"No—" Audley raised a finger "—let's take one thing at a time.
You said a moment ago that what he sent wasn't so spectacular. I don't follow that, frankly."
Narva gave a short, understanding grunt. "Yes, I see that might seem contradictory . . . but I will try to tell you how it was—"
"After that first mention of the North Sea?"
"That is right—and after I had indicated my interest. He said then that his contact had seen a top secret memorandum forecasting Western European oil requirements during the next ten years. The figures were substantially as one would expect, taking into account the development of natural gas and atomic power stations, and allowing for some protection of coal industries. Nothing in the least unusual, there was.
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"But in the section on sources of supply there was an extraordinary discrepancy. And what it amounted to was that by 1978 half of it would be coming from a new source—
something in excess of 200 million tons."
Richardson caught Narva's attention. "But they're finding oil all the time. Couldn't this be Alaska and Canada—the North Slope, or whatever they call it?"
"No." Narva shook his head. "All the other known potential sources were listed—Australian and African as well as American. And Hotzendorff said there were strong indications that it was the North Sea which was the new source."
"So what did you do?"
"I sent three of my best men out—one into Shell-Esso, one to Xenophon and one to Phillips. And I asked Hotzendorff to get more precise information."
"You didn't believe it?"
"Let's say rather I was not prepared to reject it, professore. I know the Russians are very interested in European power sources, they have their surplus production to market, just like any poor capitalist nation."
As an Italian, Narva would know that better than most, thought Richardson. Ente Nazionale Idrocarburi's dealings with the Russians since the mid-fifties had been a source of considerable annoyance to some of their NATO partners.
"Not to mention the political aspects," murmured Audley dummy2
helpfully.
"That is precisely what he did mention next," Narva agreed quickly. "Apparently the Russians foresaw a period during which the Middle Eastern producers would attempt to increase prices as much as possible—that would be maybe until 1975. Then there would be a happy time, when the European nations would be no longer vitally dependent on foreign sources. And finally there would be an increasing chauvinism against the big American companies operating here, particularly as U.S. home production dried up."
"All of which any halfways competent political economist could tell you," observed Audley dryly. "And none of which was what you really wanted to know—eh?"
"It wasn't quite as simply stated as that."
"But you wanted facts, not politics or strategy?" Audley persisted. "You pushed him a bit?"
Narva compressed his lips, as though he had reached an awkward point in his recital of the Little Bird saga. "The men I had sent reported back that there were no signs of any major oil strike. Rather the opposite—Xenophon was even thinking of selling its new rig and pulling out altogether."
"Then what made you half-believe Hotzendorff?"
"There was a difference between what my experts told me and the information he supplied."
"Namely?"
" Certainty, professore—that was the difference! My men said dummy2
nothing had been found yet— they would not say it wasn't going to be found. But these Russian reports weren't simply hypothetical, they were policy decisions founded on something that was evidently a fact, with no ifs and buts."
"It didn't occur to you that they might be taking you for a ride, signore?" cut in Richardson. "Because there isn't one damn bit of evidence that anyone else knew better than your chaps, you know."
"But why should they take me for a ride, Signor—
Richardson?" said Narva. "My success or failure is not important to them—they had no reason, they could have no reason! And I was not taken for a ride, either. That is the fact of it, is it not? We have not reached the figures that Little Bird gave me, I know. But they are going up all the time now
—already they are talking of 150 million tons a year. That is 40 per cent of European needs in 1976. And that is not being taken for a ride, signore—or if it is I would like to be taken on more such rides, I can tell you!"
Narva's vehemence, compared with his usual cool, was interesting. Hitherto only the threat to the Hotzendorff family had aroused him, with its implication of strong family feelings. To this Richardson now added the likelihood that he disliked even the suggestion that he could be deceived. Or could it be that in this one instance he had taken an uncharacteristic risk, and was sensitive about it?
That was worth pushing further—
"But what made you rely on this fellow?"
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"But I have told you! He—"
"Not Little Bird, signore. This contact of his—the Russian chappie he wouldn't tell you about. Didn't he want anything?
Did he spill the beans simply out of love for the West?"
Narva stared at him, slowly subsiding. Then he shrugged.
"There was no money in it, anyway, that I know. When I asked that same question at the beginning Hotzendorff said that no money was required. He said the deed was its own reward."
A political protester, thought Richardson. Or a disaffected technocrat. Or an admirer of some dead poet or persecuted novelist, or even a Russian Jew. If there was anything in this version of the impossible it could be any one of those.
Audley murmured something unintelligible to himself.
"We're still straying from the point. You wanted facts and he didn't give them to you—"
"How do you know that?" interrupted Narva.
"Because you've been saying it all along." There was a sudden nuance of weariness in Audley's voice. "'Nothing spectacular'—and the known facts were against him all the way. But you threw your money into the North Sea all the same." Audley broke off for one moment. "And for that he had to give you proof—just one bit of total proof."
The two men stared at each other over the word like dogs over a buried bone. One dog knew the bone was there, because that was where he had buried it; the other dog also dummy2
knew it was there because other dogs' bones were what he lived on.
"Yes, Professore Audley—he gave me proof."
"What proof?"
"The best proof in the world: his death."
Not one bone, but two hundred and six of them. Tibias and fibias, big juicy thigh bones full of marrow and little crunchy finger bones. All the bones that went to make a man. So brittle that a chance blow might crack them, yet strong enough to lie in the earth for a million years.
Narva sighed. "You are once more a good guesser, professore
— I pushed him. ... It happened that I needed a new field for investment. One inside Europe, politically stable—that was very attractive. And this was the time to start if what he was saying was the truth, before the bigger companies totally committed themselves . . . before the stampede. . . ."
Now he was explaining himself, almost justifying himself, in a way that was equally uncharacteristic. It was almost as though he regretted making good: Richardson began uncertainly to revise his earlier conclusion.
"How did he die?" Audley's harsh question interrupted the process of revision.
"How?" Narva shook his head. "Officially—he had a heart attack. I have been able to find out no more than that."
"But unofficially?"
"Unofficially? There is no unofficially. I do not have the dummy2
resources to investigate a man's death in Moscow. All I have is his last message, and there was no heart attack in that."
"What was there in it, then?"
"I will tell you first how it came about, professore. In the first place I pressed him for proof that this was not a mere precautionary plan. And then I said it was not even enough to know that the Russians were convinced there was oil there, I had to know how they knew this. And above all I had to have the locations of the fields—whether these were in the British sector, or the Norwegian or the Dutch. I told him that without this certainty his information was without value.