'Fred, Matsumo Holdings may be huge, but they're vulnerable to something. They've been taking a massive gamble. Look at this list.' Under the heading Principal Group Companies, Stefi's fingernail scanned down a list with names like Energy America, Hickson Oil, Seafield Oil, Shell Africa, Expro-Borneo and Fortune Exploration.
'Oil. It's been Yoshi Matsumo's obsession for the past five years. He's sunk his organization's future in it,' Stefi said. 'Partly they've been doing this through acquisitions, partly through creating new oil exploration companies. The big spender is Norsk Advanced Techs — which we know to be ninety per cent Japanese. Look here at Matsumo's three-year summary.' She turned the pages to Profit and Loss Account. 'Norsk are into deep ocean oil exploration. As of 31 March they had fixed assets of 34 billion sterling, liabilities of 13 billion, and creditors' amounts falling due of 14 billion. All that risk, all that cash going out.'
Findhorn said, 'That sort of money is bigger than the GNP of some countries. They're taking a massively expensive gamble.'
'But it looks as if it's succeeding,' Stefi continued. 'The field they've discovered in the Norwegian sector is huge. Now the cost of getting oil out from under the Arctic is beyond the means of a little country like Norway, but it seems there's been a little horse-trading.' Stefi put a finger to his lips, as if she was about to reveal some great secret. 'But they need oil prices to stay high. If, hypothetically, oil prices were to take a steep plunge any time within the next few years, the consequences would be horrific. It would bring Matsumo Holdings down. The knock-on effect would collapse Far Eastern economies like dominoes, and the effects would be felt in the West. And something even worse.' Stefi paused dramatically.
'Tell me.'
'Mister Matsumo would be at the apex of this apocalyptic disaster. Think of his personal humiliation.'
Findhorn groaned.
Stefi said, 'Yoshi Matsumo can't afford you, Fred. He absolutely must bump you off before you get to the secret.'
'This is unreal. Nobody does a thing like that.'
'Fred, grow up.' Stefi's smile had an edge to it. 'There's a rumour that the war in Chechnya a few years ago was fomented by the Matsumo group to push up the price of oil. If they can engineer something like that, what's an Arctic explorer?'
Doug said, 'Half the industrialists in the world would kill to get this process, the other half would kill to destroy it. Think of oil companies like BP, Exxon, Shell being bankrupted overnight. Car manufacturers and all their tributaries going into recession. Look at the mass unemployment that would follow.'
Romella said, 'You're speaking from the perspective of the rich twenty per cent of humanity. What about the billion people who are short of water? What about fertilizer, infrastructure and medicine for the Third World? Free energy would let people distil sea water and pipe it to desert regions, and create nitrate fertilizers from the air.'
'Or Semtex,' said Stefi. 'Think of massive terrorism on the cheap. The population explosion, the imbalances in power that would result in the Middle East. It would suck everyone in.'
Doug's eyes were gleaming behind his thick spectacles. 'There are fortunes to be made here. Huge fortunes.'
Findhorn said, 'Hey, this is fun. Only without Petrosian's machine we're out of the game, and we don't have Petrosian's machine.'
Romella yawned and stretched. 'Be nice to me. I know where it is.'
25
Armenia
Romella said, 'You were right about the old Geghard trading route. The merchandise went out that way after the war.'
A thrill ran through Findhorn. But now she was saying, 'There's a downside. The competition got to Kitty first.'
A teenage maneater, all eyeshadow and false lashes, entered the executive lounge, carrying a small suitcase. She stared openly at Findhorn, and Findhorn shot her a suspicious look.
Romella continued, 'It's weird. They got to Kitty less than an hour before I did. The poor woman got quite confused. So did I.'
'So where exactly were the messages going?'
Romella beamed. 'Not Turkey. Armenia!'
'You think he was sending them to his brother?'
'Almost certainly. And it wasn't atomic secrets or he'd have given them to a courier like Harry Gold or Rosenblum.'
Findhorn said, 'Hey, maybe it was just letters.'
'Maybe, but Kitty remembered the last thing Petrosian sent out just before he disappeared. It was a thick envelope and she thought there was something about it. She remembers, after all those years.'
'Okay, it's our best shot, not to mention our only one. Now all we have to do is find Lev's brother, if he's still alive.'
Romella said, 'We'll need visas.'
Doug said, 'It sounds as if we're neck and neck with the competition. If they travel out via Heathrow you might even be on the same plane. They could be in the terminal now.'
Stefi giggled nervously. 'But surely not in this lounge.'
Findhorn shook his head. 'No chance. It's too unlikely.'
'Much too unlikely,' Doug agreed.
They looked around, suddenly aware. A gaggle of white-haired ladies were sharing some scandal three tables away; a couple of Japanese businessmen were sharing a joke over hot chocolates; otherwise the lounge was quiet.
Findhorn was looking at a departures screen. He said, 'Blimey! Where's the Armenian embassy?'
Doug and Stefi were standing, cold and impatient, at the entrance to Terminal Four. Findhorn was barely out of the taxi when Doug thrust tickets into his hand. 'It's boarding now, Gate Fourteen. Miss it and the next flight is in two days. Run.'
'Good luck!' Stefi called after the retreating figures.
In Terminal Four, a harrassed official jabbered into a handset as he hustled Findhorn and Romella through the security and passport controls. They were joined by a large American in a green check suit who trailed them, puffing, through long corridors, and then they were straight onto the aircraft, with a burly stewardess hovering at the door.
Findhorn settled in at a window seat, and Romella's boarding card took her to a seat near the rear of the aircraft. The Tupolev had the air of discarded Soviet rolling stock. It reeked of kerosene and had worn carpets and rickety chairs. And open luggage racks: it was an aircraft designed for the flat Russian steppes, without steep banking turns in mind.
The American, with thick spectacles and a green jacket, slumped down next to him. Fat arms overflowed into Findhorn's space and a New York Times spread itself around.
'Bin to Armeenya before?'
Findhorn shook his head, trying to get the right degree of surliness.
'Still full of commies. Y'on business?'
Findhorn turned up the surliness a fraction. He mumbled without looking up from the in-flight magazine. 'Touring.'
'Armeenyan women are the pits. They got no class and no deodorant.' The American picked his nose and spread his elbows some more.
The air conditioning wasn't working, and the aircraft sat on the tarmac for half an hour while the air grew stifling and Findhorn's shirt and pants became sticky with sweat. A baby exercised her lungs mightily, and the hostess prowled up and down the aisle like a prison warder. Finally the three jet engines howled, died, howled, died and on the third howl thrust them along the tarmac and into the blue sky with a take-off angle like a Lancaster heading for Dresden.
Somewhere over the English Channel, the American tried again. 'By the way, don't let the lousy upholstery fool you. This is one extremely strong aircraft. It's made from girders.'
Findhorn grunted happily.
'Not so sure about the maintenance, though. I hear some of the ground crew haven't been paid for months.' The American started on the in-flight magazine, leaving Findhorn to examine the rivets on the wing.