Richard suddenly went cold at the thought of what might happen to them if they ran afoul of less patient, less courteous authorities. Of the Iranians, say, for whose waters they would set sail in a few hours. So far they had been carried forward by their need to react to the twin situations confronting them. They had perhaps been seduced by the freedom of action their unique position allowed them. Were they getting seduced into a situation that they had no chance of controlling, no chance of escaping? They could all too easily end up in an Iranian jail. Executed, like that journalist last year. They could well end up dead, all of them, just a pile of corpses to be dumped over the side of Prometheus by victorious terrorists, who would then start taking reprisals by executing the very people they had set out to save.
And Sir William. They could so easily cause him to be discovered in some gutter in Beirut with a note pinned to his clothing and a bullet in his brain.
“Penny for them.”
“It’s all so damn dangerous, Robin. It could all go so terribly wrong.” His tone robbed the words of weakness. He sounded like a doctor delivering a diagnosis.
“I know, darling. But what alternative do we have? Meet the plane, say hi, then send Martyr home? Get Angus to send another message to Beirut, ‘Thanks all the same, Salah, but we’ve changed our minds’?”
“There’s got to be more to it than face and inconvenience. We have to have a better reason for going on than that it would be embarrassing to turn back!”
“Okay. Look at the alternative. We give up here. We go home. We put Katapult into production if we can find the backing after all this bad publicity. We run Heritage Mariner. Only we send no more tankers to the Gulf. We can’t risk losing another one. So we run out of the few customers for crude-carrying we still have. And in the meantime, all our insurance payments go up until Prometheus is safe. Heritage Mariner really begins to lose big money. But we still have Crewfinders. Only there is no one left on the Crewfinders books because all the officers and crew who might have come to us know we can no longer guarantee their safety. Christ! We can’t even protect the chairman of the board! So we start closing down Crewfinders and try to put Heritage Mariner into liquidation while the costs begin to spiral way out of control. We move someone else into Father’s office and we wait for word of him. Like they’re waiting for word of all the other hostages still in terrorist hands. Year after year after year…” Oddly, it was the lack of emotion that gave her words so much impact. If he had sounded like a doctor, she sounded like a pathologist announcing the cause of death of somebody else’s business. Family. Life. In this as in all things, they were the perfect team. They leaned on each other unreservedly in any crisis, and their strength together was greater than either of their strengths alone. “So what have we really got to lose?” she whispered, as he silently turned the steering wheel and guided them into the parking lot outside Muharraq International Airport.
Even at this time of night, this was a busy place. For the first time in weeks Richard did not feel hot, for after a walk through the suffocating atmosphere outside, the chill of the air-conditioning on the concourse and in the shops was like a drug. Here, during the short time they had to wait, Richard emulated his wife’s good sense by purchasing clothing much more suited to the climate than his Western shirt and trousers. By the time C. J. Martyr had cleared passport control and customs, Richard looked more like a sheikh than a sailor with his long, white fine cotton djellabah, his kaffiyah, and his dark mahogany tan — though he still kept his old clothes, together with some other new ones in the bright bag marked KHAM SIN, TAILORS.
When Martyr came striding out of customs and into Robin’s waiting arms, it was 11 P.M. local time. In his head it was 4 P.M. New York time precisely, and he was still full of fizz. His lean body seemed to spark with energy. He towered over Robin, sweeping her off her feet into an exuberant bearhug, and even topped Richard by an inch or two. If anything, over the last ten years he seemed to have grown younger. His sand gray crewcut had gained not one more fleck of white, his bony frame had gained not one more ounce of flesh. But the stark lines that had marked his hatchet face when they had all first met were gone, replaced by laugh lines at his eye corners clustering thickly between long fair lashes and great jug-handle ears.
“Richard!” he boomed.
Richard strode forward, thinking how different this was from their first hostile greeting all those years ago. He took the proffered hand, feeling again the old strength still lurking in the long, hard muscles. The old power in the grasp of that great, hard-knuckled fist. They embraced the instant Robin was put down and stood, thumping each other on the back like long lost brothers.
Then, over Martyr’s shoulder, Richard saw another, slighter figure close behind. Golden hair drawn back into a simple ponytail that emphasized the beauty of the face and the elegance of the neck, though it was not designed to do so. Straight, slim nose between broad cheekbones. Generous mouth emphasizing her wide jaw. Enormous emerald eyes, as cold as her father’s were warm and smiling. Skin like honey, glowing and dusted with gold. Square shoulders, full breasts, slim waist, broad hips, legs that went on forever. The impact of her almost stopped his heart.
It was Christine.
He stepped back as though struck; then he paused, his mind a whirl of speculation and this time Robin acted, behaving as though this had always been part of their plans. “Christine!” Her voice echoed Richard’s thought even as he thought it and suddenly they were side by side, Robin’s blonde curls dulled by comparison with Christine’s flowing tresses. Beside the American beauty, Robin seemed shorter, plumper, coarser. Almost the ugly-duckling schoolgirl he had first met nearly twenty years ago. But it was only in comparison, for the effect had nothing to do with Robin and everything to do with Christine’s shining perfection. And after the first breathtaking impact, the first unflattering comparison, it always warmed his heart to see how Robin simply enjoyed Christine’s company though she was as well aware as anyone how plain she looked beside her friend.
And, as it always did, Richard’s heart twisted with affectionate sympathy for the exquisite girl before him, living her lonely life. He strode forward, therefore, and swept the pair of them into his arms, hugging fiercely and protectively.
“What’s the plan?” was Martyr’s first question as they pulled their cases from the carousel. Richard silently shook his head and glanced meaningfully at the pair of khaki police uniforms patrolling nearby. Martyr’s eyebrows rose fractionally; then he became preoccupied with identifying his luggage.
As the four of them crossed the reception area, Robin earnestly began to discuss with Christine the advisability of emulating her own choice of clothing, but the American girl seemed content with what she had brought. Robin was for once caught off guard by her friend’s unconscious sexuality. Knowing Hood and Weary as she did, she really felt that Chris’s reliance on bikinis and SPF 7 was going to prove a challenge to all concerned. But how on earth could she put it in a way that Chris would accept?