The Abigail Affair Read Online Free
Why two? Oh yes …
“Time’s up and you’ve been run down by the Aurora or some other bloody large thing headed point-blank straight towards you. So I can’t put you on watch even for ten minutes and go take a shit. There must be some use I can put you to.” The officer shuffled through Toby’s papers. “Unimpressive CV. Three months at Sainsbury’s on the meat counter. ‘Work experience’ of two weeks at an insurance company as renewals documentation clerk. Don’t tell me, you got the sack.”
“It wasn’t quite my forte, documentation. But I did OK at the Snooty Goose. And check out my diving record.”
The man scanned down the page. “We won’t need you to scuba dive. Let’s stick to the bar. Can you mix a Screwdriver?”
Toby breathed a sigh of relief. “Highball glass, cubed ice, one shot of vodka, three of orange juice, decorate.”
“Hallelujah. What’s in a Tom Collins?”
“Gin, lemon juice, sugar, club soda, decorate.”
“OK, we’re on a roll. What’s a White Russian?”
“Vodka, Tia Maria, cream, ice.”
“No.”
“But surely … I mean I’ve always made it that way …”
“Son, a White Russian on this ship is not a drink, it’s a miserable 250 pounds of mega yacht owner called Ivan Nikolaevich Krigov who will personally break your finger off if you put a foot wrong when he’s in that frame of mind, because he lost a billion on some oil scam, or because his haemorrhoids are itching, or he didn’t get laid for twenty minutes. Alternatively he will bump you a thousand US tip just for mixing his cocktail nicely. Do you have any idea of what an oligarch”—he pronounced it “oily-garch”—“is like on his own yacht? Think of the Emperor Caligula crossed with Attila the Hun with a hangover. You should study the Roman emperors. I do. The madder the better. It will teach you how to survive this sorry business.”
“I like history. I studied the Cold War for A-level. I got a ‘C,’ too. And surely Mr Krigov can’t be that bad.”
“He’s certainly as mad as Mussolini. Robinson, are you sure you can handle this? I’m Scott, by the way. First Officer, Mate, whatever.” He picked up his cigarette and dropped it into a plastic mug half-full of water.
Toby was really itching for a cigarette himself now. However, he felt his pulse slow. He seemed to have passed at least this first test, if only with his knowledge of cocktails, gleaned in regular stints at the posh Snooty Goose hotel where a group of wealthy and heavily Botoxed women would gather for lunch every Monday. “I’m there,” he said.
“You see, Robinson, let me lay it out for you. We have just five crew on board at this moment. Not counting you, because I can’t count on you. That’s not really enough to go to sea. Even in this thing, which practically flies itself. The captain and the chief engineer are in Miami taking delivery of a new generator because it was quicker to buy a new one and fly it down here than get the parts from Japan to fix the old one. So once we leave the dock, we’re running on the No. 2 genny only. If that goes, all I have is the emergency generator to power the boat systems, and that won’t run the air-conditioning. So far, so bad. But that’s not all. My second steward has appendicitis and is at the mercy of St Helen’s General Hospital. He’ll be there a week, unless they kill him in the meantime, and even if they don’t, he won’t be fit for another three weeks. Even so, no problem—Krigov assured me he wouldn’t want the yacht until the end of January, so everyone is cool. Then this very morning he phones in to say get the old tub ready for tonight and the New Year’s holiday. Twelve hours’ notice of arrival! I tell him, sir, no captain, no chief engineer, no second steward, one generator, and he goes, ‘Scotty, don’t give me your problems, I pay you to have my yacht ready at all times to go anywhere.’ And he’s certain to bring girls because his wife is
“Time’s up and you’ve been run down by the Aurora or some other bloody large thing headed point-blank straight towards you. So I can’t put you on watch even for ten minutes and go take a shit. There must be some use I can put you to.” The officer shuffled through Toby’s papers. “Unimpressive CV. Three months at Sainsbury’s on the meat counter. ‘Work experience’ of two weeks at an insurance company as renewals documentation clerk. Don’t tell me, you got the sack.”
“It wasn’t quite my forte, documentation. But I did OK at the Snooty Goose. And check out my diving record.”
The man scanned down the page. “We won’t need you to scuba dive. Let’s stick to the bar. Can you mix a Screwdriver?”
Toby breathed a sigh of relief. “Highball glass, cubed ice, one shot of vodka, three of orange juice, decorate.”
“Hallelujah. What’s in a Tom Collins?”
“Gin, lemon juice, sugar, club soda, decorate.”
“OK, we’re on a roll. What’s a White Russian?”
“Vodka, Tia Maria, cream, ice.”
“No.”
“But surely … I mean I’ve always made it that way …”
“Son, a White Russian on this ship is not a drink, it’s a miserable 250 pounds of mega yacht owner called Ivan Nikolaevich Krigov who will personally break your finger off if you put a foot wrong when he’s in that frame of mind, because he lost a billion on some oil scam, or because his haemorrhoids are itching, or he didn’t get laid for twenty minutes. Alternatively he will bump you a thousand US tip just for mixing his cocktail nicely. Do you have any idea of what an oligarch”—he pronounced it “oily-garch”—“is like on his own yacht? Think of the Emperor Caligula crossed with Attila the Hun with a hangover. You should study the Roman emperors. I do. The madder the better. It will teach you how to survive this sorry business.”
“I like history. I studied the Cold War for A-level. I got a ‘C,’ too. And surely Mr Krigov can’t be that bad.”
“He’s certainly as mad as Mussolini. Robinson, are you sure you can handle this? I’m Scott, by the way. First Officer, Mate, whatever.” He picked up his cigarette and dropped it into a plastic mug half-full of water.
Toby was really itching for a cigarette himself now. However, he felt his pulse slow. He seemed to have passed at least this first test, if only with his knowledge of cocktails, gleaned in regular stints at the posh Snooty Goose hotel where a group of wealthy and heavily Botoxed women would gather for lunch every Monday. “I’m there,” he said.
“You see, Robinson, let me lay it out for you. We have just five crew on board at this moment. Not counting you, because I can’t count on you. That’s not really enough to go to sea. Even in this thing, which practically flies itself. The captain and the chief engineer are in Miami taking delivery of a new generator because it was quicker to buy a new one and fly it down here than get the parts from Japan to fix the old one. So once we leave the dock, we’re running on the No. 2 genny only. If that goes, all I have is the emergency generator to power the boat systems, and that won’t run the air-conditioning. So far, so bad. But that’s not all. My second steward has appendicitis and is at the mercy of St Helen’s General Hospital. He’ll be there a week, unless they kill him in the meantime, and even if they don’t, he won’t be fit for another three weeks. Even so, no problem—Krigov assured me he wouldn’t want the yacht until the end of January, so everyone is cool. Then this very morning he phones in to say get the old tub ready for tonight and the New Year’s holiday. Twelve hours’ notice of arrival! I tell him, sir, no captain, no chief engineer, no second steward, one generator, and he goes, ‘Scotty, don’t give me your problems, I pay you to have my yacht ready at all times to go anywhere.’ And he’s certain to bring girls because his wife is
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