What were these guys intending to do?
"Well," he said, "if you want to place external devices, you have to secure them to the exterior of the hull prior to the dive. There are lateral shelves on each side--" he pointed to the model "--for that purpose. Once you're at depth, you have a choice of two remote arms to place the devices. How many devices are you talking about?"
"Quite a few."
"More than eight?"
"Oh yes. Probably."
"Well, then you're talking about multiple dives. You can only take eight, maybe ten external devices on any given dive." He talked on for a while, scanning their faces, trying to understand what lay behind the bland looks. They wanted to lease the sub for four months, starting in August of that year. They wanted the sub and the tender ship transported to Port Moresby, New Guinea. They would pick it up there.
"Depending on where you go, there are some required marine licenses--"
"We'll worry about that later," the lawyer said.
"Now, the crew--"
"We'll worry about that later, too."
"It's part of the contract."
"Then just write it in. However you do it."
"You'll return the tender to Moresby at the end of the lease period?"
"Yes."
Damon sat down in front of the desktop computer and began to fill in the estimate forms. There were, all in all, forty-three categories (not including insurance) that had to be filled out. At last he had the final number. "Five hundred and eighty three thousand dollars," he said.
The men didn't blink. They just nodded.
"Half in advance."
They nodded again.
"Second half in escrow account prior to your taking delivery in Port Moresby." He never required that with his regular customers. But for some reason, these two made him uneasy.
"That will be fine," the lawyer said.
"Plus twenty percent contingency, payable in advance."
That was simply unnecessary. But now he was trying to make these guys go away. It didn't work.
"That will be fine."
"Okay," Damon said. "Now, if you need to talk to your contracting company before you sign--"
"No. We're prepared to proceed now."
And then one of them pulled out an envelope and handed it to Damon.
"Tell me if this is satisfactory."
It was a check for $250,000. From Seismic Services, payable to Canada Marine. Damon nodded, and said it was. He put the check and the envelope on his desk, next to the submarine model.
Then one of the men said, "Do you mind if I make a couple of notes?" and picked up the envelope and scribbled on it. And it was only after they were gone that Damon realized they had given him the check and taken back the envelope. So there would be no fingerprints.
Or was he just being paranoid? The following morning, he was inclined to think so. When he went to Scotiabank to deposit the check, he stopped by to see John Kim, the bank manager, and asked him to find out if there were sufficient funds in the Seismic Services account to cover the check.
John Kim said he would check right away.
STANGFEDLIS
MONDAY, AUGUST 23
3:02 A. M.
Christ, it was cold, George Morton thought, climbing out of the Land Cruiser. The millionaire philanthropist stamped his feet and pulled on gloves, trying to warm himself. It was three o'clock in the morning, and the sky glowed red, with streaks of yellow from the still-visible sun. A bitter wind blew across theSprengisandur, the rugged, dark plain in the interior of Iceland. Flat gray clouds hung low over the lava that stretched away for miles. The Icelanders loved this place. Morton couldn't see why.
In any case, they had reached their destination: directly ahead lay a huge, crumpled wall of dirt-covered snow and rock, stretching up to the mountains behind. This was Snorrajokul, one tongue of the huge Vatnajokull glacier, the largest ice cap in Europe.
The driver, a graduate student, climbed out and clapped his hands with delight. "Not bad at all! Quite warm! You are lucky, it's a pleasant August night." He was wearing a T-shirt, hiking shorts, and a light vest. Morton was wearing a down vest, a quilted windbreaker, and heavy pants. And he was still cold.
He looked back as the others got out of the backseat. Nicholas Drake, thin and frowning, wearing a shirt and tie and a tweed sport coat beneath his windbreaker, winced as the cold air hit him. With his thinning hair, wire-frame glasses, and pinched, disapproving manner, Drake conveyed a scholarly quality that in fact he cultivated. He did not want to be taken for what he was, a highly successful litigator who had retired to become the director of the National Environmental Resource Fund, a major American activist group. He had held the job at NERF for the last ten years.