by Wilbur Smith
Nicholas stopped suddenly as a new thought struck him. ‘Charles,’ his voice sharper still, ‘the pod tanks, the design of the pod tanks. He hasn't altered that, has he? He hasn't cut the corners there? Tell me, old friend, they are still self -propelled, are they not?’
Charles Gras brought the Courvoisier bottle to where Nicholas stood, and when Nick would have refused the addition to his glass, Charles told him sorrowfully, ‘Come, Nicholas, you will need it for what I have to tell you now.’
As he poured, he said, ‘The pod tankers, their design has been altered also.’ He drew a breath to tell it with a rush. ‘They no longer have their own propulsion units. They are now only dumb barges that must be docked and undocked from the main hull and manoeuvred only by attendant tugs.’
Nicholas stared at him, his lips blanched to thin white lines. ‘No. I do not believe it. Not even Duncan –‘
‘Duncan Alexander has saved forty-two million dollars by re-designing Golden Dawn and equipping her with only a single boiler and propeller.’ Charles Gras shrugged again. ‘And forty-two million dollars is a lot of money.’
There was a pale gleam of wintry sunlight that flickered through the low grey cloud and lit the fields not far from the River Thames with that incredible vivid shade of English green.
Samantha and Nicholas stood in a thin line of miserably cold parents and watched the pile of struggling boys across the field in their coloured jerseys; the light blue and black of Eton, the black and white of St Paul's, were so muddied as to be barely distinguishable.
‘What are they doing?’ Samantha demanded, holding the collar of her coat around her ears.
‘It's called a scrum,’ Nick told her. ‘That's how they decide which team gets the ball.
‘Wow. There must be an easier way.’
There was a flurry of sudden movement and the slippery egg-shaped ball flew back in a lazy curve that was snapped up by a boy in the Etonian colours. He started to run.
‘It's Peter, isn't it?’ cried Samantha.
‘Go it, Peter boy!’ Nick -roared, and the child ran with the ball clutched to his chest and his head thrown back.
He ran strongly with the reaching coordinated stride of an older boy, swerving round a knot of his opponents, leaving them floundering in the churned mud, and angling across the lush thick grass towards the white-painted goal line, trying to reach the corner before a taller more powerfully built lad who was pounding across the field to intercept him.
Samantha began to leap up and down on the same spot, shrieking wildly, completely uncertain of what was happening, but wild with excitement that infected Nicholas.
The two runners converged at an angle which would bring them to the white line at the same moment, at a point directly in front of where Nick and Samantha stood.
Nick saw the contortion of his son's face, and realized that this was a total effort. He felt a physical constriction of his own chest as he watched the boy drive himself to his utmost limits, the sinews standing out in his throat, his lips drawn back in a frozen rictus of endeavour that exposed the teeth clenched in his jaw.
From infancy, Peter Berg had brought to any task that faced him the same complete focus of all his capabilities. Like his grandfather, old Arthur Christy, and his own father, he would be one of life's winners. Nick knew this instinctively, as he watched him run. He had inherited the intelligence, the comeliness and the charisma, but he bolstered all that with this unquenchable desire to succeed in all he did. The single-minded determination to focus all his talents on the immediate project. Nick felt the pressure in his chest swell. The boy was all right, more than all right, and pride threatened to choke him.
Sheer force of will had driven Peter Berg a pace ahead of his bigger, longer-legged adversary, and now he leaned forward with the ball held in both hands, arms fully extended, reaching for the line to make the touch-down.
He was ten feet from where Nick stood, a mere instant from success, but he was unbalanced, and the St Paul's boy dived at him, crashing into the side of his chest, the impact jarring and brutal, hurling Peter out of the field of play with the ball spinning from his hands and bouncing away loosely, while Peter smashed into the earth on both knees, then rolled forward head over heels, and sprawled face down on the soggy turf.
‘It's a touch-down!’ Samantha was still leaping up and down.
‘No,’’ said Nick. ‘No, it isn't.’
Peter Berg dragged himself upright. His cheek was streaked with chocolate mud and both his knees were running blood, the skin smeared open by the coarse grass.
He did not glance down at his injuries, and he shrugged away the St Paul boy's patronizing hand, holding himself erect against the pain as he limped back on to the field. He did not look at his father, and the moisture that filled his eyes and threatened to flood over the thick dark lashes were not tears of pain, but of humiliation and failure, With an overwhelming feeling of kinship, Nick knew that for his son those feelings were harder to bear than any physical agony.
When the game ended he came to Nicholas, all bloodied and mud-smeared, and shook hands solemnly.
‘I am so glad you came, sir, he said. I wish you could have watched us win.’
Nick wanted to say: ‘It doesn't matter, Peter, it's only a game.’ But he did not. To Peter Berg, it mattered very deeply, so Nicholas nodded agreement and then he introduced Samantha.
Again Peter shook hands solemnly and startled her by calling her, 'M'am.’ But when she told him, ‘Hi, Pete. A great game, you deserved to slam them,’ he smiled, that sudden dazzling irresistible flash that reminded her so of Nicholas that she felt her heart squeezed. Then when the boy hurried away to shower and change, she took Nick's arm.
‘He's a beautiful boy, but does he always call you "sir"?’
‘I haven't seen him in three months, It takes us both a little while to relax.’
‘Three months is a long time-‘
‘It's all tied up by the lawyers. Access and visiting-rights what's good for the child, not what's good for the parents. Today was a special concession from Chantelle, but I still have to deliver him to her at five o'clock. Not five past five, five o'clock.’
They went to the Cockpit teashop and Peter startled Samantha again by pulling out her chair and seating her formally. While they waited for the best muffins in Britain to be brought to the table, Nicholas and Peter engaged each other in conversation that was stiff with self-consciousness.
‘Your mother sent me a copy of your report, Peter, I cannot tell you how delighted I was.’
‘I had hoped to do better, sir. There are still three others ahead of me.’
And Samantha ached for them. Peter Berg was twelve years of age. She wished he could just throw his arms around Nicholas neck and say, ‘Daddy, I love you,’ for the love was transparent, even through the veneer of public school manners. It shone behind the thick dark lashes that fringed the boy's golden brown eyes, and glowed on the cheeks still as creamy and smooth as a girl's.
She wanted desperately to help them both, and on inspiration she launched into an account of Warlock's salvage of Golden Adventurer, a tale with emphasis on the derring do of Warlock's Master, not forgetting his rescue of Samantha Silver from the icy seas of Antarctica.
Peter's eyes grew enormous as he listened, never leaving her face except to demand of Nicholas,’ Is that true, Dad?’ And when the story was told, he was silent for a long moment before announcing, ‘I'm going to be a tug captain when I'm big.’
Then he showed Samantha how to spread strawberry jam on her muffins in the correct way, and chewing together heartily with cream on their lips the two of them became fast friends, and Nicholas joined their chatter more easily, smiling his thanks to Samantha and reaching under the table to squeeze her hand.
He had to end it at last. ‘Listen, Peter, if we are to make Lynwood by five -'and the boy sobered instantly.
‘Dad, couldn't you telephone Mother? She might just let me spend the weekend in London
with you.’
‘I already tried that.’ Nick shook his head. ‘It didn't work,’ and Peter stood up, his feeling choked by an expression of stoic resignation.
From the back of Nick's Mercedes 450 Coupe the boy leaned forward into the space between the two bucket seats, and the three of them were very close in the snug interior of the speeding car, their laughter that of old friends.
It was almost dark when Nicholas turned in through Lynwood's stone gateway, and he glanced at the luminous dial of his Rolex. We'll just make it. The drive climbed the hill in a series of broad even curves through the carefully tended woods, and the three-storied Georgian country house on the crest was ablaze with light in every window.
Nick never came here without that strange hollow feeling in the bottom of his stomach. Once this had been his home, every room, every acre of the grounds had its memories, and now, as he parked under the white columned portico, they came crowding back.
‘I have finished the model Spitfire you sent me for Christmas, Dad.’ Peter was playing desperately for time now. ‘Won't you come up and see it?’
‘I don't think so –‘ Nicholas began, and Peter blurted out before he could finish.
‘It's all right, Uncle Duncan won't be here. He always comes down late from London on Friday nights, and his Rolls isn't in the garage yet.’ Then, in a tone that tore at Nick like thorns, ‘Please.. .I won't see you again until Easter.’
‘Go,’ said Samantha. I'll wait here.’ And Peter turned on her, ‘You come too, Sam, please.’
Samantha felt herself infected by that fatal curiosity, the desire to see, to know more of Nick's past life; she knew he was going to demur further, but she forestalled him, slipping quickly out of the Mercedes.
‘Okay, Pete, let's go.’
Nick must follow them up the broad steps to the double oaken doors, and he felt himself carried along on a tide of events over which he had no control. It was a sensation that he never relished.
In the entrance hall Samantha looked around her quickly, feeling herself overcome by awe. It was so grand, there was no other word to describe the house. The stair way reached up the full height of the three storeys, and the broad staircase was in white marble with a marble balustrade, while on each side of the hall, glass doors opened on to long reception rooms. But she did not have a chance to look further, for Peter seized her hand and raced her up the staircase, while Nick followed them up to Peter's room at a more sedate pace.
The Spitfire had place of honour on the shelf above Peter's bed. He brought it down proudly, and they examined it with suitable expressions of admiration. Peter responded to their praise like a flower to the sun.
When at last they descended the staircase, the sadness and restraint of parting was on them all, but they were stopped in the centre of the hall by the voice from the drawing-room door on the left.
‘Peter, darling.’ A woman stood in the open doorway, and she was even more beautiful than the photograph that Samantha had seen of her.
Dutifully Peter crossed to her. ‘Good evening, Mother.’
She stooped over him, cupping his face in her hands, and she kissed him tenderly, then she straightened, holding his hand so he was ranged at her side, a subtle drawing of boundaries.
‘Nicholas,’ she tilted her head, you look marvellous - so brown and fit.
Chantelle Alexander was only a few inches taller than her son, but she seemed to fill and light the huge house with a shimmering presence, the way a single beautiful bird can light a dim forest.
Her hair was dark and soft and glowing, and her skin and the huge dark sloe eyes were a legacy from the beautiful Persian noblewoman that old Arthur Christy had married for her fortune, and come to love with an obsessive passion.
She was dainty. Her tiny, narrow feet peeped from below the long, dark green silk skirt, and the exquisite little hand that held Peter's was emphasized by a single deep throbbing green emerald the size of a ripe acorn.
Now she turned her head on the long graceful neck, and her eyes took the slightly oriental slant of a modern-day Nefertiti as she looked at Samantha.
For seconds only, the two women studied each other, and Samantha's chin came up firmly as she looked into those deep dark gazelle eyes, touched with all the mystery and intrigue of the East. They understood each other instantly. It was an intuitive flash, like a discharge of static electricity, then Chantelle smiled, and when she smiled the impossible happened - she became more beautiful than before.
‘May I present Dr. Silver?’ Nick began, but Peter tugged at his mother's hand.
‘I asked Sam to see my model. She's a marine biologist, and she's a professor at Miami University –‘
‘Not yet, Pete,’ Samantha corrected him, ‘but give me time.’
‘Good evening, Dr. Silver. It seems you have made a conquest.’ Chantelle let the statement hang ambiguously as she turned back to Nick. ‘I was waiting for you, Nicholas, and I'm so glad to have a chance to speak to you.’ She glanced again at Samantha. ‘I do hope you will excuse us for a few minutes, Dr. Silver. It is a matter of some urgency. Peter will be delighted to entertain you. As a biologist, you will find his guinea pigs of interest, I'm sure.’
The commands were given so graciously, by a lady in such control of her situation, that Peter went to take Samantha's hand and lead her away.
It was one of the customs of Lynwood that all serious discussion took place in the study. Chantelle led the way, and went immediately to the false-fronted bookcase that concealed the liquor cabinet, and commenced the ritual of preparing a drink for Nicholas. He wanted to stop her. It was something from long ago, recalling too much that was painful, but instead, he watched the delicate but precise movements of her hands pouring exactly the correct measure of Chivas Royal Salute into the crystal glass, adding the soda and the single cube of ice.
‘What a pretty young girl, Nicholas.’
He said nothing. On the ornate Louis Quatorze desk was a silver-framed photograph of Duncan Alexander and Chantelle together, and he looked away and moved to the fireplace, standing with his back to the blaze as he had done on a thousand other evenings.
Chantelle brought the glass to him, and stood close, looking up at him - and her fragrance touched a deep nostalgic chord. He had first bought Caleche for her on a spring morning in Paris; with an effort he forced the memory aside.
‘What did you want to speak to me about, is it Peter?
‘No. Peter is doing as well as we can hope for, in the circumstances, He still resents Duncan – but-‘ she shrugged, and moved away. He had almost forgotten how narrow was her waist, he would still be able to span it with both hands.
‘It's hard to explain, but it's Christy Marine, Nicholas. I desperately need the advice of someone I can trust.’
‘You can trust me?’ he asked.
‘Isn't it strange? I would still trust you with my life.’ She came back to him, standing disconcertingly close, enveloping him with her scent and heady beauty. He sipped at the whisky to distract himself.
‘Even though I have no right to ask you, Nicholas,’ still I know you won't refuse me, will you?’ She wove spells, he could feel the mesh falling like gossamer around him.
‘I always was a sucker, wasn't I?’
Now she touched his arm. ‘No, Nicholas, please don't be bitter.’ She held his gaze directly.
‘How can I help you?’ Her touch on his arm disturbed him, and, sensing this, she increased the pressure of her fingers for a moment, then lifted her hand and glanced at the slim white gold Piaget on her wrist.
‘Duncan will be home soon - and what I have to tell you is long and complicated. Can we meet in London early next week?’
‘Chantelle,’he began.
‘Nicky, please. Nicky,’ she was the only one who ever called him that. it was too familiar, too intimate.
‘When?’
‘You are meeting Duncan on Tuesday morning to discuss the arbitration of Golden Adventurer.’
&n
bsp; ‘Yes.’
‘Will you call me at Eaton Square when you finish? I'll wait by the telephone.’
‘Chantelle-‘
‘Nicky, I have nobody else to turn to.’
He had never been able to refuse her - which was part of the reason he had lost her, he thought wryly.
There was no engine noise, just the low rush of air past the body of the Mercedes.
‘Damn these seats, they weren't made for lovers,’ Samantha said.
‘We'll be home in an hour.’
‘I don't know if I can wait that long,’ Samantha whispered huskily. ‘I want to be closer to you.’
And they were silent again, until they slowed for the weekend traffic through Hammersmith.
‘Peter is a knockout. if only I were ten years old, I'd cash in my dolls.’
‘My guess is he would swop his Spitfire.’
‘How much longer?’
‘Another half hour.’
‘Nicholas, I feel threatened,’ her voice had a sudden panicky edge to it. ‘I have this terrible foreboding.’
‘That's nonsense.’
‘It's been too good - for too long.’
James Teacher was the head of Salmon Peters and Teacher, the lawyers that Nick had retained for Ocean Salvage. He was a man with a formidable reputation in the City, a leading expert on maritime law - and a tough bargainer. He was florid and bald, and so short that his feet did not touch the floorboards of the Bentley when he sat on the back seat.