The Snow Tiger. Desmond Bagley
He looked through the window. ‘Is that the mine entrance?’
Cameron followed his gaze. ‘Yes, that’s the portal. Most people think of a mine as having a vertical shaft, but we just drove an adit into the mountainside. It slopes down inside, of course, as we follow the reef.’
‘It reminds me of a place in British Columbia called Granduc.’ McGill slanted his eyes at Cameron. ‘Know it?’
Cameron shook his head. ‘Never heard of it.’
McGill looked oddly disappointed.
Dobbs was saying, ‘… and Arthur’s Pass was closed for twelve hours yesterday, and the Haast has been closed since Tuesday. I haven’t heard about Lewis Pass.’
‘What have those passes to do with us?’ asked Ballard. ‘Our supplies come from Christchurch and don’t cross the mountains at all.’
‘They’re the main passes across the Southern Alps,’ said Dobbs. ‘If the government can’t keep them open, then what chance do we have? They’ll be using every machine they’ve got, and no one is going to send a snow plough to clear a way to Hukahoronui – it’s a dead end.’
‘We’ll just have to do the best we can, Mr Dobbs.’ Ballard jerked his head at McGill. ‘Let’s get you settled in, Mike.’
McGill nodded and said to the room at large, ‘Nice to have met you.’
‘We’ll have to get together,’ said Cameron. ‘Come over to my place and have dinner some time. My daughter’s a great cook.’
Dobbs said nothing.
They went into the outer office. ‘Betty will show you where the house is. The bedroom on the left at the back is yours. I won’t be more than an hour.’
‘Take your time,’ said McGill.
It was nearly three hours later when Ballard turned up and by that time McGill had unpacked, taken a walk around town which did not take long, and returned to the house to make an urgent telephone call.
When Ballard came into the house he looked tired and depressed. When he saw McGill he winced as recollection came back. ‘Oh hell! I forgot to tell Mrs Evans we were coming back. There’s no grub ready.’
‘Relax,’ said McGill. ‘There’s something in the oven – McGill’s Antarctic Burgoo, as served in all the best restaurants south of latitude sixty. We’ll eat well.’
Ballard sighed in relief. ‘I thought we’d have to eat in the hotel. I’m not too popular there.’
McGill let that pass. ‘There’s just one thing I can’t find – your booze.’
Ballard grinned. ‘Come on.’
They went into the living-room, and McGill said, ‘I used your phone. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Be my guest.’ Ballard opened a cupboard and took out a bottle and two glasses.
‘You get your supplies from Christchurch. I know you’re tight for space but is there a chance of getting a parcel in for me?’
‘How big?’ McGill made sketching motions with his hands, and Ballard said, ‘Is that all? We can do that.’ He checked his watch. ‘That truck Cameron had trouble with is leaving Christchurch with a load. I might be able to catch it before it leaves.’
He crossed the room and picked up the telephone. ‘Hello, Maureen. Ian Ballard here. Can you get me the Christchurch office?’
‘I had a look round town,’ said McGill. ‘It looks mostly new.’
‘It is. When I lived here it was a tenth of the size.’
‘Nicely laid out, too. Is most of it mine property?’
‘A lot of it. Houses for the married couples and single quarters and a club house for the bachelors. This is a mine house. My predecessor lived in one of the old houses but I prefer this one. I like to be on the spot.’
‘How many mine employees?’
‘At the last count it was a hundred and four – including office staff.’
‘And the total population?’
‘A bit over eight hundred, I’d say. The mine brought a fair amount of prosperity.’
‘That’s about what I figured,’ said McGill.
An electronic voice crackled in Ballard’s ear, and he said, ‘This is Ballard at the mine. Has Sam Jeffries left yet? Put him on will you?’ There was a pause. ‘Sam, Dr McGill wants to talk to you – hold on.’
McGill took the telephone. ‘McGill here. Do you know where Advanced Headquarters for Operation Deep Freeze is? Yes … near Harewood Airport. Go to the Headquarters Building and find Chief Petty Officer Finney … yes, finney as in fish … ask him to give you the parcel for me … McGill. Right.’
‘What was all that about?’ asked Ballard.
McGill took the drink which Ballard offered. ‘I just thought I’d keep myself occupied while I’m here.’ He changed the subject. ‘What’s with your Mr Dobbs? He looks as though he’s swallowed a lemon.’
Ballard smiled wearily and sat down. ‘He has a chip on his shoulder. He reckons he should have been put on the board of directors and have my job, instead of which he got me. To make it worse, my name is Ballard.’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘Don’t you know? If you trace things back far enough the whole mine is owned by the Ballard family.’
McGill spluttered into his drink. ‘Well, I’ll be goddamned! I’ve been hobnobbing with the plutocratic capitalists and never knew it. There’s a name for that kind of thing – nepotism. No wonder Dobbs is acid.’
‘If it’s nepotism it isn’t doing me any good,’ said Ballard. There was a touch of savagery in his voice. ‘I don’t have a penny except my director’s fees.’
‘No shares in the company?’
‘No shares in this or any other Ballard company – but tell that to Dobbs and he wouldn’t believe you. I haven’t even tried.’
McGill’s voice was soft. ‘What’s the matter, Ian? Come from the wrong side of the family?’
‘Not really.’ Ballard got up to pour himself another drink. ‘I have a grandfather who’s an egotistical old monster and I had a father who wouldn’t co-operate. Dad told the old boy to go to hell and he’s never forgotten it.’
‘The sins of the fathers are visited on the children,’ said McGill thoughtfully. ‘And yet you’re employed by a Ballard company. There must be something there somewhere.’
‘They don’t pay me any more than I’m worth – they get value for money.’ Ballard sighed. ‘But God, I could run the company better than it’s run now.’ He waved his glass. ‘I don’t mean this mine, this is a piddling little affair.’
‘You call a two million pound company a piddling affair!’ said McGill in wonder.
‘I once worked it out. The Ballards control companies with a capital value of two hundred and twenty million pounds. The Ballards’ own shareholdings are about forty-two million pounds. That was a few years ago, though.’
‘Jesus!’ said McGill involuntarily.
‘I have three rapacious old vultures who call themselves my uncles and half a dozen cousins who follow the breed. They’re only interested in loot and between them they’re running the show into the ground. They’re great ones for merging and asset-stripping, and they squeeze every penny until it hurts. Take this mine. Up in Auckland I have a Comptroller of Accounts who reports to London, and I can’t sign a cheque for more than a thousand