by Connor Black
Hamish, the managing director of Waiata Yachts, had played along as well, explaining to our customer that we would have the circuit board replaced immediately. And, wouldn’t you know it, our chairman was in the south of France, and would love to meet our customer.
‘Chairman’ is my title in name only, as I don’t actually chair a thing. Following the death of my parents, I’d become the sole owner of a booming business started by my grandfather. I hadn’t the faintest idea of how to run a business, and immediately granted a sizable portion of the company, and more importantly the helm, to Hamish Riddle. For years he’d been my parent’s most trusted advisor in the company, responsible for growing it to fantastic proportions. For all intents and purposes, Waiata was his to run, and he enjoyed every minute of it.
The installation today was timed to match a weekend visit we knew Vatchenko was making thanks to a tip from some local provisioners. And while I felt this op was brimming with coincidences, from the outside it was all rather natural. To that point, I had turned down the NSA’s request to send one of their men in with me to install the board. I didn’t need to bring along some nerd that didn’t know his way around a boat. What I needed was a couple of good Kiwi boys from the Waiata yard.
I had flown John up for this, along with his family who would soon be enjoying a European vacation on Director Nichols’ budget. Brett actually lived here, as Hamish liked to rotate some of the builders to the Mediterranean during the high season. This wasn’t an operation where anyone would go undercover. We were the real deal. The boys were even wearing their crisp white Waiata coveralls, something Hamish insisted all the workers wear.
So, dressed the part, we set off down the pier.
Aboard Trance, a deckhand was working at the base of the mast. I waved as we approached, and he returned my greeting before speaking into a radio he’d unclipped from his belt.
The Captain came from belowdecks to greet us at Trance’s beam. “Mr. Chase?”
“Yes, sir,” I replied. “Jackson.”
“Hans,” he said. “Please, come aboard.”
At the base of the gangway, I watched John and Brett take off their shoes. From their tool bags, they each removed a pair of boat shoes to be worn only on board. Undoubtedly, this was an anal procedure concocted by Hamish to keep customers’ boats spotless.
I introduced the boys, and the captain handed them off to one of his crew members that would assist in opening the nav panel and making the replacement. The captain and I went to the aft deck, and made small talk about Trance’s performance. He was very pleased with her, and I could tell he’d had quite a bit of experience with this class of boat. My sense was that he was a good guy, and had no idea his boss was entangled in international terrorism.
After a few minutes, we were interrupted by a voice from the companionway. “Ah, Mister Chase.”
“Mr. Vatchenko,” I said, extending my hand as he arrived. His hands were large and strong. In the one grip, it was obvious that while the softness of success padded his exterior quite substantially, the strength and sinew of a rougher youth remained.
“So what do you think?” he asked, spreading his arms wide.
“I think you’ve given her a place for the summer she deserves.”
“Yes, your people did a fabulous job. She is perfect!”
The captain excused himself, and went back belowdecks.
“Please, have a seat.” Vatchenko gestured to a seat behind one of the helms, taking the other himself. As if on cue, a beautiful young woman appeared and asked if we would like anything to drink.
“A Perrier, please, Monique,” Vatchenko said.
She turned to me, and I requested the same.
“What brings you to Antibes, Mr. Chase?”
“A meeting in Nice with a prospective client. But I wanted to come and meet you, and see how Trance is doing.”
“She’s been wonderful. Your craftsmanship is impeccable, and she sails like a dream.”
“It’s the boys back at the yard that get the credit for that, Mr. Vatchenko.”
Monique returned with our drinks. As Vatchenko watched her pour our drinks into glasses, I took the opportunity to observe. I had thought he was relaxed, as owners are when they’re in port on their yachts. But on closer inspection, I could see he was perhaps trying a bit too hard. His expressions were forced, like much of this lifestyle was unfamiliar and he was doing his best to play the part, but his aim was off here and there. The silk shirt he wore had a bit too much shine. His teeth were a touch too white, his hair a bit too slicked back. And Monique, well, she was just a bit more attractive than your average crewmate.
He took a sip of his drink, and then explained his plans for the summer. He’d entered into a few of the season’s superyacht regattas, including the Loro Piana in Sardinia. Obviously, he wanted to make his mark on the scene.
“She’ll love it down there, Mr. Vatchenko. Winds are perfect for her, and I suspect she’ll be the queen of the fleet.”
“You’ve been?”
I nodded in reply. “It’s a beautiful place.”
“That it is.”
The small talk was now complete. It was time to move on. As I had planned for this meeting, I had consulted with Avan Amiri. Avan was perhaps more family than friend, and had helped Chen, Sterba, and I on another matter not long ago. He was one of the wealthiest men in the world, having traded armaments, properties, and any number of assets to power brokers across the globe. And while much of it was done in the shadows, and he was always very cautious in telling his stories, he did say business was about people. Focus on the man, he’d say, and everything will become clear: the fears, the desires, and exactly where to find that perfect point of leverage.
How to approach a man trying to move himself into the Forbes list, like Vatchenko, was what Avan knew best. There was simply no one more skilled with people. His idea was classic Avan: win Vatchenko over with charm. Charm is really not my strong suit, so I had let him weave the approach.
“Mr. Vatchenko, I wanted to express my thanks for letting us build this beautiful boat,” I said, handing him a white leather box. He opened it to reveal the gift Avan had selected for him: a rose gold IWC Portuguese Yacht Club Chronograph.
“My, Mr. Chase, when you say thank you, you certainly do it with style.”
“I am glad you like it.”
“It is fantastic. I know IWC’s work very well. Did you know, most people think this series is named after Portugal’s famous seafarers, like Vasco de Gama. But, in fact, that’s only partially true. It was two men that first asked IWC to make a wristwatch with the accuracy of a maritime watch. Bringing the size of a movement down so small was something seemingly impossible at the time. Those men were Portuguese, and I suspect the name came from the watchmakers cursing them as they tried to build that first tiny movement.”
As I watched him carefully pull the pillow holding the watch out of the box, two things became very apparent. The first was that Mr. Vatchenko obviously appreciated watches far more than your average bloke. And second, that was exactly why Avan had suggested this gift. He simply knew. Focus on the man, and everything will become clear.
I watched Vatchenko unbuckle the strap and remove it from the pillow, knowing he would want to look at the movement through the sapphire case back. His face lit up immediately.
“Ah, you are clever,” he said, showing a full smile for the first time as he saw the silhouette of Trance at sail etched in the glass, her name below. “I didn’t know they would even consider doing something as special as this.”
A silence settled between us as he replaced the watch he was wearing with the Portuguese. He tilted it in the sun, regarding it carefully.
“Stunning,” he said.
I took advantage of his pleasure and the distraction of the watch to probe just a bit.
“If I may ask, Mr. Vatchenko, what is your profession?”
“I trade commodities and the like.”
Assumi
ng the humble tone that a man like this would expect, I said, “I daresay you appear to be rather good at it.”
He raised his shoulders in an attempted display at modesty that was belied by the edge in his smirk. Just then, Brett and John came up from below with their minder.
“She’s all set, Mr. Vatchenko.”
“Thank you. Paolo will show you off,” he said, a bit more dismissively than I thought appropriate. “Mr. Chase will be along in a moment.”
He rose, and I did as well. “I understand you’re quite an accomplished sailor yourself,” he said. I nodded, as it was said in the manner of a statement more than a question.
“I would be very pleased if you would join me in the afterguard for the Loro Piana, if your schedule permits.”
“I’d be delighted, Mr. Vatchenko.”
“Very well, then. It’s settled.” He extended his hand, and I took it, bidding him goodbye. For now.
16
“So how did he like it?”
“He loved it!” I said, walking beneath the white plaster arches and into the kitchen.
“I knew he would!”
I arrived in the kitchen to see Avan Amiri standing before a mammoth blue enamel stove. A white apron bore some evidence of what he was up to.
“What exactly are you making?”
“In a minute. First, tell me how it went,” he said, pointing his wooden spoon at me.
“Put that thing away before you hurt someone.”
He smiled and went back to his pan, adding black olives and capers with quite a bit of flair to the oil, garlic, tomatoes, and peppers I smelled already simmering.
“He tried to play it cool, thankful for the gift. He was more polite than I would have guessed based on Hamish’s description of him.”
“And when he turned it over?”
“He was truly chuffed. I don’t think he knew a fine watchmaker would do such a thing.”
“Well they wouldn’t, except for a friend.”
I moved closer and put a hand on his shoulder. “The watch clinched it, Avan. He’s asked me to join him for the Loro Piana. Thank you.”
He put his hand on mine for a brief moment, and then pointed to a pot of boiling pasta. “Very well then. Time to make yourself useful.”
I set about draining the gemelli pasta and returning it to the pot, then asked, “Where is Hélène?” Hélène was a darling old woman that looked after Avan on his trips to the Continent.
“Can’t an old man make dinner? I told her we would look after ourselves tonight. She’s probably spying from down the hall, cursing all of the things I am doing wrong.”
“It smells delicious,” I said as he folded his sauce into the pasta. It occurred to me that it was an awful lot for the two of us.
“Have they arrived already?”
“Yes! And they are wonderful. Joe is outside. Good heavens, the man is a veritable giant.” He leaned in, and said in conspiratorial voice, “And Miss Chen? My son, she is positively breathtaking! I don’t know why you…”
I cut him off before he went too far. “Avan, we are colleagues. She’s a member of my team, and anything other than that would be out of line.”
He made a psshht sound, and said, “Enough. I will take this, you grab the salad. Miss Chen is freshening up and will be down in a minute. Joe is outside with steaks. He has explained to me that large American men are the only experts when it comes to cooking steaks.”
We moved from the kitchen to a large tiled patio overlooking a pool below, and the sea beyond. The winds had calmed, and there was not a cloud in the sky. The sun was ending its work for the day behind us, making for a perfect evening in the south of France.
“Jackson!” boomed Sterba, waving a pair of tongs in salute.
“Good to see you, Joe,” I replied.
He pulled half-loaves of crusty bread off the grill, moving them to a cutting board. “Avan is a great host, Jackson. Not two minutes passed before he had put me to work!”
“Yes, and I already know this beast is not going to replace Hélène,” Avan deadpanned.
I set the salad on the table, and turned to see Sterba vigorously rubbing a clove of garlic across the crusty bread.
“Here we are,” he said, adding the last piece to a basket and coming to the table. He gave me a bear hug in a way that only the big man could, nearly crushing me.
“Good to see you too, mate,” I managed to say.
“Ah, here she is,” said Avan, his voice lively.
Chen came through the door wearing white linen pants and a flowing orange top. The swelling on her face was gone, thanks to time, and a few days spent with the medics at the Ramstein Air Base.
“Hello, Jackson,” she said.
I embraced her, justifying it with the fact that if I could hug the big man, I could surely hug her. Right?
“You look wonderful.”
“Your timing is perfect, my darling,” Avan said, pulling one of the white iron chairs out. “Dinner is served.”
Avan played host, making sure our wine glasses were full as we helped ourselves to pasta and bread. Sitting with my two teammates and Avan overlooking the Mediterranean, I considered the race across the dirt roads of Tanzania a very distant memory.
After we had finished the last of the pasta, Joe went to the grill and set to work on a couple of mammoth 2-inch thick rib-eyes. Avan went to a small side table and retrieved a white leather box.
“When I had the watch you gave Vatchenko made, I had a special one made for you, Jackson.” As he was handing me the box, he paused and said, “Joe, Haley, please forgive me. It is terribly rude of me not to have a gift for you. But at the time I requested this, I did not know I would have the pleasure of your company.”
“Avan, it is a gift for us just to meet you, and see how relaxed Jackson is with you,” Chen said.
“He is my second son,” Avan said. “One who will perhaps have the gift of a story for you after this.”
His comment puzzled me a bit, but I set the box down and opened it. Nestled inside was a stunning IWC dive watch. Interestingly, it was bronze, which captured the evening light in a subtle, warm glow.
“My goodness, Avan, it’s beautiful. The bronze is fantastic; a flashback to old ship fittings.” It was
“They call it a ‘living metal’ as it takes on a patina unique to the conditions of every place you visit,” he said. “I suspect for you that should make it very interesting.”
“Indeed it will.” I pulled the watch off of its pillow, enjoying its substantial weight. As I turned it over to open the buckle, I noticed the back was engraved with an illustration of the sea, a setting sun, and a waving swimmer. It was the old logo used by the surf lifesaving club at Muriwai Beach, one of the west coast beaches on the North Island of New Zealand. I locked eyes with Avan and smiled at the memory.
As I went to put it on my wrist, Chen said, “Now wait just a minute” and held out her hand. I placed the watch in her palm. After looking, she went to show Sterba.
“A guy sinking?” Sterba said. “I think a story really is in order.”
Avan gestured that I should take the stage.
“Very well,” I said, “though I tell it with considerably less embellishment than Avan.”
“I shall interrupt with any necessary embellishments,” Avan said with a smile.
I took the watch back and turned it over. “As a teenager, I was a lifeguard during the summer holidays. Junior lifesaving is one of the things we do down there. For children, it’s a fantastic sport. Outdoors, exhausting, and with plenty of competitions. The side effect is that you end up with a lot of well-trained young lifeguards at every beach.”
As I fell back into the past, I mindlessly moved the watch back and forth, giving it an extra wind.
“I worked at Muriwai Beach one season. A fantastic west coast beach. Black sand, beautiful grassy hills all around, and amazing surf. But it’s a spirited beach, and can be rather vicious at times, with waves often toppin
g two meters.
“On this particular day, the waves were pretty good. About a meter and a half, which can be tough if you’re not used to it. A young teenager was out on his board, practicing what he’d learned in surf school earlier in the holiday. I noticed him paddling out, probably because he was close to the edge of the safe area we’d flagged. He was trying to get past the break, but his board was at an angle, which is never good. If you’re not going straight through, you’re going to take a beating.
“A wave broke right in front of him and just hammered the poor guy. I watched, and saw the board pop. The next thing you usually see is a head pop up. It didn’t. I signaled a couple of the guys and we watched. His head finally popped, but he was immediately hammered by another wave. The second time we saw his head it was further out, and we could tell the rip had him.”
“I know that feeling,” Sterba said, his back to us while he tended to the steaks. “Gotta swim parallel to the shore to get out of it.”
“Exactly. But this boy hadn’t been to SEAL school like you,” I said, returning to the story. “We saw his arms moving as he tried to swim in. But not even the fastest swimmer in the world can beat a rip.
“I had my tube and fins, and hit the water, knowing the guys would be right behind me with a surf ski and the IRB—an inflatable rescue boat. By the time I got to him, he’d worn himself out and had slipped just below the surface.”
Avan was quiet through this, though his eyes had grown slightly moist. Chen must have noticed and put the pieces together, because she reached out and put her hand on his arm.
“It’s alright, my dear,” he said to her with a reassuring smile.
“We got him onto the IRB and to the beach. He’d stopped breathing, and we began resuscitation. A few breaths, not to mention a sizable amount of vomit, and he was back.”
I leaned back to let Avan end the story, setting about putting the watch on my wrist.
“The boy, as you’ve likely gathered by this point, was my son, Azad. Had it not been for Jackson, he would no longer be with us.”
