THE MAN FROM SUBEO

The man from Subeo was Arthur Fong, which sounded Chinese, although he wasn’t. He said he’d be there on Thursday evening, November 26, at seven-thirty on the dot and rang the doorbell as the clock in the hallway just ticked over.

Tane, Rebecca, and Fatboy had gathered at Rebecca’s new house for the meeting. Fatboy had picked up Tane after school, and they had had a quick dinner of fish and chips while waiting for Arthur Fong to arrive.

It was Tane who answered the door. He’d jumped up like a shot and practically sprinted for the door while the others were still registering the sound of the bell. Then, not wanting to appear too eager, he had sedately strolled down the polished wooden floors of the hallway to the front door.

The door was solid kauri inlaid with panels of stained glass. It was a nice door. It was a nice home. It wasn’t new; in fact, it must have been fifty years old, but it was elegant, and a lot of money had been spent restoring it. None of which had really mattered to Tane, Rebecca, and Fatboy when they had found the place. What had sold them were two things. Firstly, it was vacant and available for immediate possession. Secondly, the back lawn led straight down to the edge of a high cliff above a secluded inlet of the upper harbor. At the bottom of the cliff, down a series of wooden staircases, there was a large, brown, slightly ramshackle boatshed.

From an upstairs room, the sound of a television washed faintly through the floorboards. Rebecca insisted that her mum was only grieving, that her mind was all right, but she had not questioned her daughter when she told her that they had bought a new house. Had not asked where the money had come from. Had just moved in, quietly accepted the room that Rebecca pointed out to her, and turned on the television.

As sad as it was, it was also convenient. It was good that she didn’t ask too many questions.

Arthur Fong was tall. Thin of face but wide of bottom, he was rather like a pyramid in shape and when he realized that his appointment was with three teenagers, suddenly found several pressing reasons to leave.

“Sit down,” Fatboy said, and added, “please,” for good measure.

Mr. Fong sat down. People had a habit of doing things when Fatboy told them to.

“Listen,” Mr. Fong said, “I admire your initiative. If this is for a school project, then I’d be happy to send over some brochures, even some of our technical drawings, which we don’t normally release. But I am on a very tight schedule.”

Tane said, “Mr. Fong—” But Fong held up his hand to interrupt him. “I have spent time—and money—flying over here because I thought I was going to be meeting with a company who was genuinely interested in purchasing one of our products.” He rubbed vigorously at his face with both hands, a gesture of tiredness and frustration.

“Can I get you a cup of tea?” Rebecca said demurely, and Tane glanced at her. That was not really like her.

That seemed to soften his attitude slightly, although he declined.

“Not had a good week?” Rebecca asked.

Mr. Fong smiled tightly. “You could say that. I’ve had flights delayed, lost luggage, canceled orders, and now a wasted trip to New Zealand, so excuse me if I seem a little brusque. You do realize, don’t you, that the price of the Nautilus is over a million pounds. It is not a toy!”

“Canceled orders?” Rebecca asked casually.

Fong said nothing.

“In Australia?” she coaxed.

Fong sighed. “Yes. Six months of negotiations all down the drain. And now this.” He made moves to get up again.

“Why did they cancel?” Rebecca asked quickly but still with a casual tone. “Is there something wrong with the submarine?”

“Of course not,” Fong said indignantly.

“Because if there are problems with it, then—”

“The sub passed every test they gave it with flying colors. The cancellation was all to do with bureaucracy and politics in upper management. The sub is fine. It’s brilliant, in fact.”

“So where is the sub now?” Rebecca coaxed.

Fong looked at her and smiled, realizing where she was heading.

“It’s still in Sydney,” he said. “But please be serious. It costs a million pounds. I don’t know what that would be in New Zealand dollars—”

“Four million, one hundred twelve thousand, two hundred and twenty-nine dollars,” Rebecca said from memory. “And ten cents. At today’s rate.”

Fong rose to his feet.

“It was nice to meet you. But right now, I am going to leave. I don’t like my time being wasted.”

“Your time is not being wasted,” Fatboy said. “We represent a trust that has substantial funding. The Nautilus you have in Sydney. We’ll buy it.”

“A trust,” Fong said skeptically.

“I said we’ll buy it.”

Mr. Fong looked at Fatboy with a kind of exasperation, as if he were speaking to an idiot who wouldn’t see sense. “Sure. It’s yours,” he said. “Just write me out a check for, hell, round it off to four million New Zealand dollars. It’s yours.”

The doorbell sounded and Rebecca went to answer it.

Fatboy stretched out a hand and said, “Mr. Fong, you have a deal.”

Fong ignored the hand.

Fatboy continued, “There are two conditions. You ask no questions, and you don’t inform the press. This deal is just between you and us.”

Mr. Fong looked at him cynically for a moment, but then laughed and shook Fatboy’s hand. “Absolutely. Anything you say. No questions asked. And the check?”

Fatboy shook his head. “We don’t have a checking account yet, but—”

“What a surprise.” Fong didn’t sound surprised at all. “Then I’m afraid the deal is off.”

Rebecca’s voice came from the doorway. “Mr. Fong, I’d like you to meet our lawyer, Anson Strange.”

“Just in bloody time,” Tane said out loud, without intending to.