Scull produced another low grunt of dissatisfaction and tapped a key on his laptop to wake it from its SLEEP mode, figuring he’d check his e-mail queue to see whether Sherm had come through with any dope on Nautel yet. After five hours of waiting impatiently in this crowded community nowhere, he’d about reached his limit…
He abruptly sat up straight. Miracle of miracles. Boldface on his inbox screen was a message from user name F. Sherman with the subject “Hope You Brought along Galoshes and Nose Plugs.” Cute, but what was it supposed to mean? Scull hardly cared. He was too busy noticing the little paper clip icon that indicated the message had arrived with a file attachment.
He highlighted the message and clicked it open. There were, in fact, several attached files. Large ones.
The e-mail’s body text read:
Per your request, I’ve got a thigh-high puddle of shit for you to wade through, Vince. And you better believe it stinks.
Scull opened the first file and browsed through it. Within minutes, he was ready to start holding his nose.
EIGHT
From Sledge Online (“The Alternative E-zine of News and Opinion”): Hot Briefs
YANK YOUR GRAND BOUBOU OUT OF THE CLOSET
UpLink and Sedco Get Down on an Unlikely Stage
by Mannee Almonte
An image of the normally reserved Roger Gordian shaking his derriere at a corporate romp charged with the frenetic dance rhythms of Makossa, Sahelian, and Congo pop musicians is one that would be muy quick to grab attention in business and social circles. Add to that picture a dance stage supported by huge pontoons and anchor cables and a background of soaring steel derricks, flying masts, and industrial lifting hooks, and even regular financial observers accustomed to the idiosyncratic styles of a Forbes or Bloomberg couldn’t ignore it.
Ever dangle a feather lure over a cat’s head? It may be for the very purpose of seizing the media’s eye that the event I’ve described above has been scheduled for next week aboard an offshore drilling platform in the waters of Gabon, an equatorial African republic small enough to fit on a microscope slide and never heard of by many American specimens — at least none we know. But there and nowhere else, the head of a telecom giant renowned for having transformed the role of private enterprise in “advancing global democratization” (Whuzzat? Dunno. We’re just quoting the Wall Street Journal.) will join the top dog of an ambitious petroleum company to sign, seal, and celebrate a new partnership that seeks to compete with the older and slipperier oilfish who have dominated that aquatic territory for decades. Add their political hosts in the region, and you’ve got quite the must-see must-be jamboree.
“Yank your grand boubou out of the closet,” enthused the event’s master-of-ceremonies — and Sedco CEO — Hugh “King Hughie” Bennett in a recently televised Financial News Network appearance, referencing the flamboyant embroidered dress costumes worn throughout the African continent. “Work hard, play hard’s my motto; and we’re all getting ready to kick up our heels for this one.”
Having sunk tooth and claw into Bennett’s string-and-feather jiggle toy, your spectacle-susceptible columnist must confess that his mouth is watering with anticipation as he prepares to join the crème de la press corps flying off to the event on Sedco’s charter. Which begs the question to those transculturally fashionable, hoity-toity readers who may be past visitors to Gabon — and to our destination city of Port-Gentil in particular — Can any of you recommend a Rent-A-Grand Boubou on short notice? The threads are a must—just ask King Hughie.
Pointers and discount offers will be welcomed at our e-mail address, dear friends.
They drove to the airport in an armored Land Rover, DeMarco at the wheel, Wade beside him, Nimec and Scull in the backseat. There were several reasons the group was headed out, their wish to shore up security for Roger Gordian’s arrival the next day top among them, though all they’d felt free to discuss at the Rio de Gabao was their intention to direct a force buildup at their transit warehouse as a precaution arising from the Sette Cama ambush — provisionally labeled an attempted hijack, though they understood the book on that was a far cry from closed.
Another very pressing reason for their drive was one they would not under any circumstances have discussed in the open.
Scull had something he needed to show Nimec. A crucial document he’d extracted from a series of memorandums and correspondences his man Fred Sherman had been tipped to by an inside source at Nautel, and then had pried out of the company’s hands after separately informing three of its highest-ranking executives that UpLink would consider their withholding it from him a flat-out breach of trust and cause for summary abrogation of their as-yet-unsigned outsourcing agreement.
Those statements were no empty threats. The letter had widened Scull’s eyes when it came onto his computer screen at the cyber café, and only now in the protective confines of the vehicle — his laptop in a docking station that had swung out from behind its front seat at the touch of a button, the hard copy generated by a color printer integrated into his armrest — was he even moderately comfortable with the idea of pulling it off his hard drive.
“Here you go.” Scull took the sheet of paper from the printer’s output slot and gave it to Nimec. “A few casts of his line, and Fred got evidence that a mutual pal of ours, identity to be revealed, committed a serious foul.”
Nimec put the document on his lap. He felt totally out of sorts — his head cloudy, his stitched eyebrow tugging under its bandages, his ears still ringing from the combustive blast that had almost finished him just twenty-four hours earlier.
“So what do you think?” Scull said.
Nimec shot him an irritable glance. “Give me more than thirty seconds to look this over and I’ll tell you.”
Vince frowned but didn’t say anything.
Nimec went back to reading what he’d been handed, a scanned copy of a letter written on the executive stationary of Etienne Begela, Port-Gentil’s minister of economic development and the official who had fêted Nimec’s advance team on their arrival. It was addressed to someone named John Greeves II, professional title Principal Claims Investigator, who was with the Risk and Emergency Management Division of a company called The Fowler Group, Ltd.
Nimec looked over at Scull. “Fowler… that’s a commercial insurer, right?”
Scull nodded.
“One of the ultra-biggies,” he said. “Networked with Lloyd’s of London.”
Nimec grunted and continued down to the text of the letter:
Dear Mr. Greeves,
After giving it every consideration, I must regretfully inform you that I cannot approve your request for permits to conduct an inspection of the offshore site where Messrs. Dupain and Bouchard lost their lives. Please rest assured that my judgment by no means reflects a negative conclusion about your very reputable firm but is rather a matter of having to perform my governmental duties in good conscience.
A complete review of all data surrounding the incident done in consultation with Nautel Submarine Maintenance, and specifically Captain Pierre Gunville, leaves me certain that any manned deepwater procedures would be of great physical hazard to those operating in the area, while yielding no further information that would be helpful to your agency. As you know, Captain Gunville has already completed a postaccident inspection of the site using a remote underwater vehicle, and his report is quite exhaustive.