermuda and the one from Florida. I just wrote to tell you -'and there
was a recital of schoolboy triumphs and disasters.
That's tremendous, Peter. I'm really proud. Nicholas imagined the face
of his son as he listened, and his heart was squeezed - by guilt, that
he could do so little, could give him so little of his time, squeezed by
longing for what he had lost. For it was only at times such as these
that he could admit how much he missed his son.
That's great, Peter -'The boy was trying to tell it all at the same
time, gabbling out the news he had stored so carefully, flitting from
subject to subject, as one thing reminded him of another. Then, of
course, the inevitable question: When can I come to you, Dad?
"I'll have to arrange that with your mother, Peter. But it will be
soon. I promise you that. Let's get away from that, Nick thought,
desperately. How is Apache? Have you raced her yet these holidays?
"Oh yes, Mother let me have a new set of Terylene sails, in red and
yellow. I raced her yesterday. Apache had not actually been placed
first in the event, but Nicholas gained the impression that the blame
lay not on her skipper but rather on the vagaries of the wind, the
unsporting behaviour of the other competitors who bumped when they had
the weather gauge, and finally the starter who had wanted to disqualify
Apache for beating the gun. But, Peter went on, I'm racing again on
Saturday morning Peter, where is your mother? She's down at the
boathouse. Can you put this call through there? I must speak to her,
Peter. Of course. The disappointment in the child's voice was almost
completely disguised. Hey, Dad. You promised, didn't you. It will be
soon? I promised. Cheerio, sir. There was a clicking and humming on
the line and then suddenly her voice, with its marvelous timbre and
serenity.
C'es t Ch an telle Alexander qui parle.
C'est Nicholas ici. Oh, my dear. How good to hear your voice.
How are you? Are you alone? No, I have friends lunching with me.
The Contessa is here with his new boyfriend, a matador no less! The
"Contessa was an outrageously camp and wealthy homosexual who danced at
Chantelle's court. Nicholas could imagine the scene on the wide paved
terrace, screened from the cliffs above by the sighing pines and the
rococo pink boathouse with its turrets and rusty-coloured tiles.
There would be gay and brilliant company under the colourful umbrellas.
Pierre and Mimi sailed across from Cannes for the day. Pierre was the
son of the largest manufacturer of civil and military jet aircraft in
Europe. And Robert Below the terrace was the private jetty and small
beautifully equipped yacht basin. Her visitors would have moored their
craft there, the bare masts nodding lazily against the sky and the small
Mediterranean-blue wavelets lapping the stone jetty. Nicholas could
hear the laughter and the tinkle of glasses in the background, and he
cut short the recital of the guest list.
Is Duncan there? No, he's still in London - he won't be out until next
week. I have news. Can you get up to Paris? It's impossible, Nicky.
Strange how the pet name did not jar from her. I must be at Monte Carlo
tomorrow, I'm helping Grace with the Spring Charity It's important,
Chantelle. Then there's Peter. I don't like to leave him. Can't you
come here? There is a direct flight at nine tomorrow. I'll get rid of
the house guests so we can talk in private.
"All right, will you book me a He thought quickly, then, suite at the
Negresco?
Don't be silly, Nicky. We've thirteen perfectly good bedrooms here - we
are both civilized people and Peter would love to see you, you know
that. The Cote d'Azur was revelling in a freakish burst of early spring
weather when Nicholas came down the boarding ladder at Nice Airport, and
Peter was waiting for him at the boundary fence, hopping up and down and
waving both hands above his head like a semaphore signaller. But when
Nicholas came through the gate he regained his composure and shook hands
formally.
It's jolly good to see you, Dad. I swear you've grown six inches! said
Nicholas, and on impulse stooped and hugged the child.
For a moment they clung to each other, and it was Peter who pulled away
first.
Both of them were embarrassed by that display of affection for a moment,
then quite deliberately Nicholas placed his hand on Peter's shoulder and
squeezed.
Where is the car? He kept his hand on the child's shoulder as they
crossed the airport foyer, and as Peter became more accustomed to this
unusual gesture of affection, so he pressed closer to his father, and
seemed to swell with pride.
Characteristically, Nicholas wondered what had changed about him that
made it easier for him to act naturally towards those he loved.
The answer was obvious, it was Samantha Silver who had taught him to let
go.
Let go, Nicholas-'He could almost hear her voice now.
The chauffeur was new, a silent unobtrusive man, and there were only the
two of them in the back seat of the Rolls on the drive back through
Nice, and along the coast road.
Mother has gone across to the Palace. She won't be back until dinner
time. Yes, she told me. We've got the day to ourselves, Nicholas
grinned, as the chauffeur turned in through the electric gates and white
columns that guarded the entrance to the estate. What are we going to
do? They swam and they played tennis and took Peter's Arrowhead-class
yacht Apache on a long reach up the coast as far as Menton and then
raced back, gull-winged and spinnaker set on the wind with the spray
kicking up over the bows and flicking into their faces. They laughed a
lot and they talked even more, and while Nicholas changed for dinner, he
found himself caught up in the almost postcoital melancholy of too much
happiness - happiness that was transitory and soon must end. He tried
to push the sadness aside, but it persisted as he dressed in a white
silk roll-neck and double-breasted blazer and went down to the terrace
room.
Peter was there before him, early as a child on Christmas morning, his
hair still wet and slicked down from the shower and his face glowing
pinkly from the sun and happiness.
Can I pour you a drink, Dad? I he asked eagerly, already hovering over
the silver drinks tray.
Leave a little in the bottle/ Nicholas cautioned him not wanting to deny
him the pleasure of performing this grown-up service, but with a healthy
respect for the elephantine tots that Peter dispensed in a sense of
misplaced generosity.
He tasted the drink cautiously, gasped, and added more soda, 'That's
fine/ he said, Peter looked proud, and at that moment Chantelle came
down the wide staircase into the room.
Nicholas found it impossible not to stare. Was it possible she had
grown more lovely since their last meeting or had she merely taken
special pains this evening?
She was dressed in ivory silk, woven gossamer fine, so it floated about
her body as she moved, and as she crossed the last ruddy glow of the
dying day that came in from the french windows of the terrace, the light
struck through the sheer material and put the dainty line of her legs
into momentary silhouette. Closer to him, he saw the silk was
embroidered with the same thread, ivory on ivory, 4 marvelous
understatement of elegance, and under it the shadowy outline of her
breasts, those fine shapely breasts that he remembered so well, and the
faint dusky rose suggestion of her nipples. He looked away quickly and
she smiled.
Nicky/ she said, I'm so sorry to have left you alone.
Peter and I have had a high old time! he said.
She had emphasized the shape and size of her eyes, and the planes of the
bone structure of her cheeks and Jawline, with a subtlety that made it
appear she wore no make-up, and her hair had a springing electrical fire
to it, a rich glowing sable cloud about the small head.
The honeyed ivory of her skin had tanned to the velvety texture of a
cream-coloured rose petal across her bare shoulders and arms.
He had forgotten how relaxed and gracious she could be, and this
magnificent building filled with its treasures standing in its pine
forest high above the darkening ocean and the fairy-lights of the coast
was her natural setting. She filled the huge room with a special glow
and gaiety, and she and Peter shared an impish sense of fun that had
them all laughing at the old well-remembered jokes, Nicholas could not