ABERDEEN - GAVALLAN’S MANSION: 7:23 P.M. They were in the TV room watching on a big screen a replay of today’s rescheduled Scotland versus France rugby match - Gavallan, his wife Maureen, John Hogg who normally flew the company 125 jet, and some other pilots. The score was 17-11 in France’s favor deep in the second half. All the men groaned as a Scot fumbled, a French forward recovered and gained forty yards. “Ten pounds that Scotland still wins!” Gavallan said.
“I’ll take that,” his wife said and laughed at his look. She was tall and red-haired and wore elegant green that matched her eyes. “After all I’m half French.”
“A quarter - your grandmother was Norman, quelle horreur, and sh - ” An enormous cheer that was echoed in the room drowned his pleasantry as the Scottish scrum half grabbed the ball from the scrimmage, threw it to a wing half who threw it to another who broke loose of the pack, smashed two enemy out of his way, and hurtled for the goal line fifty yards away, weaving, brilliantly changing direction to rush onward again, then stumble but somehow stay upright, then charge in a last, chest-heaving glorious run to dive over the line - to be buried at once by bodies and thunderous applause. Touchdown! 17 to 15 now. A successful goal kick will make it 17 all. “Scotland foreverrrr…”
The door opened and a manservant stood there. At once Gavallan got up, achingly watched the kick that was good and breathed again. “Double or nothing, Maureen?” he asked over the pandemonium, grinning at her as he hurried off.
“Taken!” she called out after him.
She’s down twenty quid, he thought, very pleased with himself, and crossed the corridor of the big, rambling old house that was well furnished with old leather and good paintings and fine antiques, many of them from Asia, and went into his study opposite. In it, his chauffeur, also gun bearer and trusty, who had been dialing McIver in Tehran for three hours and monitoring his incoming calls, held up one of the two phones. “Sorry to interrupt, sir, th - ”
“You got him, Williams? Great - score’s seventeen all.”
“No, sir, sorry, circuits’re still busy - but I thought this one was important enough - Sir Ian Dunross.”
Gavallan’s disappointment vanished. He took the phone. Williams went out and closed the door. “Ian, how wonderful to hear from you - this is a pleasant surprise.”
“Hello, Andy, can you speak up, I’m phoning from Shanghai?” “I thought you were in Japan; I can hear you very well. How’s it going?” “Grand. Better than I expected. Listen, have to be quick but I heard a buzz, two in fact, the first that the taipan needs some financial success to get himself and Struan’s out of the hole this year. What about Iran?” “Everyone advises that it will cool down, Ian. Mac’s got things under control, as much as possible; we’ve been promised all of Guerney’s contracts so we should be able to more than keep our end up, even double our profits, presuming there’s no Act of God.”
“Perhaps you should presume there might be.”
Gavallan’s bonhomie vanished. Time and again his old friend had privately given him a warning or information that had later proved to be astonishingly correct - he never knew where Dunross obtained the information, or from whom, but he was rarely wrong. “I’ll do that right away.” “Next, I’ve just heard that a secret, very high-level - even perhaps cabinet level - shuffle has been ordered, financial as well as management, for Imperial Air. Will that affect you?”
Gavallan hesitated. Imperial Air owned Imperial Helicopters, his main competition in the North Sea. “I don’t know, Ian. In my opinion they squander taxpayers’ money; they could certainly use reorganization - we beat them hands down in every area I can think of, safety, tenders, equipment - I’ve ordered six X63s by the way.”
“Does the taipan know?”
“The news almost broke his sphincter.” Gavallan heard the laugh, and for a moment he was back in Hong Kong in the old days when Dunross was taipan and life was hairy but wildly exciting, when Kathy was Kathy and not sick. Joss, he thought, and again concentrated. “Anything to do with Imperial’s important - I’ll check at once. Other business news from here is very good - new contracts with ExTex - I was going to announce them at the next board meeting. Struan’s isn’t in danger, is it?”
Again the laugh. “The Noble House is always in danger, laddie! Just wanted to advise you - got to go - give my love to Maureen.”
“And to Penelope. When do I see you?”
“Soon. I’ll call when I can; give my best to Mac when you see him, bye.” Lost in thought, Gavallan sat on the edge of his fine desk. His friend always said “soon” and that could mean a month or a year, even two years. It’s over two years since I last caught up with him, he thought. Pity he’s not taipan still - damn shame he retired, but then we all have to move on and move over sometime. “I’ve had it, Andy,” Dunross had said, “Struan’s is in cracking good shape, the “70s promise to be a fantastic era for expansion and… well, now there’s no excitement anymore.” That was in ‘70, just after his hated main rival, Quillan Gornt, taipan of Rothwell-Gornt, had drowned in a boating accident off Sha Tin in Hong Kong’s New Territories. Imperial Air? Gavallan glanced at his watch, reached for the phone, but stopped at the discreet knock. Maureen stuck her head in, beamed when she saw he wasn’t on the phone. “I won - twenty-one to seventeen - busy?” “No, come in, darling.”
“Can’t, have to check dinner’s ready. In ten minutes? You can pay me now if you like!”
He laughed, caught her in his arms, and gave her a hug. “After dinner! You’re a smashing bird, Mrs. Gavallan.”
“Good, don’t forget.” She was comfortable in his arms. “Everything all right with Mac?”
“It was Ian - he just called to say hello. From Shanghai.” “Now there’s a lovely man too. When do we see him?”
“Soon.”
Again she laughed with him, dancing eyes and creamy skin. They had first met seven years ago at Castle Avisyard where the then taipan, David MacStruan, was giving a Hogmanay Ball. She was twenty-eight, just divorced, and childless. Her smile had blown the cobwebs from his head and Scot had whispered, “Dad, if you don’t drag that one off to the altar, you’re crazy.” His daughter Melinda had said the same. And so, somehow, three years ago it had happened, and every day since then a happy day.
“Ten minutes, Andy? You’re sure?”
“Yes, just have to make one call.” Gavallan saw her frown and added quickly, “Promise. Just one and then Williams can monitor the calls.” She gave him a quick kiss and left. He dialed. “Good evening, is Sir Percy free - this is Andrew Gavallan.” Sir Percy Smedley-Taylor, director of Struan’s Holdings, an MP, and slated as the probable minister for defence if the Conservatives won the next election.
“Hello, Andy, nice to hear from you - if it’s about the shoot next Saturday, I’m on. Sorry not to have told you before but things have been rather busy with the so-called government shoving the country up the creek, and the poor bloody unions as well, if they only knew it.”
“I quite agree. Am I disturbing you?”
“No, you just caught me - I’m off to the House for another late-night vote. The stupid twits want us out of NATO, amongst other things. How did the X63 test out?”
“Wonderful! Better than they claimed. She’s the best in the world!” “I’d love a ride in her if you could fix it. What can I do for you?” “I heard a buzz that there’s a secret, high-level reorganization of Imperial Air going on. Have you heard anything?”
“My God, old man, your contacts are bloody good - I only heard the rumor myself this afternoon, whispered in absolute secrecy by an unimpeachable Opposition source. Damn curious! Didn’t mean much to me at the time - wonder what they’re up to. Have you anything concrete to go on?” “No. Just the rumor.”