other. The two giants jostled for control. Obtaining the right to drill wasn’t simply a matter of commerce. It was a question of politics.
Hence Sir Adam.
Before settling back in England, Sir Adam had been a diplomat, rising to become the British ambassador in Tehran. He knew the Shah. He knew the country’s politics. He’d learned who mattered and who didn’t.
And that was why D’Arcy had come to Sir Adam that New Year’s Day. He had a proposition. The proposition was this: Sir Adam would help D’Arcy win an oil concession, giving D’Arcy the right to drill. In exchange, Sir Adam would earn a generous commission. Sir Adam, delighted with the adventure, agreed at once. He went to Tehran. He negotiated skilfully. He bribed the highest officials with gold, he bribed the lowest officials with paper. He even bribed the eunuch who brought the Shah his morning coffee.
Sir Adam did everything he needed to do.
And on 28 May 1901, he got what he wanted. He won the deal.
It was two months later. The family was at breakfast. Tom and Alan poked unhappily at their platefuls of porridge.
Then a footman came in with the mail. Normally, the mail would have been taken to Sir Adam’s study to wait for him there, but today Sir Adam was off to town and he couldn’t wait. He read a couple of letters in silence. Tom and Alan fidgeted with their porridge. Guy – who was no longer forced to eat the stuff – made a big show of filling his plate with kippers and scrambled eggs, as a way of annoying Tom. Pamela, who normally breakfasted in bed, came down to take a cup of tea and see her husband off. A little conversation moved in stops and starts. The wind outside creaked a shutter.
Then Sir Adam broke the silence.
‘Hello! Fancy that!’ He flung the letter down. ‘Very handsome of D’Arcy! Very handsome indeed!’
He was begging to be asked the news and Pamela was first to ask it.
‘D’Arcy, dear? What has he … ?’
‘The concession. He’s split off a chunk for us.’ He picked up the letter again. ‘“Delighted with your excellent work … blah, blah … Very happy to make you a small present … Gift … Drilling rights south of a line drawn from Bandar-e Deylam across to Persepolis.” Great heavens!’
But, surprised as Sir Adam might be, his surprise was as nothing compared to Tom’s. Tom was sitting bolt upright, white-lipped, open-eyed.
‘You mean to say we can drill there? By ourselves? We don’t have to ask anyone?’
Sir Adam laughed. ‘Yes, Tom. We have the drilling rights. We don’t have to ask anyone.’
‘Everywhere south of Persepolis? Anywhere we want?’
‘That’s right.’
‘The mountains,’ he said. ‘We’ve got the mountains.’
And he was right. Since his meeting with D’Arcy – and even more so since Sir Adam’s own involvement in Persian oil – Tom had become an oil obsessive and a Persia fanatic. He knew as much about the geography, climate, geology, tribes and politics of Persia as he’d been able to learn from Sir Adam’s library.
‘That’s right. The mountains of the Zagros. The wild country around Shiraz and the Rukna valley. Heavy work to look for oil there, I should think.’
Tom shook his head with an angry little flick. ‘There isn’t much chance of it there. The best places are further north.’
‘Well, you can’t expect the fellow to hand over his crown jewels. After all –’
‘But some.’
‘What?’
‘There is some chance. I didn’t say there wasn’t any chance.’
Sir Adam laughed at the youngster’s intensity. ‘Lord, Tommy! D’Arcy’s pocket is as deep as any, I believe, and I don’t think he’s ready for the expense of drilling there. I shouldn’t think that we –’
‘Can I have it then?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
The silence at the table grew suddenly cavernous. The family of five might as well have been breakfasting alone beneath the dome of St Paul’s.
‘Can I have it? The concession? If you don’t want it.’
Sir Adam smiled. Perhaps he’d been hoping to encourage Tom to drop the directness of his demand. Perhaps he’d been hoping to soothe away the sudden sense of danger that had for some reason arisen. In any case, he smiled.
It was the wrong thing to do. Something flared in Tom’s blue eyes. He pointed at Guy.
‘He gets the house and all the land. Alan gets – I don’t know – money? A farm or something?’
Tom was just about to turn eight and he was piecing together the facts from half-heard servants’ gossip. But he was more right than wrong.
Sir Adam looked stern. ‘Alan will get some money. And yes, there’s a little estate for him outside Marlborough. There’ll be some income from that.’
‘And? What about me? What do I get?’
Sir Adam licked his lips. Tom’s directness often came across as insolence. What was more, it was detestably ill-bred for anyone to talk this bluntly over breakfast – let alone a boy of eight. But, just as he was ready to speak a sharp rebuke, Pamela interrupted.
‘Well?’
She barely whispered the word. She did little more than shape her lips and breathe it. But Sir Adam heard it all right. He exchanged glances with his wife. The issue that Tom had raised was one that the two of them had often enough spoken about in private. Pamela wanted Tom’s share of the estate to be every bit the equal of Alan’s. Sir Adam, on the other hand, knew that his assets weren’t unlimited. Every penny he gave to Tom would have to be cut out of Alan’s or Guy’s inheritance. As he saw it, there was the issue of justice towards his sons. In his heart, he was unable to feel that his adopted son had the same rights as the children of his own flesh and blood.
‘Well?’ said Pamela again. ‘Or are you intending to drill there?’
Tom stared, as though the most important thing in the world had walked into the room and might be lost for ever if his concentration flickered even for a second.
‘Tommy, you wish to be an oilman, do you?’
‘Yes, Uncle.’
‘It’s no easy business.’
‘No, Uncle.’
‘It’s not enough to have a patch of land to drill on, you know. You need money and men and machines and –’
