Sun Dance (33 page)

Hoping to distract his friend, Goldberg attempted a serious note, “You know Nicky, deposing Anderson is one thing, protecting Nuen’s nuclear interests is another. Solar energy’s our real danger. I noticed the other day the US Energy Department is funding work on photovoltaic panels which can be embedded into roads and car parks. Its sounds outlandish but paving the US road network with solar panels would supply the nation’s entire energy needs. As for this damned Sahara Solar set up,” Sir Joshua mused on, “and just wait until China and India along with Brazil and the Middle East block stop trading oil in dollars, that’ll stuff the US economy big style, no wonder gold’s taken off, a real shift power is round the corner.”

Fellows stroked Goldberg’s flaccid thigh. Before the hand could stray further, Sir Joshua got up, “Now, now, Nicky don’t be naughty, I think I told you I’m meeting an old member of staff for coffee, a bit boring for you, I’ll drop you off at the National Gallery, you must see the Turners. Now then shower and breakfast, what d’ you say?”

Nicky sounded petulant, “Whatever you say, Josh, but let me soap you down,” and pulling his friend off the bed they went into the shower together

An obscure café in China Town served the purpose of two men dressed casually in sports jackets and flannels; neither would be recognized or even noticed by the mix of clientele who sipped green tea or took their morning coffee. The pair met on the street outside and sauntered to a table away from the window. Dragon lanterns did little to alleviate the general dimness; instead they cast a yellowish light on richly embroidered silken drapes. Mustiness pervaded the thick atmosphere, a cloak- like incense of spice and exotic fruit in which secrecy might hide. Cane tables and rattan chairs were not the style of furnishing which Nuen’s Chairman favoured, nor did oriental beverages have any appeal.

The click, click of a bead curtain and a Chinese waiter stood awaiting their order, polite and deadpan. “Two black coffees,” Goldberg spoke without looking up. As silently as he appeared, the waiter withdrew into some dark recess behind the curtain. Perhaps the unreadable mood of the place, maybe the nature of their business, glancing at each other both men became aware care must be taken. They sat chatting, drinking coffee, to all appearances an innocuous meeting of two old colleagues.

Neither papers nor briefcases, no names used, the two men knew each other from Goldberg’s days as UK’s top Scientific Advisor. Nothing to be recorded or spelt out, both men’s minds perfectly able to convey their respective position and requirements without any openness. In spite of their affable conversation Sir Joshua watched the Permanent Secretary to the UK Government’s Minister of Defense with a concentration which turned his dark eyes to glittering avaricious dots.

Taking a casual approach, Goldberg observed, “Of course there’s so much common ground between yourselves and my friends in your sister establishment, issues of overall strategy don’t present any problem. We work towards mutual goals, it benefits all round.” Nodding agreement the Permanent Secretary ran slender fingers through a greying Etonian haircut, thoroughly aware that Goldberg referred to the Pentagon and his own Defense Department.

Sir Joshua spoke airily, “Perhaps I should say that my organisation has the closest ties with the chaps on our side of the pond. In fact we supply the key material for their existing requirements and also to their more advanced programmes.”

Brushing a military moustache with his index finger the Secretary had so far said nothing, his clean face remained impassive, only a faint flush came to the morning’s aftershave. This could prove a risky conversation. He glanced round the tables.

Goldberg felt his heart pulsing, a slight pain in his chest, the coffee too strong? “You may well wish to use our services in that direction, re-fuelling if you like to put it that way.” The Defense Secretary inclined his head, his eyes staring down a long aquiline nose at nothing in particular. Sir Joshua attempted a laugh, “Naturally if we can help you, perhaps your influence in another area could help us and you know, old chap, my organization is only too willing to help; we supply under brown wraps as well,” The Secretary mustered a quizzical grin.

They sipped coffee. The Secretary’s face lost its grin, Goldberg was getting to the salient, “Let me be honest, any progress on that other issue of energy production is being hampered by a lack of adequate facility in disposing of some of our more unwanted products and make no mistake this could be of international interest as others have the same problem too.”

Although the Defense Secretary easily followed Goldberg’s theme, the words international interest puzzled him for a moment. “International?” he raised an eyebrow.

“Absolutly”, Sir Joshua lent over the table, “there could well be a worldwide demand for the facility we at Nuen envisage, could pay your bosses handsomely. It would be quite a warren, given the right situation. It goes without saying that our helping you out with your private requirements would tie in quite nicely with the planned expansion of the generating units which are presently still behind closed doors.”

Far from being oblivious to Goldberg’s hinted proposal, the Private Secretary, who gave the impression of only a vague grasp of this torrent of innuendo, was thinking well ahead. Nuen’s paramount position in the nuclear industry was well known to him. To have Nuen quietly supplying weapons grade plutonium to the Ministry of Defense whilst busying themselves sinking their money and UK’s present and future nuclear waste into a storage facility would be the kind of deal of great appeal to the Treasury. Shipping in other nations’ waste would truly whet their appetite. Mustn’t let Goldberg cool off, he smiled graciously, “I quite understand your position, most interesting,” and rounding off, he nodded, “food for thought.”

Sir Joshua’s chest tighten, practiced at deciphering the bureaucratic code, he smelt progress, “We have several locations in mind for this facility and would appreciate it if you chaps could arrange a fly-by for us, rather than us pushing in somewhere to the glare of flashlights.”

The Defense Secretary stood abruptly, just a shade flustered, this interview must be terminated before Goldberg became too specific. He’d already decided that under the guise of a small military training exercise Goldberg or his minion should be shown to wherever it might be necessary for a survey. One snag, deaths in Afghanistan and current helicopter availability.

Ignoring Nuen’s Chairman, he walked out onto the street. Cursing under his breath Goldberg paid for the coffees, took the change and followed. Chinatown bustled round the pair, intimate and smelling of food, though daylight was not its medium. The cheapness of the venue had pleased neither party but then the Secretary reflected, one must make sacrifices in furthering the National interests. He must bear in mind that nursing Goldberg and Nuen, to a large extent the result of a certain other Company Directors’ influence, had the approval of Downing Street.

Looking over Sir Joshua’s head, the mandarin spoke in an undertone, “Our transport is busy elsewhere as we speak but within several months I can arrange a helicop…” he cut short. Confound it, stiffly he corrected himself, “I shall arrange suitable transport. Expect a private communication in due course and by the way, your thoughts will be relayed to the highest quarters.”

Anxious to bolster hopes of future business but in no ways wishing to compromise himself he lowered his eyes to give Goldberg final a penetrating stare, “Rest assured, Sir Joshua, the UK’s nuclear programme remains under active consideration, of course in the Nation’s interests certain planning procedures must be reviewed.” Goldberg moved to shake the Secretary’s hand, too late, afraid he might have said too much, with a curt nod the Permanent Secretary to the Ministry of Defense strode away.

Hidden by the crowd he smiled sourly, “Goldberg’s risen to the fly, um… he might be useful.” Shoulders back, military bearing; equally at home, be it casting flies on a salmon river, potting grouse on a Scottish moor or networking a Royal Garden Party, he epitomised the vested power behind politics, happy as always to watch his puppets dancing.

Eilidh was in London, that much I knew, no more, no less. Alone on the jetty I fretted for her. The crying of the seals which drew me to the bay had faded away to a profound stillness, the long, long hiss of gently spreading foam upon the sand, the only sound. It was a night for sharing. The vast firmament shone without a trace of cloud, no man made illumination to dim unbounded space, to detract from the purity of a light which enveloped land and ocean in a milk-white glow; a time to be together in the solitude of a place untouched; a haven where the past was a wraith which grieved for the spectre of tomorrow; a night to watch the turning heavens in their timeless configurations and journey to the limit of entwining thought.

Something drew me away from watching the play of light and shade across the bay. Dark forms at the turn of my head had a movement which caught the corner of my eye. Without reason, for several moments, a considerable unease affected me, almost a dread. An impending force seemed poised above the island. I stared into empty space. Its wavering silence seemed the echo of a long past celestial happening, some momentous cataclysm in the annals of the rocks. Its sinister threat vanished as quickly as it had taken hold. Instantly I dismissed the impression as no more than the auto-suggestive impact of dramatic lighting effects and the mournful wailing of the seals.

Although the keening of the seal-folk had died away, there lingered still the phantoms of my imagination, the souls without rest who’d lamented their drowning through the voices of the seal women; the spectral dead who roamed the beach by the fullness of a moon which infused the bay with a radiance of palest turquoise. And upon that eerie glow the Hilda glided, far out, stealthy as a dream, silently as a chimera might float into the mind on seas of fantasy.

Had I succumbed to the strangeness of the night, glimpsed of the tangled wavelengths of other worlds amidst the unending undulations of time? Out of an impenetrable distance, beyond the edge of our puny dot of existence, the arc of outer space grew in luminosity as it soared towards the circled brilliance of a haloed moon. From the vaulted heavens to the floating orb at my feet creation turned on an axis of light.

Familiar shapes were walls of black outline, silver reflection and shadows the animation of rock and shore; together the carved land of a bygone era, the creatures of the tide, the journeying photons which gave their energy to light the sea; I stood in a hallowed amphitheatre and in the secrecy of the night came their holistic enjoining. It seemed as if all the elemental forms were gathered below night’s curving dome, weeping with the pathos of the crying of the seals.

Slowly that bizarre impression faded and I thought again of Eilidh in London. And in so doing, to my horror, tube train doors were closing. Over a swaying crowd I saw her golden head. Aware of immediate danger I fought my way desperately towards her.

I struggled to rid the night of its stupid fantasies as the Hilda glided imperceptibly towards the jetty. The strength of the light cast her shadow upon opal waters. She sailed closer. I caught the faint creaking of her timber as a small pocket of the breeze filled her canvas. She was no illusion. Her crew were hidden by the spread of her sail. How many I wondered?

Eachan for sure and doubtless a police officer, maybe two of them; I smiled ruefully, yes, there’d be two of them, make certain I left the island quietly, hopefully without being handcuffed. Had they seen me standing on the jetty? Hiding on Sandray wouldn’t be difficult, it again crossed my mind, but then I’d be a fugitive and if suspected of murder, it might only confirm my guilt in the eyes of the law enforcement. I did not relish a heavyweight interrogation. No boy, stand and tell the truth.

Such was the transient beauty of the night, the impending police questioning or arrest seemed of no consequence on the great scale of happenings. An appreciation of the minutiae of any individual on the scale of the universe I’d been gazing upon emptied me of anxiety. Short of planetary disintegration through escalating climate change or playing with massive nuclear devices, nothing that mankind might do to disfigure or destroy the face of this earth could impact on the inexorable march towards this planet’s cosmic fate. What would be, would be. Eilidh was with me in thought, the island was part of me; both would travel in my mind and beyond.