Wilbur Smith's Smashing Thrillers (65 page)

‘
She will be sitting exactly where I want her,
’
said
Nicholas, and switched his attention back to the tiny dot of an island
in the middle of the Indian Ocean.
‘
Now Warlock.
’

‘
Right. Warlock.
’
Bernie picked up another file.
‘
I have tendered for a
deep-sea tow.
’

‘
Cancel it
,’
said Nicholas.
‘
Just as soon as Allen has
repaired his generator, I want him running top of the green for Cape
Town.
’

‘
For Cape Town - top of the green?
’
Bernard stared at him.
‘
Christ,
Nicholas. What for?
’

‘
He won't be able to catch Golden Dawn before she
rounds the Cape, but I want him to follow her.
’

‘
Nicholas, you're out of
your mind!
D
o you know what that would cost?
’

‘
If Golden Dawn gets
into trouble he'll be only a day or two behind her. Tell Allen he is to
shadow her all the way into Galveston roads.
’

‘
Nicholas, you're letting
this whole thing get out of all proportion. It's become an obsession
with you, for God's sake!
’

‘
With her superior speed, Warlock should be up
with her before she enters the-‘

'Listen to me, Nicholas. Let's think
this all out carefully.
What are the chances of Golden Dawn suffering structural failure or
crippling breakdown on her maiden voyage - a hundred to one against it?
It's that high?
’

‘
That's about right. Nicholas agreed. A hundred to
one.
’

‘
What is it going to cost to hold one ocean-going salvage tug on
standby, at a lousy fifteen hundred dollars a day and then to send
another halfway around the world at top of the green?
’
Bernard clasped
his brow theatrically.
‘
It's going to cost you a quarter of a million
dollars, if you take into consideration the loss of earnings on both
vessels that's the very least it's going to cost you. Don't you have
respect for money any longer?
’

‘
Now you understand why I had, to stall
the Sheikhs, I couldn't shoot their money on
a hundred-to-one chance
- but it's not their money yet.
It's mine. Sea Witch and Warlock aren't their tugs, they are mine.
Peter isn't their son, he's mine.
’

‘
You're serious
,’
said Bernard
incredulously.
‘
I do believe you are serious.
’

‘
Right
,’
Nicholas agreed.
‘
Damned right, I am. Now get a telex off to David Allen and ask him for
his estimated time of arrival in Cape Town.
’

Samantha Silver had one
towel wrapped around her head like a turban. Her hair was still wet
from the luxurious shampooing it had just received. She wore the other
towel tucked under her armpits, making a short sarong of it. She still
glowed all over from the steaming tub and she smelled of soap and talcum
powder.

After a long field trip, it took two or three of these soakings and
scrubbings to get the salt and the smell of the mangroves out of her
pores, and the Everglades mud from under her nails.

She poured the batter into the pan, the oil spitting and crackling with
the heat and she sang out,
‘
How many waffles can you eat?
’
He came
through from the bathroom, a wet towel wrapped around his waist, and he
stood in the doorway and grinned at her.
‘
How many have you got?
’
he
asked. She had still not accustomed her ear to the Australian twang'.

He was burned and brown as she was, and his hair was bleached at the
ends, hanging now, wet from the shower, into his face.

They had worked well together, and she had learned much from him.
The drift into intimacy had been gradual, but inevitable. In her hurt,
she had turned to him for comfort, and also in deliberate spite of
Nicholas. But now, if she turned her head away, she would not really be
able to remember his features clearly. It took an effort to remember
his name - Dennis, of course, Doctor Dennis O'Connor.

She was detached from it all, as though a sheet of armoured glass
separated her from the real world. She went through the motions of
working and playing, of eating and sleeping, of laughing and loving, but
it was all a sham.

Dennis was watching her from the doorway now, with that slightly puzzled
expression, the helpless look of a person who watches another drowning
and is powerless to give aid.

Samantha turned away quickly.
‘
Ready in two minutes
,’
she said, and he
turned back into the bedroom to finish dressing.

She flipped the waffles on to a plate and poured a fresh batch of
batter.

Beside her, the telephone rang and she sucked her fingers clean and
picked it up with her free hand.

‘
Sam Silver
,’
she said.

‘
Thank God. I've been going out of my mind. What happened to you,
darling?
’
Her knees went rubbery under her, and she had to sit down
quickly on one of the stools.

‘
Samantha, can you hear me?
’
She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

‘
Tell me what's happening
–‘
She could see his face before her, clearly,
each detail of it so vividly remembered, the clear green eyes below the
heavy brow, the line of cheek-bone and jaw, and the sound of his voice
made her shiver.

‘
Samantha.
’

‘
How is your wife, Nicholas?
’
she asked softly - and he broke
off . She held the receiver to her ear with both hands, and the silence
lasted only a few beats of her heart, but it was long enough. Once or
twice, in moments of weakness during the last two weeks, she had tried
to convince herself that it was not true, That it had all been the
viciousness of a lying woman. Now she knew beyond any question that her
instinct had been correct. His silence was the admission, and she
waited for the lie that she knew would come next.

‘
Would it help to tell you I love you?
’
he asked softly, and she could
not answer. Even in her distress, she felt the rush of relief.
He had not lied. At that moment it was the important thing in her life.
He had not lied. She felt most it begin to tear painfully, deep in her
chest. Her shoulders shook spasmodically.

‘
I'm coming to get you,
’
he said into the silence.

‘
I won't be here
,’
she whispered, but she felt it welling up into her
throat, uncontrollably. She had not wept before, she had kept it all
safely bottled away - but now, the first sob burst from her, and with
both hands she slammed the telephone back on to its cradle.

She stood there still, shaking wildly, and the tears poured down her
cheeks and dripped from her chin.

Dennis came into the kitchen behind her, tucking his shirt into the top
of his trousers, his hair shiny and wet with the straight lines of the
comb through it,
‘
Who was that?
’
he asked cheerfully, and then stopped
aghast,
‘
What is it, love?
’
He started forward again,
‘
Come on now.
’

‘
Don't touch me, please
,’
she whispered huskily, and
he stopped again
uncertainly.
‘
We are fresh out of milk,
’
she said without turning.
‘
Will
you take the van down to the shopping centre
.’

By the time Dennis
returned, she was dressed and she had rinsed her face and tied a scarf
around her head like a gypsy. They chewed cold, un-appetising waffles
in silence, until she spoke,
‘
Dennis, we've got to talk
.’

‘
No
,’
he smiled at
her. It's all right, Sam, You don't have to say it. I should have
moved on days ago, anyway.
’

‘
Thanks
,’
she said.

‘
It was Nicholas, wasn't it?
’

She regretted having told him now, but at the time it had been vitally
necessary to speak to somebody.

She nodded, and his voice had a sting to it as he went on.

‘
I'd like to bust that bastard in the mouth.
’

‘We levelled the
score, didn't we? she smiled, but it was an unconvincing smile, and she
didn't try to hold it.

‘
Sam, I want you to know that for me it was not just another quick shack
job
.’

‘
I know that.
’
Impulsively she reached out and squeezed his hand.
‘
And thanks for understanding - but is it okay if we don't talk about it
any
more?
’

Peter Berg had twisted round in his safety straps, so that he could
press his face to the round perspex window in the fuselage of the big
Sikorsky helicopter.

The night was completely, utterly black.

Across the cabin, the Flight Engineer stood in the open doorway, the
wind ripping at his bright orange overalls, fluttering them around his
body, and he turned and grinned across at the boy, then he made a
windmilling gesture with his hand and stabbed downwards with his thumb.
It was impossible to speak in the clattering, rushing roar of wind and
engine and rotor.

The helicopter banked gently and Peter gasped with excitement as the
ship came into view.

She was burning all her lights; tier upon tier, the brilliantly lit
floors of her stern quarters rose above the altitude at which the
Sikorsky was hovering, and, seeming to reach ahead to the black horizon,
the tank deck was outlined with the rows of hooded lamps, like the
street-lamps of a deserted city.

She was so huge that she looked like a city, there seemed to be no end
to her, stretched to the horizon and towering into the sky.

The helicopter sank in a controlled sweep towards the white circular
target on the heliport, guided down by the engineer in the open doorway.
Skilfully the pilot matched his descent to the forward motion of the
ultra-tanker, twe
nty-two knots at top economical
- Peter had swotted
the figures avidly - and the deck moved with grudging majesty to the
scend of the tall Cape rollers pushing in unchecked from across the
length of the Atlantic Ocean.

The pilot hovered, judging his approach against the brisk north-westerly
cross-wind, and from fifty feet Peter could see that the decks were
almost level with the surface of the sea, pressed down deeply by the
weight of her cargo.
Every few seconds, one of the rollers that raced down her length would
flip aboard and spread like spilled milk, white and frothy in the deck
lights, before cascading back over the side.