Endworlds - Nicholas Read [10]
Eisman was not helping himself by searching for his daughter on company time, at company expense. Why not, one sympathetic executive had quietly suggested to Hills, gently urge him to hire others to conduct such searching? Surely professionals would do a more thorough job anyway.
Hills regretfully conceded that he had already made the suggestion. He had done so on several occasions in fact, only to meet the famous stare that had earned Eisman the moniker ‘Ice Man’.
“My daughter,” Raef had told him unwaveringly. “My search.”
So Hills had covered for his boss as best he was able, making excuses and formulating rationales. He wondered how he was going to explain away the use of the company jet flying across the Pacific to an isolated blip with no commercial significance.
Receiving final clearance the jet banked to the right, filling the cabin with shafts of light that bounced off walnut burr and refracted through crystal tumblers and decanters. The landing was so smooth that it wasn’t immediately apparent they had struck ground until they were taxiing to a standstill.
As both men stepped out of the plane the heat and humidity hit like a bucket of wet towels in a sauna. Bearded with dense tropical vegetation the single town, if such it could be called, lay nearby. Hills was grateful for the air-conditioned Jeep that was waiting to take them to the island’s best hotel. When he had tracked down the manager hours earlier from the plane, he had been informed the hotel was closed for refurbishment, and been encouraged to book instead for the peak season. So informed, Eisman had responded with a wave that was at once commanding and dismissive.
“Tell him to open it up.”
Hills had tried his best to inject some common sense. “Just for the two of us, sir?”
“No,” Eisman had snapped, irritated by the impediment. “I’m bringing Manchester United on vacation. Pay him whatever he wants.”
That expense, too, had gone down on the company’s books—and would have to be reckoned with. William Hills was facile, he was clever, but he was not a miracle worker. Most if not all of this would be docked from Eisman’s retainer.
They spent several days interviewing locals. Did they remember the storm that had passed over the island on July twenty-first? Many storms passed over Pohnpei, he was told. The position of weatherman being an important job in typhoon-prone tropics, Eisman arranged a private interview with the chief meteorologist, a man named Ohmacai.
Displaying unexpected foresight, the weatherman brought relevant records with him, copies of which he placed on the wicker table between himself and the two visitors in the resort’s open-air restaurant. As Eisman worked his way through the records, the only sounds were the occasional chirping of geckos and the rhythmic crash of waves on a distant reef.
Presently, Eisman tossed the charts onto the table and met the stout Micronesian’s eyes.
“I see a lot of numbers.”
The weatherman smiled apologetically. “That’s what weather is, Mr. Eisman, sir. A lot of numbers.”
Perspiration beaded Eisman’s shaved head and he absently wiped a hand across his dome. “I don’t need numbers. I need opinions. I need facts.” His voice slowed, each word deliberate. “I need explanations.”
Hills had prepped the man on what to expect. The local’s eyes darted plaintively in his direction, but Hills offered no relief.
Looking back at Eisman, the islander nodded sadly. “I was told about what happened to your daughter, sir. I am truly sorry.”
“You were not told what happened