Wilbur Smith's Smashing Thrillers (37 page)

‘
What a pretty young girl, Nicholas.
’

He said nothing. On the ornate
Louis Quatorze desk was a silver-framed photograph of Duncan Alexander
and Chantelle together, and he looked away and moved to the fireplace,
standing with his back to the blaze as he had done on a thousand other
evenings.

Chantelle brought the glass to him, and stood close, looking up at him -
and her fragrance touched a deep nostalgic chord. He had first bought
Cal
ec
he for her on a spring morning in Paris; with an effort he forced
the memory aside.

‘
What did you want to speak to me about, is it Peter?

‘
No. Peter is
doing as well as we can hope for, in the circumstances, He still resents
Duncan
–
but
-‘
she shrugged, and moved away. He had almost forgotten how
narrow was her waist, he would still be able to span it with both hands.

‘
It's hard to explain, but it's Christy Marine, Nicholas. I desperately
need the advi
c
e of someone I can trust.
’

‘
You can trust me?
’
he asked.

‘
Isn't it strange? I would still trust you with my life.
’
She came back
to him, standing disconcertingly close, enveloping him with her scent
and heady beauty. He sipped at the whisky to distract himself.

‘
Even though I have no right to ask you, Nicholas,
’
still I know you won't
refuse me, will you?
’
She wove spells, he could feel the mesh falling
like gossamer around him.

‘
I always was a sucker, wasn't I?
’

Now she touched his arm.
‘
No,
Nicholas, please don't be bitter.
’
She held his gaze directly.

‘
How can I help you?
’
Her touch on his arm disturbed him, and, sensing
this, she increased the pressure of her fingers for a moment, then
lifted her hand and glanced at the slim white gold Piaget on her wrist.

‘
Duncan will be home soon - and what I have to tell you is long and
complicated. Can we meet in London early next week?
’

‘
Chantelle
,’
he
began.

‘
Nicky, please. Nicky,
’
she was the only one who ever called him that. it
was too familiar, too intimate.

‘
When?
’

‘
You are meeting Duncan on Tuesday morning to discuss the
arbitration of Golden Adventurer.
’

‘
Yes.
’

‘
Will you call me at Eaton
Square when you fini
sh? I'll wait by the telephone.’

‘
Chantelle
-‘

‘
Nicky,
I have nobody else to turn to.
’

He had never been able to refuse her -
which was part of the reason he had lost her, he thought wryly.

There was no engine noise, just the low rush of air past the body of the
Mercedes.

‘
Damn these seats, they weren't made for lovers,
’
Samantha said.

‘
We'll be home in an hour.
’

‘
I don't know if I can wait that long,
’
Samantha whispered huskily.
‘
I want to be closer to you.
’

And they were
silent again, until they slowed for the weekend traffic through
Hammersmith.

‘
Peter is a knockout. if only I were ten years old, I'd cash in my
dolls.
’

‘
My guess is he would swop his Spitfire.
’

‘
How much longer?
’

‘
Another half hour.
’

‘
Nicholas, I feel threatened,
’
her voice had a sudden
panicky edge to it.
‘
I have this terrible foreboding
.’

‘
That's nonsense.
’

‘
It's been too good - for too long.
’

James Teacher was the head of Salmon
Peters and Teacher, the lawyers that Nick had retained for Ocean
Salvage. He was a man with a formidable reputation in the City, a
leading expert on maritime law - and a tough bargainer.
He was florid and bald, and so short that his feet did not touch the
floorboards of the Bentley when he sat on the back seat.

He and Nick had discussed in detail where this preliminary meeting with
Christy Marine should be held, and at last they had agreed to go to the
mountain, but James Teacher had insisted on arriving in his
chocolate-coloured Bentley, rather than a cab.

‘
Smoked salmon, Mr. Berg, not fish and chips - that's what we are after.
’

Christy House was one of those conservative smoke stained stone
buildings fronted on to Leadenhall Street, the centre of Britain's
shipping industry. Almost directly opposite was Trafalgar House, and a
hundred yard
s further was Lloyd's of London. The doorman crossed the
pavement to open Nicholas
’
door.

‘
Good to see you again, Mr. Berg sir!
’

‘
Hello, Alfred. You taking good care of the shop?
’

‘
Indeed, sir.
’

The following cab, containing James Teacher's two juniors
and their bulky briefcases, pulled up behind the Bentley and they
assembled on the pavement like a party of raiding Vikings before the
gates of a medieval city. The three lawyers settled their bowler hats
firmly and then moved forward determinedly in spearhead formation.

In the lobby, the doorman passed them on to a senior clerk who was
waiting by the desk.

‘
Good morning, Mr. Berg. You are looking very well, sir.
’
They rode up
at a sedate pace in the elevator with its antique steel concertina
doors. Nicholas had never brought himself to exchange them for those
swift modern boxes.
And the clerk ushered them out on to the top-floor landings
.

‘
Will you
follow me, please, gentlemen?
’
There was an antechamber that opened on
to the board room, a large room, panelled and hung with a single
portrait of old Arthur Christy on the entrance wall - f
ighting
jaw and sharp
black eyes under beetling white eyebrows.
A log fire burned in the open grate, and there was sherry and Madeira in
crystal decanters on the central table
-
another one of the old min's
little traditions - that both James Teacher and Nick refused curtly.

They waited quietly, standing facing the door into the Chairman's suite.
They waited for exactly four minutes before the door was thrown open and
Duncan Alexander stepped through it.

His eyes flicked across the room and settled instantly on Nick, locking
with his, like the horns of two great bull buffalo, and the room was
very still.

The lawyers around Nick seemed to shrink back and the men behind Duncan
Alexander waited, not yet following him into the antechamber, but all of
them watched and waited avidly; this meeting would be the gossip of the
City for weeks to come - It was a classic confrontation, and they wanted
to miss not a moment of it.

Duncan Alexander was a strikingly good-looking man, very tall, two
inches taller than Nick, but slim as a dancer, and he carried his body
with a dancer's control. His face also was narrow, with the long
lantern jaw of a young Lincoln, already chiselled by life around the
eyes and at the corners of the mouth.

His hair
was very
dense and a metallic blond; though he wore it fashionably long
over the ears, yet it was so carefully groomed that each gleaming wave
seemed to have been sculptured.

His skin was smooth and tanned darker than his hair, sun lamp or skiing
at Chantelle's lodge at Gstaad perhaps, and now when he smiled his teeth
were dazzlingly white, perfect large teeth in the wide friendly mouth -
but the eyes did not smile though they crinkled at the corners.
Duncan Alexander watched from behind the handsome face like a sniper in
ambush.

‘
Nicholas
,’
he said, without moving forward or offering a hand.

‘
Duncan
,’
said Nick quietly, not answering the smile, and Duncan Alexander
adjusted the hang of his lapel. His clothes were beautifully cut, and
the cloth was the finest, softest wool, but there were foppish little
touches: the hacking slits in the tails of the jacket, the
double-flapped pockets, and the waistcoat in plum-coloured velvet, Now
he touched the buttons with his fingertips, another little distracting
gesture, the only evidence of any discomfort.

Nicholas stared at him steadily, trying to measure him dispassionately,
and now for the first time he began to see how it might have happened.
There was a sense of excitement about the man, a wicked air of danger,
the fascination of the leopard - or some other powerful predator. Nick
could understand the almost irresistible attraction he had for women,
especially for a spoiled and bored lady, a matron of thirteen years who
believed there was still excitement and adventure in life that she was
missing.

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.
’