Seawitch - Страница 3

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This proposal was met with stunned disbelief.

Corral spoke in a kind voice. «Not only would that lead to vast losses to the major oil companies, but would almost certainly and immediately lead Lord Worth to lower his prices fractionally below their new ones. The man has sufficient working capital to keep him going for a hundred years at a loss—-in the unlikely event, that is, of his running at a loss at all.»

A lengthy silence followed. Cronkite was not quite as immobile as he had been; The granitic expression on his face remained unchanged, but the fingers of his nonsmoking hand had begun to drum gently on the armrest of his chair. For Cronkite, this was equivalent to throwing a fit of hysterics.

It was during this period that all thoughts of maintaining high, gentlemanly and ethical standards against drilling hi international waters were forgotten by the ten.

«Why not,» Mr. A said, «buy him out?» In fairness it has to be said that Mr. A did not appreciate just how wealthy Lord Worth was and that, immensely wealthy though he, Mr. A, was, Lord Worth could have bought him out lock, stock and barrel. «The Seawitch rights, I mean. A hundred million dollars. Let's be generous, two hundred million dollars. Why not?»

Corral looked depressed. 'The answer to «Why not?' is easy. By the latest reckoning, Lord Worth is one of the world's five richest men, and even two hundred million dollars would be pennies as far as he was concerned.»

Now Mr. A looked depressed.

Benson said: «Sure he'd sell.»

Mr. A visibly brightened.

«For two reasons only. In the first place he'd make a quick and splendid profit. In the second place, for less than half the selling price, he could build another Seawitch, anchor it a couple of miles away from the present Seawitch—there are no leasehold rights in extraterritorial waters— and start sending oil ashore at his same old price.»

A temporarily deflated Mr. A slumped back in his armchair.

«A partnership, then,” Mr. B said. His tone was that of a man in a state of quiet despair.

«Out of the question.» Henderson was very positive. «Like all very rich men, Lord Worth is a born loner. He wouldn't have a combined partnership with the King of Saudi Arabia and the Shah of Iran, even if it were offered him free.»

In the gloom of baffled and exhausted silence thoroughly bored and hitherto near-wordless, John Cronkite rose.

He said without preamble: «My personal fee will be one million dollars. I will require ten million dollars for operating expenses. Every cent of this will be accounted for and any unspent balance returned. I demand a completely free hand and no interference from any of you. If I do encounter interference I'll retain the balance of the expenses and abandon the mission. I refuse to disclose what my plans are—or will be when I have made them. Finally, I would prefer to have no further contact with any of you, now or at any time.»

The assurance and confidence of the man were astonishing. Agreement among the mightily relieved ten was immediate and total. The ten million dollars—a trifling sum to those accustomed to spending as much in bribes every month or so—would be delivered within twenty-four— at the most, forty-eight—hours to a Cuban numbered account in Miami, the only place in the United States where Swiss-type numbered accounts were permitted. For tax-evasion purposes, the money of course would not come from any of their respective countries: instead, ironically enough, from their bulging offshore funds.

Chapter 2

Lord Worth was tall, lean and erect. His complexion was the mahogany hue of the playboy millionaire who spends his life in the sun: Lord Worth seldom worked less than sixteen hours a day. His abundant hair and mustache were snow-white. According to his mood and expression and to the eye of the beholder, he could have been a biblical patriarch, a better-class Roman senator, or a gentlemanly seventeenth-century pirate—except for the fact, of course, that none of those ever, far less habitually, wore lightweight Alpaca suits of the same color as Lord Worth's hair.

He looked and was every inch an aristocrat. Unlike the many Americans who bore the Christian names of Duke or Earl, Lord Worth really was a lord, the fifteenth in succession of a highly distinguished family of Scottish peers of the realm. The fact that their distinction had lain mainly in the fields of assassination, endless clan warfare, the stealing of women and cattle, and the selling of their fellow peers down the river was beside the point: the earlier Scottish peers didn't go in too much for the more cultural activities. The blue blood that had run in their veins ran in Lord Worth's. As ruthless, predatory, acquisitive and courageous as any of his ancestors, Lord Worth simply went about his business with a degree of refinement and sophistication that would have lain several light-years beyond their understanding.

He had reversed the trend of Canadians coming to Britain, making their fortunes and eventually being elevated to the peerage: he had already been a peer, and an extremely wealthy one, before emigrating to Canada. His emigration, which had been discreet and precipitous, had not been entirely voluntary. He had made a fortune hi real estate in London before the Internal Revenue had become embarrassingly interested in his activities. Fortunately for him, whatever charges might have been laid at his door were not extraditable.

He had spent several years in Canada, investing his millions in the North Hudson Oil Company and proving himself to be even more able-in the oil business than he had been in real estate. His tankers and refineries spanned the globe before he had decided that the climate was too cold for him and moved south to Florida. His splendid mansion was the envy of the many millionaires—of a lesser financial breed, admittedly—who almost literally jostled for elbow-room in the Fort Lauderdale area.

The dining room in that mansion was something to behold. Monks, by the very nature of their calling, are supposed to be devoid of all earthly lusts, but no monk, past or present, could ever have gazed on the gleaming magnificence of that splendid oaken refectory table without turning pale chartreuse with envy. The chairs, inevitably, were Louis XIV. The splendidly embroidered silken carpet, with a pile deep enough for a fair-sized mouse to take cover in, would have been judged by an expert to come from Damascus and to have cost a fortune: the expert would have been right on both counts. The heavy drapes and embroidered silken walls were of the same pale gray, the latter being enhanced by a series of original impressionist paintings, no less than three by Matisse and the same number by Renoir. Lord Worth was no dilettante and was clearly trying to make amends for his ancestors* shortcomings in cultural fields.

It was in those suitably princely surroundings that Lord Worth was at the moment taking -his ease, reveling in his second brandy and the two beings whom—after money—he loved most in the world: his two daughters, Marina and Melinda, who had been so named by their now divorced Spanish mother. Both were young, both were beautiful, and could have been mistaken for twins, which they weren't: they were easily distinguishable by the fact that while Marina's hair was black as a raven's, Melinda's was pure titian.

There were two other guests at the table. Many a local millionaire would have given a fair slice of his ill-gotten gains for the privilege and honor of sitting at Lord Worth's table. Few were invited, and then but seldom. Those two young men, comparatively as poor as church mice, had the unique privilege, without invitation, of coming and going as they pleased, which was pretty often.

They were Mitchell and Roomer, two pleasant men in their early thirties for whom Lord Worth had a strong, if concealed, admiration and whom he held in something close to awe—inasmuch as they were the only two completely honest men he had ever met. Not that Lord Worth had ever stepped on the wrong side of the law, although he frequently had a clear view of what happened on the other side: it was simply that he was not hi the habit of dealing with honest men. They had both been two highly efficient police sergeants, only they had been too efficient, much given to arresting the wrong people, such as crooked politicians and equally crooked wealthy businessmen who had previously labored under the misapprehension that they were above the law. They were fired, not to put too fine a point on it, for their total incorruptibility.

Of the two, Michael Mitchell was the taller, the broader and the less good-looking. With slightly craggy face, ruffled dark hair and blue chin, he could never have made it as a matinee idol. John Roomer, with his brown hair and trimmed brown mustache, was altogether better-looking. Both were shrewd, intelligent and highly experienced. Roomer was the intuitive one, Mitchell the one long on action. Apart from being charming, both men were astute and highly resourceful. And they were possessed of one other not inconsiderable quality: both were deadly marksmen.

Two years previously they had set up their own private investigative practice, and in that brief space of time had established such a reputation that people in real trouble now made a practice of going to them instead of to the police, a fact that hardly endeared them to the local law. They lived near Lord Worth's estate, where they were frequent and welcome visitors. That they did not come for the exclusive pleasure of his company Lord Worth was well aware. Nor, he knew, were they even in the slightest way interested in his money, a fact that Lord Worth