Atom Bomb Angel

4

The canopied stern of Chanson II moved little in the calm St Tropez dusk. Two stout hemp ropes held her secure to the bollards on the quay, and a battery of smart navy and white fenders protected her port and starboard sides. Her teak decks shone with polish, her white paintwork glistened, and the gold lettering of her name and the word Panama underneath were immaculate.

She was a rich man’s boat, in a parade of rich men’s boats. One of a dozen and a half genuine gin palaces that sat swanking in silence down the most public part of the quay, opposite the cafés and the restaurants where thousands of holiday-makers from campsites and pensions mingled with the few wealthy villa owners to sip their cafés au lait and pernods and pick at giant ice-creams in glass bowls, and ogle in awe at the passing crumpet, and the stunning white bums of the boats of the super-rich.

Chanson II was one hundred and forty foot, and had fourteen private berths, all with en suite bath or shower, plus generous quarters for a crew of sixteen. One of the berths was a sizeable state room with a bedroom off it, that had a circular bed, with mirrored walls and ceiling. The private bathroom had a double bath and a Jacuzzi. In one corner of the state room was a twenty-six-inch Bang and Olufsen colour television set, and next to it was a matching B & O stereo. Down one wall, under a large expanse of glass that was more a picture window than a porthole, was an exquisite, genuine George the Third writing desk, with two telephones on it.

The telephones, the desk, the hi-fi, the television, the bathroom, the bedroom and the boat belonged to a handsome 46-year-old German named Deke Sleder. Sleder was a familiar name to the readers of gossip columns and glossy magazines as one of the world’s international playboys. A doyen of the jet set, five times married — once to an heiress, twice to film starlets, once to a rock singer and the last time to a black fashion-model — he was one of the world’s most publicized ageing trendies.

But living glamorously was not the only thing he was good at. He was also well known to the readers of Fortune magazine, Business Week, the Financial Times, the Wall Street Journal and many other financial publications, as a businessman to be reckoned with. Having inherited from his father a fortune in excess of four hundred million Deutschmark in interests ranging from textiles to oil, from high explosives to wheat farming and to the manufacture of ball bearings for railway carriage wheels, and having turned these not entirely humble origins into a combine turning over more than five hundred million pounds annually, Deke Sleder could not be reasonably described as either lacking in grey matter or being short of a bob or two.

A taxi drew up at the barrier at the end of the quay, and a short, plump American in a loud, checked jacket, tangerine Polyester trousers, white shoes with tassels, and a thin silver chain inside his open-neck shirt, clambered out. He was struggling simultaneously with the French language, a large Gladstone bag and the French currency. Judging from the expression of thunder on the taxi driver’s face, he had won his struggle with the French currency.

The American picked up his bag and strutted jauntily up the quay, reading off the names of the boats as he went along, until he reached the Chanson II. As he started to walk up the gangway, he didn’t notice a man at a café on the quay lower his copy of France-Soir and study him carefully through the 200mm lens of his Nikon before pressing the shutter button.

The American was excited. Invitations to spend long weekends on yachts in the South of France did not come often to Adamsville, Ohio, and he sure as hell was going to make the most of this one, even though he fully expected to spend most of the time discussing important business. That was what he had assured his wife, and he had assured her that in good faith, because it was what his host-to-be had told him. He was, all the same, a trifle curious as to what deal was so important it was worthwhile his host-to-be’s flying him all the way out here — and first class at that.

The American’s appalling dress sense and poorly kept body masked an intelligent, if limited, brain. He was at the peak of his career and would go no higher than where he was, although there were more rungs available for the climbing. He worked for the American Fossilized Corporation, a massive combine which specialized in the manufacture of aviation and rocket fuels, as plant manager of their Adamsville, Ohio, operation. It was public knowledge that American Fossilized was under scrutiny for a take-over bid from Gebruder Sleder GMBH (US) Inc., and it was public knowledge that the boss of Gebruder Sleder was one Deke Sleder. It was not, however, public knowledge that the principle business these days of American Fossilized, and in particular of its Adamsville plant, was the manufacture of uranium-filled fuel rods for nuclear power stations.

As the American stepped onto the deck, two burly men in double-breasted navy blazers, white trousers, peaked caps and white plimsolls, materialized from the stern cabin.

‘Can we help you?’ said one, guessing the man’s mother tongue first go. He spoke with a heavy German accent.

‘My name is Slan — er — Harry Slan. Mr Sleder is — er — expecting me.’

‘Good afternoon, Mr Slan,’ the henchman smiled. ‘Herr Sleder is expecting you.’ He stretched out his hand and took Slan’s bag. ‘Please, you follow me. Herr Sleder is sure you would like to take a rest after your journey, and he will welcome you aboard himself at drinks before dinner in two hours’ time at eight o’clock.’ The man led the way off down into the boat. Harry Slan could not see the wink that was exchanged between the man who remained behind and the man on the quay who was so short-sighted, he needed a 200mm lens in order to read his France-Soir.

They went down two flights of polished wooden stairs and then along a carpeted corridor. They went past a door marked Tirpitz, another marked Graf Spee, and stopped outside one marked Bismark. The man turned to Slan. ‘This is your cabin. On behalf of Herr Sleder, I wish you a very comfortable stay.’ With that he put down the bag and walked off.

Harry Slan picked the bag up and entered the cabin. Halfway in, he stopped in his tracks. Standing in the room, facing him, was a tall dark-haired girl, with a strong, beautifully proportioned body that almost rippled with energy. She put her hands on her hips and smiled at him. Her breasts were large and firm, and lifted up and down slightly as she breathed. The only stitch of clothing on her entire body was a minute bikini bottom, either side of the front of which sprouted thick black tufts of hair.

Harry Slan gulped and started to back out of the room. ‘Sorry — I’m sorry — er — wrong room.’

‘You must be Harry?’ she said, with a soft German accent.

‘Er — yes — er — sorry.’

‘Welcome to your cabin, Harry. I am your cabin hostess. Let me fix you a drink and unpack your bag for you. What would you like — a nice cold beer, or an American cocktail?’ She marched over to the door, took Slan’s bag in one hand and Slan in the other, and pushed the door shut behind them with her foot.