Death of a Supertanker by Antony Trew Page A

that sort of job nowadays, George. Always a lot of well-qualified applicants, many with experience of command at sea. But don’t give up hope. You never know when opportunity will come knocking at the door.’
    ‘I suppose so,’ Foley conceded, lost in private thought.
    Kostadis changed the subject. ‘You don’t like Jarrett. What’s the trouble?’
    Foley showed surprise. It was the first time Kostadis had mentioned the chief officer, and the question was irrelevant to what they were discussing. ‘You know that, do you?’ He paused, frowning at the older man. ‘Chemistry, I suppose. We’re allergic to each other.’
    ‘Nothing else?’ The marine-superintendent watched him through half-closed eyes. Foley fidgeted with the stem of the brandy goblet. ‘He fancies Sandy. Makes passes at her.’
    ‘She’s an attractive woman, George. Of course men are going to notice her.’
    ‘It’s more than that. She thinks he is,’ he mimicked his wife’s accent, ‘ quite outstanding .’
    Kostadis knocked ash from his cigar. ‘He’s a very capable man, I’d say. But that’s no reason for you to do the jealous husband bit.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘Would you say he’s a dependable man? One who could be relied on?’
    Before Foley could answer a man came from the darkness at the lower end of the terrace, walked past their table, turned and came back. ‘Nico Kostadis, isn’t it?’ He held out a hand.
    Kostadis stood up, stared at the newcomer doubtfully, then with a sudden laugh took his hand. ‘Stefan! What the hell are you doing here?’ They shook hands warmly. Kostadis introduced the two men. ‘Stefan Suvic – George Foley. Stefan and I haven’t seen each other for years. He’s from Nicosia. Or used to be. Sit down, Stefan. Have a drink.’
    A waiter came up, took the order and disappeared. For some time Kostadis and the newcomer monopolized the conversation, exchanging news, enquiring after mutual acquaintances and generally bringing each other up to date. Kostadis explained what had brought him to Durban – that he was staying at the Oyster Box and likely to be there another week. Suvic, it appeared, had flown in the day before on behalf of Iranian principals. ‘To sort out a tangled sugar contract,’ he said. ‘I’m staying at the pub next door.’ With a thumb he indicated the massive tower block of the Beverly Hills Hotel. ‘I’ll be flying back to Teheran shortly. Report to the people there. Then back to Nicosia.’
    The waiter came to the table. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said to Kostadis. ‘You’re wanted on the phone. It’s urgent, the caller says.’
    Kostadis apologized and hurried off.
    ‘Probably a woman,’ suggested Suvic. ‘It’s always urgent with them.’ He was a dark man with a low hairline and an expressive simian face, its seams and folds constantly changing. The mid-European accent suggested Czech or Yugoslav. Foley wasn’t sure which, but he decided there was something very likeable about the stranger, whatever the country of origin.
    While they waited for Kostadis they exchanged the small talk of men who had just met. Suvic asked Foley what he did and where he was from. He expressed surprise when he learnt that he was second officer of a supertanker. ‘Which one?’ he enquired.
    ‘ Ocean Mammoth. The ship Nico Kostadis has been talking about.’
    ‘Is that so? How d’you like the job?’
    ‘Not too bad. Has its snags like everything else.’
    The conversation turned to the forthcoming OPEC price increase, the state of the tanker market, the North Sea oil bonanza, and efforts in the West to develop alternative power sources.
    Suvic was an interesting, well-informed man and Foley was disappointed when Kostadis came back. It meant he had to take a back seat again.
    ‘Sorry‚’ said the marine-superintendent. ‘It was Hoffman of Marinreparat. The new rotor will be delivered to the ship tomorrow morning.’
    ‘Thank God for that,’ said Foley. ‘It’s been