The O.D. (25 page)

Victor Bosse relaxed in a chair and crossed his legs, certain that he had just landed the knockout blow. Others in his party were not looking so confident.

“Is Mr. Vaalon online yet?” Pilot asked McConie, who pointed at the monitor by way of reply. Pilot read the decrypted message still marching across the top of the screen. ‘We’re watching the live broadcast and I’ve got Fridrik Geirsson and three lawyers on conference call with me,’ Vaalon wrote. ‘You’re doing well, Lonnie, but we wanted to make sure you didn’t miss this last trick.’

For the next ten minutes, the men communicated through instant encryption and decoding as if in an internet chatroom. Occasionally, Pilot would scribble a word or phrase in his notebook.

‘Under international law, you are under no obligation to pay France or anyone else money for damage caused by the waves from your island,’ Vaalon concluded. ‘But for reasons which we will now explain, a payment of some kind is recommended.’ His last entry contained a six digit number which raised both Pilot’s and Serman’s eyebrows.

‘Time for the coup de grâce,’ Pilot wrote in closing before sending Serman off to Storeroom 12 with a large bag.

“Thank you for waiting,” Pilot said on re-entering the marquee. He ran his gaze over the French delegation and stopped at his nemesis. “I have
this
to say to you, Monsieur Bosse. Eydos will not yield a centimetre of its surface to France or to any other country you care to mention. I won’t say this again and would be grateful if you all left us alone now to get on with our work before winter sets in.”

Bosse looked sadly at his adversary and picked up a thin file, which he held like a spear above his shoulder. The file was in fact empty, this particular gambit having sprung into Bosse’s devious but incautious mind only minutes before.

“Monsieur Pilot. We come to the serious matter of the reparations which my country demands for the families of her murdered citizens and damage to our coasts caused by the seas as this island came out of the Bay of Biscay. It isn’t an unreasonable demand. Indeed, if the
true
damages were ever to be made known to you, it is most generous. The amount in full is four billion Neuros. But my government recognizes that such a vast amount is far beyond the means or the potential of your people to pay.” Victor Bosse was being swept to his doom on the waves of his own oration. “Ceding this island to France by signing the document in this folder will release you from your debt. What’s more, it will ensure resident status for each and every one of you on Ile de Bonne Fortune within the borders we will be drawing.”

With an expression that could only be likened to a cat that is just about to bite the head off a field mouse, Bosse waggled the empty file at Pilot. “This is the best outcome your group could ever hope for, Monsieur Pilot. Take it.”

After the final words of Bartoli’s translation had dropped off the screen, Pilot stood up again. “At last, Mr. Bosse, you have admitted to the world that Eydos is ours. For, how can we cede territory to France which is
not
? I’m glad we’ve settled that point. As for reparations, under international law, Eydos is not responsible for collateral damage resulting from a natural geophysical event. Having said that, in our capacity as a friendly, concerned neighbour, we are today able to offer France an emergency aid package totaling $101,000 cash in seven different currencies.” Pilot raised a finger and Serman handed the bag of notes to Bosse’s nearest aide.

Pilot didn’t have to see Austin Palmer’s grin to know he had served an ace. There were no more points to be won in this particular game and Victor Bosse had no answer to his gaunt opponent. That he had shot himself in the foot was now obvious even to Bosse. Only one word left his mouth. To the French TV crew he made a sign with the flat of his hand as if he were slashing some unseen foe with a sabre. “ARRÊTEZ,” he shouted at them. “ARRÊTEZ.”

“You haven’t heard the last of this, Pilot,” Domaigne hissed just before boarding his helicopter. “Vous êtes mort. J’y veillerai personellement.”

Far away in the east, a bank of angry black storm clouds was brewing and it was into this that the retreating French delegation flew, leaving their emergency aid package on a table in the marquee.

Shortly after dusk, the bonfire was lit and at its height sent flames a hundred feet into the air. Pilot stayed by the fire for most of the night, mesmerized by its dancing light and magnetized by its warmth. The flaming debris to him symbolized the end of French interest in Eydos. But there was caution in this thought also, because he well knew that beyond their shores much larger fires were raging out of control.

Having done enough thinking in one day to last a year, Pilot walked back to his prefab, had a wash and slid naked next to the warm body already in the sleeping bag. Instantly, power over his person was transferred from his secondary to his primary brain – from rational thought to lawless passion.

“I THINK IT IS TIDAL WAVE,” Dubi Horvat screamed through the ecstacy of a multiple orgasm a short time later.

XV

No one on Eydos had ever experienced a winter so cold, bleak or depressing as the one they had just weathered. February had been a particularly negative month during which the inmates of Nillin had begun to resemble the bleak landscape they inhabite
d−
mere abbreviations of the high-spirited personalities that had come ashore the previous August. Most of them accepted their low ebb as being an annual malady to be endured, reasoning that their dormant core would be awakened with the first signs of spring. If they had known, they could have drawn a parallel with the billions of windborne spores that were establishing bridgeheads the length and breadth of the island. These were taking hold, not just in the rare patches and pockets of trapped sediment, but in the very fabric of the rock itself which, if studied microscopically, would have revealed a texture ideal for the germination of lichen. These organisms, were also just waiting for a change in the weather.

During the winter, outdoor projects at Nillin had slowed to a crawl. For most of the island’s inhabitants it had begun to dawn on them for the first time
where
they were. They felt detached from the world they had left, yet unconnected to the one they had come to.

Mail deliveries had been reduced to one a month and were a highlight everyone looked forward to. One diplomatic note from the United States was especially noteworthy and caused much laughter when Macushla Mara read it out over dinner. It boiled down to being an offer of professional expertise designed, in The State Department’s own words, ‘to pull your brave new world alongside the free nations of the earth... to help you locate, realise and equitably husband the natural resources of Eydos to the benefit of all mankind ... and, as a token of welcome to you, the idealists of Eydos, we offer associate membership of the Atlantic Alliance ...’
etc.
etc.

After putting it to the vote, Lonnie Pilot had replied diplomatically, but with economy, ‘We appreciate your encouraging words, but we are not in a position to join the Atlantic Alliance, even as associate members. As for the husbandry of our natural resources, we feel the best future for them remains in the ground.’

“Cocky sons-of-bitches,” the Under Secretary of State mumbled three thousand miles away when he read the reply.

Like Londoners exiting their bomb shelters after a heavy visitation by the Luftwaffe, the Nillinites stepped, squinting, from their domes into the first warm rays of the March sun. After the tensions of their initial three months on Eydos, culminating in their annihilation of Victor Bosse, the Islanders had every excuse to let their hair down, but they all knew that true relaxation was only possible under the umbrella of a wider ignorance. They understood the world too well and believed that the French retreat from the fray was just tha
t−
a retreat. The prevailing fear was that France would regroup and launch another sortie within the decade.

Wiser heads than Victor Bosse’s had decided that only when the world stopped laughing at France could that country once again cast a covetous eye on Ile de Bonne Fortune. They believed that French interest in the island would be better served by affecting disinterest. All those who had bungled since the island’s ascension had been purged. In the aftermath of Bosse’s undoing, the former ‘One to Watch’ of French politics had been transferred to their embassy in Sofia as assistant to the cultural attaché there and was no longer being watched. Major Domaigne’s recorded promise to personally see Pilot dead, a threat heard by a television and internet audience in the hundreds of millions, had earned him demotion, public humiliation and a sumptuous dinner at the home of a retired French general – son of a veteran of the Algerian trouble
s−
where much was discussed and agreed over a fine Courvoisier L’or.

In demanding reparation from Eydos, the French, via their bungling representative Bosse, had conceded the settlers’ sovereignty over the island. But one didn’t have to be a student of history to know that treaties or truths agreed to in the world of men only stood until the first group who wanted to, muscled in and overturned them. There was no such thing as an absolute victory or an absolute defeat. And there was certainly no room for complacency. No one on the Island would have ever expected that the next assault would come from within.

Adolf Eichmann, Radovan Karadzic and Saddam Hussein had all been run to ground and brought to justic
e−
an end which international fugitive, Henry Bradingbrooke, had no intention replicating. So, a few days after the second cistern had been completed, he and Pilot visited Mirko Soldo in his workshop with sketches for a new project Bradingbrooke had conceived to help keep the hounds at bay.

Always the jovial host, Soldo insisted that his two guests join him in a drink before getting down to business.

“I suspect this can unblock drains,” Bradingbrooke gasped after downing a fiery first mouthful of the clear liquid Soldo offered him. “What is it?”

“Raki. From home. My family have been growing grapes and making wine and raki for generations.”

“I like it,” Pilot said, sipping his slowly. “Where’s home, Mirko?”

“The Konavle valley, south of Dubrovnik.”

“Are your parents still alive?”

Soldo looked at his boss as if he were crazy. “Alive? No Soldo male has expired before the age of 90 for seven generations… apart from my grandfather. The Kordas, on my mother’s side, also have industrial-strength genes. My grandfather only died because he was murdered.”

“Who killed him?” As soon as he’d asked the question, Bradingbrooke withdrew it. “I’m sorry, Mirko, it’s none of m
y−
”

“He was shot in 1944 by his next-door neighbour,” Soldo said, “a Chetnik. My father was five years old when it happened, but young memories burn brightest and in 1958 he got his revenge. Patient man.”

“Your father killed him?”

“Executed him for his crime, yes. Twenty years after that, a new Soldo was born.”

“You,” Bradingbrooke and Pilot said in unison.

“The one and only Mirko.” Soldo refilled the glasses. “To answer your original question, my parents still work the vineyard like teenagers. And you two? Are
your
parents still living?”

“My mother’s alive and well in Wiltshire,” Bradingbrooke said.

“What about yours, Lonnie?”

Pilot hesitated before answering. “My mother breathes the air, yes.”

The longer the three talked, the more Pilot warmed to Soldo. The next hour slipped through their tongues like honey.

“Have you ever been married, Mirko?” Bradingbrooke slurred.

“I have never been unmarried. My fourth wife, who is soon to be my fourth
ex
-wife, is the sister of my future fifth wife, if all goes to plan.” Soldo winked at his two drinking companions. “She’s very beautiful.”

“Your future fifth?” Pilot asked.

“No, no, no. Your girlfriend with the spade.”

Time to stop the small talk, Pilot thought. “We have a new project for you, Mirko,” he said, rolling out the drawings.

Aaron Serman was making the trip with Pilot on the strength of his grandmother having a summer home near East Hampton. For it was in that very house, usually closed up until June, that the meetings were to take place.

Two tête-à-têtes had been arranged for Lonnie Pilot’s three days on Long Island. The first was to be the next step in a bonding, so far by letter only, between Pilot and Senator Paul Dasching of Wyoming. Dasching, at thirty two, the second youngest senator in U.S. history, was also proving to be the greenest, in the
environmental
, not
inexperienced
meaning. He was known for his outspoken criticisms of American over-consumption and lack of awareness – outspoken for a man in public office, that is. Nonetheless, he was still a politician and knew that the people in your pocket were as important as the words in your mouth, if not more so. He was forever forging links, therefore, with those whom he felt might be of use to him. Pilot had impressed him from the outset and within a month of the landing, Dasching had fired off a letter of introduction, written so as not to incriminate him should the letter be intercepted. It was signed P. Ginschad, with a P.O. Box number address in Washington. It took some detective work on Pilot’s part to figure out who it was from. When Pilot invited ‘Mr. Ginschad’ to visit Eydos, the Senator had declined, feeling that for him to be seen on that controversial rock shelf in the Bay of Biscay before he had properly assessed Pilot’s credentials would be too great a risk to his own. So they had agreed to meet in secret at the Serman retreat at Sag Harbour instead.

For his part, Pilot wanted to meet Paul Dasching for his value as a provider of useful intelligence. He also wanted to meet Charles Williams. As Dasching represented the moderate voice of environmentalism and sustainability in the States, so Williams represented its primal scream. He’d been in correspondence with Pilot too – but openl
y−
and would also be making the trip to Sag Harbour the day after Dasching. So, Lonnie Pilot was travelling all the way to the New World – though not as new as his own he had to remind himself – to spend time with a cowboy and a subversive.

The outward journey went like clockwor
k−
mail helicopter to Jersey, short haul to London City Airport, tube to Heathrow and long haul to JFK on false passports. From there, they’d taken a cab to Queens where they picked up the Hampton Jitney bus to Sag Harbour, reaching the Serman house just before midnight. They were cutting it fine, because Pilot’s first meeting was scheduled for 11am the following morning.

Right on time, the sound of car wheels could be heard surfing the slush of the Serman driveway. Within seconds, Pilot was at the window watching a lone sedan pull up outside. Visible a hundred yards beyond it, through the entrance of the estate, was a second car, engine idling, exhaust like steam from a locomotive in the cold morning air.

Two figures emerged from the first car and reached the front door just as Serman opened it. Standing in the doorway was a large man with a thin neck and wire spectacles. A small, oriental man was beside him.

“Good morning. I’m Joe Conrad, Paul Dasching’s Press Secretary.”

“Aaron Serman, Lonnie Pilot’s… uh… Ambassador to the United States.” They shook hands and Serman ushered both men into the study.

“Do you mind if Mr. Tsuchida here has a look around the house before the Senator comes in? Paul insists on total confidentiality in his meetings. No reflection on your integrity,” Conrad lied, “but there are opponents of ours who would love to hear what’s said here today.” He gave a hearty ‘we’re all in this together’ laugh, but the bonhomie, like his suntan, was manufactured. Conrad waited for Tsuchida to finish his inspection, then walked out to wave in the second car.

Paul Dasching, when he eventually entered the house with his secretary and driver, was the picture of New-Frontier-Thrust-with-Glamour. He smiled Pilot’s name more than spoke it. “Welcome to America, Lonnie. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He shook Pilot’s hand firmly, but not gluily, and removed his parka to reveal a red lumberjack shirt beneath. Dasching ate life whole and was no grazer. “Lonnie,” he said without preamble, “I don’t know what the hell we’re going to do about this country of mine.” He spoke the words like a King. “I’m not talking about shit creek, or anything half as simple. If it was as easy as making paddles, it wouldn’t be such an insoluble problem.” He turned to the window and stabbed his forefinger at imaginary points beyond the glass. “They won’t even let me make the goddam paddles. It’s almost impossible to be a successful politician
and
be true to the planet. And that puts me in a tricky position, Lonnie. I’m about as far upfront as I dare go on the political-environmental battlefront without outrunning my lines of supply – the people who pay my campaign bills and the people who vote for me.”

Serman handed the Senator a mug of coffee, which only shut him up for a sip.

“The U.S. electorate isn’t ready for people like me to be seen talking to people like you,” Dasching continued. “Likewise, for you to maintain your stance of neutrality,
you
can’t be seen talking with
me
. It’s a dire situation when the job of saving the world has to be conducted in
secret
.

“By the way, I know you’re seeing POCS tomorrow, and that’s another group of people I can’t be linked with, even through once-removed association. Williams is dangerous in my view, so be careful. Involvement with him, if it ever got out, could damage your cause irreparably.”

“How did you know I was meeting Williams?” Pilot asked, speaking for the first time.

“It’s my job to know these things. It won’t leave this room, don’t worry. It’s not even that I disagree with their views – just their methods. Even so, they’ll extend the fight into areas I won’t, because they don’t give a damn what people think of them. No one in POCS will be running for President term after next.” This was a reference to Dasching’s own ambitions which he never tried to keep secret.

How many other people know I’m meeting Williams? Pilot thought, beginning to feel the early flushes of fear.