It was going to be Somalia and Rwanda all over again and at the moment, it seemed, the only person in the world who could see it coming was sitting naked in a shower in the Mawanga Hilton, crying because she had just taken a shower.
SOUTH
THE LABRADOR SEA
Perched on my city office-stool
I watched in envy while a cool
And lucky carter handled ice…
And I was wandering in a trice
Far from the grey and grimy heat
Of that intolerable street
O’er sapphire berg and emerald floe
Beneath the still cold ruby glow
Of everlasting Polar night…
Chapter Nine
Richard Mariner stepped out of the elevator onto the 38th floor of the United Nations building in New York and followed a secretary called Veronica down the corridor towards the offices of the Secretary-General, dripping onto the carpet as he went. ‘As you know,’ Veronica continued, ‘the Secretary-General is in Oxford at the moment, preparing to address the Union,’ she was a Girton girl herself, he had discovered, ‘and so you will be seeing the Executive Assistant first before talking to the Club.’
His head was whirling. He was soaking, storm-battered, airsick, jet-lagged and exhausted. Most of this was going over his head and he hoped to God he would soon be talking to someone who made more sense.
‘The Executive Assistant is waiting for you in the Chef de Cabinet’s office,’ she explained brightly. The introduction of another language, even when it was simply a job title, just added to his confusion. He was going to have to pull himself together as a matter of urgency here. He had the contract for the hire of his supertankers in his briefcase and, although the detail was a matter for lawyers, he was going to have to be clear about exactly what he was committing his company, ships and crews to.
Veronica stopped and he nearly collided with her. She opened a dark panelled door and ushered him in. ‘Captain Mariner,’ she announced, and left, closing the door behind her.
The office was large and comfortably furnished. There were two people waiting in it and both of them rose as he entered. There was a window along one wall with a beautiful view over the river and the city beyond. As he entered, the wide picture was lit by a distant fork of lightning which seemed to illuminate every single raindrop. The thunder, like the storm-force wind, was kept at bay by the double glazing. All he really noticed was the jug of coffee steaming fragrantly on the Chef de Cabinet’s desk. A quiet, melodious voice, deepened by an invisible but clearly audible smile, said, ‘Coffee first and introductions later, I think. Please sit down, Captain Mariner, and tell me, how do you like it?’
Richard collapsed into a deep, deeply comfortable armchair. ‘Black, no sugar, please,’ he answered.
Immediately, a long hand, the colour of café au lait half covered by a red and gold silk garment of some kind, placed a brimming cup of black liquid in his hand. He looked up thankfully into a pair of breathtaking almond eyes the colour of the coffee in his cup, and he nearly spilt it.
‘No, Captain, sit where you are and drink your coffee,’ said that laughing, musical voice and, having poured herself a cup as well, Dr Indira Dyal, Executive Assistant to the Secretary-General of the United Nations, sat in an armchair at his side. ‘Mr Aziz prefers his in the Turkish style, you will observe,’ Dr Dyal continued as the slight man behind the desk raised a tiny cup to his lips.
Mohammed Aziz, Chef de Cabinet to the Secretary-General, nodded to Richard as he sipped, the eyes behind his pebble glasses crinkling to show that he, too, was indulgently amused by the situation.
The coffee hit Richard’s system like an antidepressant drug. After the first few sips of the heavenly liquid, his head began to clear and his horizons to expand. He began to appreciate the fine furnishings of Mr Aziz’s office. He registered the view from the wide window, though from this angle it consisted mainly of the tops of skyscrapers, the bottoms of storm clouds and wild sheets of teeming rain hurled hither and yon by the wind. Storm force ten at the very least, he thought, and not for the first time that day. Another couple of sips and he felt able to turn to face his hostess; the possibility of reasoned communication seemed not too remote after all.
Dr Dyal sat, her back ramrod straight, perched on the very edge of the chair beside him. Her tall body was swathed in a sari of red and gold silk so bright it seemed to glow. Part of it fell across her head to cover her hair, but the material was so fine that it did little to conceal the black locks, streaked with silver and drawn severely back into a bun. She wore little make-up and needed none. The huge almond eyes, fringed with extravagant lashes under delicate black brows, emphasised the aquiline fineness of her nose; the patrician curve of her nostrils seemed at odds with the vivid fullness of her lips. Before accepting her post with the United Nations, Indira Dyal had enjoyed the reputation of being the most beautiful politician on the Indian subcontinent. Or anywhere else, for that matter, thought Richard.
The same could not quite be said for Mohammed Aziz, the Moroccan Chef de Cabinet. He was an outstanding, world-class politician whose acumen and knowledge, especially about Africa, were legendary; but he looked very much as if he should have been selling camels in the kasbah at Marrakesh. Except for the glasses and the suit, he was very much the sort of wiry, woolly-haired, gap-toothed, wise-eyed street Arab on whom the commerce of the whole Middle East had turned since the dawn of time.
‘Are you with us, Captain Mariner?’ he asked as Richard emptied his cup.
‘I do apologise, Mr Aziz, Dr Dyal,’ said Richard. ‘The flight was dreadful and very late indeed. And getting a cab out from Kennedy in the rain …’ He shrugged.
‘You should have got the helicopter.’
‘It’s been grounded until the storm moderates.’
‘Ah. Of course.’
Lightning pounced down outside the window again, seemingly dangerously near.
‘Still,’ said Dr Dyal, ‘you are here now, Captain, and under the circumstances, you seem to have performed a miracle to be so precisely on time.’
‘I am extremely keen to do business with you,’ he answered drily.
Dyal and Aziz exchanged a long glance which was by no means disapproving. ‘Good,’ said Dr Dyal. ‘And I am pleased that we seem to be putting all our cards on the table. I like straight talking and so, I know, does Mr Aziz.’
‘The draft contract seems quite satisfactory to you?’ the Moroccan probed gently.
‘In general, yes indeed. You have offered a standard open-ended charter at competitive but realistic rates. We supply six ships and three crews. You supply three crews and the personnel on the ice itself. Working with the people on the ice under the command of Dr Colin Ross, we are contracted to secure the iceberg in the manner we deem most practical and guide it at a speed we find most feasible along a course which we decide but which we must refer to you in case we need political clearance of any kind, to a destination on the west coast of equatorial Africa to be designated by yourselves. Once there, we are to make it safe by whatever manner we deem best and assist, if possible, in the bringing ashore of either ice or water. You are prepared to take overall responsibility for fuelling, provisioning and insuring the enterprise. All we have to do is get our ships to the iceberg, get the iceberg to wherever you decide, and help whoever may be waiting there to get it ashore and use it.’