The cold jungle, p.3
The Cold Jungle, page 3
The Captain’s brandy was far too good to offer a man just up for a casual drink. He sat with his legs crossed, waving quite the largest balloon glass I have ever seen gently back and forth beneath his nose like someone who has just discovered a sense of smell.
“You don’t mind if I call you Paul?”
I did, but it doesn’t pay in business to be stuffy, and much as I personally dislike it, I’ve grown used to accepting the old pal after five minutes’ approach which is our age’s most cynical comment on real friendship.
“Paul, I won’t try to lead up delicately to what I’m after. With you a waste of time. It was talk of that boat you’re having built in Scotland. Fast is it?”
“As fast as twin Gardiners can make it.”
“Not using your own engines this time?”
That was sly, but I didn’t let it trouble me.
“Mine are work horses. I wanted a real turn of speed. The builder promises me twenty-eight knots.”
My host sipped. Then he seemed to remember something.
“How about a cigar?”
“Thank you.”
It was a Jamaica “La Tropical,” light, a good leaf, better than most of the Manilas I’m used to.
“How are your commercial relations with Indonesia, Paul?”
“They have been downright bad, but are improving with the new political situation.”
The Captain nodded, as though this tied in with his dossier on me.
“You know Borneo well?”
“Quite.”
“You go there often?”
“No. Occasionally.”
“Sometimes unofficially?” He smiled.
“There was a time when I went in for travel that by-passed visas.”
“To Sumatra as well?”
“Yes.”
“The fact that you’re having a boat built which will do twenty-eight knots suggests to me that you might still use it for occasional unauthorised visits here and there.”
I had no comment on that and after a moment the Captain went on.
“One of my things is representing certain oil interests in this country. And ever since lunch today I’ve had the strongest feeling you’re exactly the man we’re looking for. In an almost unique position from our point of view.”
“You want to hire my boat for some geological snooping in South East Asia waters,” I said, jumping to it.
He shook his head.
“I wouldn’t insult you by suggesting a hire. We could get a boat anywhere. What we need is your knowledge of the area. And your training in getting about it in an inconspicuous manner. What I’m offering, Paul, is a kind of partnership. With very powerful interests behind us. The money would be good, very good.”
“These days all my money comes from open trading. I’m a respected citizen liable to be elected at any moment to the Kuala Lumpur Chamber of Commerce.”
“Which means you’ve given up taking risks?”
“They have to be carefully calculated. I’ve too much to lose to be irresponsible.”
“Would you call the discovery of a new oil field being irresponsible?”
“If it was discovered by illegal entry into a foreign country, yes.”
“You surprise me,” the Captain said.
I was pleased to have done that. My host didn’t appear to like the way things were drifting in this test interview. He poured more brandy and then went off into a new tack of plain, down to earth honesty which is a good approach to the shady commercial proposition.
“All right, Paul, let’s face it. Oil’s the problem. More has to be found. And all the likely areas are politically touchy to a high degree. Prospecting is far from what it used to be. We’re up against diplomatic factors these days which simply force us into secrecy of a kind. Jealous national interests and that kind of thing. Do you get me?”
“Of course I get you. It’s one of the reasons why I’ve stayed clear of oil all my life. Too tricky. You need vast installations and the moment they’re set up these become subject to the political winds of change. Your capital outlay is threatened from the start.”
The Captain cleared his throat.
“There are ways of controlling that threat. If the interests behind you are big enough. Mine are.”
“I’m still not renting me or my boat.”
“Now look here, Paul, there is nothing dubious about these operations. Once we’re assured from a preliminary survey that a concession is worth taking out the approach will be through all the proper channels. What we’re trying to do is avoid the preliminary difficulties, all that red tape before we know whether a commitment is worth it or not.”
“You also want to avoid your rivals.”
“All right. Admitted. But what I’m suggesting is really very simple. Modern geological techniques being what they are we can do a survey with very little equipment indeed. And after this we know whether any area is worth the full treatment. All we want is a chance to look and sniff, with no one being any the wiser. This shouldn’t be too difficult in places like Sumatra and Borneo. I can tell you that my interests think this is the only way to approach things.”
I felt slightly warmer than I had since landing.
“What you’re actually suggesting is that your interests buy the cover of my reputation as a straight trader.”
“There’s no need to be so holy about it! Have you always been such a straight trader?”
“I am now. That’s the point.”
“Damn it, man, we’d only need a team of four on your boat.”
“Four too many. I’m not getting mixed up in this. It’s not the way I operate. And it could finish me if it got out that I’d been trying. We’ve only had company clearance to use Indonesian ports for fifteen months. And if that was cancelled suddenly the shares you’ve bought in my company would be worth practically nothing overnight.”
Those eyebrows went up again. He forgot the connoisseur act and put down a fair slug of brandy.
“I must repeat, Paul, that we’re playing for big stakes. Much bigger than any profits from a collection of little tramps and those junks.”
“And where do I fit in all that? A company directorship in Dallas if things go wrong?”
“You’d be looked after.”
“Life pension?”
“Cash.”
“If you offered me a percentage take on every barrel you eventually bring out I still wouldn’t touch it. I don’t want to be an émigré from my part of the world. I’m committed to it. Even sentimental about it. I’m a South East Asian for better or worse. Is that clear?”
“Very,” the Captain said.
He looked angry. He had set out to find my price and failed.
§ §
I sat in a London park a foreigner, more than slightly conscious of another foreigner I had been seeing off and on for three quarters of an hour. He was down by the pond now pretending to be a duck lover, but making a bad job of it. There was something about his stance which suggested an almost physical resistance to all this mock-rural placidity. He was no Englishman.
He could be almost anything else, fair, rather square, with somewhat squashed good looks. I had particularly noted his walk which had suggested the specially sprung legs of the trained runner. His clothes were chain store contemporary and just a shade too tight. Twice when I had been near enough to look at him he hadn’t returned that look.
I’ve sometimes felt sorry for the professional tail assigned to follow the professionally cautious. For one thing, the poor wretch is almost invariably led to a park for certain identification, decoyed into an area where only the trees have survived the assaults of man and his girl friends, and there is very little low cover left. A city park makes a joke of all advanced tracker training.
When I stood up from the bench this was noted. In Singapore, where the art of shadowing is highly sophisticated, I just might have seen the first operator twice, but not a third time, and the park role would have been turned over to a girl in a cheongsam with a love problem, or possibly a mum-to-be six months gone, it having been discovered that there is something markedly disarming about a highly pregnant woman. Also, in the Orient, there are always plenty of these available ready to work for pin money.
I turned into a side path, walking slowly. My shadow was pretty good, even with the odds against him, but a gentlemen’s convenience offered see-out windows at eye level and through them I watched my man take cover behind a patch of rhodedendrons fenced in for survival. I came out of shelter and started to run. I ran all the way to a road through the park used by taxis pouring back empty from the London Air Terminal.
“Where to, Guv?”
“The nearest men’s outfitters.”
I looked back. My tail hadn’t used specialist training and come after me at speed. He now knew that I had spotted him. I didn’t greatly care.
Up in a men’s ready to wear department I was met by a soberly dressed salesman of almost advanced years who had obviously seen a lot of things come and go in the male clothing trade. He still looked with a certain surprise at my Kuala Lumpur suit.
“I need help,” I said. “Think you can do anything?”
He considered this.
“I believe quite a lot, sir. Price range important?”
“No.”
“Then if you’ll just come this way.”
I lunched alone in the Café Royal wearing a rather bright Yorkshire tweed in which I didn’t quite feel myself, but then I hadn’t since landing. My new shoes, too, Lap reindeer hide, looked at after a double gin seemed a probable mistake, but still didn’t put me off the lobster.
I walked back to my hotel, using all the tail spotting dodges in the book and one or two that aren’t, but turned up nothing interesting at all. I still didn’t think I had made a mistake about that man in the park.
Hotel reception told me that there had been two calls from Scotland and gave me a Glasgow number to ring back, which was Cope, Wilson. I did it from my suite and got Bill at once.
“Paul! I was beginning to think you’d left London. Look, about tomorrow. I’m dreadfully sorry, but could you make it the day after … that is Friday? Same time, same everything. I’ll meet the plane then.”
“What’s happened?”
“Well, a director of the company for whom we’re building the dredger is flying in … from Guyana. I’m going to have to show him around and convince him that a slight delay in delivery has been worth it.”
“Always a tricky job,” I said.
“Quite. And I’ll need a night’s sleep to get my nerve back for you.”
He sounded much more cheerful than during breakfast with me. I told him that I had reserved Friday for the man from Holland. After a moment he said:
“I get the message.”
“There is no message. Just an arrangement I can’t break.”
“In that case it will have to be after the weekend. How about Monday?”
“All right.”
“What are you doing on Saturday and Sunday?”
“At the moment nothing.”
“Then come up to Mull. I’ll be there. You can fly all the way these days, connections at Glasgow Airport. Then drive back with me on the Sunday night, or Monday morning for that matter.”
“I mightn’t catch any trout and be put in a worse mood than I am now.”
He laughed.
“Look, Paul, I’m not trying to soften you up. I felt badly about things when I was on the plane back here. Me coming in on you trying to make a sale that way.”
“What way?”
“Och, using old friendship. It’s not how I normally do business. The fact that I’d like to see you again has nothing to do with a ship order. And believe me, I mean that. Hell, man, we had some good times.”
“Yes. I’ve been thinking that, too.”
I waited for him to say that Elizabeth, out in her castle, was also dying to see me again, but he didn’t.
“What do you say, Paul?”
“I think I’d better keep this weekend free. Anything might crop up. But give me your island phone number.”
“It’s Mull, Argyll, two-six-nine. What’s this for?”
“I thought I might ring you after my Dutchman. Saturday morning, perhaps?”
There was silence for half a minute.
“To let me know the worst quickly?”
“Not necessarily. It could be that I’m on the verge of allowing sentiment to get the better of business judgement.”
§ §
On Friday morning with my breakfast tray there was a registered parcel from Holland. It contained the Dutch firm’s bid for my coaster, and construction specifications, but no detailed costing, as though how they arrived at a figure was their business, not mine. I did some arithmetic on the back of an envelope. The devaluation of the pound sterling certainly wasn’t turning out to be the total answer to foreign competition for here was a Continental yard offering to build my ship for about eight and a half per cent cheaper than Cope, Wilson’s original estimate. Even Bill’s private new costing left the Dutch firm out ahead. Somehow this spoiled my appetite and all I did was drink coffee.
I had forty minutes on the phone to a shipping broker, then went by taxi to the offices of the Members of the Stock Exchange who had floated my company issue for me. Michael Gascoigne, the junior partner, who seemed to do most of the work, received me at once. His office was somehow comforting, reminding me of my own, the kind of clutter a man builds up around him who can want any number of things at any moment and likes to have them handy. There was no evidence of an efficient filing system. A gas fire popped away at low because the room didn’t get much sun. Michael couldn’t give me an answer to my question but rang a contact. He made notes on a pad, then hung up.
“Peter says there’s an article in a recent Financial Courier which seems to cover what you’re after.”
“I’ve read it. More guesswork than fact. I could understand if these subsidies to shipbuilding were Common Market policy. But it can’t be that, because my German offer wasn’t competitive with the Clyde.”
Michael shook his head.
“I don’t think it could be Common Market policy, Paul. There’s no evidence of secret agreements of this kind between members. Preference, yes. But that’s different.”
“All right. How can one small Dutch company afford to cut its own throat by climbing right over the devaluation barrier and building at a dead loss? I can perhaps see them doing it once to fill a hole in their order books. But I checked before I came here, and they seem to be a very comfortable little business, with pretty full books. I found out something else, too. This isn’t the first time they’ve bid over the devaluation barrier, it’s the second. They won round one. A tugboat. And the people they won against were Hardstock and Coomber, now in liquidation.”
Michael lit his pipe.
“Are you suggesting that’s more than coincidence?”
“I’m not suggesting anything. But you’ve got to admit it’s odd. Here we have this Dutch firm once again bidding against another shaky British yard, and furthermore dead set to win. I’d almost be willing to bet that they’ve had a look at Bill’s costing. And where does a moderately capitalised private company get finance for this kind of game?”
“Government subsidy?”
“As a special case? There are seven or eight other Dutch companies in this kind of specialisation who could have bid and didn’t. Why? If one of their firms could pull in this kind of government support why couldn’t the others?”
“It could be political, I suppose?”
“Michael, that kind of thing made public is political dynamite. And there’s something else. It’s six months since my brokers here put out twenty-seven specifications for tenders. There were nine reactions, the Scandinavians ruled out by Germany. Only one other British firm, in Fife, saying they had eighteen months’ full order books, but if there was a next time could they come in? All these reactions came in months ago. Then suddenly, up pop the Dutch boys, just before the bell. Why so late? My broker has no idea.”
“What’s in your mind, Paul?”
“Just a big blank, actually. Of the kind I find disturbing. I’m also a shade uneasy about something else, which may or may not be relevant to all this. I’m being followed.”
“You’re being what?”
Fractionally I envied him a world where such a thing was practically unthinkable.
“I have a tail on me. He came along this morning. Waiting across the street somewhere.”
Michael looked at me for one moment. Then he put out a hand to the phone.
“Well, there’s one answer to that. Police.”
“Don’t! All I’d get from the police is a couple of free aspirins.”
“In this country, Paul …”
“You can file the lecture. The fact is that I’m not very police minded in this, or any other, country. And at the moment there is nothing to show them. If anything more dramatic crops up I’ll dial 999 or whatever the number is these days. Meantime, you’re in the picture if I should need to get in touch with you.”
I got up and so did Michael, but more slowly. His expression had changed. And there was understanding in his eyes. Quite suddenly I might have been the patient in a psychiatrist’s office who has just produced that final symptom which makes the perfect textbook case, so rarely met with. I was served the prescribed therapy with a kind of gentle sweetness.
“Paul, what are you doing this weekend?”
“No plans yet.”
“Good. Well, you’re coming down to Surrey. You’ve never met my wife, and you’ll be surprised at our pastoral existence. Dogs and a donkey. Deck-chair on the lawn and all that.”
Somehow I wasn’t in the mood for an English family weekend, or a Scotch one. I got out of the invitation, I hoped gracefully.
§ §
The voice at the other end of the line used English with a kind of mechanical precision, never at a loss for a word, but still seeming to need a lightning computer to find most of them.
“Mr. Harris? My name is J. Veeringen Meersma of the Lorski Company in Rotterdam. I think that perhaps by this time you have the tender of my company?”
