The O.D. Page 18

  A thin man with a pencil moustache translated into French, leaving out the reference to translation checking, and ushered them to their seats.

  “Monsieur Bosse is delighted to meet you all,” Pencil-moustache said, “and conveys to you the paternal greetings of the French People. Our first stop will be the site of the proposed airfield− Site A on your map.” Mara was handed a map of the island on which all the locations mentioned in the French proposals had been marked. She held it up for Pilot, who stared hard at it, allowing his eye muscles to relax and his vision to fall out of focus. He sank into a kind of self-induced half trance, which allowed him the minimum conscious contact with his surroundings and the maximum concentration to rehearse his speech, co-penned by Mara, for later.

  At the first stop, he was only vaguely aware of a slight bump as the helicopter set down; of stepping out on to the rock; of shaking hands with Bosse for the benefit of the many photographers and video cameramen; and of then setting off for the next halt.

  “Cet homme est un imbécile,” Bosse remarked as an aside to one of his aides. The French Circus was proceeding like clockwork. The weather was fine, the filming going perfectly and there was triumph in the eyes of all present.

  At half past one, the French helicopters appeared again over Nillin and were soon standing in company with a lone British machine, still warm after its flight from Dorset.

  A distressed Major Domaigne came running up to Mara. “Qui sont ces gens? Who are they,” he demanded. “What are they doing here?”

  “They’re a crew from the BBC’s News Briefing programme,” Mara said. “We invited them to cover today’s ceremony. Do you have a problem with that?”

  Major Domaigne wasn’t happy. He and the other members of the Delegation cursed at the intrusion into their private show and looked suspiciously at the cameras and other equipment being unloaded from the gatecrashers. Their attention was diverted by Aaron Serman, who began ushering everyone into the conference marquee.

  The TF1 and BBC satellite dishes were positioned outside the tent and cables were run under the canvas walls to where their respective crews were setting up camera tripods and microphones in front of a makeshift podium. Austin Palmer, the News Briefing presenter, nodded discreetly at Pilot and then began talking to camera. Ten metres away, the French presenter was doing the same. There was one important difference that would prove to be pivotal. News Briefing was going out live, whereas the French broadcast was on a 16-second delay, so ordered by Major Domaigne in the event of any unforeseen problems occurring.

  Eventually it came time for the official business to start. The envoy who had visited the island previously stood before the table and made a short, sycophantic speech similar to that a chat-show host would make introducing his Star Guest, in this instance, the man who had ‘conceived and secured the future of Ile de Bonne Fortune, Monsieur Victor Bosse of the Foreign Ministry’.

  The man arose in mock humility, his eyes to the ground. He raised a hand and the orchestrated applause of every pair of Gallic hands not at that moment operating a camera or holding a directional microphone, stopped. He made a cursory bow towards Pilot and began speaking, without notes, straight from the heart of his ambition. Bartoli typed the English translation of his words into a software program which automatically ran them underneath the picture being transmitted live to the English speaking world beyond and to the monitor in front of Pilot.

  Bosse spoke for two minutes without pause about the unexpected gift they had received from Nature and France’s duty to share it with the world. He outlined the island’s importance to Nato and its enormous potential as a safe burying ground for France’s prodigious nuclear waste.

  “I think we’re superfluous to this part of the show,” Pilot whispered to Mara.

  Towards the end of his oration, Bosse was all but levitating. “Au nom du Président et du Ministère des Affaires Etrangères et de moi-même, Victor Bosse, je vous présente le Protectorat Français l’Ile de Bonne Fortune.” Before Bosse had even finished speaking, his stooges were on their feet clapping. Pencil-moustache leaned across the table and informed Pilot that the signing of the agreements would be taking place next.

  Anyone looking closely would have noticed the blood rise under the Cornishman’s tanned skin until his entire face was an angry crimson. He leapt out of his chair, cleared his throat, looked towards the BBC camera and began to speak, pausing after every sentence to allow Pencil-moustache time to interpret.

  “Before I start,” Pilot said, “I want to thank the French Government for organising our tour of Eydos this morning.” He knew that the next few minutes would either make or break Eydos’ credibility and was a little surprised at feeling so calm and composed.

  “I’m relieved you managed to visit our capital, Monsieur Bosse, because it gives me the chance to clear up the misconceptions you’ve brought with you.

  “This island, Eydos, is part of the European continental shelf that extends off the west coast of France. We all agree on that point. International law rules that Eydos lies outside French territorial waters, whether you call it three, twelve or fifty miles. You claim that the continental shelf is a natural extension of mainland France and that Eydos is therefore French territory within your Exclusive Economic Zone. It follows that New Guinea is part of Australia… Sri Lanka belongs to India… Taiwan belongs to China… half of Japan could be claimed by Russia and the other half by Korea… and Trinidad is part of Venezuela. What else ... The British Isles. They’d be yours, too. International relations would hit meltdown. All politicians would be dismissed and replaced by geologists appointed to draw up the new borders.”

  At these words, Major Domaigne, who understood English and didn’t have to wait for the translation, signaled a temporary halt to the TVI broadcast.

  “Reprenez le tournage,” Bosse commanded, overriding Domaigne. At this stage he didn’t see Pilot as a threat, and still had on his side the advantage of what he felt to be superior intellect, education and standing.

  Pilot ignored the commotion around him and looked consolingly towards his opponents. “I am prepared to concede one important point,” he said, brushing the ceiling of over-confidence with his head. “And that’s to admit that up until August fourth of this year, Eydos was French soil. For millions of years, this stretch of rock was covered by a vast blanket of sediment laid down over centuries as run-off from the rivers of mainland France. Unfortunately, when the shelf was surfacing, it shed the only real physical link it ever had with your country – the sediment I just mentioned.” He was distracted by a movement to his left and glimpsed Mara mouthing the word ‘no’ with a what the fuck are you sayinglook in her eyes. He had deviated from the speech she had worked so hard to help craft and she was livid. Then it suddenly hit him− the sediment in the pits. French earth mixed with their own. He erased Mara’s concern with an infinitesimal shake of his head. He’d already stupidly opened himself up to be shot down and his only salvation now was that no Frenchman would connect the dots before he finished his day’s work.

  The French delegation began to shift in their seats. So agitated had they become that the BBC sound recordist had to rebalance his microphones in order to pick up Pilot’s next words – words designed to deflect from the subject of sediment as quickly as possible.

  “When this virgin island came out of its muddy cocoon and broke the surface, the human race defaced it immediately. Our rusting barges southeast of here aren’t a pretty sight, and this place isn’t much better. Nillin is ugly now, but our aim is to bring aesthetic values into our building works – as you can see, we’ve already made a start− and to keep our human footprint as small as possible. Quite the opposite of what our neighbour here is suggesting. What France, among others, would like to see done to this island bears no comparison to the slight blemish we’ve made. Its scars would never heal.

  “But we’re not here to burn Victor Bosse. He has made his desires known far more honestly and openly than my for
mer homeland, Britain.”

  Bosse had heard enough and stood quickly, shaking his head from side to side. Mistaking Pilot’s seeming fairness towards his own country’s intentions in relation to Britain’s as a sign of weakness, he made a faux pas of majestic proportions.

  “My young friend is an idealist,” Bosse began. “Were he a realist, he would know that the survival of the human race depends upon the taming and training of the wild animal we would call Nature− the subjugation of her natural resources to the service of Man. Ile de Bonne Fortune has been sent, not only to the people of France, but to the people of the entire European Union as a sign that our efforts over the past century have been rightly placed and totally justifiable – a reward for all our labours and those of our fathers and grandfathers.”

  Bartoli was doing her best to keep up with Bosse’s monologue, the English translation of which Pilot was reading on the monitor before him. It was sufficient to give him the general course of the man’s drift.

  “I can sympathise with the sensitivities of these people,” Bosse continued, “but in a hard world, with hard decisions and hard consequences, it’s the blacksmith, not the poet, who survives.”

  My words exactly, Pilot thought.

  “I will ask Monsieur Pilot once more...” Bosse raised an undulating hand towards Pencil-moustache like a conductor bringing in the horn section, denoting he wanted his words translated fortissimo. “I invite you, Monsieur Pilot, to sign the agreements before you without recourse to further vain protest. Before you answer, I make this promise that your signature will secure a much more lenient view by my government towards the matter of reparations, which−”

  “Reparations?” Pilot interrupted, sensing a possible opening to Bosse’s glass jaw.

  “Yes, reparations. Half a million Neuros to the families of each French citizen killed by the tidal waves you have openly admitted foreknowledge of, and two billion Neuros for the material damage they caused to our coastal towns and cities.”

  Pilot read the translation, head bowed, hand on chin. Then, his smart phone signaled ‘message’. He read it quickly, positioned himself as near as possible to the microphone and said, “We would like to take a short recess to discuss this unexpected demand and will reconvene in an hour.” With that, he began walking towards the communications building, signaling Mara and Bradingbrooke to accompany him.

  Victor Bosse relaxed in a chair and crossed his legs, certain that he had just landed the knockout blow. Others in his party were not looking so confident.

  “Is Mr. Vaalon online yet?” Pilot asked McConie, who pointed at the monitor by way of reply. Pilot read the decrypted message still marching across the top of the screen. ‘We’re watching the live broadcast and I’ve got Fridrik Geirsson and three lawyers on conference call with me,’ Vaalon wrote. ‘You’re doing well, Lonnie, but we wanted to make sure you didn’t miss this last trick.’

  For the next ten minutes, the men communicated through instant encryption and decoding as if in an internet chatroom. Occasionally, Pilot would scribble a word or phrase in his notebook.

  ‘Under international law, you are under no obligation to pay France or anyone else money for damage caused by the waves from your island,’ Vaalon concluded. ‘But for reasons which we will now explain, a payment of some kind is recommended.’ His last entry contained a six digit number which raised both Pilot’s and Serman’s eyebrows.

  ‘Time for the coup de grâce,’ Pilot wrote in closing before sending Serman off to Storeroom 12 with a large bag.

  “Thank you for waiting,” Pilot said on re-entering the marquee. He ran his gaze over the French delegation and stopped at his nemesis. “I have this to say to you, Monsieur Bosse. Eydos will not yield a centimetre of its surface to France or to any other country you care to mention. I won’t say this again and would be grateful if you all left us alone now to get on with our work before winter sets in.”

  Bosse looked sadly at his adversary and picked up a thin file, which he held like a spear above his shoulder. The file was in fact empty, this particular gambit having sprung into Bosse’s devious but incautious mind only minutes before.

  “Monsieur Pilot. We come to the serious matter of the reparations which my country demands for the families of her murdered citizens and damage to our coasts caused by the seas as this island came out of the Bay of Biscay. It isn’t an unreasonable demand. Indeed, if the true damages were ever to be made known to you, it is most generous. The amount in full is four billion Neuros. But my government recognizes that such a vast amount is far beyond the means or the potential of your people to pay.” Victor Bosse was being swept to his doom on the waves of his own oration. “Ceding this island to France by signing the document in this folder will release you from your debt. What’s more, it will ensure resident status for each and every one of you on Ile de Bonne Fortune within the borders we will be drawing.”

  With an expression that could only be likened to a cat that is just about to bite the head off a field mouse, Bosse waggled the empty file at Pilot. “This is the best outcome your group could ever hope for, Monsieur Pilot. Take it.”

  After the final words of Bartoli’s translation had dropped off the screen, Pilot stood up again. “At last, Mr. Bosse, you have admitted to the world that Eydos is ours. For, how can we cede territory to France which is not? I’m glad we’ve settled that point. As for reparations, under international law, Eydos is not responsible for collateral damage resulting from a natural geophysical event. Having said that, in our capacity as a friendly, concerned neighbour, we are today able to offer France an emergency aid package totaling $101,000 cash in seven different currencies.” Pilot raised a finger and Serman handed the bag of notes to Bosse’s nearest aide.

  Pilot didn’t have to see Austin Palmer’s grin to know he had served an ace. There were no more points to be won in this particular game and Victor Bosse had no answer to his gaunt opponent. That he had shot himself in the foot was now obvious even to Bosse. Only one word left his mouth. To the French TV crew he made a sign with the flat of his hand as if he were slashing some unseen foe with a sabre. “ARRÊTEZ,” he shouted at them. “ARRÊTEZ.”

  “You haven’t heard the last of this, Pilot,” Domaigne hissed just before boarding his helicopter. “Vous êtes mort. J’y veillerai personellement.”

  Far away in the east, a bank of angry black storm clouds was brewing and it was into this that the retreating French delegation flew, leaving their emergency aid package on a table in the marquee.

  Shortly after dusk, the bonfire was lit and at its height sent flames a hundred feet into the air. Pilot stayed by the fire for most of the night, mesmerized by its dancing light and magnetized by its warmth. The flaming debris to him symbolized the end of French interest in Eydos. But there was caution in this thought also, because he well knew that beyond their shores much larger fires were raging out of control.

  Having done enough thinking in one day to last a year, Pilot walked back to his prefab, had a wash and slid naked next to the warm body already in the sleeping bag. Instantly, power over his person was transferred from his secondary to his primary brain – from rational thought to lawless passion.

  “I THINK IT IS TIDAL WAVE,” Dubi Horvat screamed through the ecstacy of a multiple orgasm a short time later.

  XV

  No one on Eydos had ever experienced a winter so cold, bleak or depressing as the one they had just weathered. February had been a particularly negative month during which the inmates of Nillin had begun to resemble the bleak landscape they inhabited− mere abbreviations of the high-spirited personalities that had come ashore the previous August. Most of them accepted their low ebb as being an annual malady to be endured, reasoning that their dormant core would be awakened with the first signs of spring. If they had known, they could have drawn a parallel with the billions of windborne spores that were establishing bridgeheads the length and breadth of the island. These were taking hold, not just in the rare patches and po
ckets of trapped sediment, but in the very fabric of the rock itself which, if studied microscopically, would have revealed a texture ideal for the germination of lichen. These organisms, were also just waiting for a change in the weather.

  During the winter, outdoor projects at Nillin had slowed to a crawl. For most of the island’s inhabitants it had begun to dawn on them for the first time where they were. They felt detached from the world they had left, yet unconnected to the one they had come to.

  Mail deliveries had been reduced to one a month and were a highlight everyone looked forward to. One diplomatic note from the United States was especially noteworthy and caused much laughter when Macushla Mara read it out over dinner. It boiled down to being an offer of professional expertise designed, in The State Department’s own words, ‘to pull your brave new world alongside the free nations of the earth... to help you locate, realise and equitably husband the natural resources of Eydos to the benefit of all mankind ... and, as a token of welcome to you, the idealists of Eydos, we offer associate membership of the Atlantic Alliance ...’ etc. etc.

  After putting it to the vote, Lonnie Pilot had replied diplomatically, but with economy, ‘We appreciate your encouraging words, but we are not in a position to join the Atlantic Alliance, even as associate members. As for the husbandry of our natural resources, we feel the best future for them remains in the ground.’

  “Cocky sons-of-bitches,” the Under Secretary of State mumbled three thousand miles away when he read the reply.

  Like Londoners exiting their bomb shelters after a heavy visitation by the Luftwaffe, the Nillinites stepped, squinting, from their domes into the first warm rays of the March sun. After the tensions of their initial three months on Eydos, culminating in their annihilation of Victor Bosse, the Islanders had every excuse to let their hair down, but they all knew that true relaxation was only possible under the umbrella of a wider ignorance. They understood the world too well and believed that the French retreat from the fray was just that− a retreat. The prevailing fear was that France would regroup and launch another sortie within the decade.