"MacLean, Alistar - Seawitch" - читать интересную книгу автора (Maclean Alistair)

The eyebrows returned to normal. A twitch of the man's lip showed that he was contemplating smiling.

"This is a third party?"

"Yes."

"He has a name?"

"Cronkite. John Cronkite."

A hush descended upon the company. The open objections had turned into pensive hesitation which in turn gave way to a nodding acceptance. Benson apart, no one there had ever met Cronkite, but his name was a household word to all of them. In the oil business that name had long been a legend, although at times a far from savory one. They all knew that any of them might require his incomparable services at any time, while at the same time hoping that that day would never come.

When it came to the capping of blazing gushers, Cronkite was without peer. Wherever in the world a gusher blew fire no one even considered putting it out themselves, they just sent for Cronkite. To wincing observers his modus operandi seemed nothing short of Draconian, but Cronkite would blasphemously brook no interference. Despite the extortionate fees he charged, it was more common than not for a four-engined jet to be put at his disposal to get him to the scene of the disaster as quickly as possible. Cronkite always delivered. He also knew all there was to know about the oil business. And he was, hardly surprisingly, extremely tough and utterly ruthless.

Henderson, who represented oil interests in Honduras, said: "Why should a man with his extraordinary qualifications, the world's number, one, as we all know, choose to engage himself in an enterprise of this nature? From his reputation I would hardly have thought that he was one to be concerned about the woes of suffering mankind."

"He isn't. Money. Cronkite comes very high. A fresh challenge -- the man's a born adventurer. But, basically, it's because he hates Lord Worth's guts."

Henderson said: "Not an uncommon sentiment, it seems. Why?"

"Lord Worth sent his own private Boeing for him to come cap a blazing gusher in the Middle East. By the time Cronkite arrived, Lord Worth's own men had capped it. This, alone, Cronkite regarded as a mortal insult. He then made the mistake of demanding the full fee for his services. Lord Worth has a reputation for notorious Scottish meanness, which, while an insult to the Scots, is more than justified in his case. He refused, and said that he would pay him for his time, no more. Cronkite then compounded his error by taking him to court. With the kind of lawyers Lord Worth can afford, Cronkite never had a chance. Not only did he lose but he had to pay the costs."

"Which wouldn't be low?" Henderson said.

"Medium-high to massive. I don't know. All I know is that Cronkite has done quite a bit of brooding about it ever since."

"Such a man would not have to be sworn to secrecy?"

"A man can swear a hundred different oaths and break them all. Besides, because of the exorbitant fees Cronkite charges, his feelings toward Lord Worth and the fact that he might just have to step outside the law, his silence is ensured."

It was the turn of another of those grouped round the table to raise his eyebrows. "Outside the law? We cannot risk being involved —"

"'Might,' I said. For us, the element of risk does not exist."

"May we see this man?" Benson nodded, rose, went to a door and admitted Cronkite.

Cronkite was a Texan. In height, build and cragginess of features he bore a remarkable resemblance to John Wayne. Unlike Wayne, he never smiled. His face was of a peculiarly yellow complexion, typical of those who have had an overdose of antimalarial tablets, which was just what had happened to Cronkite. Mepacrine does not make for a peaches-and-cream complexion— not that Cronkite's had ever remotely resembled that. He was newly returned from Indonesia, where he had inevitably maintained his 100 per cent record.

"Mr. Cronkite," Benson said. "Mr. Cronkite, this is—"

Cronkite was brusque. In a gravelly voice he said: "I don't want to know their names."

In spite of the abruptness of his tone, several of the oilmen round the table almost beamed.

Here was a man of discretion, a man after their own hearts.

Cronkite went on: "All I understand from Mr. Benson is that I am required to attend to a matter involving Lord Worth and the Seawitch, Mr. Benson has given me a pretty full briefing. I know the background. I would like, first of all, to hear any suggestions you gentlemen may have to offer." Cronkite sat down, lit what proved to be a very foul-smelling cigar, and waited expectantly.

He kept silent during the following half-hour discussion. For ten of the world's top businessmen, they proved to be an extraordinarily inept, not to say inane, lot. They talked in an ever-narrowing series of concentric circles.