by Peter Tonkin
So it was that she did not at first hear the announcement on the tannoy. ‘Will Captain Robin Mariner, a passenger recently arrived from London, please report to the Enquiries Office …’
Had the message been relayed in anything other than those cut-crystal English tones, she probably would not have heard it at all even though her French was fluent and idiomatic.
*
The taxi driver was gruff and monosyllabic. One of the old school: he wore a beret and a Gitane as inevitably as his round shoulders and hangdog expression.
‘’Jour.’
‘Bonjour. Orly?’ She copied his spoken delivery and decided against asking him to take her cases.
‘Orly,’ he confirmed.
‘Alors. En avant.’
His eyebrows rose and the comers of his eyes crinkled. ‘Bon.’ He led her out onto the station forecourt under a bright clock displaying the time 06:35, past the long, desperate-looking queue of passengers beside the empty taxi rank, across the gleaming cobbles to a smart, powerful-looking silver Citroen Xantia. Silently he opened the rear door for her and held it almost gallantly as she piled her cases onto the back seat. ‘I wish to sit in front,’ she said in French. ‘Is that OK?’
He shrugged: OK.
She strapped herself in and it was well she did so. The Xantia was a powerful car and the driver was a great deal less laggardly than he seemed to be. He approached le peripherique as though it was Le Mans. She was incapable of sitting there silently, however, and so she seduced her taciturn companion into conversation as they sped out through the sleepily stirring city towards the airport. His name was Henri and he was originally a Marseillaise. His wife was Parisienne and, against the tradition, he had come to her home town instead of making her come to his. They had three sons, all married now, and a daughter. The sons were a teacher, an accountant with a firm in Aix-en-Provence, and a sailor. Henri was currently saving every centime he could towards his daughter’s looming nuptials. And all the brothers sent in what they could as well. It was the eldest, Henri, his favourite, who had gone to sea. Henri fils was third officer on a liner cruising the Mediterranean and he loved the life. Oh yes, the Henris père et fils knew all about Heritage Mariner. Did the captain think simply quelqu’un would be selected to drive a person such as she? Even among the drivers who worked regularly for Crewfinders, he, Henri Le Pen, was considered to be the most reliable.
This revelation reduced Robin to silence, but the quiet did not last long for Henri Le Pen was exceeding the speed limit by a considerable factor and Orly was rising up towards them, a blaze of light just beginning to lose its lustre in the brightening dawn.
After parking, Henri did indeed take Robin’s cases — rather to her surprise — and led her swiftly and purposefully through the massive terminal. She had checked her itinerary and her tickets in the London taxi travelling between Heritage House and Waterloo and so it came as no surprise to her that Henri was plunging doggedly towards the increasingly exclusive environs of the international departure gates and finally to the Concorde lounge. It was inevitable, really; there was only ever one mode of transport which could get her more than halfway round the world within a twenty-four-hour period. She had no clear idea why Concorde was actually flying out to Hong Kong today, but she was very glad indeed that there was just one spare seat in the long, needle-shaped fuselage, and that she was now in possession of the ticket that went with it.
She handed over that ticket to the smart young receptionist at the Air France counter and was whirled into a silk-lined, velvet-gloved, luxurious world at once, hardly having time to retrieve her luggage and to say au revoir to Henri.
While her weekend case was whisked away and her briefcase was put through standard security checks, she was led down a series of thick-carpeted corridors by that same svelte, blue-uniformed receptionist. ‘The flight departs in a few minutes,’ this young woman informed her. ‘You have arrived at the last possible moment.’
‘I came on the Eurostar express train from London,’ said Robin, as though this was an extenuating circumstance.
‘Dieu! I do not think I would enjoy to travel through the tunnel beneath la Manche. Give me an aeroplane every time!’
‘I enjoyed it. It was convenient, comfortable, fast and efficient. Very like a plane in many ways, I thought.’
The blue-clad shoulders in front of her shrugged eloquent disbelief, as though Robin had suggested that English wine was superior to French.
Conversation was at an end.
Their footsteps echoed hollowly, suddenly, and it became obvious that they were walking across an enclosed bridge. They turned a corner and there was a doorway immediately in front of them with the Air France girl’s identical twin — except that she was in a BA uniform — standing waiting for them, holding Robin’s briefcase. She offered it with a smile and Robin grinned wearily in return, secretly hating the young woman’s bright-eyed tirelessly pleasant demeanour, her perfect make-up and her bouffant hairstyle with not one gleaming golden fibre out of place.
Inside Concorde’s main passenger cabin there was a quiet hum of expectation as the better part of a hundred very superior men and women readied themselves for departure at this cripplingly antisocial hour. The blue-uniformed air hostesses passed between them solicitously, ensuring that everything required and requested was done for their comfort. Robin’s seat was by the window halfway along the narrow aisle to the right, just below the mid-cabin display designed to show what speed they were doing. At the moment it read MACH: 0.00.
The hostess gently disturbed a young man in shirtsleeves wearing exquisitely tailored suit trousers and red and black silk Mickey Mouse braces which looked like something left over from the yuppy eighties. He rose accommodatingly, offered to put her briefcase up in the overhead rack and grinned understanding when she refused. He sat silently when she was settled and did not strike up a conversation until after she began to talk to him.
But she did not begin that particular conversation until they were climbing towards five kilometres up in the air, the display above her head was reading MACH: 0.95, and breakfast was being served.
‘Do you like scrambled egg and smoked salmon?’
‘Rather!’
‘Would you like mine? It’s a bit rich and I’m feeling a little delicate.’
‘I say! That’s jolly decent! Can I swap anything for it? Want my croissant? Can’t say I’m too keen on croissants. Think they’ll have any toast and marmalade?’
‘I’d love your croissant, thank you. And yes, I’m sure they’ll give you toast if you ask.’ She broke open the flaky crescent of honeyed gold pastry and reached for her knife. A little butter, some apricot confiture and some thick, black coffee was just what the doctor ordered. If only the coffee cups weren’t so small!
‘Champagne, Captain Mariner?’ asked the hostess.
‘No … Yes, please,’ she said, watching the foaming nectar and her companion both at once. As soon as the hostess was gone, she resumed the conversation. ‘I’ll swap you if you like …’
For her, it was exactly like being back at boarding school, as it was for him, she guessed. They made a good team, always accepting everything offered and then bargaining so that both of them got a lot of what they wanted instead of a mixture of palatable and unpalatable alternatives. Like Jack Sprat and his wife.
It was a ridiculous game to play in this situation where either of them could have had exactly what they wanted simply for the asking, but it was a diverting amusement, if a childish one, and they both enjoyed it. It became a little like an innocent flirtation after a while and they were confederates and friends long before they got round to proper introductions. The introductions were simply information about first names in any case because he knew she was Captain Mariner from what the hostess said in the same way as she knew that he was Dr Maxwell.
The game had the unexpected effect of isolating them a little from everyone else aboard. Even had Dr Maxwell not been there, Robin would p
robably have taken little notice of the other passengers as, more than seven kilometres up in the still, sun-filled spring air above the eastern Mediterranean, they hurtled eastwards at more than twice the speed of sound. She was preoccupied, unaware that there might be anyone aboard whom she knew, and insensitive to the atmosphere which surrounded her. Had she not been so tired — so overwhelmed — she would have thought to wonder about the flight, its timing, its destination and its occupants.
‘Your doctorate. Is it in medicine?’
‘Economics, I’m afraid. So I hope you’re not feeling unwell.’
‘No. Why?’
‘What you said about feeling delicate. And you do look all in, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
‘No. I’m just tired. I’ve had a pretty bad day, I’m afraid.’
‘Anything I can do to help?’
‘I shouldn’t think so.’ She said it automatically, hardly thinking about the actual meaning of his words, certainly not looking beyond their apparent simple civility.
‘Well, I won’t be in HK for long but I’ll be networking like hell from the moment we touch down. We’re just going in to oversee the handover, you see, but they’ll have to let us have pretty wide access even in Government House. The legal team will have a broader brief than us economists, of course, but we’ll still be there on the pulse. Look …’ He reached down under his seat and pulled out his jacket which had been beautifully folded. He started sorting through the pockets, turning the perfectly arranged material into something which looked like a dishrag. Robin watched him, not a little dazed. At last he wrestled a business card out of an inner pocket and handed it over with boyish pride. She looked at it. ‘ADAM STAMFORD MAXWELL, DOCTOR OF ECONOMICS,’ it said. ‘COMMITTEE FOR THE OVERSIGHT OF POST-TREATY HONG KONG, ECONOMICS SECTION. Room 101, Government Offices, Government House, Hong Kong.’
‘It’s a bit of a misnomer really,’ he said a little sheepishly. ‘We’re not really going to be there post treaty; we’re just there to observe the handover for the House and report back in detail. There are a lot of government people very nervous about the whole thing, you see. We won’t be able to do anything but observe, I shouldn’t think, but we’ve got to report very fully on the Basic Law and the functioning of the Special Administrative Region and the Special Economic Zone. That’s my specialist area, of course.’
She looked down at the card again. There in the corner was the seal of the House of Commons. She slid the pasteboard into the breast pocket of her blouse and relieved him of his wadded jacket. As he continued to talk, she shook it out expertly and refolded it with her practised sailor’s fingers until it fell into razor creases as though it had just been pressed.
‘So this flight is full of economists and lawyers all getting ready to report to Parliament on the final handing back of Hong Kong?’ she asked, on the verge of bewilderment.
‘Not quite. I’m sorry, I thought you knew. No, they wouldn’t waste Concorde seats on small-fry like me if it was just a question of getting us out there. You know Prince Charles is already out there, of course? Now we’re bringing out the Foreign Secretary and some big wallahs from the Foreign Office. It’s for the opening of the new airport just off Lan Tao Island, called Chek Lap Kok.’ He looked at his watch. ‘What’s the time? What time zone is this?’
‘I don’t know. Lunchtime?’
‘We’re due there to be part of the opening ceremony tonight sometime.’
Robin sat in silence for a moment. Her forehead slowly creased and her grip on reality began to slip. ‘If half the Foreign Office is on board, why on earth didn’t the flight start from Heathrow?’
‘It did. But we had to drop off a couple of Mandarins and pick up fuel and flight crew in Paris. That’s how you got that seat, I suppose. I thought you’d have known. I mean, you’re Heritage Mariner, I thought you’d have been bang up to date with all of this. Someone somewhere must have pulled strings without number to get you on this flight. If you’re not swanning out to the Chek Lap Kok opening with the FO Buy British team or joining the diplomatic rollercoaster for the next two months, then what are you doing here?’
She took a deep breath. ‘Well, Adam,’ she said, ‘I’ll tell you …’
*
An hour later, as the hostess cleared away the last of the lunch things, Adam said, faintly, ‘And this is what you call a bad day?’
‘Yup.’
‘I’d hate to see what you would call a disaster.’
They sat in silence for a while then, ‘Robin?’ he said. ‘Yes?’
‘Look, I don’t know anyone on this plane, but you must. I mean even if you haven’t met the Foreign Secretary, then you or your husband must have met some of his team. Can’t you get some of them busy on this?’
‘I’ve been thinking about it, yes.’
‘But?’
‘No buts.’ Robin pressed the button to summon the hostess.
‘Yes, Captain Mariner? What can I do for you?’
Robin looked up. This was another woman, older than the hostess who had brought breakfast and lunch. She was tall, well-groomed, of indeterminate age. But she was perfectly turned out and exquisitely made up. Even her eyebrows seemed to have been combed. And she had Security written all over her. Robin racked her memory for the most likely names to be accompanying the Foreign Secretary. Who did she know at the Foreign Office who might be up at the front of the plane? No names would come.
‘Yes, Captain Mariner?’ The cool tones had a touch of asperity now, just a hint of impatience. The perfectly-rouged lips thinned.
‘Can you give me a list of the other passengers aboard?’
‘I’m sorry, Captain, but that would be out of the question.’
‘In that case,’ Robin hated sitting down here looking up at the woman, it put her at such a severe disadvantage, ‘I would like to speak to the senior security officer aboard, please.’
‘You are, Captain. Now what can I do for you?’
‘I would like to speak to the Foreign Secretary.’
The perfectly curved eyebrows rose fractionally.
Robin’s nose went up by exactly the same degree and an icy hauteur swept over her. ‘We know each other,’ she said. ‘Socially.’
The senior security officer hesitated an instant longer. ‘I’ll tell him you’re aboard, Captain,’ she said, and was gone.
‘My God!’ said Adam and pressed the button again. This time the original hostess appeared. ‘Whisky, please,’ croaked the economist.
As the drink came, the cabin announcement system chimed. The captain of the aircraft advised them that they were just about to begin their descent into Bahrain International Airport where there would be a refuelling stop of one hour. The cabin tilted, pitched. The tiny canals within Robin’s ears which registered level and pressure began to warn her that they were diving increasingly steeply down towards the distant curve of the world. She found herself relieved that her stomach contained nothing particularly heavy.
Waiting for an answer to her message, Robin found herself looking dreamily out of the window. They descended swiftly through a skim of high cloud and down until the ground became visible. It was the old, familiar terrain of bare gold rock and brick-dust desert. There seemed to be a wind down there, blowing a skim of sand, not enough to be called a sandstorm, her wise eyes registered, just enough to keep the edges of all the land forms blurred and to make the shadows scurry across the landscape which was itself hurling past below disorientatingly as though the plane itself were still and the turning of the earth were visible.
She knew Bahrain well — the way it had been when it was an island state. But the bridge was there now, striding across from the Emirates, and the contact with the mainland, by all accounts, had made quite a difference. Lazily, she strained for the first sight of the old, familiar Gulf.
As things turned out, there was no opportunity to leave the plane as it stood on the apron and was serviced. Robin looked at the distant airport buildings as the
y danced in the haze of the Bahraini afternoon like a mirage just about to dissolve. She was never so glad of anything as she was of the fact that the toughened glass through which she was looking kept out the heat which she remembered so well. The last time she had been here she had been pregnant with the twins and the fearsome heat had knocked her out like a mugger’s cosh.
She looked vaguely at her watch which told her mendaciously that it was three hours earlier than the sun outside thought it was. Idly, she wondered whether to correct it, but that would be pointless. In three hours’ time she would be in HK and then she would need to go through the process all over and move it forward another four hours. The weight of all those extra hours crushed down upon her and she was asleep when the elegant length of the Concorde accelerated down the runway and swooped up into the air above the iridescent water of the Gulf.
She was awoken an hour later by a decided movement at her side. There was no disorientation — the catnap had refreshed her enormously and she knew exactly where she was. Adam Maxwell was pulling himself up out of his seat and an impatient figure loomed restlessly beyond him. Robin recognised the newcomer — with no particular pleasure. It was StJohn DeVere Syme. Of all the names she could have called to mind in the Foreign and Diplomatic Services, his ranked among the lowest. He was not particularly senior in the Foreign Office but had every intention of going far. His presence here was proof that his ambitions were being fulfilled, she supposed. He seemed clever enough — he had a First in Classics and was a member of the First Division Club — but he was coldly ambitious and arrogantly scornful of concealing it. He was over-precise in his movements, pedantic in his speech, fussy in his dress, and obviously an extremely lucrative customer for the Personal Toiletries counter at Harrods. Whenever they talked, Robin could never get rid of the idea that she was being interviewed by Lady Macbeth or one of King Lear’s elder daughters.
Syme perched on the edge of the seat vacated by Adam, brought his knees together, eased the trousers until one could have shaved with the creases, flicked a little lint off the cloth and rested his long, pale hands precisely on his kneecaps. The subdued light of the cabin gleamed upon his fingernails. ‘Mrs Mariner,’ he said. ‘How nice.’
