Wilbur Smith's Smashing Thrillers

by Wilbur Smith

  ‘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 tea-tray.

  ‘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.

  ‘It 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 75,000 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 half-smile.

  ‘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. 90 % 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 El 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 cad-rich.’

  ‘But, just suppose the news did leak?’

  Duncan shrugged. ‘The world is conditioned to accept anything, from DDT to Concorde, nobody really cares any more. Come hell and high water, we'll carry the El Barras oil. Nobody is strong enough to stop us.’

  Duncan gathered his papers and went on softly, ‘I need six million dollars for sixty days - and I need it by noon tomorrow.’

  ‘You are a brave man!’ the man repeated softly. ‘But you are finely stretched out. Already my brothers and I have made a considerable investment in your courage. To be blunt Mr. Alexander, Christy Marine has exhausted its collateral. Even Golden Dawn is pawned down to her last rivet - and the charter for Orient Amex does not change that.’

  Duncan took another sheaf of papers, bound in a brown folder, and the man lifted an eyebrow in question.

  ‘My personal assets,’ Duncan explained, and the man skimmed swiftly through the typed lists.

  ‘Paper values, Mr. Alexander. Actual values are 50% of those you list, and that is not six million dollars of collateral.’ He handed the folder back to Duncan. ‘They will do for a start, but we'll need more than that.’

  ‘What more is there?’

  ‘Share options, stock options in Christy Marine. If we are to share risk, then we must
have a share of the winnings.’

  ‘Do you want my soul also?’ Duncan demanded harshly, and the man laughed.

  ‘We'll take a slice of that as well,’ the agreed amiably.

  It was two hours later that Duncan sank wearily into the leather-work of the Rolls. The muscles in his thighs trembled as though he had run a long way and there was a nerve in the corner of his eye that jumped as though a cricket was trapped beneath the skin. He had made the gamble, everything - Christy Marine, his personal fortune, his very soul. It was all at risk now.

  ‘Eaton Square, sir?’ the chauffeur asked.

  ‘No!’ Duncan told him. He knew what he needed now to smooth away the grinding, destroying tension that wracked his body, but he needed it quickly without fuss and, like the peppermint-tasting powder, like a medicine.

  ‘The Senator Club in Frith Street,’ he told the chauffeur.

  Duncan lay face down on the massage table in the small green-curtained cubicle. He was naked, except for the towel, and his body was smooth and lean. The girl worked up his spine with strong skilled fingers, finding the little knots of tension in the sleek muscle and unravelling them.

  ‘Do you want the soft massage, sir?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he said and rolled on to his back. She lifted away the towel from around his waist. She was a pretty blonde girl in a short green tunic with the golden laurel leaf club insignia on the pocket, and her manner was brisk and business like.

  ‘Do you want any extras, sir?’ Her tone was neutral, and she began to unbutton the green tunic automatically.

  ‘No,’ Duncan said, ‘No extras,’ and closed his eyes, surrendering himself completely to the touch of her expert fingers.

  He thought of Chantelle, feeling the sneaking guilt of the moment, but it was so seldom these days that he had the energy for her smouldering demanding Persian passions. He did not have the strength for her, he was drained and weary, and all he wanted was the release, swift and simple. In two months’ time it would be different, he would have the strength and energy to pick the world up in his bare hands and shake it like a toy.

  His mind was separated from his body, and odd disconnected images flitted across the red darkness of his closed eyelids. He thought again how long it had been since last he and Chantelle had made love together, and he wondered what the world would say if they knew of it.

  Nicholas Berg left a big empty place in his bed also, they would say.

  ‘The hell with them,’ Duncan thought, but without the energy for real anger.

  ‘The hell with all of them.’ And he gave himself up to the explosion of light that burst against his eyelids and the dark, but too fleeting, peace that followed it.

  Nicholas lay back in the rather tatty old brown leather armchair which was one of James Teacher's concessions to create comfort and he stared at the cheap hunting prints on the faded wallpaper through a thin fug of cheroot smoke. Teacher could have afforded a decent Gaugin or a Turner, but such vulgar display was frowned on in the Inns of Court. It might lead prospective clients to ponder the amount of the fees that they were to be charged.

  James Teacher replaced the telephone and stood up behind his desk.

  It did not make much difference to his height.

  ‘Well, I think we have covered all the entrances to the warren,’ he announced cheerfully, and he began to tick off the items on his fingers. ‘The sheriff of the South African supreme court will serve notice of attachment on the hull of Golden Adventurer at noon local time tomorrow. Our French correspondent will do the same on Golden Dawn.’ He spoke for three minutes more, and, listening to him, Nicholas reluctantly admitted to himself that he earned the greater proportion of his enormous fees.

  ‘Well, there it is, Mr. Berg. If your hunch is correct-’

  ‘It's not a hunch, Mr. Teacher. It's a certainty. Duncan Alexander has his backside pinched in the doorway. He's been rushing round the City like a demented man looking for money. My God, he even tried to stall me with that incredible offer of a partnership. No, Mr. Teacher, it's not a hunch. Christy Marine is going to default.’

  ‘I cannot understand that, Six millions is peanuts,’ said James Teacher. At least it's peanuts to a company like Christy Marine, one of the healthiest shipping owners.’

  ‘It was, a year ago,’ Nicholas agreed grimly.’ But since then, Alexander has had a clear run, no checks, it's not a public company, he administers the shares in the Trust.’ He drew on his cheroot. ‘I'm going to use this to force a full investigation of the company's affairs. I'm going to have Alexander under the microscope and we'll have a close look at all his pimples and warts.’

  Teacher chuckled and picked up the telephone at the first ring, ‘Teacher,’ he chuckled, and then laughed out loud, nodding, ‘Yes,’ and ‘Yes!’ again. He hung up and turned to Nicholas, his face bright red with mirth, fat and round as the setting sun.

  ‘I have a disappointment for you, Mr. Berg.’ He guffawed. ‘An hour ago a transfer was made to the credit of Ocean Salvage in Bermuda by Christy Marine.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Every penny, Mr. Berg. In full and final payment. Six million and some odd dollars in the legal currency of the United States of America.’

  Nicholas stared at him, uncertain as to which of his emotions prevailed - relief at having the money, or disappointment at being prevented from tearing Duncan Alexander to shreds.

  ‘He's a high roller and very fast on his feet,’ said Teacher. ‘It wouldn't pay to underestimate a man like Duncan Alexander.’

  ‘No, it would not,’ Nicholas agreed quietly, knowing that he had done so more than once and each time it had cost him dearly.

  ‘I wonder if your clerk could find out from British Airways when the next flight leaves for Bermuda?’

  ‘You are leaving so soon? Will it be in order to mark my brief and send it direct to Bach Wackie in Bermuda?’ Teacher asked delicately.

  Bernard Wackie in person was waiting for Nicholas beyond the customs barrier. He was tall and lean and alert, burned by the sun dark as a stick of chew tobacco, and dressed in open-neck shirt and cotton trousers.

  ‘Nicholas, it's good to see you.’ His handshake was hard and dry and cool. He was under sixty and over forty, it was impossible to get nearer to his age, ‘I'm taking you directly to the office, there is too much to discuss. I don't want to waste time.’ And he took Nicholas’ arm and hurried him through burning sunlight into the shivery cold of the Rolls air-conditioning.

  The car was too big for the island's narrow winding roads. Here ownership of automobiles was restricted to one per family unit, but Bernard made the most of his rights.

  He was one of those men whose combination of energy and brilliance made it impossible for him to live in England and to subject himself to the punitive taxes of envy.

  ‘It's hard to be a winner, in a society dedicated to the glorification of the losers,’ he had told Nicholas, and had moved his whole operation to this taxless haven.

  To a lesser man it would have been suicide, but Bernard had taken over the top floor of the Bank of Bermuda building, with a magnificent view across Hamilton Harbour, and had fitted out with a marine operations room and a communications system the equal of NATO Command.

  From it, he offered a service so efficient, so personally involved, so orientated to every single facet of ship ownership and operation, that not only had his old clients followed him, but others had come flocking.

  ‘No taxes, Nicholas,’ he smiled, ‘And look at the view.’ The picturesque buildings of Hamilton town were painted in candy colours, strawberries and limes, plum and lemon and across the bay the cedar trees stood tall in the sunlight, and the yachts from the pink-painted clubhouse spread multi-coloured sails across green waters. ‘It's better than London in winter, isn't it?’

  ‘The same temperature,’ said Nicholas, and glanced up at the air-conditioning.

  ‘I'm a hot-blooded man,’ Bernard explained, and when his tall nubile secretary ent
ered to his ring, bearing the Ocean Salvage files like a high priestess carrying the sacrament, Bernard fell into an awed silence, concentrating all his attention on her pneumatic bosoms; they bounced and strained against the laws of gravity as though filled with helium.

  She flashed a dazzling, painted smile at Nicholas as she placed the files on Bernard's desk, and then she left with her perfectly rounded buttocks under the tightly tailored skirt, swinging and dancing to a distant music. ‘She can type too,’ Bernard assured Nick with a sigh, and shook his head as if to clear it, He opened the top file.

  ‘Right,’ he began. ‘The deposit from Christy Marine-‘

  The money had come in, and only just in time. The next instalment on Sea Witch was already forty-eight hours overdue and Atlantique were becoming highly agitated.

  ‘Son of a gun,’ said Bernard. ‘You would not think six million was an easy sum of money to get rid of, would you?’

  ‘You don't even have to try,’ Nick agreed. ‘It just spends itself.’ Then with a scowl, ‘What's this?’

  ‘They've invoked the escalation clause again, another 3½ %. 'Sea Witch's builders had included a clause that related the contract price to the index cost of steel and the Union labour rates. They had avoided the threatened dockyard strike by capitulating to Union demands, and now the figures came back to Nicholas. They were big fat ugly figures. The clause was a festering canker to Nicholas draining his strength and money.

  They worked on through the afternoon, paying, paying and paying. Bunkers and the other running costs of Warlock, interest and capital repayments on the debts of Ocean Salvage, lawyers’ fees, agents fees, the six million whittled away. One of the few payments that gave Nicholas any pleasure was the 12½% salvage money to the crew of Warlock. David Allen's share was almost thirty thousand dollars, Beauty Baker another twenty-five thousand - Nick included a note with that cheque, ‘Have a Bundaberg on me!’

  ‘Is that all the payments?’ Nicholas asked at last.

  ‘Isn't it enough,’

  ‘It's enough.’ Nick felt groggy with jet-lag and from juggling with figures. ‘What's next?’