Hemingway’s Chair

her
ground-breaking study of one of the century’s most controversial literary
figures.
    ‘ There
have been strong rumours that Nordkom favour a link-up with the enormous
resources of the British Post Office, if, as expected, privatisation proposals
confirm the Government's decision to allow the commercial freedom Post Office
bosses have demanded for so long .'
    It
was nice to be going back to the centre of the universe, thought Ruth. Oxford was
fine, but nothing ever happened. She grinned to herself. She was looking good
and feeling good and she was determined to stop agonising about things. She
would call Martin when she got back and they would play the rest by ear. She
had even found a decent bottle of grappa, though she had had to scour Oxford to
do so.
    ' It’s
three minutes past seven ’ the radio voice sang through the soapsuds. ' Stay
tuned for the Dick Arthur Breakfast Show .'
     
    A
hundred and thirty miles away to the north-east of Oxford the soft throb of two
eleven-hundred horsepower MAN 12 diesel engines weakened and died. An anchor
chain clattered down through its hawse pipe and the long slim bow of the motor
yacht Nordkom IV swung gently round in a light North Sea swell, until it
pointed due north-west toward the tall, handsome flushwork tower of St Michael
and All Angels, Theston.
    Through
a low-lying band of sea mist the observer on the hill could just make out a
small motor dinghy put out from the harbour, driven by an athletic young brunette
wearing bulky yellow waterproof trousers and a yellow and black windcheater
bearing the Nordkom logo.
    A
few minutes later five men in well-tailored lightweight suits disembarked from
the yacht into the dinghy. Behind them came half a dozen crewmen in sweatshirts
and white chinos. One or two of the suits held mobile phones, all carried
briefcases. The distant sound of men laughing together drifted across the
water.
    The
dinghy reached the harbour wall as two silver-grey Mercedes estate cars slid
into view. The men, still laughing, one or two hanging back to exchange banter
with the woman at the helm, mounted the steps. Then they climbed into the
waiting cars which drove off to the north in the direction of the town.
    The
observer kept his glasses trained on the dinghy. After a long and inexplicable
pause, he saw what he was waiting for. Three short flashes of light issued from
it. He moved quickly down the hill toward the long, low concrete shelter set back
on the deserted stretch of beach to the south of the harbour.
    He
checked his watch as he went. It was twelve and a half minutes after seven.
They had half an hour.
     
    July
2nd was not the brilliant midsummer day Nick Marshall had hoped for. An
easterly air-stream spread dull grey weather over Theston and now there was
mist to contend with as well. ‘We’ll be lucky if we can see the bloody mast,’
he muttered as he pushed open the door of the Portakabin.
    He
and John Devereux arrived at the harbour at a quarter to eight. Nick Marshall
had already run seven miles and felt keyed up, but in control.
    ‘It’s
a wee bit early. The sun’ll burn this lot off,’ Andy Glenson assured him.
Glenson, a small, cynical Scotsman, was the foreman of works. He’d trained on
the oil rigs, in the boom years of the seventies. He’d seen money made and
lost. The third man in the cabin was Matt van Haren, the technical manager for
Nordkom.
    ‘You’d
better be right, lad,’ said Devereux. ‘If Princess Diana paraded up the beach
stark bollock naked she wouldn’t get as many TV crews as we’ve got coming here
this morning.’ He ran his fingers down a list on the table in front of him.
‘What’s going on? Are we offering free lunches?’
    Nick
Marshall didn’t smile. He ran his tongue over his lips. ‘Everything all right,
Matt? No last-minute hitches?’
    Matt
van Haren was slim and fair-haired with a moustache he was trying to extend to
a fuller beard. He was only a year or so older than Nick Marshall. He wore a
black and yellow PVC jacket over a teeshirt. A walkie-talkie hung from his
waist, it was tight, I tell you. But we made the final connections last night.’
    ‘So
we have...?’ asked Nick.
    ‘Three
pole antennae.’
    ‘That’s
good.’
    ‘...and
two transmission dishes,’ van Haren went on. ‘Both linked now with Zandvoort.’
    ‘You’ve
checked it out?’
    Van
Haren nodded. ‘I had them on the line one hour ago, everything is fine.’
    ‘And
the onward links?’ asked Nick. ‘All