Читать книгу The Armada Legacy - Scott Mariani, Scott Mariani - Страница 9

‘It’s no secret,’ Sir Roger began, ‘how in July of last year, after many months of exhaustive mapping and researching possible locations over countless square miles of the Atlantic Ocean, Neptune Marine Exploration, the world leader in historic marine salvage, succeeded in locating one of the greatest finds of the last several decades.’ He waved at the screen, and right on cue there flashed up an underwater image that Brooke had to peer hard at to make out. Against a murky, greenish sea bed was the shape of a decayed hulk barely recognisable as a sailing ship. Its masts had long since vanished, leaving just the crumbling ruin of its hull, scattered in fragments and half buried under countless tons of sand and shingle.

Marvellous, Brooke thought, thoroughly unimpressed. She glanced over in the direction of the bar. Amal had his back to the rest of the room, sitting hunched over his second gin and tonic. Or maybe his third by now.

‘The previously undiscovered wreck of the Spanish warship Santa Teresa,’ Forsyte announced proudly. ‘Sunk in 1588 off Toraigh Island near the Donegal coast after the Spanish Armada, repelled by the Royal Navy following their abortive invasion of England, were chased northwards and headed for Ireland in the hope of finding a friendly port and refuge among their Catholic allies, only to have the remnants of their fleet devastated by freak Atlantic storms.’

He turned to gaze lovingly at the screen. ‘I know, she’s not much to look at after sitting at the bottom of the ocean for over four hundred and twenty years. But thanks to the unique 3D underwater scanning technology developed by Neptune’s own computer engineers, we are now able to reconstruct in perfect detail the splendour of this once magnificent warship. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Santa Teresa.’

Forsyte motioned grandly at the screen, and an appreciative murmur rippled through the crowd as the computer reconstruction of the ancient vessel appeared in all her former glory – a vast spread of pearly-white sails billowing against the blue ocean, her majestic bow splitting the water in a white crest, the sun glinting off the dozens of bronze cannon muzzles protruding from her open gun ports, crewmen swarming up and down her rigging, files of brightly-armoured troops lining the deck. Even Brooke had to raise an eyebrow at the impressive sight.

Amal still had his back to the room.

‘I’m proud to say that the salvage of the Santa Teresa has turned out to be one of the most successful projects ever undertaken by Neptune Marine Exploration,’ Forsyte said with a grin. ‘This incredible achievement would not have been possible without the dedication, determination and diligence of our salvage crew and dive team. Nobody will contradict me when I say the man most directly responsible for this triumphant success is Neptune’s incomparable dive team manager. He’s been with us since the humble beginnings of the company back in 1994 and I’m proud to call him my friend. Ladies and gentlemen: Mr Simon Butler.’

More applause as a slightly-built man with sandy hair appeared on the stage and stepped up to the podium. Forsyte clapped him warmly on the shoulder, then moved aside to give him the mike.

Once the applause had died down, it was immediately apparent that Butler lacked Sir Roger’s flair for public speaking. He stumbled his way, red-faced, through a speech of thanks that consisted solely of cramming as many of the names of his team members as possible into a couple of minutes. The audience was soon shifting about restlessly and losing interest. Butler was visibly relieved when Forsyte returned to the podium.

Forsyte went on, and almost instantly regained the interest of the crowd. ‘As he launched the Armada to its fate, King Philip II of Spain spoke these words: “We are quite aware of the risk that is incurred by sending a major fleet in winter through the Channel without a safe harbour, but … since it is all for His cause, God will send good weather”.’ He gave a dark smile. ‘Sadly for him, and perhaps fortunately for England, it didn’t quite work out that way. And just as the fleeing Armada had to face the most challenging and perilous conditions that Mother Nature could unleash, even a highly skilled and expert outfit like Neptune Marine Exploration, with the most cutting-edge modern technology at its disposal, has faced sometimes appalling conditions and enormous difficulties to restore this historic treasure to the world. All through autumn and winter our salvage vessel Trident was battered by the same severe storms faced by the Spanish sailors all those centuries ago.’

‘That’s true,’ Sam whispered to Brooke. ‘I was seasick like you wouldn’t believe.’

‘We learned first-hand about the force of nature that drove the Santa Teresa onto the rocks off Toraigh Island and sent every one of the six hundred souls aboard to a watery grave,’ Forsyte continued. ‘But thanks to the heroic struggle of our entire team against all the wrath of the elements, we can now reveal for the very first time the extent and magnificence of the treasures that this lost wreck has yielded up for posterity.’

‘He’s a great speaker, isn’t he?’ Sam whispered to Brooke.

‘A little on the florid side,’ Brooke said, ‘but he makes his point.’

Forsyte motioned towards the curtains to his left, and as if by magic they glided open to reveal the screened-off area of the ballroom. This was the moment the audience had all been waiting for, and they surged eagerly forwards, the buzz of chatter rising to fever pitch as they took in the awesome splendour of Neptune Marine Exploration’s haul.

Arranged like a museum exhibit were racks and units covered in a dizzying array of gold and silver plates, goblets, candlesticks, trinkets. Open caskets piled high with coins and jewels. Entire dinner sets of fine porcelain. Then there was the weaponry – row on row of pikes, swords and armour, all gleaming under the lights. Mounted on an enormous plinth, a set of bronze cannons, polished to a dazzle. At the centre of it all was the warship’s salvaged figurehead, badly pitted with age but somehow brought to the surface intact.

Nothing could get a crowd excited like incredible wealth. There were whistles and exclamations. One of the journalists gasped ‘Fuck my boots’ loudly enough to be heard by the mayor, who turned and shot him a filthy look. A scrum of photographers jostled for the best shot. Everyone was thinking the same thing, even Brooke.

‘How many millions must this stuff be worth?’ she asked Sam, who beamed with pleasure.

‘Enough to have already sparked quite a nasty little war between the British government and the Spanish treasury officials claiming ownership of the wreck and its contents. It’ll rage on for months. But however it’s all divided up in the end, Sir Roger will get his forty per cent share. Look at him. I’ve never seen him this chuffed with himself.’

Brooke could see the security men positioned discreetly at the rear of the exhibit, at least eight of them, all extremely serious-looking. She wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d been government agents. There must be an army of them backstage, she thought, and a convoy of trucks waiting to whisk the priceless treasures away to a bank vault somewhere.

Remembering Amal, she looked back over towards the bar. He was still sitting slumped over his drink, mountains of gold coins, emeralds and rubies the last thing on his mind. She thought about going over to him, then decided he probably wanted to be left alone.

‘Now, it was by no means uncommon through history for regular line-of-battle warships of any nation to carry all manner of splendid artefacts,’ Sir Roger went on from the podium as the cameras carried on flashing in a frenzy. ‘But let’s remember that the Spanish Armada was no ordinary naval fleet. This was a full-blown invasion force, whose commanders were quite assured would make short work of the English defences, sweep rapidly inland and within weeks, perhaps even days, establish a new Spanish territory upon English soil. In fact, they were so confident in the overwhelming force of this massive fleet that its officers, many of them noblemen of the highest position, loaded their ships with a wealth of luxury goods, artwork and other finery – not just to enjoy on the voyage, but with which the country’s new Spanish rulers would have refurnished the palaces and stately homes of Tudor England. And of course if you want to set up a new government, you’re going to need money. Lots and lots of it. Aboard the Santa Teresa were scores of wax-sealed casks, stuffed with greater quantities of coin, gold bars, jewellery and precious stones than have ever previously been salvaged from a warship wreck. What you see here is only a sample.’

Perhaps sensing that many of the audience were too busy goggling at the treasure to pay him much attention, Forsyte quickly brought his speech to an end and invited questions from the media people. A forest of hands instantly shot up. ‘Yes?’ he said, picking out the prettiest of the journalists.

‘Sir Roger, Neptune Marine Exploration is famous for the amount of preliminary research it does before starting an excavation project. You must have been aware of what you’d find down there. But were there any surprises among the treasure?’

Sam leaned close to Brooke’s ear. ‘That girl’s a plant,’ she whispered.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Just listen.’

Forsyte chuckled. ‘Apart from the sheer quantity and value of it?’ he said, and the crowd joined in his laughter. More seriously, he added, ‘Well, in fact, we did make one highly unexpected discovery.’ He paused for effect. ‘It’s not on display yet, and I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for me to reveal it.’

There were groans and calls of ‘Give us a clue’ and ‘Come on, Sir Roger’. Forsyte held up his palms. ‘All in good time, my friends. I don’t think you’ll be disappointed when we eventually make it public.’

What a showman, Brooke thought. Forsyte certainly knew how to bait his hook. ‘What’s the big surprise?’ she asked Sam.

Sam shrugged. ‘You think he’d tell me? I only run most of the company for him.’

‘Now, enough talk,’ Forsyte said. ‘Please feel free to wander among the displays, and of course there’s still plenty more food and champagne to come. Enjoy.’ To a final thunderous roar of applause he stepped down from the podium and slipped away among a sea of arms reaching out to pat him on the back and shake his hand.

Sam turned to Brooke and tapped her watch. ‘Now that’s over, it’s party time.’ She seemed to notice for the first time that Amal was missing. ‘Where’s your friend?’

‘He’s … ah …’

‘Best go and get him, eh? Wally’s coming round with the car. We’ll be out of here in a few minutes.’

At the bar, Brooke laid her hand on Amal’s shoulder and said, ‘You okay?’ She knew the answer even before she’d asked the question. There were four empty glasses lined up on the bar in front of him and he was hard at work on the fifth. That many gin and tonics wouldn’t have put too big a dent in Ben Hope’s sobriety – but that was just one of the ways Amal differed greatly from Ben. His eyes were unfocused and his jaw was slack.

‘I’m fine,’ he slurred. ‘Fresh as a daisy.’ He slid down off his bar stool, walked three steps and had to prop himself against a wall for support. ‘Christ,’ he mumbled, clasping his head. ‘I want to be in bed.’

‘Oh, Amal, what have you done to yourself?’

‘The car’s waiting,’ Sam announced, materialising out of the crowd and pointing at a side exit. She was holding a laptop case and had slipped on a green cardigan over her dress. ‘You two ready?’

‘Amal’s not feeling well,’ Brooke told her. ‘I don’t think we can make it to the party.’

‘You’re kidding,’ Sam said, reeling as if all her plans were crumbling.

‘No, no,’ Amal protested. Making an effort to speak coherently, he said very carefully, ‘I don’t want to be responsible for spoiling your evening. You go.’

‘Hurry up and decide, guys,’ Sam said irritably, and headed towards the exit with a glance at her watch.

Brooke sighed. ‘What about you?’

‘Don’t worry about me. I’m still sober enough to call a cab.’

‘Are you sure? I’ve got no problem going back to the guesthouse with you. The party doesn’t mean that much to me.’

He wagged a finger at her. ‘You came here to have a good time. Now go. I … I command it.’

Sam was waving at them from the open doorway, mouthing ‘come on’ and gesticulating at the waiting Jaguar outside.

‘You’re quite sure?’ Brooke asked Amal.

‘Go and have fun,’ he muttered with a sickly smile. ‘Go. Go.’

She made her decision. ‘Oh, what the hell. I’ll see you for breakfast, then,’ she said. ‘Sleep well, and take care, all right?’

Amal watched as she left the building. The Jag’s engine was purring gently, its exhaust billowing in the cold night air. He couldn’t make out the face of the driver, but recognised Sir Roger Forsyte in the back seat. Sam opened the rear door of the Jag, climbed in and slid along to the middle to make room for Brooke. With a final glance back at Amal, Brooke climbed in after her and closed the door.

The Jaguar took off towards the gates.

That was the last he saw of her.