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Sir Peter Gables angled the oversized umbrella against the wind-driven rain as he left TransGlobal headquarters in San Francisco to walk the two blocks to Skoro's restaurant. He displayed an air of bluster in his step as he hurried along the spacious sidewalk, avoiding puddles. He was well used to rainy days, having lived in England for most of his life. But for all that, Sir Peter was born in India: his father, Sir Randolph Gables, was in the diplomatic corps and was stationed there during the second world war, well away from Nazi harm.
Being posted to Calcutta in '43 didn't mean one avoided trouble during that violent time. Driven by the English obsession with tea, Randolph Gable's prime function was to ensure that its shipment to Britain continued unaffected. To those at the Home Office in Whitehall this appeared a simple task when it was awarded to Sir Randolph. They could never have predicted the outbreak of organised guerilla rebellion against the monopoly of British growers on the tea ranges of Darjeeling and Assam.
When the tactics of the guerillas changed to target those in the cities, those who actually bought and shipped the produce, Sir Randolph rose to the occasion. He requisitioned and received two well-equipped companies of a combat battalion from the Indian government and the resulting reprisals were murderously one-sided. Sir Randolph kept Britain's tea trade links with India intact.
Peter's mother, born Margaret Blinkingsop, was a tall, straight backed, large bosomed woman; a product of Victorian parents. She was an even tempered person, a watercolourist, pianist and poet who was taught to limit her conversation in mixed company to that of only asking questions of men. With women she upheld her end in most discussions. Though sheltered for the better part of her life, she was well read and quick to present an opinion in any discussion. She could cleverly run a house: used to servants - raised by them - she said, one did nothing different in their colonial home than one did in London, except during the monsoon.
Peter was born at the family home in Calcutta on Wednesday, 21 April, 1943 - Adolph Hitler's 54th birthday. His mother was not enchanted with her part in the painful event. Not surprisingly, he was her only child.
Two years after the war's end and England's supply of tea certain, the Gables were called back home. The family settled on a farm in Richmond, in a grand house - Sir Peter maintained the house still, many years after the death of both his parents.
Peter was five years of age when they returned to England. His parents boarded him in at the exclusive Moresbury Boys School near Eton when he was ten. He was the youngest boarder by two years. A quiet studious boy: cricket, rowing and running the mile were his outdoor passions. He was eleven when his sports master took him to the crowded ground at the Oxford university track at Iffley Road when Bannister broke the four minute mile. It was his own miler's grit and determination that Sir Peter called on later when his father took him into his thriving import-export business, giving the young Oxford law graduate tremendously difficult tasks for such an inexperienced hand.
Sir Peter inherited the business when his father died and sold it after he was aggressively recruited to an executive position with the German giant, Krupp Steel. That was where he first heard the name, Werner Müller.
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Gushing through the doors of the dimly lit restaurant, Sir Peter closed his umbrella and shook the excess water from it. Skoro's was a popular San Francisco lunch spot; expensive and spacious, numerous plants offered anonymity to its mainly male, business clientele while a fountain in its centre camouflaged the sometimes sensitive conversations.
Sir Peter easily spotted Werner, despite his being seated with his back to the entrance. They had been close business allies for thirty years, working together for two major companies before TransGlobal Mining.
'Werner, how are you?' Sir Peter spoke softly as he touched the German's shoulder.
Werner stood and looked about the room before offering his hand to his former employer.
'Well, Peter... I'm well. And yourself?'
'Sick... my patience is wearing thin and I'm sure my nerves are beyond repair.'
'I'm sure... but it won't be long before we're both out of here. I'm enjoying it already.'
'Okay, okay... let's order our food, do you know what you want?'
The men scanned the menu and both cast cautionary glances about the room.
'You look different Werner... what is it? You've coloured your hair.'
'Yes, I've made an attempt to change my appearance.'
Sir Peter looked to the door and raised a finger; a waiter almost ran to the table.
'Let's order...'
Used to making quick decisions, Sir Peter was concise.
'Moussaka, salad and a roll.'
'And I'll have the Psari sto harti.' Werner looked to Sir Peter. 'Wine?'
'Yes... let's see. What about a Bordeaux?' Sir Peter asked and Werner nodded.
'And ice water, please.' Werner looked up as he spoke.
The waiter repeated the order, gathered the menus and was gone.
Wasting no time, Sir Peter began asking questions.
'What are our holdings worth right now?'
'Thirty-four million as of last Thursday.'
'Are the South Africans on side?'
'Totally on side.'
'So, exactly what is it they need from us?'
'They want the Lightning Mine to stall.'
'Have they suggested how we might do that?'
'No... they really don't care how.'
'What about your new work? What do you do?'
'I don't do anything. All they wanted was to get me and my files away from TransGlobal. After the stuff I've sent them over the years they said I've earned an early retirement.'
'Where do you live now?'
"Oh, I have an apartment in Jo'berg but I travel around. I plan on spending more time in Germany... Berlin.'
'Berlin?'
'Yeah, I still can't believe the wall has come down... you know?'
*
The wind swirled around the tall structures at the city's core as the rain beat down its ration. Sir Peter walked slowly as he returned to his office block, there was no urgency about him now, his umbrella angled firmly at the wind. At the entrance to his office building he looked up as he approached a large group of women and smiled.
Back in the restaurant, Werner sat for an additional twenty minutes over a second coffee. By the time he had left, the sky to the west was cloudless and blue, offering promise of a sunny afternoon.