by Sam Fisher
Michael Xavier met the two TV journalists at the main doors to the airport. He was all smiles and exuded a relaxed air, belying the fact that he was in charge of a five-billion-euro project just about to be unveiled to the public. But then, he was well practised in putting on a brave face – it came with the job. He had been the one to dream up the Neptune, the world’s first deep ocean hotel, a pleasure palace to accommodate 100 guests, each paying up to 50,000 dollars a night for the best suites. The project was a monumental undertaking that used cutting-edge technology and employed brand new materials and construction techniques. And, as chief executive of the corporation undertaking the job, he was responsible for the billions invested in the scheme.
Xavier strode forward to shake hands with the journalists. He was tall and gangly, with thinning black hair that had once been a luxuriant mop in the days when he played bass in a band at Cambridge. His big hand enveloped that of a middle-aged man in a crumpled linen suit. ‘Michael Xavier,’ he said.
‘Harry Flanders,’ the man in the suit replied. ‘This is my producer, Terry Mitcham.’
‘Delighted you could both make it. I was very sorry to hear about Robert Jenkins,’ Xavier said. A Fijian chauffeur in a dark blue uniform approached, pushing a trolley. He started loading the visitors’ bags. ‘This way,’ Xavier added. ‘The car is just outside.’
A few minutes later, the limo pulled onto the main highway leading from the airport to the capital city, Suva. It was raining hard, drenching the lush tropical forest that lined the highway left and right. The sky was heavy with dark grey, low cloud.
‘This is supposed to be our drier season,’ Michael Xavier commented wryly. ‘But of course none of that matters a bit where we’re going!’ He handed a brown plastic folder to each of the visitors. In the back of the limo, the three men were seated in oversized leather seats. Each of the guests had a drink on walnut side tables attached to their chairs. For Harry, this was a godsend – he hadn’t had anything alcoholic for almost an hour.
‘You’ve both signed the contract agreeing to the press embargo, so I’m happy to let you see these now. They contain the basic facts behind the Neptune. Let me talk you through them.
‘The Neptune is the world’s first true sub-aquatic hotel. It’s been built at a depth of 100 metres, 12 kilometres off the coast on the edge of the continental shelf, in what is known as the neritic zone. Half a kilometre beyond the Neptune, the ocean floor starts to drop away almost a thousand metres. The reason this location was chosen is because 97 per cent of marine life lives in the neritic zone, and the variety of this life off Fiji is particularly remarkable.
‘If you turn to the schematic, gentlemen. On page seven, you’ll find the layout and stats for the hotel. The Neptune is a complex of interconnected domes made from superstrong micro-alloyed glass. There are three main domes: Alpha, Beta and Gamma. Each is 60 metres high and 50 metres in diameter. Each dome is topped with a thick metal cap. Alpha contains the main docking area and air locks for receiving the submarines that transport guests from the surface. Above this is the reception area, and on the top level is a restaurant with a wraparound view of the ocean. Beta consists of three floors of luxury rooms on the periphery of the dome, each with a view to the ocean. At the top of the dome is the Presidential Suite, more fish bowl than hotel room, actually. Dome Gamma also has four floors. On the first level is an enormous casino. On the second floor we have a conference suite. Above that is a 100-seater theatre, a cinema and two restaurants.’ He glanced quickly at his guests. ‘And on the top floor, there’s an incredible pool and more restaurants. The administration centre and the power station and communications hubs are housed in separate, smaller domes linked to the main hotel complex. You can see them on the edge of the diagram. Any questions?’
‘This is amazing,’ Harry said, genuinely impressed. ‘They sent some stuff over from London, but you’ve been understandably circumspect about what you’ve let out. I never dreamed it would be on this scale.’
‘Thank you,’ Xavier replied, clearly delighted. ‘And, yes, we’ve had to be very careful. We want to make a big splash. If you’ll excuse the terrible pun.’
‘What about safety mechanisms?’ Terry asked. ‘Is it completely self-contained?’
‘No, that would be too risky. The hotel has a double redundant backup system for power, oxygen and communications. But on top of this, it is linked to the mainland by a submarine cable for emergency power and communications.’
‘So what’s the budget for this?’
Michael Xavier took a deep breath. ‘Five billion euros.’
Harry whistled. ‘Christ! And how was that raised?’ He knew the basics from the rather scant file Terry had compiled, but wanted more, and from the horse’s mouth.
‘A consortium called BHL – Bathoscope Holdings Limited – owns the project. There are 600 shareholders – some very big players, but quite a few small investors. The complex was designed by Felix Hoffman, a true genius. It’s been almost 10 years in planning.’
‘How on earth do you get to it?’ Terry asked.
‘Well,’ Xavier replied, ‘you’re about to find out.’ As he spoke, the car slowed and they could all see through the windows that the rain had cleared to reveal the ocean 70 metres below the road. Hugging the beach was a line of elegant steel and glass buildings. A huge sign over the main doors said: ‘SUVA SUBAQUATIC PORT’. In the water just beyond the buildings lay the long, narrow shape of a submarine. Some 30 metres in length, it was low in the water and glinted in the weak sunlight. ‘Gentlemen, the Cousteau,’ Xavier said proudly, as the car swung onto the steep road leading down to the water. ‘Your subaquatic taxi.’
11
Fiji
‘I wish I’d told him I suffer from claustrophobia,’ Harry announced.
‘What!’ Terry Mitcham exclaimed as they strapped themselves into the seats.
‘Lighten up, Terry. I’m kidding!’ Harry said, rolling his eyes.
It was surprisingly quiet inside the Cousteau. They could just hear a slight lowering in the note of the engine as the submarine dipped beneath the surface. They had been left in the main passenger compartment which could hold 20, in five rows of four, while Michael Xavier joined the captain on the bridge at the front of the vessel. There were no portholes, but the two journalists could view outside the craft on seatback screens. As the submarine descended, the murkiness clouding the external cameras began to clear and the gorgeous vista of the Fijian coastal seabed and crystal clear waters of the Pacific Ocean came into view. ‘Certainly beats the London Aquarium,’ Terry Mitcham said.
Five minutes later, the submarine reached cruising depth and levelled out. A hostess in a red uniform came round with drinks and canapés. The voice of the captain announced that they would be arriving at the Neptune in 10 minutes.
As the submarine docked, the passengers felt a gentle nudge and heard a hiss as the locks were sealed. Michael Xavier appeared from the bridge. ‘Well, gentlemen, I hope you had a pleasant trip,’ he said. ‘We’ve docked. If you would come this way.’
The airlock of the Cousteau opened onto a narrow corridor surrounded by concertinaed reinforced rubber. It was brightly lit and carpeted. Emerging into the hotel proper, the two guests met a man who looked strikingly similar to Michael Xavier. He had his hand outstretched.
‘My brother, Johnny,’ Michael Xavier explained. ‘Johnny is Head of Operations here. The man at the sharp end.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Johnny said and indicated they should follow him.
The group passed along a short passageway and saw ahead of them a bank of elevators. They ascended, the elevator drew to a halt and they stepped out into a wide corridor. Johnny Xavier led the way to the main reception, explaining how the place was constructed and going through some of the mind-boggling statistics associated with the project.
The two newcomers stopped, stunned, and looked around the huge space,
mouths agape. It was truly awe-inspiring, a reception that would perfectly suit a major five-star hotel in any city. An expanse of white marble stretched from where they stood to the perimeter of the circular room. Several passageways led off the space, and directly ahead stood a wide opening that connected with the next dome, Dome Beta. Beside this was a curved reception desk made from exotic dark wood. The ceiling was four storeys above their heads, adding to the sense of vast open space. A square arrangement of four gigantic crystal-and-brushed-steel chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and in the centre of the room stood a massive sculpture of the god Neptune, rendered in steel. His muscular metal arms stretched upwards, catching the light from the suspended illuminations. But perhaps the most impressive feature of the place was the perimeter of the room. It was a circle of clear glass, 6 metres high, opening onto the natural glory of the ocean beyond. The visitors were struck dumb.
‘Good God!’ Harry said simply.
‘Pretty impressive, isn’t it?’ Johnny Xavier said. ‘I still get tingles when I walk in here and I’ve been living with it for what seems like a lifetime. It all looks a bit sterile right now, but in under 24 hours it should be buzzing.’
‘The Grand Opening.’
‘Correct.’
‘What’s planned?’
‘Should be quite an evening,’ Johnny Xavier remarked. ‘As journalists, you’re very privileged to be coming,’ he added with an air of self-importance. ‘We’ve had to turn down several A-listers. But we should have enough celebrity glamour to please your cameras. Kristy Sunshine is performing and Danny Preston will be cutting the ribbon, so to speak.’ He gave his guests a brief, rather patronising smile, and Harry suddenly got the distinct impression Johnny did not have much time for journalists. Or else the man felt insecure about something. Either way, Harry had taken an instant dislike to him. ‘Danny Preston?’ he said. ‘I thought he was dead.’
Terry stifled a laugh.
‘How many guests are expected?’ Harry went on.
Johnny Xavier fixed the journalist with an unfriendly stare. ‘Ninety-six,’ he said crisply. ‘A gala dinner, followed by the official opening. The guests will all be staying at the hotel of course. It marks the launch of a massive global media campaign, of which you are at the forefront, and we plan to be welcoming our first paying customers in two weeks.’
‘Exciting.’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘All right, let’s continue the tour,’ Michael Xavier said, and led the way across the echoing marble floor. The visitors gazed around them, paying little heed to where they were going. They could see circular galleries on the floors above the huge girdle of glass.
‘Above us, around the rim on the first floor, are staff areas, offices, computer control centres,’ Michael Xavier said. ‘Above that, on the second and third floors, are two of our four restaurants, Sandbanks and Marianas. If you come this way, the main corridor ahead leads into Dome Beta, the accommodation area.’
A huge spiral staircase dominated the centre of Dome Beta. It swept around in a swirl of marble and chrome. Looking up, Harry and Terry could see three circular balconies. Bridges stretched from the spiral staircase to the balconies on each of the floors. The top of the dome was capped with a steel hemisphere.
Through a pair of 8 metre high doors, the journalists were led into Dome Gamma. ‘This is the recreation dome,’ Michael Xavier explained. ‘The top floor is a huge pool area with a ballroom and a restaurant leading off of it. The whole area can be opened up as a single, free-flowing entertainment zone. On the second floor is the cinema and a theatre, on the first are a set of conference rooms and here on ground level we have the casino. The floors are connected by these escalators.’ He pointed to a bank of three oversized moving staircases. ‘There’s also a bank of elevators over here.’ He led the others to the east wall. ‘Let’s start at the top.’
The elevator took just a few seconds to ascend from ground to the top floor of the dome where it opened directly onto a vast open space. The pool ran the circumference of the massive room, and it was easy to imagine that swimming in it would at first be a disorientating experience. The walls were glass, offering a view onto the ocean over 50 metres below the surface. Swimming in the pool would feel like you were bathing with the fishes. In the centre of the room were the dining areas and the ballroom, all open-planned, ready for the big event.
‘It’s spectacular,’ Terry Mitcham declared.
Taking the escalators down to the second floor gave the men a true sense of the scale of the place as the glass roof slipped away behind them. Stepping off the escalator they found themselves in a large rectangular space. Several sets of doors led off, left and right.
‘To the right is the theatre,’ Johnny Xavier said. ‘It seats 100, and we have some major shows booked, including some acts that have just completed residencies in Vegas. To the left,’ and he indicated a couple of opened doors, ‘is the cinema. Here...’
A incredibly loud bang resonated throughout the dome, followed by a high-pitched whine. Harry Flanders dived to the floor, his hands over his head. Terry Mitcham froze in terror. Another tremendous bang hit them and a burst of lemon light shot from the opened doors to their left. Then silence.
Johnny Xavier bent down to help Harry to his feet. ‘We are a little jumpy, aren’t we, Mr Flanders?’ he grinned. ‘It’s just the techs testing the cinema system!’
12
The Neptune Hotel, Presidential Suite, Dome Gamma: grand opening night
‘You really should take a look at this, Kristy. It’s amazing!’
Brett Littleton was standing, hands on hips, staring through the 3-metre-tall window girdling the room. He felt as though he was standing in the centre of a vast fish tank. The outside of the hotel was lit up by huge floodlights embedded in the ocean floor. A giant turtle swam past, gliding low over the soft coral that burst into random red and orange shapes close to the north-facing panel. A school of tiny, silver fish – there must have been a thousand of them – wove a path close to the window and then dashed away like the swish of a curtain. ‘I’ve never seen anything like this,’ he added.
‘Yeah, yeah, blah, blah,’ Kristy Sunshine retorted.
Littleton sighed and wandered over to the sofa, picked up a remote and pointed it at a screen on a wide column in the middle of the room. The TV burst into life. It was set to Fox News, and the first images were those of grey warships cutting through the ocean, followed by a close-up of a sailor in combat gear manning a gun station on the deck. An American jet, an F18F, swooped down, seemingly out of nowhere and drew to a dead stop on the deck of an aircraft carrier. Then the images changed to the inside of a vast government chamber in China. The grave face of a minister reading something aloud. Brett stabbed the remote and the sound came up.
‘In Beijing, the Military Commission, the official security branch of the government, held a special meeting this morning...’
‘Oh please! Turn the thing off, Brett.’ Kristy stood up and snatched the remote from her manager’s outstretched hand. ‘That’s the last thing I wanna hear right now.’
Brett Littleton glared at her, but he had learned long ago that when it came to Kristy, resistance was futile. It boiled down to a simple choice: keep quiet, or get fired. He kept quiet, sat down and stared at the blank screen.
Glancing over, he watched as she lowered herself to the thick cream carpet close to a coffee table. Snatching up a 100 dollar bill, she stuck one end up her nostril and ran the other end over the smooth varnished surface, hoovering up a line of white powder as she went. Placing a finger at each nostril in turn, she produced a brief indecorous snorting sound and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. Littleton watched the girl’s movements and thought for maybe the thousandth time what a terrible life the poor kid had. Sure, she was worth, what? Fifty mill? But on the way to such riches she had lost more than she could ever have hoped to gain. She was completely controlled, a slave to the media, a slave to cocaine, a slave to f
ame and adulation. He had never felt so sorry for anyone in his life.
She caught Littleton staring. ‘What’s up, Brett? Still off the shit for a while?’
He nodded. ‘I think it’s best I stay level-headed, don’t you?’
She shrugged. ‘I hate this place. Gives me the creeps. Knew it would.’
‘God, I think it’s fabulous.’
‘You would!’
He stood up and stared out at the panorama of the ocean again. He had never seen such diversity of life before, even in an aquarium. And this building ... what a feat of engineering. It was a technological miracle, barely conceivable.
Kristy Sunshine ran a hand across her forehead. ‘For God’s sake. Can you pull the curtains. All that blue is giving me a headache. Not what I need, baby.’
‘There are no curtains,’ Littleton said, a touch more bite in his voice than he had intended.
‘There are no curtains...’ Kristy mimicked. ‘There must be fucking curtains.’
Littleton had paced over to a panel close to the TV. ‘The glass can be polarised to filter out the light,’ he said. ‘Look.’ And he depressed a button on a control panel fixed to the wall. Slowly, the glass darkened. ‘Weren’t you paying any attention to Johnny or Michael when they escorted us up here, Kris?’
‘Well duh! Obviously, that would be a “no”.’
The singer pulled herself up from the coffee table and walked a little unsteadily towards a cabinet a few metres from where Littleton was standing. On top of the cabinet stood a small case containing more cocaine. She opened the lid and started to spoon some onto a tray as though it were sherbet.
‘Kris, do you really...?’
The girl whirled on her manager. She opened her mouth to speak just as the door buzzer sounded. Brett Littleton strode across the room. A young man with the face of a jaded angel, all cheekbones and black rings under his eyes, appeared at the edge of the door. He cleared his throat. ‘One hour to stage call, Miss...’