The Sons of Adam (26 page)

Alan nodded. ‘It’s an irritation I can let you dispose of.’

‘But, you see, on the other hand, our geology people say there’s really
nothing
to be had in the south and from my own point of view, paying out money to the Shah for the right to drill for nothing doesn’t exactly make financial sense.’

‘I can see that. I just wanted to give you the opportunity to bid.’

‘To
bid
? To
bid
? You mean to imply there are
bidders?
’

The Finance Director’s voice had risen to a squeak. In his excitement, he’d let some watery tea slop into his saucer. It formed a little circular lake, like a pool of oil.

Sometimes success comes from luck, sometimes from circumstance, sometimes by accident. In the case of Royal Dutch Shell, one of the two big gorillas of the international oil world, success was born of an individual: a Dutchman named Henri Deterding.

Right now, Deterding was glaring incredulously at Alan.

‘
South
Persia?
South
Persia? The
south
of the country?’

‘That’s correct. Bandar-e Deylam to Persepolis and everything south.’

‘And this is your survey, eh?’

Deterding had acquired the manners of an English country squire. His behaviour during the war had been emphatically pro-British. All the same, where business was concerned his manners became brusque, almost rude.

‘Yes.’

‘Of course, you can’t expect us to rely on your own survey. You might tell us anything.’

‘I have set down only what is true.’ Alan spoke coldly. He was an English gentleman, and was not used to people suggesting he might lie. His coldness was for another reason as well: a guilty conscience. His maps contained nothing that was false, but they did not contain everything that was true. In particular, a certain red cross with its handwritten comment, ‘Oil seepage!’, had been left off the copies that Alan now handed round.

‘Yes, yes, yes.’

‘You’ll find that, except for a few details where I’ve corrected previous work, my report is exactly in line with previous investigations – although more detailed. I would naturally invite you to send your own experts, only …’

‘Yes? What? Only what?’

‘Sorry. I spoke hastily. If you want to cover the ground again with your own geologists, then you must do as you see fit.’

‘But you were saying something.
Only.
Only what?’

‘I was starting to say that there are a couple of other companies with some interest in the possibility. They may be willing to act more quickly.’

‘Other companies?’ Deterding’s small face with its trim moustache was suddenly alive. ‘Who? Ha! Anglo-Persian. By God, I can believe they’d be keen to keep us away. God, yes, that’d be a smack in the face for them, what? Shell getting all friendly with the Shah, and who knows what might happen to the concession in the north … But you said two companies.
Two.
Who’s the other?’ His brow furrowed. ‘Not the Americans, surely? Not –’

Standard Oil was the biggest, the strongest, the richest, the toughest.

Their man in London was a big-jawed American, Huckleberry Grant, who’d started out with his own independent refining outfit, before being ‘sweated’ to death by Rockefeller’s operation. Grant had joined his enemy and risen far and fast.

‘This is a helluva good job on the geology. Your own work?’

Alan nodded.

‘Nice. We’ve had some of our own guys take a look at it. We can’t confirm everything, but this squares with anything that we know.’

Alan nodded.

‘And what we know is there’s not much there. Maybe a little. Not a lot.’

Alan nodded. ‘You may be right.’

‘You’re not exactly selling yourself here, feller. You don’t think your concession is up to much?’

‘It’s not what I think it’s worth, it’s what others think it’s worth.’

‘But we’ve got the first look over this, right? You came here first?’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Grant, perhaps I should have done. Unfortunately there are a couple of companies closer to home with an interest in the property.’

‘Anglo-Persian, I can see – but, goddamn, you mean Shell, don’t you?’

‘I was with Henri Deterding this time yesterday.’

‘Deterding, Jesus.’ The big American crashed his big fist against the desk. Among the ornaments sitting there was an eight-inch fishtailed drill bit, well worn and still dirty in the pockmarks. Grant’s fist shook the desk and the drill bit began to roll to the edge. Alan caught it and returned it.

‘Thanks. Hit a gusher with this back in ’eighty-five. Molly Moran 2, name of that well. Three hundred fifty barrels a day it did at its best. Sweet old Molly Moran.’ Grant weighed the bit in his hand, deep in thought. ‘Deterding, huh?’

Christmas Eve.

Up on the hills, a second oil strike had been made, one-eighty barrels a day, and the lucky well this time no more than a mile and a half from one of Lyman Bard’s. The excitement was formidable, but drilling conditions had turned from difficult to near impossible. The snow was thick, the cold savage. On days when the wind blew and snow fell, nobody left his lodgings. On clear days, the drilling crew set out at dawn, and did what they could in the short days and the bitter cold.

Tom quit.

‘You what?’ said Bard, when Tom told him.

‘I’m taking off. It’s not like you need a full crew, not with this weather.’

Bard shook his head. In theory, Tom was the most junior of his crew, but in practice Tom was faster, keener, smarter than the rest. ‘The cold getting to you? I guess it don’t snow in England, maybe …’ Bard’s voice trailed off as he tried to remember if England was a snowy country or not. ‘Not like here, anyways,’ he added to be on the safe side.

‘I don’t mind it cold, Lyman. But I guess you’ve taught me enough about drilling for now. I reckon it’s about time I made a little money.’

‘You want a raise? I could find four bucks a day, I guess. Matter of fact, I reckon we could say four bucks fifty.’

But Tom didn’t want a raise. He didn’t want employment. He’d come to America to make his fortune and he’d waited long enough. He drank a last beer with his mentor, shook hands warmly and headed off at a brisk pace down the valley to the railhead.

It was there he found who he was looking for. The pre-Christmas bar was rowdy and loud, the holiday mood only increased by the men’s knowledge that in just four weeks, Uncle Sam was locking up the beer kegs and the whiskey bottles for the rest of time. Tom got to the bar early enough that Rebecca Lewi hadn’t yet started her nightly trade. Tom bought a bottle of wine at the bar, then caught her eyes and held the bottle aloft. She smiled and came over. It was the sixth time they’d shared a drink together. Not once had Tom offered to pay for sex. Not once, after the first time, had she offered it.

‘Merry Christmas,’ he said as she sat.

‘And merry Christmas to you.’ She pronounced the word with a kind of grave care, reminding Tom that the festival belonged to him but not to her. He suddenly wondered if it had been her intention to remind him. He felt a brief flash of annoyance, which he quickly damped.

‘I quit today.’

‘I’m sorry? You left? Left work?’ She bent across the table to hear him better. Her hair smelled warm and soft, but alongside that good smell there lurked the one of cheap scent that was as much a part of her profession as the low-cut blouse and dark stockings.

Tom nodded.

‘Why? I thought you loved your job. Oil: isn’t that why you came here?’

Tom gestured outside. ‘We can’t drill in this. Not really. We lose two days for every one we drill.’

‘And instead what will you do?’

Tom grinned. ‘I expect I’ll think of something.’ He refilled her glass and changed the subject. ‘Listen, you were planning to work tonight?’

She nodded.

‘Well, don’t. There’s a restaurant down the road which isn’t terrible. Let me take you there. You shouldn’t be working on Christmas Eve.’

She hesitated a moment. Tom could see that she was calculating whether a dinner with him was worth the sacrifice of an evening’s income. She glanced towards the group of her friends – the other prostitutes who worked the town. Then she turned back and smiled. ‘Thank you. I’d like that.’

Without finishing their wine, they left the bar. A rigger, who knew Tom and recognised his companion, made an obscene whistle as they left. Tom instantly stiffened and was about to turn back into the bar, fists balled, when he felt Rebecca’s hand on his arm, pulling him back.

‘No fighting!’ she said sharply. ‘I can’t stand it.’

Tom turned away and went outside with her. ‘Don’t you mind? That idiot whistling? The picture he had in his mind?’

‘Thomas,’ she said, turning the pronunciation of his name into something dark and soft and East European, ‘Thomas, I sell myself. It is how I live. This way, people whistle at me but I pay what I owe. It isn’t for ever.’

Snow was still gently falling and her long hair began to be speckled with white. Her deep-set eyes looked unwaveringly into his. He held her gaze a moment or two, then looked away.

‘OK. My Christmas gift to you, then. I won’t punch idiots who whistle.’

It was cold outside and they hurried on to the restaurant. The food wasn’t special, but it was OK. They talked non-stop. Rebecca’s father had once been a pharmacist with a substantial shop in one of the better districts in Vilnius. In talking about their life there, she happened to mention that they had employed two maids to help them. Tom was struck by the similarity in their stories. She: robbed by war, exiled from a prosperous home, was now in effect without family. He – for all that he was an English gentleman, not a Lithuanian Jew – his story was the same. They ate steak and fried potatoes, chopped cabbage, a sticky date Christmas cake washed down with wine and coffee.

‘Thank you, Thomas. It is a pleasure to feel like a lady for a change.’

Tom flung some money on the table. ‘Here. I’ve got something to show you.’

Out on the snowy street, by the light of the moon and a flashlight that Tom carried with him, they walked together to the yard behind the railway depot. Tom led them down a side alley, to a small wooden shed, padlocked shut. He produced a key, unlocked it and swung open a door. He shone the flashlight inside.

The shed was full with cases of whiskey, four complete barrels of beer, all of it bedded under straw to keep the frost away.

‘It’s why I quit my job,’ he said. ‘The way I see it, Prohibition is a goldmine. A fellow only needs to be willing to dig.’

Rebecca’s face looked gravely disappointed; upset even. ‘You quit your job for this?’

‘Yeah, and I know how I can get more. But listen, I’ve got a proposition. It’s one thing to have the hooch, it’s quite another to sell it. What with your job and all, I figure you’re the perfect person to sell the stuff.’

Rebecca backed away. In the darkness, Tom couldn’t see her face. Her shoes slipped a couple of times on an icy wagon-rut. Tom put out an arm but she waved it away. When she spoke, her voice was close to tears.

‘Why? Why do you have to do this? Why can’t you just leave me alone?’

‘What? What d’you mean? I’ll give you your share, of course. Don’t you want to pay off your debts? I can’t believe you’d rather … do what you do than sell a little liquor.’