Aftershock (4 page)

An alarm ... fantastically loud and growing louder. It filled his head, crashing through his skull. He was wading through water, trying to reach the source of the sound, but he was being pulled back, dragged down. He was suffocating.

Harry Flanders broke through to consciousness, but it still took him a few moments to realise the bedside phone was ringing. He scrambled to reach it, missed and knocked a glass of water to the floor. Cursing, he pulled himself up as far as his screaming headache would allow and grasped the receiver. ‘Flanders,' he croaked.

‘Morning, Harry.' There was a slight delay – long distance.

For a second, Harry could not recognise the voice of his producer of eight years, Natasha Young, the woman who kept his BBC3 program,
The Buzz,
on track week after week back in London. Last night had been a doozy. He had stayed in the hotel bar until they kicked him out at 3 am. Even after that he had emptied half the minibar in his room. The last thing he could remember was sitting at the desk and composing yet another weepy letter to Jane. Jane, his ex-wife whom he could not stop loving, even though she had walked out on him a year ago and was now pregnant with another man's baby.

The neurons clicked into place and Harry Flanders began to focus. He reached for his spectacles, glanced at the alarm clock and groaned into the receiver.

‘Is it sunny there?' Natasha asked brightly.

Harry felt like screaming, but he managed to keep a lid on it.

‘Gone nine there, right?' Natasha went on.

‘Seven.'

‘Oops.'

‘What do you want, Nat? Please tell me it's big – another 9/11 or a Jacko.'

‘You've heard about the Neptune Hotel, I take it?'

‘What? Nat, I hardly know my own name right now.'

She explained. He let her talk.

‘They've given us the exclusive, provided we give it a primetime slot on BBC1. So Robert Jenkins was en route,' she said. ‘Collapsed in Jakarta. It's touch and go.'

‘Shit!' Harry said, suddenly awake. ‘I like Rob. What's wrong with him?'

‘Not sure, looks like a heart attack.'

‘Shit!' Harry repeated, pulling himself up and resting his back on the headboard. Robert Jenkins was the presenter of a high-profile BBC program,
The World at Large
.

‘Yeah, so the Controller, no less, has passed the slot on to us.'

‘But what about the election story?' Harry went to take a gulp of water and realised the glass had gone. He cursed again.

‘What's up?'

‘Nothing.'

‘Look, Harry. The Neptune story has to take priority.'

Harry winced. He had been in Sydney for a week covering the federal election. He was a political journalist, not an editor-at-large, and between marathon sessions in one Sydney bar or another, he had put a lot of work into the story. It was a snap election, a close-run race between two party leaders who hated each other's guts.

‘But I've done the research for a 20 minute segment, Natasha. Tom and Andy arrived last night to start filming.'

‘I'm sorry, you're the only one I can rely on. And Harry, this is a
major
story. Did you hear what I said just now ...
an exclusive
. Forget the damn election.'

‘But...'

‘No buts, Harry. Christ. I wish I was there, it sounds fantastic. It's done nothing but rain here – British summer, right!'

Harry wasn't listening, just staring into space, barely taking in his surroundings. The room stank of booze and unwashed socks. Then he saw a glass on the other side of the bed. It contained a finger of brown liquid. Gripping the phone in his left hand he stretched over and pulled the glass to his mouth, downing the liquor in one.

‘Harry?' The tinny sound of Natasha Young's voice came from the receiver. Harry stared at it and sighed. He could feel the wonderful burning sensation of whisky in the back of his throat, and remembered there was still a shelf of miniatures left in the little fridge under the TV.

‘Harry?'

‘Yeah?'

‘Terry will meet you at 10 am. He mentioned a café, The Beach. Know it?'

‘I'll find it.'

‘Oh, and Harry? You can swim, can't you?'

Harry sat at a waterfront table in the Beach Café at Circular Quay in the heart of Sydney. He was early for his meeting and was already onto his second black coffee, trying to blunt his hangover. From where he sat he could see the Opera House directly ahead, and to his left stretched the black expanse of the Harbour Bridge. It was a warm winter day, the air still. He could let his mind wander as he watched the crowds pass by, their backdrop a perfect blue. Growing bored, he flicked on his phone to get the latest from the BBC website.

The only story was the building tension between China and the US. In fact, it was all anyone seemed interested in right now; even here, in Sydney, a week before a general election. It was a scenario everyone had dreaded for decades, prompted by the spectre of Taiwan. The Chinese had perceived the American president as a soft touch and upped the ante by deploying a dozen warships anchored just outside Taiwanese waters. But the leader of the western world had shocked the old men in Beijing by ordering the Third Fleet into position for a short ballistic missile flight from mainland China. The Chinese had then started flying planes into Taiwanese airspace, trying to push them into launching a Patriot missile. When one was launched, and shot down a Chinese fighter, the world had held its collective breath. That had been 24 hours ago. Since then, there had been nothing but an ominous silence hanging over Beijing, Washington and Taipei.

Harry had just finished reading the latest report when his producer Terry Mitcham arrived, a folder under his arm.

‘So what's the story?' Harry asked, taking off his reading glasses and pulling on his shades as Terry tucked in his chair and placed the folder on the table.

‘Here's everything I've managed to unearth,' he replied. Harry pulled the folder towards him, opened it and extracted a dozen sheets of A4.

Terry studied his colleague. Harry Flanders was wearing his perennial outfit – a shabby cream linen suit, white shirt with the top button undone, brightly-coloured tie loosely knotted, scuffed brown Doc Martin shoes, and three pens in his breast pocket. At his side was a well-worn brown leather satchel with one clasp broken. This morning he was unshaven, his receding hair dishevelled. Even in shades, he appeared washed out. ‘You look terrible, by the way,' Terry added and signalled to the waitress.

‘Thanks.'

Terry ordered a large latte. ‘The whole thing beggars belief,' he said as Harry read. ‘Two brothers – the ambitious and hyper-intelligent Michael, now in his late forties, and his clearly dimmer, slightly younger sibling, Johnny Xavier. They shared a childhood fantasy of creating a hotel on the ocean floor. As kids, they grow up in an ordinary lower-middle-class family home in Hampshire, share a room and plaster the walls with pictures of submarines, sci-fi designs for underwater bases, and presumably they watch every episode of
Stringray
ever made. Michael becomes an incredibly successful businessman, the head of a global media corporation which he started as a student at Cambridge selling advertising time on his own radio station. He carries young Johnny along with him, and by the time he's 35, Michael is a billionaire and decides to start living out the fantasy.'

‘Reminds me of Richard Branson and his bloody space hotels.'

Mitcham laughed as the waitress placed his coffee on the table. Harry looked up and ordered a third black for himself.

‘So, anyway. Ten years ago, Michael and Johnny form a company, bring in a raft of investors ranging from futurist nuts to some heavy players,' Terry went on. ‘Branson included, I believe,' he added wryly. ‘They decide to locate the hotel off Fiji and call in the best marine engineers, architects, designers and materials experts to help them draw up a feasibility plan. It takes even a Michael Xavier five years to get the financial backing, the permissions from the Fijian government, clearance from environmental agencies, the UN, you name it.'

‘You have to admire the chap for his perseverance.'

‘Too right. But then, the crazy bugger actually goes and builds the thing!'

Harry flicked through the contents of the folder. ‘Not a lot here, is there, Terry?' he said.

‘That's all I could get from Google and everything that's on file in London. Natasha faxed it over. The Xaviers have been as secretive as they could be. Understandable really. Part of the appeal is the wow factor when it's done.'

Harry nodded and scanned the pages. The first contained an artist's impression of the Neptune, labelled ‘The World's First Ocean Floor Hotel'. It looked like three anthills placed in a line and connected by tubular passageways. The next page showed a schematic of the building along with a set of floor plans, all copied from originals in the offices of the International Forum for Oceanic Development (IFOD), a sub-subgroup of a UN department to which all parties interested in commercial exploitation of the world's oceans must apply. These plans had been lodged almost eight years ago. Under them were a few grainy clandestine photographs taken during construction of the hotel. The next three pages were a set of legal documents outlining the structure of the companies involved in the project and how they interacted. The last couple of pages contained potted biographies of the key players involved in the scheme. Harry sped through the biogs and flicked through half a dozen short articles about the brothers from popular magazines including
GQ
,
Harpers
and
Newsweek
.

‘So there's no hint of anything dodgy about the project?' Harry asked.

‘None at all, by the look of it. Sorry!'

Harry smirked. ‘So, we have to fall back on the sheer wonder of the project and the engineering miracle of it all?'

‘Spoken like a true political journalist.'

Harry sighed. ‘Must say, it's really not my cup of tea.'

‘No?'

‘To be honest, the whole thing pisses me off. I'm supposed to be here for the election. I've done a whole shitload of work on it. As have you,' he added quickly, seeing Terry's expression. ‘But no, I'm sent to some fucking fantasy hotel on the ocean bed. I'm a
political
journalist, for Christ's sake. If London doesn't consider the Australian election worthy of its time, I should at least be given a crack at Beijing right now. That's where the real action is.'

Terry gave him a sympathetic glance and took a sip of coffee. ‘Maybe you should think yourself lucky, old boy. A night in a luxury hotel, a night that may turn into a media sensation.'

Harry shook his head dismissively.

‘Oh come on, Harry. Where's your sense of adventure?'

Harry gazed around the sun-dappled harbour, squinting behind his sunglasses. ‘That, my friend, was lost a long time ago in a bottle of bourbon. Which reminds me...'

Michael Xavier met the two TV journalists at the main doors to the airport. He was all smiles and exuded a relaxed air, belying the fact that he was in charge of a five-billion-euro project just about to be unveiled to the public. But then, he was well practised in putting on a brave face – it came with the job. He had been the one to dream up the Neptune, the world's first deep ocean hotel, a pleasure palace to accommodate 100 guests, each paying up to 50,000 dollars a night for the best suites. The project was a monumental undertaking that used cutting-edge technology and employed brand new materials and construction techniques. And, as chief executive of the corporation undertaking the job, he was responsible for the billions invested in the scheme.

Xavier strode forward to shake hands with the journalists. He was tall and gangly, with thinning black hair that had once been a luxuriant mop in the days when he played bass in a band at Cambridge. His big hand enveloped that of a middle-aged man in a crumpled linen suit. ‘Michael Xavier,' he said.

‘Harry Flanders,' the man in the suit replied. ‘This is my producer, Terry Mitcham.'

‘Delighted you could both make it. I was very sorry to hear about Robert Jenkins,' Xavier said. A Fijian chauffeur in a dark blue uniform approached, pushing a trolley. He started loading the visitors' bags. ‘This way,' Xavier added. ‘The car is just outside.'

A few minutes later, the limo pulled onto the main highway leading from the airport to the capital city, Suva. It was raining hard, drenching the lush tropical forest that lined the highway left and right. The sky was heavy with dark grey, low cloud.

‘This is supposed to be our drier season,' Michael Xavier commented wryly. ‘But of course none of that matters a bit where we're going!' He handed a brown plastic folder to each of the visitors. In the back of the limo, the three men were seated in oversized leather seats. Each of the guests had a drink on walnut side tables attached to their chairs. For Harry, this was a godsend – he hadn't had anything alcoholic for almost an hour.

‘You've both signed the contract agreeing to the press embargo, so I'm happy to let you see these now. They contain the basic facts behind the Neptune. Let me talk you through them.

‘The Neptune is the world's first true sub-aquatic hotel. It's been built at a depth of 100 metres, 12 kilometres off the coast on the edge of the continental shelf, in what is known as the neritic zone. Half a kilometre beyond the Neptune, the ocean floor starts to drop away almost a thousand metres. The reason this location was chosen is because 97 per cent of marine life lives in the neritic zone, and the variety of this life off Fiji is particularly remarkable.

‘If you turn to the schematic, gentlemen. On page seven, you'll find the layout and stats for the hotel. The Neptune is a complex of interconnected domes made from superstrong micro-alloyed glass. There are three main domes: Alpha, Beta and Gamma. Each is 60 metres high and 50 metres in diameter. Each dome is topped with a thick metal cap. Alpha contains the main docking area and air locks for receiving the submarines that transport guests from the surface. Above this is the reception area, and on the top level is a restaurant with a wraparound view of the ocean. Beta consists of three floors of luxury rooms on the periphery of the dome, each with a view to the ocean. At the top of the dome is the Presidential Suite, more fish bowl than hotel room, actually. Dome Gamma also has four floors. On the first level is an enormous casino. On the second floor we have a conference suite. Above that is a 100-seater theatre, a cinema and two restaurants.' He glanced quickly at his guests. ‘And on the top floor, there's an incredible pool and more restaurants. The administration centre and the power station and communications hubs are housed in separate, smaller domes linked to the main hotel complex. You can see them on the edge of the diagram. Any questions?'

‘This is amazing,' Harry said, genuinely impressed. ‘They sent some stuff over from London, but you've been understandably circumspect about what you've let out. I never dreamed it would be on this scale.'

‘Thank you,' Xavier replied, clearly delighted. ‘And, yes, we've had to be very careful. We want to make a big splash. If you'll excuse the terrible pun.'

‘What about safety mechanisms?' Terry asked. ‘Is it completely self-contained?'

‘No, that would be too risky. The hotel has a double redundant backup system for power, oxygen and communications. But on top of this, it is linked to the mainland by a submarine cable for emergency power and communications.'

‘So what's the budget for this?'

Michael Xavier took a deep breath. ‘Five billion euros.'

Harry whistled. ‘Christ! And how was that raised?' He knew the basics from the rather scant file Terry had compiled, but wanted more, and from the horse's mouth.

‘A consortium called BHL – Bathoscope Holdings Limited – owns the project. There are 600 shareholders – some very big players, but quite a few small investors. The complex was designed by Felix Hoffman, a true genius. It's been almost 10 years in planning.'

‘How on earth do you get to it?' Terry asked.

‘Well,' Xavier replied, ‘you're about to find out.' As he spoke, the car slowed and they could all see through the windows that the rain had cleared to reveal the ocean 70 metres below the road. Hugging the beach was a line of elegant steel and glass buildings. A huge sign over the main doors said: ‘SUVA SUBAQUATIC PORT'. In the water just beyond the buildings lay the long, narrow shape of a submarine. Some 30 metres in length, it was low in the water and glinted in the weak sunlight. ‘Gentlemen, the
Cousteau
,' Xavier said proudly, as the car swung onto the steep road leading down to the water. ‘Your subaquatic taxi.'