Death of a Supertanker (4 page)

In the years that followed he’d established a close relationship with the chairman. This had not only enriched him materially but made him a man to be admired, cultivated and feared by those who worked for the company. Among the facets of this complex character, was an ability to be as charming as he could be ruthless when occasion demanded.

Talking to the officers and their wives in the bar-lounge that afternoon he was all charm. Those who had not met him before felt that many of the stories about him must have been less than fair.

It was not long before they heard him utter the boast for which he was famous: ‘For me,’ he’d said with an enigmatic smile, ‘there’s only one loyalty … the company. What is good for the company is good for those who serve it. That’s why its interests must always come first.’ He used the word ‘company’ with a sort of religious fervour, as if referring to a higher entity.

He did not add that a man who shared those convictions was Kurt Raustadt, the managing-director.

It was a fine autumn day, cold and crisp, with streaks of cirrus hanging like fractured vapour trails in the blue sky. Looking down from the pine-covered slopes of the Adlisberg over to Uetliberg the lake in the valley between lay dark and tranquil, its further reaches stretching up to Rapperswil. Clustered around its northern end the bustling streets and crowded buildings of Zurich, the elegant shops, discreet banks, well-dressed women and sleek cars along the Bahnhofstrasse, suggested an opulence, an almost limitless wealth somewhat out of character for this bastion of Protestantism at the time of the Reformation. To the chairman of Inter-Ocean Crude and Bulk Carriers Ltd., neither the view nor the limitless wealth was impressive. On the contrary, he was displeased with both for only that morning a consortium of Swiss banks had refused, courteously but unequivocally, to renegotiate the terms of the loan. Thus he looked over the Zurich See with a jaundiced eye while the managing-director lined up a putt on the eighth green and stroked the ball towards the hole. It came to rest just short of the lip.

‘Right,’ said the chairman. ‘I give you that.’

Raustadt picked up the ball. ‘And they refused absolutely?’

‘Absolutely.’ The two men set off down the path between the conifers to the next tee. ‘Now we have no option.’ The chairman paused. ‘When do you see him?’

‘Tonight. He’s staying at the Baur au Lac. Came in this morning.’

‘You must not be seen together.’

‘No fear of that, it’ll be dark. He’ll be waiting in Belvuestrasse, near the lake. I’ll drive past, pick him up and we’ll go to Rehalp. Park in the woods there and talk.’

‘You are certain of him, Kurt. Reliability? Discretion?’

They arrived at the next tee. ‘Still your honour,’ said the chairman.

Kurt Raustadt teed up, took a practice swing, settled his stance and struck the ball.

‘Fine drive, Kurt. Are you sure of him?’

‘Yes. Quite sure. Don’t forget, he stands to make a lot of money.’

‘Of course.’ The chairman bent down to
tee his ball. ‘Now let’s see,’ he muttered, steadying himself as he addressed it. His swing was stiff, uneven, without the grace and suppleness of the younger man’s. The ball went into the trees. ‘For God’s sake,’ he complained. ‘Why do I have to do that?’

‘Play a provisional,’ suggested the managing-director. ‘And slow down the swing. Keep your head down.’

The chairman drove a second ball, straight this time but no great distance. They left the tee and made for the fairway. They came to where the ball lay. The chairman said, ‘I’ll play this one. Can’t be bothered to look for the other.’ He took an iron from the bag. ‘Has Kostadis decided yet?’

‘He has made a short list of three. When our …’ Raustadt checked himself. ‘When he gets there he alone will make the final choice. Kostadis will not know who it is.’

‘Good,’ said the chairman. ‘That is very sensible. Now let’s see if I can play a decent shot for a change.’

They finished at the ninth hole and went up on to the terrace of the Dolder Grand. The chairman was spending the night there before returning to Frankfurt. A waiter came to the table. ‘Two Scotch-on-the-rocks,’ said the chairman.

‘Very good, sir.’ The waiter flicked ash from the table with a napkin, emptied the ashtray into a carton and took it away.

‘Make them doubles,’ the chairman called after him. He turned to Raustadt. ‘Don’t say anything at the meeting tonight. I’ll tell them we’re approaching the Liechtenstein banks. That until we have their decision we can do nothing. That should keep le Febre and company quiet for a while.’

Raustadt lit a cheroot, threw away the match with an exaggerated flourish. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I shall not say a word.’

‘When will …’ the chairman hesitated. ‘When will he go?’

‘When Kostadis lets me know. In a few days probably.’

‘The sooner the better,’ said the chairman. ‘We haven’t much time.’

Nicolas Kostadis’s days in Durban were busy. Each morning he went out to
Ocean
Mammoth
to discuss the repair work and to attend conferences on board with the people from Marinreparat
and the ship’s staff. Each day he visited the agent’s offices to see Lars Hammarsen, to maintain contacts with the port authorities, the marine surveyors, and others involved in getting the ship back to sea.

He spoke daily by phone to Kurt Raustadt in Zurich and to the company’s operating offices in London, exchanging news and progress reports. He constantly urged London to exert pressure on the suppliers of the new HP rotor to speed up its despatch. He entertained often, kept late nights, yet was up early and never seemed to tire. To those on board who had not known him, it soon became apparent why he was known as a human dynamo. The man bubbled with energy, and his quick mind and ready wit made him many friends in
Ocean
Mammoth.
Each day, his duties in the ship completed, he would be found in the bar or in officers’ cabins, talking and drinking. It was noticeable that the Captain and the chief engineer, the two men who knew him best, though polite and co-operative, remained gently aloof and avoided familiarities.

The deck officers whom Kostadis saw most of were Jarrett and Foley. He had already entertained them to dinner at the Oyster Box, the hotel outside Durban where he was staying. Quick to sense the hostility between them he’d not invited them together. Foley had come with his wife on one occasion, Jarrett alone on another.

It had not taken him long to sum up these men, to see into their minds: Jarrett, ambitious, talented, restless, tired of the sea, eager to make a career ashore; Foley, intelligent, conscientious, lacking in humour, content with life at sea but worried that he could not give his wife the sort of life she wanted. Kostadis found Sandy Foley attractive in a physical, sensual way. A little too provocative, perhaps, but very much the sort of woman men wanted. Foley, he conceded, had a problem. Jarrett was a vital amusing man; Foley himself, though competent, struck Kostadis as rather a bore.

Captain Crutchley was busy in his office writing. He did this slowly in a large hand on ruled paper, stopping at times to peer at what he’d written. He finished a letter, sighed deeply, looked at the time and went through the bedroom to the bathroom. There he took off the dark glasses, bathed his eyes in a solution of warm water and metallic salts, inserted drops from a small blue-capped
bottle and massaged the eyeballs with his fingers. These tasks completed he cleaned the dark glasses and went back to his desk.

From a drawer he took a rectangular magnifying glass and
reread
the letter. It was to his wife in Farnham – his second and very much younger wife. He’d recorded what little had happened since last he’d written, told of the progress of repair work, of Kostadis’s daily visits –
I
still
mistrust
the
man
and
disapprove
of
an
engineer
in
the
post
of
marine-superintendent.
It
is
essentially
a
seaman’s
job.
But
he
is
capable
and
popular,
so
it
must
be
prejudice
on
my
part.
– He complained that neither Kostadis, Lars
Hammarsen
, London nor Zurich was yet able to tell him the movements of the ship once repairs were completed –
We’ve
lost
the
cargo
we
were
chartered
for.
– He asked after the two boys at Lancing –
it’s
good
to
learn
from
you
that
they
are
well
and
happy.
I
could
wish
that
Bobby’s
results
were
better.
He’s
certainly
intelligent
so
it
must
be
that
he’s
a
late
starter
or
just
plain
lazy.

It was then that Captain Crutchley came to the matter so much on his mind:
You
ask
about
my
eyes.
I’m
afraid
the
news
is
not
good.
The
conjunctivitis
shows
little
sign
of
clearing
up.
I
intend
to
see
a
specialist
here
if
the
trouble
continues,
but
would
prefer
to
wait
until
I
get
home.
I
heard
yesterday
that
Middleton
is
to
be
transferred
to
one
of
our
homeward-bound
bulk
carriers
due
here
shortly,
while
young
Price
is
still
in
hospital
and
will
not
be
fit
for
sea
for
several
months,
if
ever
again.
This,
as
you
will
appreciate,
confronts
me
with
a
difficult
situation.
Who
knows
what
the
end
may
be.
But
do
not
worry.
I’ll
find
a
solution.

He wondered if he would and, if so, what it would be.

There was an unseasonal wind blowing, its gusts rustling the leaves of solitary palm trees, chasing dust and old bits of paper along the roads behind the warehouses at the Point where the launch left the Ferry Jetty on its last trip of the night to thud and splash its way over the dark waters of Natal Bay. Freeman Jarrett, the Foleys, two junior engineers and the catering officer and his wife were crowded together in the sternsheets with a number of crewmen. Some of the Cape Verde Islanders had had too much to drink and the journey soon became a noisy one.

The launch was well on its way and the men had just finished a sad mournful song of the islands when a row erupted suddenly. There were sounds of a scuffle, an exchange of oaths. Though most were in Portuguese, some were sufficiently international for
Jarrett to shout, ‘Cut that out, there are ladies on board.’ It was dark in the sternsheets and he couldn’t see who the troublemakers were. ‘I like sleep with the ladies,’ announced a cheerful but drunken islander. There were cheers, more scuffles, followed by a hoarse, ‘Yes, you like do that, Gomez. You not good Catholic, hey?’

A deep throaty voice which Jarrett recognized as that of Fernandez, the senior quartermaster, delivered a rebuke in Portuguese and the chief officer’s heart warmed to the sound of the blow which followed. Fernandez was one of the old hands, a God-fearing man with whom the chief officer had sailed before. The mouthers of the obscenities fell silent and the singing began again, this time a fisherman’s song. It stopped when the hull of the tanker loomed up above them like some great mountain growing out of the sea and the launch bumped alongside the foot of the gangway.

Jarrett nudged Foley, spoke in a low voice. ‘Let the crewmen go up first. No good standing on ceremony with these drunks around.’

The second officer agreed, whispered to the others, and the crewmen clambered out, struggled up the steep gangway, shouting and laughing. They were followed by the two engineers, then Jarrett, Foley and the catering officer and their wives. As Jarrett got towards the top he heard shouting. He reached the floodlit maindeck to find the way aft blocked by men who’d formed a ragged circle round a fight. He watched for a moment, saw one man fall and lie huddled on the deck as his opponent kicked him. Jarrett forced his way through the circle and grabbed the kicker. The prone man struggled to his feet, drew a knife and staggered towards them.

‘Stop him,’ shouted Jarrett sharply, but the onlookers showed no desire to become involved. The chief officer hesitated, pushed aside the man he was holding, and kicked the knife wielder in the groin. The man grunted and let the knife go as he fell. His adversary at once jumped forward and began booting him in the face. Once again Jarrett pulled him back. The man broke loose, swung round and struck him. Jarrett, rugged, powerful, shook his head, measured the distance coolly, and let fly a left hook which lifted the man off his feet and landed him on the deck. There he lay, flat on his back, twitching and groaning.

The chief officer picked up the knife, threw it over the side and
turned to the onlookers. ‘Get those men to their cabins and see there’s no more trouble. I’ll deal with them in the morning.’ A trickle of blood came from his mouth.

Jarrett reached the lift to find the Foleys and the catering officer and his wife waiting there. Jarrett was holding a handkerchief to his face.

‘You all right, Mate?’ asked the catering officer.

‘Okay,’ Jarrett breathed heavily. He took the blood-stained handkerchief from his mouth and examined it. ‘Serves me right. Should have seen it coming. Especially from a drunken man.’

‘You’re not all right,’ said Sandy firmly. ‘That’s a most awful gash on your lip.’

‘Come on,’ Foley said irritably. He was in the lift, his finger on the ‘Open Door’ button. ‘Let’s get moving. It’s late.’

His wife gave him a withering look as they got in. ‘You must let me look at it, Freeman,’ she said. ‘We’ll bathe it with disinfectant. Put something on. You may need stitches.’