by Peter Tonkin
She had to act. To stand here for any length of time meant certain death. She forced herself to take a step forward. Then she stopped again. It was all very well to set off once more, but which way should she go? There was no sign of the crevasse which had caused them to deviate from their clifftop path, but was it still there, like the cliff edge itself had been, under a thin covering of treacherous ice? She drove down with her left ski pole and it went straight through the ground and wedged. She couldn’t believe it. Never in her life had so much gone so badly wrong so fast. She was not superstitious — she had often mocked Nico for being so — but this looked like a very unlucky day to her. She jerked on the pole with all her strength, but whatever was holding it beneath the innocent-looking surface of the snow refused to release its grip.
Abruptly she found herself screaming at the top of her voice, swearing at the recalcitrant ski pole hysterically as she wrestled it from side to side with uncontrolled fury. Only when it snapped did she manage to bring herself under some kind of control. Even so, she threw the short end of it away and only when it swung back to hit her on the head did she remember that it was looped round her wrist. Calmer now that the first paroxysm was past, she took the loop off, laid the pole down, transferred the right-hand pole to replace it, crooked her right arm over her face to protect it from the driving ice, and set out on her own.
Once again, time ceased to have very much meaning. At first she was careful to follow some kind of plan in her head. She imagined the simple right angles of her path up the crevasse to a point where her ski pole no longer broke easily through the surface, then left at exactly ninety degrees for a couple of hundred yards — just in case —then exactly ninety degrees left again to take her back towards the original cliff edge. How far away from that cliff she was she had no way of knowing. How long she walked before she realised she had gone astray even from that simple plan she would never know either. Eventually, when the cliff did not materialise, she began to make conscious adjustments, thinking that if she went a little more to the left she must reach it.
But then, all too late, she realised that if she kept going left too soon, she would come round in a full circle long before she reached the cliff edge itself or, worse, strike off in a tangent before the circle was complete to go wandering back across that huge plain which had seemed so like the middle of the Lost World when she first saw it nearly twenty-four hours ago.
And by the time she had worked all that out, she was utterly lost indeed and even the simple plan of finding and following the cliff edge was far beyond anything within her power to do.
Sometime soon after this, she stopped thinking altogether, for thought was just another dangerous burden which might prove too much for her frail, increasingly weak body to carry.
Thought was replaced by sensation but soon, thank heaven, sensation began to grow dull and distant. She no longer felt the stabbing pain of the unremitting cold in her hands and feet nor the ache in ankles and knees as they threatened to seize up with every unrelenting step. She no longer heard the wild sound of the wind beyond the drumming of her hood against her ears. She no longer saw anything in the whirling dance of the ice grains before her eyes, except for the gathering darkness which she refused to recognise as death.
The first time that shivering overtook her she tried to keep moving, but after a step or two it proved to be impossible. Her mind was just active enough to learn from the experience and when she felt the second attack coming on she had the sense to stop until it passed. Then she stumbled forward once again into the arms of the waiting darkness.
The darkness achieved a form. Two forms. Two human forms, shapeless and bundled. As soon as she saw them she should have stopped but she was too far gone to do so. She didn’t actually recognise them as being real at all. She continued to walk towards them and was not very surprised when they simply disappeared. She had no idea that they had fallen in beside her, invisible beyond the icedrifts on her goggles. She was too numb to feel the gentle pressure of their guiding hands, nor the strength of their uplifting arms when her legs at last gave out.
*
Some time later the agony of warmth woke her and she opened her eyes. A woman was watching her. A woman with long gold hair and steady green eyes; a woman she had never seen before in her life. ‘Colin, she’s awake,’ called the woman in English. A giant appeared in the shadows behind the blonde. He was huge, shaggy, grey-chinned. He seemed to be stooping so as not to bang his head on the roof. He loomed towards her, eyes locking with her own.
‘What the ...’ Ann began to say. Then she stopped. The gulf between where she was now and where she had been when she was last awake was too much for her to understand.
‘Am I alive?’ she asked. She really needed reassurance on that point, for anything seemed possible.
And the giant laughed, a wild, joyous sound, full of energy and indomitable humanity. ‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘Yes, you’re alive.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO - Day Twelve
Sunday, 30 May 23:00
Sir William Heritage waited until the camera was off him and then mopped his brow. The girl in make-up had warned him against doing this, but he was uncomfortably aware that he was streaming with perspiration. It was bad enough that he would look exhausted and old; it would be fatal to look sweatily nervous as well. Face the Press was a new programme with low ratings broadcast unfashionably late on a Sunday evening, but the chairman of Heritage Mariner had no illusions: everyone who mattered in his business world would be watching or taping this. As he patted the high dome of his forehead dry, he was careful to concentrate on what was going on opposite. John Stonor from the Sketch who had given him such a rough ride on Friday, and who had pilloried him and his company on Saturday, was laying out the groundwork of his case. Beside the dapper, slightly smug journalist sat Signor Verdi of CZP, his moustache bristling with carefully presented outrage. Beside them sat another man Sir William had yet to be introduced to.
Beside Sir William sat Maggie DaSilva and she leaned across now to warn him to put his handkerchief away as the interviewer turned back towards him, pulling a long strand of black hair neatly behind her ear, and the red light on camera three lit up again.
‘So, Sir William, with the case going against Captain Mariner so strongly, it seems that Heritage Mariner is on the verge of joining that long line of companies currently going to the wall.’ She had a soft, almost girlish voice which masked a fierce intelligence.
‘That is not the case, Miss Lang. We will be appealing, of course.’
‘But you have been directed to settle CZP’s outstanding claim in the meantime.’
‘That is correct, but the claim is only for the agreed price on a rather elderly vessel, and it will be met out of the insurance Heritage Mariner holds against such contingencies.’
‘This is all bullshit,’ John Stonor barged in loudly, all journalistic zeal. One of the attractions of the late-night slot was the amount of down-to-earth language that could be used. It gave the show an air of gritty spontaneity which was, in fact, carefully tailored. Stonor was a regular contributor and he knew the ropes well. ‘Heritage Mariner is going down. How does it feel to be the captain of the Titanic, Sir William?’
‘There is no truth in that allegation. As I told you on Friday —’
‘Allow me, Sir William,’ interjected Maggie. ‘You know these allegations are baseless, Mr Stonor. This is nothing but dangerous rumour-mongering.’
‘A properly financed company would have nothing to fear.’
‘That is simply not the case.’
‘There’s no smoke without fire!’
‘Of course there is, Mr Stonor. It’s your job to blow smoke around, usually where there’s no fire at all.’
‘So you’re saying that I haven’t uncovered any true facts in this case?’
‘In this aspect —’
‘What about the terrorist connection?’
‘I’ll tell you about the terrorist connection,
’ roared Sir William, and the power of his voice silenced all of them. ‘Our ships were searched from stem to stern on the strength of what Mr Stonor told us about the so-called eco-terrorists La Guerre Verte. We found nothing! Why am I not surprised, Mr Stonor? I have no doubt you made them up, just as you make up so many other stories to sell your papers when the truth is not exciting enough! The only real terrorists ever involved in this case were the PLO, and they became involved because Disposoco buried toxic waste in the Lebanese desert without permission, warning or due care and caused countless people to die horribly. Terrorists were the only people with the power to make Disposoco dig up their filth and move it, and they had to threaten the whole company board with execution to make them do it. If it came to a choice between dealing with these terrorists and that company, I know which I’d prefer!’
‘It may be true that my colleagues from Disposoco have been forced to live with the threat of terrorist murder,’ purred Signor Verdi in reply, ‘but I deeply resent your implication.’ Sir William opened his mouth to reply but Verdi plunged on, his voice rising to a shout that matched Sir William’s own. ‘You are the representative of a firm responsible for sinking an unfortunately dangerous cargo in the middle of the busiest international passenger shipping lanes in the world, near to the most fertile fish breeding grounds on earth, and dangerously close to the most heavily populated seaboard in America. All this other talk is persiflage and — what you call it — hot air to cover what you have done! Not CZP, not Disposoco, but you. I tell you this, Sir Heritage, the courts in London have found your son guilty of this act. The courts in America will find him guilty of this act. You will be paying for what has been done to Napoli for the rest of your life and your children will be paying for the rest of theirs. You are finished. They are finished. Heritage Mariner is finished. And that is the truth. That is what is real. Not this talk of terrorists.’
Sir William struggled to rise. He was so enraged, he really feared he might strike the sneering little man, but Maggie held him in check once more. ‘These are more wild allegations, Signor Verdi. Your threats, made in public, are actionable and we will be consulting our —’
‘More threats, Ms DaSilva?’ Harriet Lang’s question stirred things further, as it was calculated to do; this was excellent television, no matter what else it was. The presenter could see her ratings soaring already. This was the kind of slanging match which just had to be plastered all over the front pages of tomorrow’s newspapers. She met John Stonor’s gaze and he gave her the ghost of a wink. The points of her lips stirred in contented complicity.
‘Promises, Ms Lang. Of more weight than groundless speculation about actions in the American courts,’ Maggie DaSilva answered firmly, and walked straight into John Stonor’s trap.
John Stonor cultivated an image which he felt to be appropriate to a successful tabloid newspaper man. He presented himself as a bluff, honest, rough diamond, incapable of being put off a just cause by any force under the sun. A pushy, dedicated, almost valiant, slightly common man of the people. Cocky, cheerful and by no means ever too clever for his own good. In fact he had a double first from Oxford where he had been counted one of the most arrogantly intellectual scholarship men of his day. His personal views of life and humanity were slightly to the right of Adolf Hitler and he was never happier than when he was manipulating people. He had perfected a party trick at Oxford which had stood him in very good stead ever since. Before sitting down to dinner, he would deliver to his host or hostess a series of half a dozen sealed envelopes with times written on the front. At the designated moments — which might be minutes or hours apart — the envelopes would be opened and on a piece of paper in each one would be a topic of conversation. As if by magic, it would inevitably be the topic of conversation currently under discussion. Without ever seeming to do so, John Stonor was always able to control what people thought and said.
And he had done it again tonight. Harriet Lang glanced down at her watch. Five minutes to go: John had promised to drop his bombshell now. Monday’s front pages would be hers.
‘Now that you mention the American courts, Ms DaSilva,’ he purred, let me introduce you to Vito Gordino of the American law firm which has just filed a suit against your client in New York on behalf of East Coast Fisheries Incorporated, claiming damages in excess of ten million dollars.’
Sir William erupted to his feet, far beyond even Maggie’s control as he saw his life’s work crumble before his eyes, all for a combination of chicanery and television ratings. He was too exhausted to see things in perspective and under more pressure than he had handled since the war in the Atlantic. And he was alone. The whole supportive family network of Heritage Mariner was overstretched and near failure when it needed to be at its strongest. Richard and Robin relied upon him absolutely, all the more so since Richard had been effectively convalescent, but they were always careful to ensure he had support. Until now. Richard and Robin were far away and beyond recall. Even Helen Dufour was on her way back to St Petersburg to negotiate shipping rights in and out of the newly liberalised port. Chance had dictated that he should be carrying the full weight all alone just when he needed most support.
He did not see it like that, of course. He saw it as a failure on his part. He thought he was letting them down just at the moment when they most relied upon him. Suddenly the impact of the realisation was like a breaking heart. He swayed there, apoplectic with rage, unable to form the words he needed to rebut the outrageous threat. Maggie DaSilva rose at his side. He saw her in the periphery of his vision, as though she was moving in slow motion.
He realised everyone in the studio was looking at him and distantly he wondered why. His gaze swept over the faces of his enemies: the smooth American, the smirking Italian, the smug newspaperman, the sleek presenter, the merciless camera. He was looking straight into the camera when the agony of his breaking heart clutched the left side of his chest again. He tried to grip his ribs to ease the pain behind them but somehow he couldn’t move his left arm. A numbness swept down his whole side and the last thing he felt was his left leg collapsing.
In full view of the camera, before the sleepy editor could cut away, the fine, distinguished, widely beloved old man collapsed under the weight of a massive heart attack.
He would have died there and then if anyone other than Maggie DaSilva had been beside him. She was in action at once, rolling him over and loosening his tie. He was wearing a starched collar and she wrestled with the gold-coloured stud, swearing quietly under her breath. Fortunately, he was a slim man and she was able to get her fingers between the cotton collar and the loose skin of his neck. A wild wrench tore the whole lot wide as far as the crisp white curls on his chest. Her eyes had been as busy as her hands. He was utterly white. His closed eyes were almost blue behind their lids. She pulled his jaw down and moved his tongue. ‘Send for an ambulance at once,’ she snapped at the stricken group around her. Then, still on camera, she leaned forward to begin mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
Harriet Lang, shaken but still professional, closed down the show. She kept her comments to a minimum, but there was nothing she could do to minimise the impact of what she realised with sickening clarity would be very damaging indeed. When she and John Stonor had been setting the programme up it had seemed like brilliant television: the fearless exposure of the uncaring side of big business. It was all too obvious now that what they had actually broadcast was the calculated, merciless hounding of a defenceless old man to the edge of death on air. The whole country would be all too well aware that, as she wound things up in close-up, a grim battle to keep her victim alive was going on behind the camera. The effect was finally underlined by the arrival of the company first aid crew in the last second of the broadcast. Behind her closing platitudes, their urgent directions went out to the watching nation.
‘ ... and next week, the problem of pollution in our lakes and rivers ...’
‘... Leave him to us now, miss. Get the oxygen in here quickly,
Brian ...’
‘We’ll have Perigrine Prior, Environmental Editor of the Guardian and representatives from Greenpeace and Friends of the Earth. Facing them will be ...’
‘... Full pressure now, John. Yes, he’s breathing. Got a pulse? Got the stretcher? Good ...’
‘... So we’ll see you then, when we’ll all Face the Press together. Good night.’
‘... Lift! That’s good. Let’s get moving while he’s still got a chance ...’
*
Maggie ran down the corridor beside the stretcher. She had kicked off her high heels and was running in her stockinged feet but even so she was having difficulty in keeping up. Sir William’s face still looked terrifyingly pale, but perhaps it was just in contrast with the black triangular mouthpiece attached to the oxygen cylinder lying beside him. Her mind was racing, trying to work out all the best courses of action and decide which one she should take first. She was not in shock yet but she knew it would only be a question of time before she was. The taste of his mouthwash filled her mouth and the intimacy of the taste was dangerously poignant.
They stood in silence while the lift whispered downwards. The only sound in the little car was the mechanical hiss of Sir William’s laboured breathing. They came out into the lobby at a rush, but there the forward impulse of events came to an abrupt halt. There was no ambulance.
While they waited in the quiet lobby, the first aid team kept Sir William going, but their body language and the sounds they made warned Maggie that they were not happy about the delay. The slim barrister started to shake, just as she had feared she would, and soon she had to go and find a chair. All she could think of was the look on Robin’s face when the news got through to Atropos. And on Helen Dufour’s face when she landed at St Petersburg to find the news waiting for her there. Helen and Sir William were supposed to be thinking of marriage. The French senior executive would be lucky not to be going to a funeral instead.
