I shrugged. What the hell did he expect me to say? 'He's a good man from your point of view.'
'No hard feelings?'
'What about?'
His hand had moved to the table, long sensitive fingers beating a light tattoo. 'That charter. He pulled a fast one on you, didn't he?'
'I imagined it was your idea to buy the mortgage.'
'Well, that much of it is to your advantage, so long as you do the job and stay on station.' He sat there for a moment, staring at me, not saying anything, and I had a feeling he was trying to make up his mind about something, the fingers still tapping at the table top. 'You're wondering why I got you over here, after we've both of us been up all night.' His tanned face was handsome, almost boyish, his eyes dark under dark brows, his hair almost black. 'You probably think that because I deal in company finance I'm not interested in people. But running a business or running a trawler, it's the same thing — everybody's got to fit. You, for instance.' He shifted a little forward in his chair. 'What made you salvage that boat and then take on a three-month charter?'
'It's suitable employment for an old trawler.'
'And you like the sea.' He smiled, leaning back again. He knew it didn't answer his question, but he let it go, asking me instead about the salvage and how we had managed to get her off the rocks and repaired in time. He seemed genuinely interested. It was a side of him I hadn't expected, an enthusiasm for physical practicalities, and as I tried to answer his detailed questions, I began to understand what it was that had induced him to gamble in oil, why he was out here taking a personal interest in the anchoring of this rig he had acquired more or less by chance. And because he seemed impressed by what we had done, I found myself warming to him.
It was very naive of me, but I was tired and the atmosphere relaxed. And when he progressed to enquiring about my background, it seemed quite natural. I suppose I was a little flattered, too, and because I thought his questions stemmed from a businessman's desire to make the fullest use of anybody associated with him, I told him just enough about myself to give him confidence.
'So your stepfather was an industrialist?'
'Yes — a small arms factory. That was during the war. Afterwards he switched to consumer durables.'
'And you came over to England to study at the LSE and work as a financial journalist.' But instead of asking me why I hadn't stayed in journalism, he began discussing the present economic outlook, the fuel situation and the future of the country in a monetary world dominated by the oil revenues of Middle East potentates. He was even more optimistic than the press, or even the politicians, believing that offshore oil could solve Britain's whole balance of payment problems. It was a long time since I had talked to anybody of his calibre and, tired as I was, I found it immensely stimulating.
'So we have this chance to become rich again, to change the whole economic climate of the country. But what about the political climate? Will that change?' And without thinking I said, 'Yes. The political climate depends on the economic, doesn't it?' And I added, conscious that I was now giving form to thoughts that had been vaguely in my mind for some time, 'This is something our political leaders, certainly our union leaders, have been slow to grasp. The mass of the people, of course, they haven't a clue — not about economics. But the political climate, that's different. They are the political climate, and in some subtle way they sense a change without understanding the cause.'
'You really think that?'
'Yes, I do. You change the economic climate, then the political climate must change, too.''
He shook his head. 'I see your point. But I can't go along with you. It's the chicken and the egg. The economic climate is dependent on union co-operation. No union co-operation, no change in the country's economy. Maybe that's what they want, eh?'
'The militants, yes,' I said. 'They want anarchy.
But that's not what the rank and file of the trade union movement wants. I'm convinced of that.'
He looked at me, a quick, appraising stare. 'Changed your spots, haven't you?'
The question brought me up with a jolt. 'How do you mean?'
'Your background,' he said. 'You missed out on a few details.' His manner had toughened, the friendliness gone. 'Perhaps if I tell you an Inspector Garrard came to see me at my offices in London — to warn me about you…'
The tiredness came back, a sense of weariness, of deflation. 'Why the hell didn't you tell me?' I got to my feet, suddenly furious — furious because I knew Garrard had been right to warn him. But to spring it on me like this… 'If you want to break that charter agreement, you'll have to buy me out.'
'You'll fight, is that it?'
'Yes. I haven't spent a month of my life slaving to get that trawler ready for sea…" But what was the use? Everything I did — all my life… that devil Stevens had been right, the past would always dog me. 'I have a police dossier. But how you read it depends whose side you're on.' I couldn't keep the bitterness out of my voice, seeing him, sitting there, a man who had got himself to a position of power by using money the way a militant like Scunton would use a mob — what was the difference?
'Sit down,' he said quietly.
But I didn't move, seeing him as representing everything I had fought against, and that voice of his, so accustomed to command he didn't have to shout. It was men like Villiers who turned youngsters into anarchists.
'Sit down,' he said again. And as I hesitated, he added, 'Now I've talked with you I have a proposition.'
He waited until I was seated, and then he said, 'Garrard showed me your file, yes. And I agree that most of it is open to different interpretations, according to whether you're a capitalist or a socialist. But it was somewhat alarming from my point of view.' He paused. 'Except for one thing. It doesn't explain what induced you to become a trawlerman, or why a man with your record of industrial action should commit himself so wholeheartedly to the salvage and management of a vessel for gain. That's capitalism by my reckoning.' He raised his hand. 'No, don't interrupt me please. And don't look so stubbornly defensive. I'm not going to enquire your reasons. I wouldn't get a sensible answer anyway. In fact, I doubt if you really know yourself.'
'What's your proposition?' I said.
But he ignored that. 'I have to consider the safety of the men on this rig. And that's not all. There's a lot of money locked up in the rig itself that would be better employed elsewhere if there were any real risk. Also, of course — and this is between ourselves — we are very confident that we are sitting on oil — right here, this minute.' His fingers were drumming a tattoo again as he stared at me speculatively. 'Suppose you were going to sabotage North Star, how would you go about it?'
The question, so abruptly flung at me, came as a, shock. 'I haven't thought about it,' I told him.
'Well, I have,' he said. 'It's something all rig operators have had to face up to for several years now. Indeed, everything going on to a rig has to be checked for the possibility of explosives. It would have to be explosives, wouldn't it? Pieter van Dam and I were discussing it just before you came in.' Abruptly he got up from his chair and crossed to the corner table. 'Come and have a look.' He unfolded the design sheet again. It was a drawing of the rig's underdeck lay-out. 'There, and there,' he said, stabbing his fingers on the junction points of the cross-struts. 'Two large limpet bombs. Mines perhaps. But if those struts go, then the column towers will fold inwards with the weight of the drill tower and all the mud and fuel and pipe we carry.' He gave me a sidelong glance. 'Our Achilles heel. That and blasting holes in the pontoons.'