Hungry as the Sea (31 page)

Duncan had done his cobra dance, and Chantelle had watched like a mesmerized bird of paradise – until she had toppled from the branch – or that’s how Nicholas liked to think it had happened. He was wiser now, much wiser and more cynical.

“Before we begin!” Nick knew that anger was seething to his still surface, must soon bubble through unless he could give it release, “I should like five minutes in private.”

“Of course.” Duncan inclined his head, and there was a hurried scampering as his minions cleared the doorway into the Chairman’s suite. “Come through.” Duncan stood aside, and Nick walked through.

The offices had been completely redecorated, and Nick blinked with surprise, white carpets and furniture in chrome and perspex, stark abstract geometrical art in solid primary colours on the walls; the ceiling had been lowered by an egg design in chrome steel and free-swivelling studio spotlights gave selected light patterns on wall and ceiling.

It was no improvement, Nick decided.

“I was in St Nazaire last week.” Nicholas turned in the centre of the wide snowy floor and faced Duncan Alexander as he closed the door.

“Yes, I know.”

“I went over
Golden Dawn
.”

Duncan Alexander snapped open a gold cigarette case and offered it to Nick, then when he shook his head in refusal, selected one himself. They were special blend, custom-made for him by Benson and Hedges.

“Charles Gras exceeded his authority,” Duncan nodded. “Visitors are not allowed on
Golden Dawn
.”

“I am not surprised you are ashamed of that death-trap you are building.”

“But you do surprise me, Nicholas.” Duncan showed his teeth again. “It was your design.”

“You know it was not. You took the idea, and bastardized it. Duncan, you cannot send –” Nick sought for the word, “that monster on to the open sea. Not with one propulsion unit, and a single screw. The risk is too appalling.”

“I tell you this for no good reason, except perhaps that this was once your office,” Duncan made a gesture that embraced the room, “and because it amuses me to point out to you the faults in your original planning. The concept was sound, but your soured the cream by adding those preposterous, shall we call them Bergean, touches. Five separate propulsion units, and a forest of boilers. It wasn’t viable, Nicholas.”

“It was good, the figures were right.”

“The whole tanker market has changed since you left Christy Marine. I had to re-work it.”

“You should have dropped the whole concept if the cost structure changed.”

“Oh no, Nicholas, I restructured. My way, even in these hard times, I will recover capital in a year, and with a five-“year life on the hull there is two hundred million dollars profit in it.

“I was going to build a ship that would last for thirty years,” Nick told him. “Something of which we could be proud.”

“Pride is an expensive commodity. We aren’t building dynasties any more, we are in the game of selling tanker space.” Duncan’s tone was patronizing, that impeccable accent drawn out, emphasizing the difference in their backgrounds. “I’m aiming at a five-year life, two hundred million profit, and then we sell the hull to the Greeks or Japs. It’s a one-time thing.

“You always were a smash-and-grab artist,” Nick agreed.

“But it isn’t like dealing in commodities. Ships aren’t wheat and bacon, and the oceans aren’t the orderly market floors.”

“I disagree, I’m afraid. The principles are the same – one buys, one sells. Ships are living things, the ocean is a battleground of all the elements.

“Come, Nicholas, you don’t really believe that romantic nonsense.” Duncan drew a gold Hunter from his waist pocket, and snapped open the lid to read the dial another of his affectations which irritated Nicholas. “Those are very expensive gentlemen waiting next door.”

“You will be risking human life, the men who sail her.”

“Seamen are well paid –”

“You will be taking a monstrous risk with the life of the oceans. Wherever she goes
Golden Dawn
will be a potential –”

“For God’s sake, Nicholas, two hundred million dollars is worth some kind of risk.”

“All right, Nick nodded. Let’s forget the environment, and the human life, and consider the important aspects the money.”

Duncan sighed, and wagged that fine head, smiling as at a recalcitrant child. “I have considered the money – in detail.”

“You will not get an Al rating at Lloyd’s. You will not get insurance on that hull – unless you underwrite yourself, the same way you did with
Golden Adventurer
, and if you think that’s wise, just wait until I’ve finished with my salvage claim.”

Duncan Alexander’s smile twisted slowly, and blood darkened his cheeks under the snow-tan.” I do not need a Lloyd’s rating, though I am sure I could get one if I wanted it. I have arranged continental and oriental underwriters. She will be fully insured.”

“Against pollution claims, also? If you burst that bag of crude on the continental shelf of America, or Europe, they’ll hit you for half a billion dollars. Nobody would underwrite that.”

“
Golden Dawn
is registered in Venezuela, and she has no sister ships for the authorities to seize, like they did with the Torrey Canyon. To whom will they address the pollution bill? A defunct South American Company? No, Nicholas, Christy Marine will not be paying any pollution bills.”

“I cannot believe it, even of you.” Nick stared at him.

“You are cold-bloodedly talking about the possibility – no, the probability – of dumping a million tons of crude oil into the sea.”

“Your moral indignation is touching. It really is. However, Nicholas, may I remind you that this is family and house, business – and you are no longer either family or house.”

“I fought you every time you cut a corner,” Nick reminded him. “I tried to teach you that cheap is always expensive in the long run.”

“You taught me?” For the first time Duncan taunted him openly. “What could you ever teach me about ships or money,” and he rolled his tongue gloating around the next words, “or women?”

Nick made the first movement of lunging at him, but he caught himself, and forced himself to unclench his fists at his sides. The blood sang in his ears.

“I’m going to fight you,” he said quietly. “I’m going to fight you from here to the maritime conference, and beyond.” He made the decision in that moment, he hadn’t realized he was going to do it until then.

“A maritime conference has never taken less than five years to reach a decision restricting one of its members. By that time
Golden Dawn
will belong to some Japanese, Hong Kong-based company – and Christy Marine will have banked two hundred million.”

“I’ll have the oil ports closed to you.”

“By whom? Oil-thirsty governments, with lobbies of the big oil companies? Duncan laughed lightly, he had replaced the urbane mask. “You really are out of your depth again. We have bumped heads a dozen times before, Nicholas – and I’m still on my feet. I’m not about to fold up to your fine threats now.”

After that, there was no hope that the meeting in the panelled board room would lead to conciliation. The atmosphere crackled and smouldered with the antagonism of the two leading characters, so that they seemed to be the only persons on the stage. They sat opposite each other, separated by the glossy surface of the rosewood table top, and their gazes seldom disengaged. They leaned forward in their chairs, and when they smiled at each other, it was like the silent snarl of two old dog wolves circling with hackles erect.

It took an enormous effort of self-control for Nicholas to force back his anger far enough to be able to think clearly, and to allow his intuition to pick up the gut-impressions, the subtle hints of the thinking and planning that were taking place across the table behind duncan Alexander’s handsome mask of a face.

It was half an hour before he was convinced that something other than personal rivalry and antagonism was motivating the man before him.

His counter offer was too low to have any hope of being accepted, so low that it became clear that he did not want to settle. Duncan Alexander wanted to go to arbitration – and yet there was nothing he could gain by that. It must be obvious to everyone at the table, beyond any doubt whatsoever, that Nicholas’ claim was worth four million dollars. Nicholas would have settled for four, even in his anger he would have gone for four – risking that an arbitration board might have awarded six, and knowing the delay and costs of going to litigation might amount to another million. He would have settled.

Duncan Alexander was offering two and a half. It was a frivolous offer. Duncan was going through the motions only. There was no serious attempt at finding a settlement.

He didn’t want to come to terms, and it seemed to Nicholas that by refusing to settle he was gaining nothing, and risking a great deal. He was a big enough boy to know that you never, but never, go to litigation if there is another way out. It was a rule that Nicholas had graven on his heart in letters of fire. Litigation makes only lawyers fat, Why was Duncan baulking, what was he to gain by this obstruction? Nicholas crushed down the temptation to stand up and walk out of the room with an exclamation of disgust. Instead, he lit another cheroot and leaned forward again, staring into Duncan Alexander’s steely grey eyes, trying to fathom him, needling, probing for the soft rotten spot – and thinking hard.

What had Duncan Alexander to gain from not settling now? Why did he not try with a low, but realistic offer what was he to gain? Then quite suddenly he knew what it was. Chantelle’s enigmatic appeal for help and advice flashed back to him, and he knew what it was. Duncan alexander wanted time. It was as simple as that. Duncan Alexander needed time.

“All right.” Satisfied at last, Nicholas leaned back in the deep leather-padded chair, and veiled his eyes. “We are still a hundred miles apart. There will be only one meeting ground. That’s in the upper room at Lloyd’s. It’s set down for the 27th. Are we at least agreed on that date?”

“Of course,” Duncan leaned back also and Nicholas saw the shift of his eyes, the little jump of nerves in the point of his clenched jaws, the tightening of the long pianist’s fingers that lay before him on the leather-bound blotter.

“Of course,” Duncan repeated, and began to stand up, a gesture of dismissal. He lied beautifully; had Nicholas not known he would lie, he might have missed the little telltale signs.

In the ancient lift, James Teacher was jubilant, rubbing his little fat hands together. “We’ll give him a go!” Nicholas glanced at him sourly. Win, lose or draw, James Teacher would still draw his fee, and Duncan Alexander’s refusal to settle had quadrupled that fee. There was something almost obscene about the little lawyer’s exultation.

“They are going to duck,” Nick said grimly, and James Teacher sobered slightly.

“Before noon tomorrow, Christy Marine will have lodged for postponement of hearing,” Nick prophesied. “You’ll have to use
Warlock
with full power on both to pull them before the arbitration board.”

“Yes, you’re right,” James Teacher nodded.” They had me puzzled, I sensed something –”

“I’m not paying you to be puzzled,” Nick’s voice was low and hard. “I’m paying you to out-guess and out-jump them. I want them at the hearing on the 27th, get them there, Mr. Teacher.” He did not have to voice the threat, and in a moment, the exultation on James Teacher’s rotund features had changed to apprehension and deep concern.

The drawing-room in Eaton Square was decorated in cream and pale gold, cleverly designed as a frame for the single exquisite work of art which it contained, the original of the group of Degas ballet-dancers whose copy hung in
Golden Dawn’s
stateroom, It was the room’s centre-piece; cunningly lit by a hidden spotlight, it glowed like a precious jewel. Even the flowers on the ivory grand piano were cream and white roses and carnations, whose pale ethereal blossoms put the painting into stronger contrast.

The only other flash of brightness was worn by Chantelle, she had the oriental knack of carrying vivid colour without it seeming gaudy. She wore a flaming Pucci that could not pale her beauty, and as she rose from the huge shaggy white sofa and came to Nicholas, he felt the soft warm melting sensation in his stomach spreading slowly through his body like a draught of some powerful aphrodisiac. He knew he would never be immune to her.

“Dear Nicky, I knew I could rely upon you.” She took his hand and looked up at him, and still holding his hand she led him to the sofa, and then she settled beside him, like a bright, lovely bird alighting. She drew her legs up under her, her calves and ankles flashed like carved and polished ivory before she tucked the brilliant skirt around them, and lifted the Wedgwood porcelain teapot.

“Orange pekoe,” she smiled at him, “No lemon and no sugar.” He had to smile back at her. “You never forget,” and he took the cup.

“I told you that you looked well,” she said, slowly and unselfconsciously studying him. “And you really do, Nicholas. When you came down to Lynwood for Peter’s birthday in June, I was so worried about you. You looked terribly ill and tired – but now,” she tilted her head critically, “you look absolutely marvelous.”

Now he should tell her that she was beautiful as ever, he thought grimly, and then they would start talking about Peter and their old mutual friends.

“What did you want to talk to me about?” he asked quietly, and there was a passing shadow of hurt in her dark eyes.

“Nicholas, you can be so remote, so –” she hesitated, seeking the correct word, “so detached.”

“Recently someone called me an ice-cold Pommy bastard,” the agreed, but she shook her head.

“No. I know you are not, but if only –”

“The three most dangerous and inflammatory phrases in the English language,” he stopped her. “They are ‘you always’ and ‘you never and ‘only’. Chantelle, I came here to help you with a problem. Let’s discuss that – only.”

She stood up quickly, and he knew her well enough to recognize the fury in the snapping dark eyes and the quick dancing steps that carried her to the mantelpiece, and she stood looking up at the Degas with her small fists clenched at her sides.