by Wilbur Smith
Now it was Nicholas turn to be silent, while the coldness settled on his chest, the coldness of formless dread.
‘What was the trouble?’
‘Good God, Nick, you don't expect me to follow the intimate details of the love life-‘
‘Can I speak to Antoinette?’
‘She isn't here, Nick. She went up to Orlando for a meeting. She won't be back until the weekend.’
The silence again.
‘All that heavy breathing's costing you a fortune, Nicholas. You're paying for this call.’
‘I don't know what got into Sam.’ But he did. Nicholas knew - and the guilt was strong upon him.
‘Listen, Nick. A word to the wise. Get your ass across here, boy. just as soon as you can. That girl needs talking to, badly. That is, if you care about it.’
‘I care about it,’ Nicholas said quickly, ‘But hell, I am launching a tug in two days’ time. I've got sea trials, and a meeting in London.’
Tom's voice had an air of finality. ‘A man's got to do what he's got to do.’
‘Tom, I'll be across there as soon as I possibly can.’
‘I believe it.’
‘If you see her, tell her that for me, will you?’
‘I'll tell her.’
‘Thanks, Tom.’
‘The governors will want to meet you, Nicholas. Come as soon as you can.’
‘It's a promise.’ Nicholas cradled the receiver, and stood staring out of the windows of the site office. The view across the inner harbour was completely blocked by the towering hull of his tug. She stood tall on her ways. Her hull already wore its final coat of glistening white and the wide flaring bows bore the name Sea Witch and below that the port of registration, Bermuda.
She was beautiful, magnificent, but now Nicholas did not even see her. He was overwhelmed by a sense of imminent loss, the cold premonition of onrushing disaster, Until that moment when he faced the prospect of losing her, he had not truly known how large a part that lovely golden girl had come to play in his existence, and in his plans for the future.
There was no way that Samantha could have learned of that single night of weakness, the betrayal that still left Nicholas sickened with guilt - there must be something else that had come between them. He bunched his right fist and slammed it against the sill of the window. The skin on his knuckles smeared, but he did not feel the pain, only the bitter frustration of being tied down here in St. Nazaire, weighed down by his responsibilities, he should have been free to follow the jack-o'-lantern of happiness.
The loudspeaker above his head gave a preliminary squawk, and then crackled out the message, ‘Monsieur Berg. Will Monsieur attend upon the bridge?’
It was a welcome distraction., and Nicholas hurried out into the spring sunshine. Looking upwards, he could see Jules Levoisin on the wing of the bridge. His portly figure foreshortened against the open sky, like a small pugnacious rooster, he stood facing the electronics engineer who was responsible for the installation of Sea Witch's communications system, and Jules cries of ‘Sacre bleu’ and ‘Merde’ and ‘Imbecil’ carried clearly above the cacophony of shipyard noises.
Nicholas started to run as he saw the engineer's arms begin to wave and his strident Gallic cries blended with those of Sea Witch's new Master. It was only the third time that Jules Levoisin had become hysterical that day, however it was not yet noon. As the hour of launching came steadily closer, so the little Frenchman's nerves played him tricks, he was behaving like a prima ballerina awaiting the opening curtain. Unless Nicholas reached the bridge within the next few minutes, he would need either a new Master or a new electronics engineer.
Ten minutes later, Nicholas had a cheroot in each of their mouths. The atmosphere was still tense but no longer explosive, and gently Nick took the engineer by the elbow, placed his other arm around Jules Levoisin's shoulders and led them both back into the wheelhouse.
The bridge installation was complete, and Jules Levoisin was accepting delivery of the special equipment from the contractors, a negotiation every bit as traumatic as the Treaty of Versailles.
‘I myself authorized the modification of the MK. IV transponder,’ Nicholas explained patiently. ‘We had trouble with the same unit on Warlock. I should have told you, Jules.’
‘You should have,’ agreed the little Master huffily.
‘But you were perceptive to notice the change from the specification,’ Nicholas soothed him, and Jules puffed out his chest a little and rolled the cheroot in his mouth.
‘I may be an old dog, but I know all the new tricks.’ He removed the cheroot and smugly blew a perfect smoke ring.
When Nicholas at last left them chatting amiably over the massed array of sophisticated equipment that lined the navigation area at the back of the bridge, they were paging him from the site office.
‘What is it?’ he asked, as he came through the door.
‘It's a lady,’ the foreman indicated the telephone lying on the littered desk below the window.
‘Samantha,’ Nick thought, and snatched up the receiver.
‘Nicky.’ He felt the shock of quick guilt at the voice.
‘Chantelle, where are you?’
‘In La Baule.’ The fashionable resort town just up the Atlantic coast was a better setting for Chantelle Alexander than the grubby port with its sprawling dockyards. ‘Staying at the Castille. God, it's too awful. I'd forgotten how awful it was.’ They had stayed there together, once long ago, in a different life it seemed now.
‘But the restaurant is still quite cute, Nicholas. Have lunch with me. I must speak to you.’
‘I can't leave here.’ He would not walk into the trap again.
‘It's important. I must see you.’ He could hear that husky tone in her voice, imagine clearly the sensuous droop of the eyelids over those bold Persian eyes. ‘For an hour, only an hour. You can spare that.’ Despite himself, he felt the pull of temptation, the dull ache of it at the base of his belly - and he was angry at her for the power she could still exert over him.
‘If it's important, then come here,’ he said brusquely, and she sighed at his intransigence.
‘All right, Nicholas. How will I find you?’
The Rolls was parked opposite the dockyard gates and Nicholas crossed the road and stepped through the door that the chauffeur held open for him.
Chantelle lifted her face to him. Her hair was cloudy dark and shot with light like a bolt of silk, her lips the colour of ripe fruit, moist and slightly parted. He ignored the invitation and touched her cheek with his lips before settling into the corner opposite her.
She made a little moue, and slanted her eyes at him in amusement.
‘How chaste we are, Nicky.’ Nicholas touched the button on the control console and the glass soundproof partition slid up noiselessly between them and the chauffeur.
‘Did you send in the auditors?’ he asked.
‘You look tired, darling, and harassed.’
‘Have you blown the whistle on Duncan?’ he avoided the distraction. The work on Golden Dawn is still going ahead. The arc lights were burning over her all night and the talk in the yards is that she is being launched at noon tomorrow, almost a month ahead of schedule. What happened, Chantelle?’
‘There is a little bistro at Mindin, it's just across the bridge-’
‘Damn it, Chantelle. I haven't time to fool around.’
But the Rolls was already gliding swiftly through the narrow streets. of the port, between the high warehouse buildings.
‘It will take five minutes, and the Lobster Armoricaine is the local speciality - not to be confused with Lobster Americaine. They do it in a cream sauce, it's superb,’ she chatted archly, and the Rolls turned out on to the quay. Across the narrow waters of the inner harbour humped the ugly camouflaged mounds of the Nazi submarine pens, armoured concrete so thick as to resist the bombs of the R.A.F. and the efforts of all demolition experts over the years since then.
Peter asked me to give you
his love. He has got his junior team colours. I'm so proud.
Nicholas thrust his hands deep into his jacket pockets and slumped down resignedly against the soft leather seat.
‘I am delighted to hear it,’ he said.
And they were silent then until the chauffeur checked the Rolls at the toll barrier to pay before accelerating out on to the ramp of the St Nazaire bridge. The great span of the bridge rose in a regal curve, three hundred feet above the waters of the Loire River, The river was almost three miles wide here, and from the highest point of the bridge there was an aerial view over the dockyards of the town.
There were half a dozen vessels building along the banks of the broad muddy river, a mighty forest of steel scaffolding, tall gantries and half-assembled hulls, but all of it insignificant under the mountainous bulk of Golden Dawn. Without her pod tanks, she had an incomplete gutted appearance, as though the Eiffel Tower had toppled over and somebody had built a modernistic apartment block at one end. It seemed impossible that such a structure was capable of floating. God, she was ugly, Nick thought.
‘They are still working on her,’ he said. One of the gantries was moving ponderously along the length of the ship like an arthritic dinosaur, and at fifty paces the brilliant blue electric fires of the welding torches flickered; while upon the grotesquely riven hull crawled human figures reduced to antlike insignificance by the sheer size of the vessel.
‘They are still working,’ he repeated it as an accusation.
‘Nicholas, nothing in this life is simple.’
‘Did you spell it out for Duncan?’
‘-except for people like you.’
‘You didn't confront Duncan, did you?’ he accused bitterly.
‘It's easy for you to be strong. It's one of the things that first attracted me.’ And Nicholas almost laughed aloud. It was ludicrous to talk of strength, after his many displays of weakness with this very woman.
‘Did you call Duncan's cards?’ he insisted, but she put him off with a smile.
‘Let's wait until we have a glass of wine.’
‘Now,’ he snapped. ‘Tell me right now. Chantelle, I haven't time for games.’
‘Yes, I spoke to him,’ she nodded. ‘I called him down to Cap Ferrat, and I accused him of what you suspected.’
‘He denied it? If he denies it, I now have further proof.’
‘No, Nicholas. He didn't deny a thing. He told me that I knew only the half of it.’ Her voice rose sharply, and suddenly it all spilled out in a torrent of tortured words. Her composure was eroded swiftly away as she relived the enormity of her predicament. ‘He's gambled with my fortune, Nicholas. He's risked the family share of Christy Marine, the Trust shares, my shares, it's all at risk. And he gloated as he told me, he truly gloried in his betrayal.’
‘We've got him now.’ Nicholas had straightened slowly in his seat as he listened. His voice was grimly satisfied and he nodded. ‘That's it. We will stop the Golden Dawn, like that –‘ he hammered his bunched fist into the palm of the other hand with a sharp crack. ‘We will get an urgent order before the courts.’
Nicholas stopped suddenly and stared at her. Chantelle was shaking her head slowly from side to side. Her eyes slowly filled, making them huge and glistening, a single tear spilled over the lid and clung in the thick dark lashes like a drop of morning dew.
The Rolls had stopped now outside the tiny bistro. It was on the river front, with a view across the water to the dockyards. To the west the river debauched into the open sea and in the east the beautiful arch of the bridge across the pale blue spring sky.
The chauffeur held open the door and Chantelle was gone with her swift birdlike grace, leaving Nicholas no choice but to follow her.
The proprietor came through from his kitchen and fussed over Chantelle, seating her at the window and lingering to discuss the menu.
‘Oh, let's drink the Muscadet, Nicholas.’ She had always had the most amazing powers of recovery, and now the tears were gone and she was brittle and gay and beautiful, smiling at him over the rim of her glass. The sunlight through the leaded window panes danced in the cool golden wine and rippled on the smoky dark fall of her hair.
‘Here's to us, Nicholas darling. We are the last of the great.’ It was a toast from long ago, from the other life, and it irritated him now but he drank it silently and then set down the glass.
‘Chantelle, when and how are you going to stop Duncan?’
‘Don't spoil the meal, darling.’
‘In about thirty seconds I'm going to start becoming very angry.’
She studied him for a moment, and saw that it was true. ‘All right then,’ she agreed reluctantly.
‘When are you going to stop him?’
‘I'm not, darling.’
He stared at her. ‘What did you say?’ he asked quietly.
‘I'm going to do everything in my power to help him launch and sail the Golden Dawn.’
‘You don't understand, Chantelle. You're talking about risking a million tons of the most deadly poison-‘
‘Don't be silly, Nicky. Keep that heroic talk for the newspapers. I don't care if Duncan dumps a million tons of cadmium in the water supply of greater London just as long as he pulls the Trust and me out of the fire.’
‘There is still time to make the modifications to Golden Dawn.’
‘No, there isn't. You don't understand, darling. Duncan has put us so deeply into it that a delay of a few days even would bring us down. He has stripped the cupboard bare, Nicky. There no money for modifications, no time for anything, except to get Golden Dawn under way.’
‘There is always a way and a means.’
‘Yes, and the way is to fill Golden Dawn's pod tanks with crude.’
‘He's frightened you by-‘
‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘I am frightened. I have never been so frightened in my life, Nicky. I could lose everything - I am terrified. I could lose it all.’ She shivered with the horror of it. ‘I would kill myself if that happened.’
‘I am still going to stop Duncan.’
‘No, Nicky. Please leave it, for my sake - for Peter's sake, it's Peter's inheritance that we are talking about. Let Golden Dawn make one voyage, just one voyage and I will be safe.’
‘It's the risk to an ocean, to God alone knows how many human lives, we are talking about.’
‘Don't shout, Nicky. People are looking.’
‘Let them look. I'm going to stop that monster.’
‘No, Nicholas. Without me, you cannot do a thing.’
‘You best believe it.’
‘Darling, I promise you, after her first voyage we will sell Golden Dawn. We'll be safe then, and I can rid myself of Duncan. It will be you and I again, Nicky. A few short weeks, that's all.’
It took all his self-control to prevent his anger showing. He clenched his fists on the starched white tablecloth, but his voice was cool and even.
‘Just one more question, Chantelle. When did you phone Samantha Silver?’
She looked puzzled for a moment as though she was trying to put a face to a name. ‘Samantha, oh, your little friend, Why should I want to telephone her?’ And then her expression changed. "Oh, Nicky, you don't really believe I'd do that? You don't really believe I would tell anybody about it, about that wonderful. –‘ Now she was stricken, again those huge eyes brimmed and she reached across and stroked the fine black hairs on the back of Nicholas big square hand. "You don't think that of me! I'm not that much of a bitch, I don't have to cheat to get the things I want. I don't have to inflict unnecessary hurt on people.’
‘No,’ Nicholas agreed quietly. ‘You'd not murder more than a million or poison more than a single ocean at a time, would you?’ He pushed back his chair.
‘Sit down, Nicky. Eat your lobster.’
‘Suddenly I'm not hungry.’ He stripped two one-hundred-franc notes from his money clip and dropped them beside his plate.
‘I forbid you to leave,’ she hissed angrily. ‘You are hu
miliating me, Nicholas.’
‘I'll send your car back,’ he said, and walked out into the sunlight. He found with surprise that he was trembling, and that his jaws were clenched so tightly that his teeth ached.
The wind turned during the night, and the morning was cold with drifts of low, grey, fast-flying cloud that threatened rain. Nicholas pulled up his collar against the wind and the tails of his coat flogged about his legs, for he was exposed on the highest point of the arched bridge of St Nazaire.
Thousands of others had braved the wind, and the guardrail was lined two and three deep, all the way across the curve of the northern span. The traffic had backed up and half a dozen gendarmes were trying to get it moving again; their whistles shrilled plaintively. Faintly the sound of a band floated up to them, rising and falling in volume as the wind caught it, and even with the naked eye Nicholas could make out the wreaths of gaily coloured bunting which fluttered on the high cumbersome stern tower of Golden Dawn.
He glanced at his wristwatch, and saw it was a few minutes before noon. A helicopter clattered noisily under the grey belly of cloud, and hovered about the yards of Construction Navale Atlantique on the gleaming silver coin of its rotor.
Nicholas lifted the binoculars and the eyepieces were painfully cold against his skin. Through the lens, he could almost make out individual features among the small gathering on the rostrum under the tanker's stern.
The platform was decorated with a Tricolor and a Union Jack, and as he watched the band fell silent and lowered their instruments.
Speech time, Nicholas murmured, and now he could make out Duncan Alexander, his bared head catching one of the fleeting rays of sun, a glimmer of coppery gold as he looked up at the towering stern of Golden Dawn.
His bulk almost obscured the tiny feminine figure beside him. Chantelle wore that particular shade of malachite green which she so dearly loved. There was confused activity around Chantelle, half a dozen gentlemen assisting in the ceremony she had performed so very often. Chantelle had broken the champagne on almost all of Christy Marine's fleet; the first time had been when she was Arthur Christy's fourteen-year-old darling - it was another of the company's many traditions.