Dead Sea (6 page)

As Richard reached this point in his thoughts, Akelita climbed aboard, mounting the aft ladder like Venus rising from a shallow ocean, one-handed, with the palm-frond bag on her shoulder. She stepped lithely down into the afterdeck well, beside Richard, filling his nostrils with the heady scents of sea salt, coconut – and of the foo yung she had purchased for the crew's last dirtside lunch.

Akelita heard Richard's tummy rumbling. ‘Not for you,' she warned severely. ‘For girls only. You eat ashore, Capting.' Then she relented with a dazzling Polynesian smile. ‘They expecting you in three-quarter hour. They make extra, with special fried rice.
Man-size
.' Then she disappeared below, squeezing past Rohini and her equipment. ‘Lunch!' she called. ‘Eight bells. Noon watch!'

It hit Richard then. The immediacy of his parting with the beautiful vessel, her lovely crew and her beloved skipper. He squared his jaw. ‘How long to the top of the water, Rohini?' he asked, his voice quiet and his tone serious at last.

‘Thirty-three minutes,' she answered.

Richard nodded once and reached into his shorts for his cell phone. ‘Better get ready, Willy,' he said as soon as contact was made.

Like Nic Greenbaum, Richard had the publicity planned both for maximum impact and for minimum intrusion. The cutting edge of media here was Willy, the lead reporter for Radio Tuvalu. But Willy was more than just a small island radio hack. As well as a pencil and reporter's pad, a microphone and a recorder, he had a top of the line digital video camera. And he had an adapter that plugged his camera straight into the most powerful computer at the Motolalu Internet Cafe less than fifty metres from Richard's hotel.

Today the Motolalu
, thought Richard,
tomorrow the world
. In this case, literally. Richard had called in a range of favours everywhere from NewsCorp to the BBC and once it was uploaded on to the Internet, Willy's footage was due to be out worldwide within hours of
Katapult
's departure. Running in tandem, in fact, with Nic Greenbaum's much more in-your-face plans for coverage of
Flint
's departure from Vancouver.

These thoughts filled the mere seconds between Akelita's call and the arrival of the hungry women. Had Richard felt sentimental before at the thought of parting from
Katapult
, her crew and his wife, he felt positively isolated now. Underfoot indeed, as Robin and Flo shoved rudely past him, all too well aware that foo yung does not hold its heat for long. And that a fresher, larger batch would be waiting for him as they tacked across the lagoon and out through the Te Ava Tepuka Vili channel immediately south of Tepuka Island at the north-west of the atoll itself, in an hour or so's time. ‘Right,' said Robin as she heaved past him as though he no longer existed, ‘we've just got time for a final briefing as we eat. We need to get ready for a slow start, I'm afraid . . .'

The winds were light and variable, thought Richard, frowning. They would in all probability get a much less decisive start than
Flint
in stormy Vancouver. But they would stick to the rules and use what wind they had. Certainly, they would not use
Katapult
's motors in anything less than an emergency. Especially as, if Dr Tanaka was correct, they might well need their motors in ten days' time when they hit the Sargasso of plastic he predicted would be accumulating around the good vessel
Cheerio
in the middle of the Great North Pacific Gyre.

Richard looked down into the fragrant darkness of
Katapult
's cabin where Robin was already leading the brisk discussion and decided it was time for him to go ashore. He and Robin had said ‘goodbye' in their favourite fashion last night, christening yet another bed in the process. There was nothing to be gained from fond farewells now, he thought. If there was anything important Robin needed to say, there was the ship-to-shore. That would have to do, no matter how intimate the message. Privacy, in any case, would be a happy dream for the next thirty days. For Robin and her crew at least. Just as he had been something between a diversion and a hindrance all morning, he would only be a distraction now. He stepped up on to the transom above the well of the afterdeck, placing his foot on to the wet patch left by Akelita as she stepped aboard. The cool on his left sole reminded him about his O'Neills and he stooped to grab them before he swung himself outboard and climbed down the ladder into the surprisingly warm and welcoming water.

Richard was in the shallows at the derisory surf line, hopping on one leg as he pulled his O'Neills on when Willy arrived. ‘Are they ready to set sail?'

Richard consulted his Rolex Oyster Perpetual Yachtmaster. ‘Fifteen minutes,' he said. ‘They'll want to set the sails and get everything ship shape first.'

‘That should make good copy,' said Willy eagerly, unfolding the side-section of his camera to get the beautiful vessel in frame. ‘What are they doing now?'

Richard decided that foo yung would not make good copy. ‘They'll be having a final briefing,' he explained shortly, coming erect with his feet now sand-proof.

Satisfied that he could get a newsworthy picture of
Katapult
, Willy pulled a digital sound recorder out of his pocket and connected it to the camera's built-in sound system. ‘This is Willy Fatato, reporting for the Tuvalu Media Corporation,' he announced. ‘I'm talking to Captain Richard Mariner as his wife, Captain Robin Mariner, prepares to set sail on the race across the Northern Pacific which has gripped the news channels worldwide during the last few days. Captain Mariner,' he said, full-voice and formal, ‘can you explain to the audience what precisely is going on aboard
Katapult
during the final moments before she sets sail on her epic voyage?'

Although Willy's camera was clearly pointing at
Katapult
once more, Richard automatically drew his hand back over his wind-tousled hair. ‘The skipper, Captain Robin Mariner, will be giving the crew their final briefing,' he answered formally. ‘As well as crucial details about race strategy, she will be discussing how best to get a good start, given the current conditions. Captain Mariner will no doubt be aware of the need to tack across Te Namo Lagoon with the utmost care and precision if she hopes to exit northwards as planned through the Te Ava Tepuka Vili channel, which is extremely narrow. It is a series of manoeuvres that would test the most seasoned skipper and crew . . .'

Richard paused. There was an instant of silence. Then, from
Katapult
there came a sharp report, as though someone had fired a pistol shot. A tiny black object flew out from under the white canvas awning he had rigged that morning and performed a perfect parabola into the water, where it bobbed like a cork. Because, he realized, it
was
a cork.

‘And, of course,' he continued without missing a beat, ‘the captain will be following the naval tradition of blessing the voyage with a glass of champagne . . .'

‘
Naval tradition
,' said Willy, highly amused, an hour later. ‘That was impressive.'

‘Years of practise,' answered Richard round a mouthful of foo yung. ‘I could bullshit for Great Britain at the next Olympics.'

The camera lay between them on a table in the Chinese restaurant, its side panel open to reveal the vivid picture of
Katapult
vanishing northwards across the lagoon towards Te Ava Tepuka Vili channel under full sail. ‘Captain Mariner could skipper
Katapult
for Great Britain at the next Olympics,' observed Willy. ‘I thought you said she'll find it hard to tack straight through the channel south of Tepuka . . .'

‘I know,' said Richard, laying aside his chopsticks in favour of a spoon. ‘She went out like a ferret down a drainpipe. I never cease to underestimate her.'

His cell phone purred. He slid it out and pressed it to his ear. ‘You got any footage left on that?' he asked after a moment or two of attentive silence.

‘Half an hour or so,' answered Willy. ‘Why?'

‘Something I want you to see. More news, maybe – though something for later, when the heat's gone out of the
Katapult
story.'

Half an hour later still, Willy and Richard were at the north end of the airport runway, looking west away over the breathtaking Lake Tarasal towards the eastern horizon. And here, as though by some massive magic trick, a supertanker had appeared. Willy could see the name
Prometheus
on her forecastle, and Heritage Mariner colours at her masthead and on her funnel. Behind him, the New Zealand Air Force choppers began to thunder up into the afternoon air.

‘What's this?' asked Willy, confused, bellowing to get his voice over the thrumming rotors. ‘An oil tanker?'

‘A supertanker, yes,' answered Richard. ‘But in this case not an
oil
tanker.'

‘Then what?' demanded Willy, pulling out his camera as the first of the choppers began to settle away across the South Pacific towards the massive vessel like a dragonfly dipping towards a lily pad.

‘Well,' began Richard, satisfyingly aware that, just as he had underestimated Robin's seamanship, so she had underestimated him. ‘What you're actually looking at there is a quarter of a million barrels of fresh, clean drinking water.'

R
ichard had no trouble hitching a lift on one of the RNZAF choppers and was back at their base in Ohakea, North Island, a couple of days later, all too well aware that he was heading in exactly the opposite direction to the woman he loved. But he had little time to mope or to indulge the lively fears that peopled his nightmares during the few restless hours of sleep he achieved in the interim. The guys at Ohakea were happy to drop him down to the nearest international airport, but only after he agreed to be guest of honour for dinner at the station's mess.

Another all but sleepless night of travel twenty-four hours after the mess night put him on the six ten a.m. BA flight from Wellington to Heathrow, and he touched down, nearly five thousand dollars poorer, frazzled and full of unreasoning fears – even after thirty-five hours in the pampered calm of first class – at five fifty BST on a cold and overcast morning at the beginning of the second week of August. He took a taxi to the company flat the Mariners kept at Heritage House on the corner of Leadenhall Street in the City of London – using the opportunity of a hold-up at seven a.m. as they crawled past Heston services to phone ahead and warn the twenty-four-hour people at Crewfinders that he was on his way home. And so he heaved himself in through the private entrance and stepped into the lift a little before eight thirty.

He stepped out, feeling himself relax amid the homely familiarity of the place thirty seconds later still, at eight thirty on the dot. There were fresh flowers in the reception. In the bedroom, beyond the freshly made bed he had a wardrobe full of pressed coats and suits. Cupboards full of shoes. Drawers full of socks and underwear. Shelves of shirts. Ties, cufflinks – everything he could wish for. En suite, a bathroom stocked with his preferred shaving equipment, soaps and fragrances. Across the sitting room, a kitchen groaning with his favourite foodstuffs. And, in the garage far below, both his Bentley Continental and his classic E-Type Jaguar. What more could a man require? He just had to be careful not to open the wrong door or to slide out the wrong drawer or look in the wrong cabinet – or he would find himself face-to-face with Robin's stuff. Head to head with her absence once again. And the fears it brought, no matter how much faith he had in her.

Fighting off his preoccupation, he showered, shaved, checked messages, found there were none from Robin or about her, ordered a wake-up call for ten o'clock and tucked down for a slightly longer power nap than Lady Thatcher had preferred, feeling very much at home. Having decided, in fact, that this would be his home for the duration. With the twins safely in the hands of irresistibly indulgent grandparents in the South of France until the academic year began in October, he had every intention of staying in the flat until Robin returned. He loved Ashenden, their great old house on the south coast, but simply could not face the thought of spending the month there alone. And in any case, staying in the London flat would put him right at the heart of the action. Not to mention, of course, that he had a world-class business to run.

But, he had to admit to himself as he rose in response to his wake-up call, that he was hardly slumming it. He shrugged a brand-new cotton shirt over his broad shoulders, buttoned it, slipped his favourite cufflinks through the double cuffs, then stepped into midnight-blue pinstripe suit trousers. Tightening the belt around his trim waist, he strolled through to the kitchen and made himself a sandwich of crisp dry-cure smoky bacon and wholewheat toast. A cup of his favourite Blue Mountain high roast Arabica coffee, black, no sugar, and a glance at the
Financial Times
he found nestling in the wire cage behind the letterbox, then he was ready. Ten minutes later, he stepped out of the flat's front door, every inch the leading British businessman dressed for a busy day, turned right and right again, then slid his security card into the slot beside the interconnecting door that led him through into the Heritage Mariner offices. ‘Now that,' he said to himself, suddenly almost buoyant, ‘is what I call commuting!'

Throughout a packed schedule of meetings, he made sure he was kept as fully abreast of the progress made by
Katapult
and
Flint
as he was of the fluctuations in market prices, of shipping schedules, of project progress, of panics; grist to the mill of Heritage Mariner. But there was nothing substantial to report on the two yachts until a conference call came through from San Francisco at seven p.m. London time. It was Nic. ‘How's it going, old buddy?' the American demanded, bright-eyed and ebullient as ever. It was ten a.m. PST.