62

 

THE SUPER-YACHT, ZEPHYR, LATER THAT MORNING.

Gwen had seen big yachts before. You couldn’t live by the sea and spend half your life working on it and surfing it and not see some whoppers. But she’d never seen anything like this craft before. It was gunmetal gray, for a start, not a pretty anodyne white, and there were no gentle angles. This craft was clearly built for speed, whilst being big enough, huge enough to offer serious home comforts.

Gwen had a chance to eye it from all angles as the helicopter approached, did a circle round, then came in to land on a demarked X on the deck at the aft. Zephyr looked ruthlessly futuristic, almost military. It was too gentle a name for such an aggressive-looking craft. Should have been Hurricane, thought Gwen, or Typhoon. So this is what billions bought you, she mused, wondering if the Sheikh himself were as lean and mean-looking as his yacht.

During the forty-minute flight, she had forced herself to calm down. She had sat in silence, gazing at the sea, trying to empty her mind of all thoughts, all incriminating thoughts anyway. It was a dull, energy-sapping day: low skies, low pressure. An unbroken layer of dark gray stratocumulus blocked off the sun.

Two tall, well-built Middle Eastern–looking men wearing polo shirts, tan shorts, and deck shoes met them as they exited the copter, ushered them across the deck and into the yacht itself.

Gwen noticed the heavy door closed behind her with a hiss, as if air- or watertight. She wondered if the yacht could withstand a three-sixty. She guessed it could.

The interior was radically different from the exterior. Outside was pure functionality, but inside was lavish, sensuous almost. The walls were paneled with a rich, dark wood. The carpets were so deep you felt yourself sinking into them. There was a heady smell that seemed to permeate the hallway; a sweet, spicy tobacco. Someone smoked the same cigarettes as Peter Weiss. She padded along, silent on the thick carpets, following behind Messenger, Weiss, and Barclay. One of the large men led, another fell in behind her, shepherding, she realized.

They were shown into a large stateroom.

“Could I have your bag, please?” asked one of the men in chino shorts.

“I’m sorry?” queried Gwen, holding onto her bag.

“Security,” replied the man. “We check everyone who comes aboard, apart from family.”

“Don’t take it personally,” said Messenger, a warning note in his voice.

No one asked him or Weiss or Barclay for their laptop cases, thought Gwen.

“We’ve been checked a hundred times,” said Weiss, as if reading Gwen’s mind. “Just hand it over.”

Gwen handed over her bag. She didn’t like it. Clearly didn’t have a choice, save getting back on the helicopter and getting the hell out.

The man opened her bag, juggled quickly through its contents, then took out an airport-like scanner, moved it over her bag and back again.

Gwen stared at the ceiling, waiting for him to finish. He handed it back.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said.

“Please, take a seat,” said the other man. “Can we bring you some refreshments? We have most things here aboard Zephyr.”

Gwen asked for a coffee, and water. One man disappeared on his errand, the other stayed, hovering in the background. No one spoke.

A few minutes later, the door opened, and in walked a man who could only have been Sheikh Ali. He smiled with the quiet munificence of the proprietor. He moved with an athletic confidence, swishing toward them in his flowing white robes, hand outstretched, murmuring greetings.

He greeted Messenger first, then Weiss, whom, Gwen noted, exchanged an Arabic greeting with the Sheikh, then Barclay, who did likewise. Then the Sheikh came to her.

“Ah, the Oracle,” he declared, shaking her hand firmly. “It is a pleasure. I have heard much about you and your ingenious work.”

Gwen smiled back. She enjoyed the way he rolled the r of Oracle. It made her company sound exotic and special to her own ears.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Please, sit,” murmured the Sheikh, gesturing at the leather sofa.

The refreshments arrived. The coffees were served in tiny gold cups, then, at a signal from the Sheikh, one of the men disappeared. The other moved away, to the far end of the stateroom, where he stood, feet firmly planted, eyes on the visitors.

Gwen sipped her coffee. She felt a welcome jolt as the caffeine hit her system. She hadn’t slept much the night before. Dan had insisted on staying until she had left for work. He had slept on the sofa. Painfully aware of him, just feet from her on the other side of the wall, Gwen had lain in bed, the ceiling fan turning softly above her, going over the events of the evening, playing out endless what if scenarios. She had fallen asleep just before dawn.

“So, I am very interested to hear about your model, Dr. Gwen,” the Sheikh was saying. “About Oracle and about Zeus. I am told you have had a very beneficial impact on that.”

“She has,” cut in Messenger. “She’s done a lot of work; I checked her input this morning. I’m confident her adjustments will materially boost the rain yield.”

“Excellent! Excellent!” repeated the Sheikh, bringing his hands together as if in prayer.

“So sad, about the death of the inventor, but so useful that you have come along in our hour of need,” Al Baharna added softly.

“Well, I’m sure Peter Weiss has more than held the reins since then,” said Gwen. “I’m a latecomer to the model. I’ve just tinkered a bit.”

“Ah yes, Peter has been most helpful. But two brains are better than one, don’t you think?”

The Sheikh was eying her intently, thought Gwen, feeling a tad discomfited. The man was charm himself, but there was acuity to his gaze. She could see why Messenger described him as someone you would not want to offend. Something else lay below the charm. Probably the ruthlessness that had garnered him billions. Perhaps he was like his yacht, lean and mean.

For an hour, the five of them spoke about Oracle and Zeus. Gwen quickly gathered from his questions that the Sheikh was extraordinarily well informed. By no means a passive investor. He turned to them all with questions. Ever polite, ever the diplomat, it seemed to Gwen, he was solicitous not just of Messenger but of Barclay and Weiss and herself, keen to elicit all their opinions. There was nothing of the brash billionaire about him, nor the lordly Sheikh. The man was a listener, one of the best Gwen had ever met.

Gwen watched her colleagues. Barclay, perhaps impressed, or oppressed by the Sheikh’s wealth, had reined in his inner jock and was thoughtful, studious, low key. Weiss seemed on edge. He kept flicking glances between Messenger and the Sheikh, perhaps keen to impress both, gauging how well he was doing. Gwen was sure Messenger’s metrics included impressing the Sheikh. Messenger himself was guarded, old-world European correctness to the fore. He sat, straight-backed on the sofa. Gwen got the impression he had himself under lockdown. It wasn’t as if he felt the Sheikh were above him, just that he seemed unduly wary of the other man. Was that what billions did, as opposed to tens of millions? If money was your metric, then Messenger was the underdog.

“So, final questions, then I must let you all get back,” murmured the Sheikh.

“Dr. Messenger, do you think you have more progress to make with Zeus, that you can increase the rainfall further?”

Messenger turned to Gwen. “Gwen, this is your department, really. I think Peter and I have gone as far as we can with it.”

Gwen thought of the model, of how Messenger was planning to use it to ramp up an ARk Storm, to nudge a big winter storm into one. Or could it have been Sheikh Ali? Could he be Haas/Hans? It seemed unlikely. Gwen couldn’t imagine him grubbing around at a private equity conference. And he was not likely to have a Germanic name.

“There was a big storm here, back in June,” mused Gwen. “Do you remember it?” she asked the Sheikh.

He looked at her quizzically.

“I’m afraid I don’t. I spend all of June in Saudi, attending to business there so that I can come here and escape the worst of our heat over July, August, and September. Why?”

“Oh, because I learned a lot from it. Lessons I still want to apply to Zeus,” improvised Gwen. “I reckon I can get the yield up still further. Materially higher.”

There had been no such storm, but at least it had answered her question. Sheikh Ali had been out of the country during the conference.

The Sheikh nodded. “That is excellent news. Please apply those lessons. I am keen to hear the results. Now, just two more questions for you, Dr. Gwen.”

“Sure. Ask away,” responded Gwen, flip with relief that her ruse had worked.

“What I would particularly like to know is when do you think this ARk Storm might hit? And how much notice do you think we shall have that it is approaching?”

He seemed to caress the word as he spoke, rolling his rs over it. Arrrrk Storm.

“Well, we’re in October already,” started Gwen. “Earliest would be November, latest April. But there are no guarantees that it will hit.”

“Your percentage,” said the Sheikh, sitting forward, arms braced on his robed knees. “What percentage likelihood would you give it?”

Gwen looked at the man opposite, at his eyes, shrewd, calculating, waiting. He wasn’t smiling anymore. Gwen had a feeling, just fleeting, that the man could see right into her, could see her secrets, fluttering like moths.

She blew out a breath. This wasn’t academe, on the one hand this, on the other that. This was what commerce looked like, thought Gwen, glancing around. This is what commerce built. And commerce needed answers it could work with, answers it could parlay into a bigger fortune. Sheikh Ali’d be shorting the markets, Gwen was sure, along with Messenger and Falcon. And, however distasteful, it was her job to help him.

“I’d say ninety percent,” she replied grimly. “Does that work for you?” she couldn’t resist adding.

Messenger’s eyes flared, but the Sheikh didn’t seem offended.

“Thank you,” he replied thoughtfully. “That does work for me.” Then he smiled, a big open smile, revealing white teeth, brilliant against his brown skin.

“As you can see, I like living here at sea, I spend a lot of time off the coast of California. But I’d like to put some distance between myself and this storm when it comes,” he added.

“We’ll know some days in advance,” said Gwen. “At least I think we will. Remember, this has never happened in living memory, so we’re all operating on assumptions here.”

The Sheikh got to his feet. Weiss, Barclay, and Messenger all jumped up as one. Gwen rose.

The Sheikh took her hand. “Here is my business card,” he said, slipping a small gold case from his pocket, extracting a stiff card. “Please be sure to call me, keep me personally informed.”

Gwen took the card, nodded. The Sheikh said his good-byes to the others, escorted them all out onto the deck where the helicopter waited. She moved to go, but the Sheikh caught her arm.

“Just one second, Dr. Gwen.”

She turned back to him. He smiled at her, dark eyes intent. The others were already getting into the helicopter, couldn’t hear what he was saying to her.

“Please feel free to call me at any time. Not just to update me, but if you have any worries, any concerns that I might be able to help you with.…”

He let his offer float. Gwen swallowed. Had she been that transparent?

“I’ll remember that,” she said. The Sheikh nodded back. He let her go, turned, disappeared back inside his yacht. The door hissed shut after him and closed with a heavy thud.