Hungry as the Sea

by Wilbur Smith

  Great. Keep him that way. Did I tell you I love you, I forget? Wake

  up. Shake yourself. I've got something to tell you. I'm awake - well,

  almost anyway. Samantha, what would happen if somebody dumped a million

  tons Of 40,000 parts concentration of cadmium sulphide in an emulsion of

  aromatic Arabian crude into the Gulf Stream, say thirty nautical miles

  off Key West? That's a freaky question, Nicholas. For three in the

  morning, that's a bomber. What would happen? he insisted.

  The crude would act as a transporting medium/ she was struggling to

  project a scenario through her sleepiness, it would spread out on the

  surface to a thickness of quarter of an inch or so, so you'd end up with

  a slick of a few thousand miles long and four or five hundred wide, and

  it would keep going. What would be the results? It would wipe out most

  of the marine life on the Bahamas and on the eastern seaboard of the

  States, no, correct that - it would wipe out all marine life, that

  includes the spawning grounds of the tuna, the freshwater eels and the

  sperm whale, and it would contaminate - she was coming fully awake now,

  and a stirring horror altered her tone -'You're macabre, Nicholas, what

  a sick thing to think about, especially at three in the morning. Human

  life? the asked.

  Yes, there would be heavy loss, she said. As sulphide, it would be

  readily absorbed and in that concentration it would be poisonous on

  contact, fishermen, vacationers, anybody who walked on a contaminated

  beach. She was truly beginning to realize the enormity of it. A large

  part of the population of the cities on the east coast - Nicholas, it

  could amount to hundreds of thousands of human beings, and if it was

  carried beyond America on the Gulf Stream, the Newfoundland Banks,

  Iceland, the North Sea, it would poison the cod fisheries, it would kill

  everything, man, fish, bird and animal. Then the tail of the Gulf

  Stream twists around the British Isles and the north continent of Europe

  - but why are you asking me this, what kind of crazy guessing game is

  this, Nicholas? Christy Marine has signed a ten-year contract to carry

  one million ton loads of crude from the El Barras field on the South

  Arabian Gulf to the Orient Amex refinery in Galveston. The El Barras

  crude has a cadmium sulphide constituent of between 2,000 and 40,000

  parts per million. Now there was trembling outrage in her voice as she

  whispered, A million tons! That's some sort of genocide, Nicholas,

  there has probably never been a more deadly cargo in the history of

  seafaring. In a few weeks time Golden Dawn will run down her and when

  she does, the seeds of ways at St Nazaite catastrophe will be sewn upon

  the oceans., Her route from the Arabian Gulf takes her around Good Hope.

  One of the most dangerous seas in the world, the home of the

  hundred-year wave/ Nicholas agreed.

  Then across the southern Atlantic and into the bottle-neck of the Guff

  Stream between Key West and Cuba, into the Devil's Triangle, the

  breeding ground of the hurricanes You can't let them do it, Nicholas,

  she said quietly.

  You just have to stop them. It won't be easy, but I'll be working hard

  on it this side, there are a dozen tricks I am going to try, but you

  have to take over on your side, he told her. Samantha, you go get Tom

  Parker. Get him out of bed, if necessary. He has, to hit Washington

  with the news, hit all the media - television, radio and the press. A

  confrontation with Orient Amex, challenge them to make a statement.

  Samantha picked up the line he was taking.

  We'll get the Green-Peacers to picket the Orient Amex refinery in

  Galveston, the one which will process the cadmium crudes. We'll have

  every environmental agency in the country at work - we'll raise a stink

  like that of a million corpses/ she promised.

  Fine, he said. You do all that, but don't forget to get your chubby

  little backside across here for the launching of Sea Witch. 'Chubby

  obese, or chubby nice? she demanded.

  Chubby beautiful/ he grinned. And I'll have room service ready to send

  up the food, in a front-end loader. Nicholas sat over the telephone for

  the rest of the day, 4 having his meals brought up to the suite, while

  he worked systematically down the long list of names he had drawn up

  with the help of the tape-recording of Lazarus report.

  The list began with all those who it seemed had loaned capital to

  Christy Marine for the construction of Golden Dawn, and then went on to

  those who had written lines of insurance on the hull, and on the

  pollution cover for the tanker.

  Nicholas dared not be too specific in the summation he gave to each of

  them, he did not want to give Duncan Alexander an opportunity to throw

  out a smoke-screen of libel actions against him. But in each case,

  Nicholas spoke to the top men, mostly men he knew well enough to use

  their Christian names, and he said just enough to show that he knew the

  exact amount of their involvement with Christy Marine, to suggest they

  re-examine the whole project, especially with regard to Golden Dawn's

  underwriting and to her contract of carriage with Orient Amex.

  In the quiet intervals between each telephone call, or while a name was

  tracked down by a secretary, Nicholas sat over the Place Vendome and

  carefully re-examined himself and his reasons for what he was doing.

  It is so very easy for a man to attribute to himself the most noble

  motives. The sea had given Nicholas a wonderful life, and had rewarded

  him in wealth, reputation and achievement, Now it was time to repay part

  of that debt, to use some of that wealth to protect and guard the

  oceans, the way a prudent farmer cherishes his soil. It was a fine

  thought, but when he looked below its shining surface, he saw the shape

  and movement of less savoury creatures, like the shadows of shark and

  barracuda in the depths.

  There was pride. Golden Dawn had been his creation, work, was going to

  be the culmination of a laurel crown on his career. But it had been

  taken from him, and bastardized - and when it failed, when the whole

  marvelous concept collapsed in disaster and misery, Nicholas Berg's name

  would still be on it. The world would remember then that the whole

  grandiose design had originated with him.

  There was pride, and then there was hatred. Duncan Alexander had taken

  his woman and child. Duncan Alexander had wrested his very life from

  him. Duncan Alexander was the enemy, and by Nicholas rules, he must be

  fought with the same single-mindedness, with the same ruthlessness, as

  he did everything in his life.

  Nicholas poured himself another cup of coffee and lit a cheroot;

  brooding alone in the magnificence of his suite, he asked himself the

  question:

  If it had been another man in another ship who was going to transport

  the El Barras crudes - would I have opposed him so bitterly? The

  question needed no formal reply. Duncan Alexander was the enemy.

  Nicholas picked up the telephone, and placed the call he had been

  delaying. He did not need to look in the red calf -bound notebo
ok for

  the number of the house in Eaton Square.

  Mrs. Chantelle Alexander, please. I am sorry, sir. Mrs. Alexander is at

  Cap Ferrat. Of course/ he muttered. Thank you. Do you want the

  number? That's all right, I have it. He had lost track of time. He

  dialled again, this time down to the Mediterranean coast.

  This is the residence of Mrs. Alexander. Her son Peter Berg speaking.

  Nicholas felt the rush of emotion through his blood, so that it burned

  his cheeks and stung his eyes.

  Hello, my boy. Even in his own ears his voice sounded stilted, perhaps

  pompous.

  Rather/ undisguised delight. Dad, how are you - sir?

  Did you get my letters? No, I didn't, where did you send them?

  "The flat - in Queen's Gate. I haven't been back there for/ Nicholas

  thought, for nearly a month. I got your cards, Dad, the one from

  Bermuda and the one from Florida. I just wrote to tell you -'and there

  was a recital of schoolboy triumphs and disasters.

  That's tremendous, Peter. I'm really proud. Nicholas imagined the face

  of his son as he listened, and his heart was squeezed - by guilt, that

  he could do so little, could give him so little of his time, squeezed by

  longing for what he had lost. For it was only at times such as these

  that he could admit how much he missed his son.

  That's great, Peter -'The boy was trying to tell it all at the same

  time, gabbling out the news he had stored so carefully, flitting from

  subject to subject, as one thing reminded him of another. Then, of

  course, the inevitable question: When can I come to you, Dad?

  "I'll have to arrange that with your mother, Peter. But it will be

  soon. I promise you that. Let's get away from that, Nick thought,

  desperately. How is Apache? Have you raced her yet these holidays?

  "Oh yes, Mother let me have a new set of Terylene sails, in red and

  yellow. I raced her yesterday. Apache had not actually been placed

  first in the event, but Nicholas gained the impression that the blame

  lay not on her skipper but rather on the vagaries of the wind, the

  unsporting behaviour of the other competitors who bumped when they had

  the weather gauge, and finally the starter who had wanted to disqualify

  Apache for beating the gun. But, Peter went on, I'm racing again on

  Saturday morning Peter, where is your mother? She's down at the

  boathouse. Can you put this call through there? I must speak to her,

  Peter. Of course. The disappointment in the child's voice was almost

  completely disguised. Hey, Dad. You promised, didn't you. It will be

  soon? I promised. Cheerio, sir. There was a clicking and humming on

  the line and then suddenly her voice, with its marvelous timbre and

  serenity.

  C'es t Ch an telle Alexander qui parle.

  C'est Nicholas ici. Oh, my dear. How good to hear your voice.

  How are you? Are you alone? No, I have friends lunching with me.

  The Contessa is here with his new boyfriend, a matador no less! The

  "Contessa was an outrageously camp and wealthy homosexual who danced at

  Chantelle's court. Nicholas could imagine the scene on the wide paved

  terrace, screened from the cliffs above by the sighing pines and the

  rococo pink boathouse with its turrets and rusty-coloured tiles.

  There would be gay and brilliant company under the colourful umbrellas.

  Pierre and Mimi sailed across from Cannes for the day. Pierre was the

  son of the largest manufacturer of civil and military jet aircraft in

  Europe. And Robert Below the terrace was the private jetty and small

  beautifully equipped yacht basin. Her visitors would have moored their

  craft there, the bare masts nodding lazily against the sky and the small

  Mediterranean-blue wavelets lapping the stone jetty. Nicholas could

  hear the laughter and the tinkle of glasses in the background, and he

  cut short the recital of the guest list.

  Is Duncan there? No, he's still in London - he won't be out until next

  week. I have news. Can you get up to Paris? It's impossible, Nicky.

  Strange how the pet name did not jar from her. I must be at Monte Carlo

  tomorrow, I'm helping Grace with the Spring Charity It's important,

  Chantelle. Then there's Peter. I don't like to leave him. Can't you

  come here? There is a direct flight at nine tomorrow. I'll get rid of

  the house guests so we can talk in private.

  "All right, will you book me a He thought quickly, then, suite at the

  Negresco?

  Don't be silly, Nicky. We've thirteen perfectly good bedrooms here - we

  are both civilized people and Peter would love to see you, you know

  that. The Cote d'Azur was revelling in a freakish burst of early spring

  weather when Nicholas came down the boarding ladder at Nice Airport, and

  Peter was waiting for him at the boundary fence, hopping up and down and

  waving both hands above his head like a semaphore signaller. But when

  Nicholas came through the gate he regained his composure and shook hands

  formally.

  It's jolly good to see you, Dad. I swear you've grown six inches! said

  Nicholas, and on impulse stooped and hugged the child.

  For a moment they clung to each other, and it was Peter who pulled away

  first.

  Both of them were embarrassed by that display of affection for a moment,

  then quite deliberately Nicholas placed his hand on Peter's shoulder and

  squeezed.

  Where is the car? He kept his hand on the child's shoulder as they

  crossed the airport foyer, and as Peter became more accustomed to this

  unusual gesture of affection, so he pressed closer to his father, and

  seemed to swell with pride.

  Characteristically, Nicholas wondered what had changed about him that

  made it easier for him to act naturally towards those he loved.

  The answer was obvious, it was Samantha Silver who had taught him to let

  go.

  Let go, Nicholas-'He could almost hear her voice now.

  The chauffeur was new, a silent unobtrusive man, and there were only the

  two of them in the back seat of the Rolls on the drive back through

  Nice, and along the coast road.

  Mother has gone across to the Palace. She won't be back until dinner

  time. Yes, she told me. We've got the day to ourselves, Nicholas

  grinned, as the chauffeur turned in through the electric gates and white

  columns that guarded the entrance to the estate. What are we going to

  do? They swam and they played tennis and took Peter's Arrowhead-class

  yacht Apache on a long reach up the coast as far as Menton and then

  raced back, gull-winged and spinnaker set on the wind with the spray

  kicking up over the bows and flicking into their faces. They laughed a

  lot and they talked even more, and while Nicholas changed for dinner, he

  found himself caught up in the almost postcoital melancholy of too much

  happiness - happiness that was transitory and soon must end. He tried

  to push the sadness aside, but it persisted as he dressed in a white

  silk roll-neck and double-breasted blazer and went down to the terrace

  room.

  Peter was there before him, early as a child on Christmas morning, his

  hair still wet and slicked down from the shower and his face glowing />
  pinkly from the sun and happiness.

  Can I pour you a drink, Dad? I he asked eagerly, already hovering over

  the silver drinks tray.

  Leave a little in the bottle/ Nicholas cautioned him not wanting to deny

  him the pleasure of performing this grown-up service, but with a healthy

  respect for the elephantine tots that Peter dispensed in a sense of

  misplaced generosity.

  He tasted the drink cautiously, gasped, and added more soda, 'That's

  fine/ he said, Peter looked proud, and at that moment Chantelle came

  down the wide staircase into the room.

  Nicholas found it impossible not to stare. Was it possible she had

  grown more lovely since their last meeting or had she merely taken

  special pains this evening?

  She was dressed in ivory silk, woven gossamer fine, so it floated about

  her body as she moved, and as she crossed the last ruddy glow of the

  dying day that came in from the french windows of the terrace, the light

  struck through the sheer material and put the dainty line of her legs

  into momentary silhouette. Closer to him, he saw the silk was

  embroidered with the same thread, ivory on ivory, 4 marvelous

  understatement of elegance, and under it the shadowy outline of her

  breasts, those fine shapely breasts that he remembered so well, and the

  faint dusky rose suggestion of her nipples. He looked away quickly and

  she smiled.

  Nicky/ she said, I'm so sorry to have left you alone.

  Peter and I have had a high old time! he said.

  She had emphasized the shape and size of her eyes, and the planes of the

  bone structure of her cheeks and Jawline, with a subtlety that made it

  appear she wore no make-up, and her hair had a springing electrical fire

  to it, a rich glowing sable cloud about the small head.

  The honeyed ivory of her skin had tanned to the velvety texture of a

  cream-coloured rose petal across her bare shoulders and arms.

  He had forgotten how relaxed and gracious she could be, and this

  magnificent building filled with its treasures standing in its pine

  forest high above the darkening ocean and the fairy-lights of the coast

  was her natural setting. She filled the huge room with a special glow

  and gaiety, and she and Peter shared an impish sense of fun that had

  them all laughing at the old well-remembered jokes, Nicholas could not