Thomsen waited for the kill now he saw he had me hesitating.
'There'll be a lot of delays,' I added lamely. 'Air tickets to arrange, clearances, connections, and so on…'
'Your seat is booked on the Aerolineas Argentinas Boeing leaving Cape Town for Buenos Aires tomorrow. From Buenos Aires you will fly to Comodoro Rivadavia in the south and onwards to the Falklands. You will have my full written authority to act as you think fit — fire anyone, hire anyone, bribe anyone. Only, for Pete's sake get going?
Fatigue, they say, gives an extra dimension to perception. It was not only the challenge which influenced my decision. Jetwind would, I told myself, give me the vehicle to prove whether the awesome thing I had sighted among the wild waters of the Southern Ocean was real, or the substance of shadows, a lone sailor's hallucination. 'I'll do it,'I said.
Chapter 6
Dinner began with champagne and ended with a telephone call.
Whether or not Sheila had anticipated that there would be something to celebrate as a result of Thomsen's meeting with me, I am not sure, but certainly the meal was a treat I might have dreamed about when chewing ship's biscuits and raisins in Albatros's cockpit. Thomsen made handsome amends to Sheila for his earlier unsociableness towards her, blaming it on his anxiety to sign me up for Jetwind. I was reminded of my earlier impression of people being drawn to him like filings to a magnet. Certainly Sheila warmed under his charisma. We drank to Jetwind's success; in our euphoria we toasted the new golden age of sail. Suddenly Thomsen put down his glass and eyed me. ‘Peter’ he said. 'You've overlooked a most important aspect-pay.' 'Frankly,1 never thought of it.'
'I believe money is important. What do you expect to be paid?' 'I've no idea. I don't know what the job's worth.' 'There is no real yardstick for this. It's a one-off job — special.'
'Short-term, too — you want me at Gough in a week, then another week or so after that to Cape Town.'
He shed his affability like a shirt. 'Don't think that if you reach Gough on schedule you can coast home to the Cape. The last leg is shorter. Your service speed is to be twelve knots — that means under a week from Gough.' 'The shorter the time, the shorter my pay, it seems.'
'On the contrary, the quicker you make it, the more I pay.' 'What do you suggest?'
'I will pay you five thousand dollars a day to flog the hide off Jetwind. For every day under a week you reach Gough, there'll be a bonus often thousand dollars. For every day less than a week you take from Gough to Cape Town, you earn another five thousand dollars.' 'Either you're very reckless or very desperate.'
'I have already gambled twenty million on Jetwind. Fm staking everything on you to put the project back into orbit. It's as simple as that. What are a few thousand dollars more?'
We drank to it. Looking back on the occasion, I am inclined to think it was tension rather than alcohol which made Thomsen loquacious. He talked volubly all through the meal about the velocities, angles and forces acting on a sailing ship; the equilibrium of those forces; the aerodynamic performance of Jetwind's rig and the hydro-dynamic performance of her hull. He dilated on side forces and thrust components; the damping effect of the sea-way motions of a sailing ship compared to power. He even got to sketching rough graphs and jotting down constellations of algebraic symbols. It was all too esoterically technical for me; Don looked owlish; Sheila smiled a fixed hostess smile.
As Thomsen brought his dissertation to an end, he began a barrage of phone calls to London, New York, Buenos Aires, Cape Town. He seemed to be issuing orders in every direction concerning Jetwind. Finally, he became flushed and angry at not being able to raise Port Stanley.
All I craved was sleep. I said my farewells. Don motored me to the jetty where I had moored Albatros's dinghy. He and Sheila had tried to persuade me to stay overnight with them. Finally Thomsen accepted the guest room which had been prepared for me. He and Don were to call for me early and Thomsen and I would fly to Cape Town.
I rowed out to Albatros. As I reached the yacht, my hackles rose. One does not spend a month alone in a boat, listening to every creak of its structure, without being able to sense a change on board. In a flash I knew I was not alone.
The intruder was hidden by the cockpit overhang on the starboard side, which housed Albatros's rather elementary instrument panel. I took a heavy pin from the rail and vaulted inboard. The man spun round and faced the improvised weapon.
'If you've any ideas of souvenir hunting, forget it’ I rapped out. 'Get below! I mean to have a look at you!'
The first thing I was aware of was the American accent. 'These instruments are Rube Goldberg stuff. What about critical sailing angles, optimum course, speed made good?' 'What's that to you?'
'I would have expected that sort of thing, after this boat's track record.'
'Half of those instruments don't work any more. They drank too much Southern Ocean.'
My eyes were adapting to the darkness. My visitor was shorter than me, but square and stocky. His dark hair, cut unfashionably short, was brushed back from the temples, his chin was as square as his powerful shoulders, and heavy brows completed the impression of determination and strength. He wore a dark, tight-fitting sweat-shirt and sneakers.
He seemed quite unconcerned about the fact that he was a trespasser. 'I don't understand the downwind performance of the Venetian Rig…' he began.
'You don't have to, until we've sorted out why you're on board my boat. Below! That door's not locked. Switch on the left.' 'Okay,' he replied. 'My question will keep till later.'
He did as I said. The cabin had a welcome, familiar deep-sea smell.
My captive looked round. 'The guy who designed this must have been either a pinch-gut or a monk.'
He didn't look like a petty thief to me. I liked his easy laugh, as if he knew in advance that he would be exculpated. Humour ran from his mouth up into his brown eyes.
He held out his hand. 'I'm Paul Brockton. Boy, I thought the America Cup Twelves were pretty stark below, but this!' He indicated the cell-like spartan scantlings. 'I thought you would have taken up a crash-pad ashore rather than sleep here any more.'
I said, although now I wasn't convinced of my accusation, 'Is that why you took the opportunity to sneak aboard my boat?'
He smiled and shook his head. 'I've been waiting for you for about half an hour. If I'd wanted, I could have cased the whole boat and got the hell out again, and you'd never have been the wiser.'
Somehow, I believed him. He faced me with a half smile and a slight lift of his left eyebrow. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of Paul Reveres. I noted the ripple of powerful muscle under the close-hugging fabric.
'Listen, Brockton’ I said. ‘I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. I've had people on my neck all day; I'm dead beat. I want some sleep, and I intend to get it. What do you want? Say it quickly.' 'I want your story and that of Albatros9 'You a newspaper-man?'
'No. American yachting journal — the Deep Sea Sailer. I'm looking for an exclusive.'
'You reporters all are. There's nothing new left to be told. Albatros's record is on the board now. That's all there is to it, even for the experts who may read Deep Sea Sailer.’
'There's always something hew if you know the right questions to ask.'
'I don't intend to answer any questions, however clever. Nor do I intend to be interviewed. When I came aboard I intended to make myself a cup of coffee before turning in. You can stay and share it, if you wish.'
'I'll do more than that. I'll make it, if you'll tell me where things are.' He got the gas going and I sat on a locker seat.
'You didn't come from America to write up Albatros› I said. 'What's behind your visit, Brockton?'