Wilbur Smith's Smashing Thrillers

by Wilbur Smith

  ‘With full discretion?’ She nodded, and he asked next, ‘Did you have an escape clause? In what circumstances can you reclaim control?’

  ‘The dissolution of marriage,’ she said, and then shook her head. ‘But I think I knew that no court would uphold the agreement if I wanted to change it. It's too Victorian. Anytime I want to I could simply apply to have the appointment of Duncan as my agent set aside.’

  ‘Yes, I think you're right,’Nicholas agreed. ‘But it might take a year or more, unless you could prove malafides, unless you could prove he deliberately betrayed the trust of agency.’

  ‘Can I prove that, Nicky?’ She turned to him now, lifting her face to him. ‘Has he betrayed that trust?’

  ‘I don't know yet,’ Nicholas told her cautiously, and she cut in.

  ‘I've made a terrible fool of myself, haven't I?’ He kept silent, and she went on tremulously, ‘I know there is no way I can apologize to you for what I did. There is no way that I can make it up to you, but believe me, Nicholas please believe me when I tell you, I have never regretted anything so much in all my life.’

  ‘It's past, Chantelle. It's over. There is no profit in looking back.’

  ‘I don't think there is another man in the world who would do what you are doing now, who would repay deceit and betrayal with help and comfort. I just wanted to say that.’

  She was standing very close to him now, and in the cool night he could feel the warmth of her flesh across the inches that separated them, and her perfume had a subtlety altered fragrance on that creamy skin. She always wore perfume so well, the same way she wore her clothes.

  ‘It's getting cold,’ he said brusquely, took her elbow and steered her back into the light, out of that dangerous intimacy. ‘We still have a great deal to discuss.’

  He paced the thick forest-green carpet, quickly establishing a beat as regular as that of a sentry, ten paces from the glass doors, passing in front of where she sat in the centre of the wide velvet couch, turning just before he reached the headless marble statue of a Greek athlete from antiquity that guarded the double oaken doors into the lobby, and then back in front of her again. As he paced, he told her in carefully prepared sequence all that he had learned from Lazarus.

  She sat like a bird on the point of flight, turning her head to watch him, those huge dark eyes seeming to swell larger as she listened.

  It was not necessary to explain it to her in layman's language, she was Arthur Christy's daughter, she understood when he told her how he suspected that Duncan Alexander had been forced to self-insure the hull of Golden Dawn and how he had used Christy stock to buy re-insurance, stock that he had probably already pledged to finance construction of the vessel.

  Nicholas reconstructed the whole inverted pyramid of Duncan Alexander's machinations for her to examine, and almost immediately she saw how vulnerable, how unstable it was.

  ‘Are you certain of all this?’ she whispered, and her face was drained of all its lustrous rose tints.

  He shook his head. ‘I've reconstructed the Tyrannosaurus from a jawbone,’ he admitted frankly. ‘The shape of it might be a little different, but one thing I am certain of is that it's a big and dangerous beast.

  ‘Duncan could destroy Christy Marine,’ she whispered again. ‘Completely!’ She looked around slowly, at the house - at the room and its treasures, the symbols of her life. ‘He has risked everything that's mine, and Peter's.’

  Nicholas did not reply, but he stopped in front of her and watched her carefully as she absorbed the enormity of it all.

  He saw outrage turn slowly to confusion, to fear and finally to terror. He had never seen her even afraid before - but now, faced with the prospect of being stripped naked of the armour which had always protected her, she was like a lost animal, he could even see that flutter of her heart under the pale swelling flesh of her bosom, and she shivered again.

  ‘Could he lose everything, Nicholas? He couldn't, could he?’ She wanted assurance, but he could not give it to her, all he could give her was pity. Pity was the one emotion, probably the only one, she had never aroused in him, not once in all the years he had known her.

  ‘What can I do, Nicholas?’ she pleaded. ‘Please help me. Oh God, what must I do?’

  ‘You can stop Duncan launching Golden Dawn - until the hull and propulsion has been modified, until it has been properly surveyed and underwritten - and until you have taken full control of Christy Marine out of his hands again.’ And his voice was gentle, filled with his compassion as he told her:

  ‘That's enough for one day, Chantelle. If we go on now, we will be chasing our tails. Tonight you know what could happen, tomorrow we will discuss how we can prevent it. Have you a Valium?’

  She shook her head. ‘I've never used drugs to hide from things,’ It was true, he knew, that she had never lacked courage. ‘How much longer can you stay?’

  ‘I have a seat on the eleven o'clock plane. I have to be back in London by tomorrow night - we'll have time tomorrow morning.

  The guest suite opened on to the second-floor balcony which ran along the entire front of the building overlooking the sea and the private harbour. The five main bedrooms all opened on to this balcony, an arrangement from fifty years previously when internal security against kidnapping and forcible entry had been of no importance.

  Nicholas determined to speak to Chantelle about that in the morning. Peter was an obvious target for extortion, and he felt the goose bumps of horror rise on his arms as he imagined his son in the hands of those degenerate monsters who were everywhere allowed to strike and destroy with impunity. There was a price to pay these days for being rich and successful. The smell of it attracted the hyenas and vultures. Peter must be better protected, he decided.

  In the sitting-room, there was a well-stocked liquor cabinet concealed behind mirrors, nothing so obvious and resoundingly middle-class as a private bar. The daily papers, in English, French and German were set out on the television table, France Soir, The Times, Allgemeine Zeitung, with even an airmail version of the New York Times.

  Nicholas flipped open The Times and glanced quickly at the closing prices. Christy Marine common stock was at £5.32p, up 15p on yesterday's prices. The market had not sniffed corruption - yet.

  He pulled off his silk roll-neck, and even though he had bathed three hours previously, the tension had left his skin feeling itchy and unclean. The bathroom had been lavishly redecorated in green onyx panels and the fittings were eighteen-carat gold, in the shape of dolphins. Steaming water gushed from their gaping mouths at a touch. It could have been vulgar, but Chantelle's unerring touch steered it into Persian opulence instead.

  He showered, turning the setting high so that the stinging needles of water scalded away his fatigue and the feeling of being unclean. There were half a dozen thick white terry towelling robes in the glass-fronted warming cupboard, and he selected one and went through into the bedroom, belting it around his naked waist. In his briefcase there was a draft of the agreement of sale of Ocean Salvage and Towage to the Sheikhs. James Teacher and his gang of bright young lawyers had read it, and made a thick sheaf of notes. Nicholas must study these before tomorrow evening when he met them in London.

  He took the papers from his case and carried them through into the sitting-room, glancing at the top page before dropping them carelessly on to the low coffee table while he went to pour himself a small whisky, heavily diluted, He brought the drink back with him and sprawled into the deep leather armchair, picked up the papers and began to work.

  He became aware of her perfume first, and felt his blood quicken uncontrollably at the fragrance, and the papers rustled in his hand.

  Slowly he lifted his head. She had come in utter silence on small bare feet. She had removed all her jewellery and had let down her hair brushing it out on to her shoulders.

  It made her seem younger, more vulnerable, and the gown she wore was cuffed and collared in fine soft lace. She moved slowly towards his chair, tim
orous and for once uncertain, the eyes huge and dark and haunted, and when he rose from the armchair, she stopped and one hand went to her throat.

  ‘Nicholas,’ she whispered, ‘I'm so afraid, and so alone.’ She moved a step closer, and saw his eyes shift, his lips harden, and she stopped instantly.

  Please,’ she pleaded softly, don't send me away, Nicky. Not tonight, not yet. I'm afraid to be alone - please.’

  He knew then that this had been going to happen, he had hidden the certainty of it from himself all that evening, but now it was upon him, and he could do nothing to avoid it. It was as though he had lost the will to resist, he stood mesmerized, his resolve softening and melting like wax in the candle flame of her beauty, of the passions which she commanded so skilfully, and his thoughts lost coherence, began to tumble and swirl like storm surf breaking on rock.

  She recognized the exact instant when it happened to him, and she came forward silently, with small gliding footsteps, not making the mistake of speaking again and pressed her face to his bare chest framed in the collar of his robe. The thick curling hair was springing over hard flat muscle, and she flared her nostrils at the clean virile animal smell of his skin.

  He was still resisting, standing stiffly with his hands hanging at his sides. Oh, she knew him so well. The terrible conflict he must suffer before he could be made to act against that iron code of his own. Oh, she knew him, knew that he was as sexual and physical and animal as she was herself, that he was the only man who had ever been able to match her appetites. She knew the defences he had erected about himself, the fortressing of his passions, the controls and repressions, but she knew so well how to subvert these elaborate defences, she knew exactly what to do and what to say, how to move and touch. As she began now, she found the deliberate act of breaking down his resistance excited her so swiftly that it was pain almost, agony almost, and required all her own control not to advance too swiftly for him, to control the shaking of her legs and the pumping of her lungs, to play still the hurt and bewildered and frightened child, using his kindness, the sense of chivalry which would not allow him to send her away, in such obvious distress.

  Oh God, how her body churned, her stomach cramped with the strength of her wanting, her breasts felt swollen and so sensitive that the contact of silk and lace was almost too painfully abrasive to bear.

  ‘Oh, Nicky, please - Just for a moment. Just once, hold me. Please, I cannot go on alone. just for a moment, please.’

  She felt him lift his hands, felt the fingers on her shoulders, and the terrible pain of wanting was too much to bear, she could not control it - she cried out, it was a soft little whimper, but the force of it shook her body, and immediately she felt his reaction, Her timing had been immaculate, her natural womanly cunning had guided her. His fingers on her shoulders had been gentle and kindly, but now they hooked cruelly into her flesh.

  His back arched involuntarily, his breath drummed from his chest under her ear, a single agonized exhalation like that of a boxer taking a heavy body punch. She felt his every muscle come taught, and she knew again the frightening power, the delirious giddy power she could still wield. Then, at last, joyously, almost fearfully, she experienced the great lordly lift and thrust of his loins - as though the whole world had moved and shifted about her.

  She cried out again, fiercely, for now she could slip the hounds she had held so short upon the leash, she could let them run and hunt again. They had been too long denied, but now there was no longer need for care and restraint.

  She knew exactly how to hunt him beyond the frontiers of reason, to course him like a flying stag, and his fingers tangled frantically in the foaming lace at her throat as he tried to free her tight swollen breasts. She cried out a third time, and with a single movement jerked open the fastening at his waist, exposing the full hard lean length of his body, and her hands were as frantic as his.

  ‘Oh, sweet God, you're so hard and strong - oh sweet God, I've missed you so.’

  There was time later for all the refinements and nuances of love, but now her need was too cruel and demanding to be denied another moment. It had to happen this instant before she died of the lack.

  Nicholas rose slowly towards the surface of sleep, aware of a brooding sense of regret. just before he reached consciousness, a dream image formed in his sleep-starved brain, he relived a moment from the distant past. A fragment of time, recaptured so vividly as to seem whole and perfect.

  Long ago he had picked a deep-sea trumpet shell at five fathoms from the oceanic wall of the coral reef beyond the Anse Baudoin lagoon of Praslin Island, it was the size of a ripe coconut and once again he found himself holding the shell in both cupped hands, gazing into the narrow oval opening, around which the weed-furred and barnacle-encrusted exterior changed dramatically, flaring into the pouting lips and exposing the inner mother-of-pearl surfaces that were slippery to the touch, a glossy satin sheen, pale translucent pink, folded and convoluted upon themselves, shading darker into fleshy crimsons and wine purples as the passage narrowed and sank away into the mysterious lustrous depths of the shell.

  Then abruptly, the dream image changed in his mind. The projected opening in the trumpet shell expanded, articulating on jaw-hinges and he was gaping into the deep and terrible maw of some great predatory sea-creature, lined with multiple rows of serrated triangular teeth, - sharklike, terrifying, so he cried out in half-sleep, startling himself awake, and he rolled quickly on to his side and raised himself on one elbow. Her perfume still lingered on his skin, mingled with the smell of his own sweat, but the bed beside him was empty, though warm and redolent with the memory of her body.

  Across the room, the early sun struck a long sliver of light through a narrow chink in the curtains. It looked like a blade, a golden blade. It reminded him instantly of Samantha Silver. He saw her again wearing sunlight like a cloak, barefoot in the sand - and it seemed that the blade of sunlight was being driven up slowly under his ribs.

  He swung his feet off the wide bed and padded softly across to the gold and onyx bathroom. There was a dull ache of sleeplessness and remorse behind his eyes and as he ran hot water from the dolphin's mouth into the basin, he looked at himself in the mirror although the steam slowly clouded the image of his own face. There were dark smears below his eyes and his features were gaunt, harsh angles of bone beneath drawn skin.

  You bastard,’ he whispered at the shadowy face in the mirror. "You bloody bastard.’

  They were waiting breakfast for him, in the sunlight on the terrace under the gaily coloured umbrellas. Peter had preserved the mood of the previous evening, and he ran laughing to meet Nicholas.

  ‘Dad, hey Dad.’ He seized Nicholas’ hand and led him to the table.

  Chantelle wore a long loose housegown, and her hair was down on her shoulders, so soft that it stirred like spun silk in even that whisper of breeze. It was calculated, Chantelle did nothing by chance; the intimately elegant attire and the loose fall of her hair set the mood of domesticity - and Nicholas found himself resisting it fiercely.

  Peter sensed his father's change of mood with an intuitive understanding beyond his years, and his dismay was a palpable thing, the hurt and reproach in his eyes as he looked at Nicholas; and then the chatter died on his lips and he bent his head studiously over his plate and ate in silence.

  Nicholas deliberately refused the festival array of food, took only a cup of coffee, and lit a cheroot, without asking Chantelle's permission, knowing how she would resent that. He waited in silence and as soon as Peter had eaten he said:

  ‘I'd like to speak to your mother, Peter.’ The boy stood up obediently.

  ‘Will I see you before you leave, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’ Nicholas felt his heart wrung again. ‘Of course.’

  ‘We could sail again?’

  ‘I'm sorry, my boy. We won't have time. Not today.’

  ‘Very well, sir.’ Peter walked to the end of the terrace, very erect and dignified, then suddenly he began to r
un, taking the steps down two at a time, and he fled into the pine forest beyond the boathouse as though pursued, feet flying and arms pumping wildly.

  ‘He needs you, Nicky,’ said Chantelle softly.

  ‘You should have thought about that two years ago.’

  She poured fresh coffee into his cup. ‘Both of us have been stupid - all right, worse than that. We've been wicked. I have had my Duncan, and you have had that American child.’

  ‘Don't make me angry now,’ he warned her softly. ‘You've done enough for one day.’

  ‘It's as simple as this, Nicholas. I love you, I have always loved you - God, since I was a gawky school-girl,’ she had never been that, but Nicholas let it pass, 'since I saw you that first day on the bridge of old Golden Eagle, the dashing ship's captain –‘

  ‘Chantelle. All we have to discuss is Golden Dawn and Christy Marine.’

  ‘No, Nicholas. We were born for each other, Daddy saw that immediately, we both knew it at the same time - it was only a madness, a crazy whim that made me doubt it for a moment.’

  "Stop it, Chantelle.’

  ‘Duncan was a stupid mistake. But it's unimportant-‘

  ‘No, it's not unimportant. It changed everything. It can never be the same again, besides–‘

  ‘Besides, what? Nicky, what were you going to say?’

  ‘Besides, I am building myself another life now. With another very different person.’

  ‘Oh God, Nicky, you aren't serious?’ She laughed then, genuine amusement, clapping her hands delightedly. ‘My dear, she's young enough to be your daughter. It's the forty syndrome, the Lolita complex.’ Then she saw his real anger, and she was quick, retrieving the situation neatly, aware that she had carried it too far.

  ‘I'm sorry, Nicky. I should never have said that.’ She paused, and then went on.’I will say she's a pretty little thing, and I'm sure she's sweet - Peter liked her.’ She damned Samantha with light condescension, and then dismissed her as though she were merely a childlike prank of Nicholas', a light and passing folly of no real significance.