The Savage Gorge

TWENTY FOUR

The dining room was quiet. Few tables were occu pied. Archie was at a table inside a secluded alcove. He waved. As they sat on either side of him he took a package nicely wrapped out of a pocket of his tropical drill jacket, handed it to Paula.

'I have never thanked you for saving my life up on the moor. Otherwise I wouldn't be here tonight. Just a small gift.'

She opened it below the table, peeled off gold paper, removed green paper below, exposing an expensive leather case. Taking a deep breath, she unfastened the case and gasped.

Inside was a watch, its band and the watch itself studded with diamonds. Keeping it below the table she showed it to Tweed, turning to Archie.

'This is so beautiful – but it's far too much…'

'No more than you deserve,' Tweed commented with a smile.

'Thank you so much,' she said to Archie, 'but I can't accept it.'

'Yes, you can,' Archie responded. "The diamonds are fake. But don't consult it in the streets of London.'

He waved to a waiter he had told to come over only when he summoned him. By this time Tweed had helped Paula fasten the present to her slim wrist and she had pushed it up her sleeve out of sight. Menus were studied, orders placed.

'I'm still stunned,' Paula said as she studied the menu.

She looked at Archie. He really was a big man with a wide chest, a large head, a neat moustache and long thick hair. In some ways he reminded her of pictures she'd seen of prophets of the Old Testament. This impression was countered by the frequent warm smile of his thick lips. He looked back.

'You'll know me next time, won't you?' He chuck led.

The three-course dinner was so good they ate almost in silence. Talk would have ruined their savour ing the chef's excellent food. Then Archie signalled the waiter, who brought over a bottle he carried with extra care. Tweed stared at the label.

'Archie, that's the king of clarets. Costs a fortune!'

'Sip it first,' he advised. 'Now I'll tell you why we are here. About Black Gorse Moor…'

From a canvas satchel perched on the seat beyond

Paula, Archie lifted out a tightly capped plastic canis ter. Paula had seen him clutching it when she'd hauled him out of the hellhole. He first used large serviettes to create a concealing cloth tent. The table had already been cleared except for their glasses.

On their side of the 'tent' he placed the canister. He looked at Paula.

'Tell me what you see.'

'Four different levels of dissimilar liquids, separated by thick glass dividers.'

'An excellent start. Go on.'

'Bottom level is black as pitch, very murky. The level above is less dark with bits floating in it. Still pretty murky. How am I doing?'

'Fine so far. Now go on!' he urged.

'The liquid in the third level is lighter, but still very murky. The top level,' she concluded, 'is the purest brown-black. Almost has an oily texture -'

'Not almost,' Archie broke in. 'It is oil – of the finest quality, once treated in a refinery. Black Gorse Moor is sitting on top of endless deposits of oil. Forget Texas. I calculate there's at least enough oil there to last all Great Britain's needs for the next hundred years at least. We can forget Saudia Arabia and the rest of the OPEC blackmailers. How is the claret?'