Sun Dance (32 page)

It mattered little that the peaks of the distant Appalachian Mountains sailed on a frieze of pink mist; sun rise came at a heavy price. He stared out moodily, America’s Eastern seaboard thirty thousand below, he could just make it out, the long indented coastline, that white edge would be surf on Florida beaches, for a moment it created a hankering, and he felt a flicker of relief. From what? Financial and social disgrace, pretty certainly a divorce, he balanced on the precipice of ruin. Should he step back from the edge and fight? Jump and savour the elation of free fall? That child- haunting portrait of his austere grandfather, had he seen it for the last time?

Bouts of inner rage seethed though him, clenching his fists; Goldberg; I should have figured him at the start, too smooth by far and that plummy English accent, he swore aloud, “The sneaking bastard, just let him wait.” The Air Hostess looked at him sharply. Recovering his composure he sat and glowered. Please fasten your seat belts. The plane banked above Roadtown, about to touch down in the Virgin Islands, land of the lotus eater’s diet of palm beaches, rum and music. More importantly the location of a strictly private bank account, unknown to that creep of a banker in New York and every bit as critical, unknown to his ruinously extravagant wife. And there, anchored in the village bay amongst a plethora of millionaire sail and luxury cruiser, Anderson made out the tall masts of his yacht, the graceful Sea Nymph. Good, the crew had got his message.

Have breakfast, shave and then a smart visit to the bank. Ex-chairman Anderson stepped across the shimmering tarmac into a coconut rich aroma. His spirit soared. Dazzling sunlight, the fragrance of exotic blooms filling the warmth of the trade wind; the stupor of the past twenty-four hours was clearing. Ideas were forming. His taxi followed the coastline, colours separated into primary splendour under the brilliant light. Unending lines of surf, green and vibrant, rolled in from Africa bursting on vast white sands which painted their fringe of palm trunks black and slender. Back from the beach, amidst cool dark foliage, houses of colonial grandeur, sprawling patios and gardener trimmed lawns, had their windows to the sea. Beneath palm tree shade were the shanty huts of corrugated iron, kitchen gardens of hoe and plenty. Roaming hens fled squawking before the taxi, Caribbean kids on bikes dodged them both. Local women sat watching the passing world from front veranda, their gay dresses matching garlands of flowers which hung, reds, purples, and sunflower yellows. Smiling islands of music and laughter, the illusion of happiness?

None of the scene was new to a thoughtful Anderson, he’d spent many holidays out here between his yacht and hilltop villa. On this occasion for the first time, he saw it differently. Why face the stress of business, being driven by this disease of making money? Goldberg returned to his mind, he saw him now as a skillful manipulator suffering from the psychosis of unmitigated greed, living in a manner on the way to killing him. Let him shoulder the worries of Nuen, dealing with sly bankers, the endless lobbying of shifty politicians, top level intrigues, glamorous stuff until you realized what perfidious creatures inhabit the upper echelons of power. Watching the rolling breakers seemed to be cleansing his mind. Find a way out they said, feed the hunger of the wind, be a man again.

A cruise liner towering above the quay disgorged a procession of camera wielding tourists as the cab dropped him at a hotel on the waterfront. A tidied up ex-Chairman ate breakfast at a palm shaded table. Across ultramarine waters he could appraise the liveliness of a tropical playground. The bay churned with boats, island ferries, tourist laden, flashy millionaire gin palaces and their swimming platforms, local fishing boats piled with nets and dotted about, the odd dinghy being rowed lazily ashore. An old style gaff- rigged schooner hoisted her spread of canvas, sails clawing up the mast until drawing before the Trades they’d heel her over and drive foam from her bow. Maybe she’d be leaving for a distant landfall, a thrill tempered by anticipation. Others arriving dropped sail and anchored. Single-handed sailor would know the satisfaction of making a good passage and feel the strength of self reliance.

He watched the Sea Nymph rocking to the swell of an outgoing liner. Sleek and beautiful, she needed a crew of five and always her skipper making the decisions, how much canvas to set, when to tack, where to anchor. The appeal of adventure was stirring. The sea was talking to him.

Puffs of a hot breeze lifted tiny swirls of dust from the sidewalks. He walked past prestigious company offices that double as counting houses for the manna which fell on a luxurious tax haven.Banks, multi-national institutions, each was dedicated to ensuring that wealth, however obtained, remained in the accounts of those who’d discovered tax loopholes larger than the eye of a needle; in a perplexing mix of the grasping, the insouciant and the carefree, an old lady sat at her shop door, absentmindedly fanning herself. Hens at the gutter fluffed their feathers in a dust bath. It neared noon and the town took time out to rest. Anderson crossed a quiet street and caught the automatic doors of Scotland’s largest bank before it closed for a much extended lunch hour. Fans whirled above his head, scenting deliciously cool air. Being well known to the staff he was admitted without any security formality and shown politely into the head banker’s office.

A bald head just in sight over the top of a sumptuous Spanish leather couch might indicate the banker was anticipating his lunch time siesta and hadn’t heard the discreet knock. Getting to his feet on realizing somebody important must have been ushered in, he stepped across the spacious room, “Andrew, it’s always great to see you,” a Scots accent and the name, Fraser gave away his origins and by way of an excuse for not being behind a massively carved Indian desk, he added, “I was just sitting thinking.” They shook hands cordially, “Sherry, or something better?” the banker enquired already halfway to a cocktail locker. “Something better, if you please, Simon.”

Two large malts were poured. They’d always struck a note of accord, the banker feeling an affinity towards a man he regarded as a Scot even after a couple of generations in America. By the same token, Anderson was in many ways more at ease with Fraser than with his fellow countrymen. They chatted, touching gently on the recent banking crash and the disgrace of Scottish Banks.

“You know, Andrew when a top executive’s ego outstrips his business acumen and a bonus culture feeds down the ranks, then one day he finds his bank’s lending forty times its deposits and the system he controls has becomes a pack of dominoes. Pull out the bottom one, in this case the housing market and because you’re such a big player in the finance game, it’s hello Mr. Taxpayer.” The banker’s eye wandered to a window which looked out on a bay full of yachts. “But make no mistake, only the tax paying punters at the bottom are caught out. The cunning lads creep from behind the skirting boards, crawl over the pickings and the cycle starts again.”

The frankness of Fraser’s comments surprised Anderson, he warmed to the man. Looking round at the room’s trappings of wealth, from past bankers’ portraits down to an ornate crystal inkstand, it mirrored the ostentation of his own social class, objects symbolic of status, no better than a PR exercise to impress the like minded. The feeble minded, who could tot up the price of your furnishings, trade share markets up and down, but didn’t know the value of trust.

“Simon, I’m finished with Nuen,” his face became as hard as the decision, his voice brittle with emotion, “sell the yacht and the villa at your earliest opportunity, remit what’s generated to my bank in New York,” and speaking rapidly, “Transfer fifty thousand dollars from my private account with you to that small account I run in Switzerland.” Downing his dram, he finished emphatically, “I’ll call in for some ready cash tomorrow and we shall see what’s next.”

Fraser showed no surprise. Saying nothing, he crossed to the cocktail locker and came back with the decanter. Pouring another two fingers each he stood silently at the window. They sipped their whisky, neither quite ready to break private thoughts. Eventually Anderson throwing back the last of his glass spoke with difficulty, “My great grandfather left Shetland with the few Scots pounds he’d been given by his father, only the clothes on his back. Across there in the bay is a symbol of what grew from the soil of those islands, their harshness made him fit for a challenge. Look at my hands, soft living thins the blood. Maybe mine needs revitalizing.”

Putting his back to the window, the banker stood squarely before his client, “Disposing of your assets is not a problem, money flows into this hole like water down a drain. Nobody sees the effects of wealth better than a banker and a barman. I see what it does to many out here, they flounder in it, some sink, a few put it to good works, charity, if you like, mostly it saps them of any challenge, baring the next round.” The man’s steady gaze seemed tinged with hidden regret, “Andrew, I grew out of a Glasgow tenement, my father was a dock worker on the Clyde. My folks had nothing, nothing except the value of honesty and now I wallow in all the wealth that fills an empty barrel.” Fraser reached out his hand, “Young man, I admire your decision. Good luck.”

Anderson took the hand without a word. Its grip was that of a man’s man. It sealed a momentous decision, a turning point; the handshake of a deal with fate.

A short distance beyond the harbour, a yachting marina filled a sheltered cove. He could see a forest of masts and walked towards it. Nobody about, the town quiet, no tooting cars, screeching parrots or warbling pigeons, the island snoozed away in a heat which burnt the soles of his feet. At the locked gate of the compound he stopped and waited. Sunning itself on a heap of stones too hot to touch, a lizard sat motionless, only the slow inflation of its sack like gizzard suggested other than a mock up. A loud snoring emanated from under an awning. Several rattles at the gate roused a tall smiling Caribbean who gave him access and promptly vanished beneath his sunshade.

Anderson sauntered about the boat yard. Yachts were of every size and type, some moored at pontoons, others ashore and propped on legs, some he wouldn’t even chance sailing across the bay. Wandering amongst the craft brought an inexplicable feeling of anticipation. Dodging round the stern of a flat bottomed motor cruiser he came upon a yacht which stopped him in his stride. Her bow lifted with a sheer fit to cleave any foaming top, her full length keel and wide beam would give stability, her canoe shaped stern would rise to any following sea. Perhaps thirty-six feet on the waterline and a simple Bermudan rig, she was an ocean going princess. A yacht for single handed sailing and hanging on her taffrail a sign, ‘For Sale’.

An old white haired seadog slept on a deckchair in the shade of her hull surrounded by paint tins and brushes steeping in turpentine. Mahogany face and lank brown arms, Anderson stood looking down on him. A sixth sense which goes with the sea awakened the man. “Sorry to disturb you, but I noticed your sign on the stern.” “Yes,” the old man reached out and patted her keel, “she’s followed the Trade Winds, knows every island in the Pacific, round the Horn and back again.” He searched the distance shore before looking up, “never a truer friend.”

Anderson walked to the bow of the yacht and read her name, ‘Valkyrie.’

The fourth floor windows of a luxury suite in one of London’s exclusive hotels overlooked Hyde Park. A naked and yawning Sir Joshua Goldberg drew back the heavy velvet curtains and stood looking out on a drizzle which settled lightly on November trees. The shades of autumn had still to lay their carpet of colour, the deep auburn of chestnut trees and the dying leaves of the oaks, yellow and brown. Early walkers shielded themselves with umbrellas and there clattering along the tarmac, a mounted troop of The Queen’s Life Guards on morning exercise. This was a London loved by the freshly installed Nuen Chairman, style and affluence, Royal traditions, knighthoods, a civility which gave quality its place, “Nicky, Nicky, come and see this, a troop of the Household Cavalry are out in the park.” Nicky Fellows, merchant banker and friend rolled out of their canopied bed and stood sleepily at the window.

“Wait till you see them on ceremonial duty, what a lovely sight, beautiful uniforms, lovely boys,” Sir Joshua enthused. The American blinked at a jingling cavalcade of head tossing horses and soldiers bobbing along in their saddles. His contact lenses were still on the dressing table. “Josh this is marvellous, what a good boy you are persuading me to visit London,” and he patted the Chairman’s bare bottom affectionately. Goldberg, forcing a smile, squeezed his friend’s hand, “Not at all, Nicky, you were the good boy, helping me to oust Anderson.” “Sure thing, Josh we sent him running like a cottontail.”

Turning from the window they sat side by side on the bed, the sagging white flesh of a Knight of the Realm with its creases of layered fat in contrast to the bony naked torso of Nick Fellows, tanned and scrawny. Nicky allowed their elbows to touch, ever so gently.

Sir Joshua’s thoughts centered on the business ahead rather than the attentions of his friend. He looked down on a floppy girth which hid his private parts. This affair was becoming tiresome. Fellows, yes a splendid chap, as far as most bankers went; not intelligent types, their noses too near the trough, clever but not intelligent. Nicky had certainly facilitated the run on Nuen’s stock, couldn’t grudge him that and now the shares were climbing nicely again, but today’s meeting had to be of the highest secrecy. Financiers couldn’t be trusted; once Nuen became indispensable to the interests of both the Pentagon and Westminster, this relationship would have served its purpose and could be broken off; anyway Fellows was painfully demanding.