took a few more half-hearted snaps of them for the local news. There was a stirring behind the curtain to the left of the stage, as if someone was putting the finishing touches to whatever exhibits lay behind it.
Sam reappeared through the door marked PRIVATE, spotted Brooke and bustled over to join her, diverting her attention for a few minutes with her animated chatter. When Brooke was able to tear herself away for an instant, she saw that she’d lost Amal in the crowd. Peering through the milling bodies she caught a glimpse of his back as he slunk over towards the bar for a refill. He didn’t look very happy. Shit, she thought. Maybe this whole thing had been a bad idea.
‘It’s so great you’re here for this,’ Sam was babbling happily for the twentieth time, clutching her champagne. ‘Should be starting any moment now … yes! There he is. Here we go. Shush, everyone.’
To enthusiastic applause, Sir Roger appeared under the lights, stepped up to the podium and launched into his speech as the glittering Neptune Marine Exploration corporate logo flashed up on the big screen behind him.
‘It’s no secret,’ Sir Roger began, ‘how in July of last year, after many months of exhaustive mapping and researching possible locations over countless square miles of the Atlantic Ocean, Neptune Marine Exploration, the world leader in historic marine salvage, succeeded in locating one of the greatest finds of the last several decades.’ He waved at the screen, and right on cue there flashed up an underwater image that Brooke had to peer hard at to make out. Against a murky, greenish sea bed was the shape of a decayed hulk barely recognisable as a sailing ship. Its masts had long since vanished, leaving just the crumbling ruin of its hull, scattered in fragments and half buried under countless tons of sand and shingle.
Marvellous, Brooke thought, thoroughly unimpressed. She glanced over in the direction of the bar. Amal had his back to the rest of the room, sitting hunched over his second gin and tonic. Or maybe his third by now.
‘The previously undiscovered wreck of the Spanish warship Santa Teresa,’ Forsyte announced proudly. ‘Sunk in 1588 off Toraigh Island near the Donegal coast after the Spanish Armada, repelled by the Royal Navy following their abortive invasion of England, were chased northwards and headed for Ireland in the hope of finding a friendly port and refuge among their Catholic allies, only to have the remnants of their fleet devastated by freak Atlantic storms.’
He turned to gaze lovingly at the screen. ‘I know, she’s not much to look at after sitting at the bottom of the ocean for over four hundred and twenty years. But thanks to the unique 3D underwater scanning technology developed by Neptune’s own computer engineers, we are now able to reconstruct in perfect detail the splendour of this once magnificent warship. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Santa Teresa.’
Forsyte motioned grandly at the screen, and an appreciative murmur rippled through the crowd as the computer reconstruction of the ancient vessel appeared in all her former glory – a vast spread of pearly-white sails billowing against the blue ocean, her majestic bow splitting the water in a white crest, the sun glinting off the dozens of bronze cannon muzzles protruding from her open gun ports, crewmen swarming up and down her rigging, files of brightly-armoured troops lining the deck. Even Brooke had to raise an eyebrow at the impressive sight.
Amal still had his back to the room.
‘I’m proud to say that the salvage of the Santa Teresa has turned out to be one of the most successful projects ever undertaken by Neptune Marine Exploration,’ Forsyte said with a grin. ‘This incredible achievement would not have been possible without the dedication, determination and diligence of our salvage crew and dive team. Nobody will contradict me when I say the man most directly responsible for this triumphant success is Neptune’s incomparable dive team manager. He’s been with us since the humble beginnings of the company back in 1994 and I’m proud to call him my friend. Ladies and gentlemen: Mr Simon Butler.’
More applause as a slightly-built man with sandy hair appeared on the stage and stepped up to the podium. Forsyte clapped him warmly on the shoulder, then moved aside to give him the mike.
Once the applause had died down, it was immediately apparent that Butler lacked Sir Roger’s flair for public speaking. He stumbled his way, red-faced, through a speech of thanks that consisted solely of cramming as many of the names of his team members as possible into a couple of minutes. The audience was soon shifting about restlessly and losing interest. Butler was visibly relieved when Forsyte returned to the podium.
Forsyte went on, and almost instantly regained the interest of the crowd. ‘As he launched the Armada to its fate, King Philip II of Spain spoke these words: “We are quite aware of the risk that is incurred by sending a major fleet in winter through the Channel without a safe harbour, but … since it is all for His cause, God will send good weather”.’ He gave a dark smile. ‘Sadly for him, and perhaps fortunately for England, it didn’t quite work out that way. And just as the fleeing Armada had to face the most challenging and perilous conditions that Mother Nature could unleash, even a highly skilled and expert outfit like Neptune Marine Exploration, with the most cutting-edge modern technology at its disposal, has faced sometimes appalling conditions and enormous difficulties to restore this historic treasure to the world. All through autumn and winter our salvage vessel Trident was battered by the same severe storms faced by the Spanish sailors all those centuries ago.’
‘That’s true,’ Sam whispered to Brooke. ‘I was seasick like you wouldn’t believe.’
‘We learned first-hand about the force of nature that drove the Santa Teresa onto the rocks off Toraigh Island and sent every one of the six hundred souls aboard to a watery grave,’ Forsyte continued. ‘But thanks to the heroic struggle of our entire team against all the wrath of the elements, we can now reveal for the very first time the extent and magnificence of the treasures that this lost wreck has yielded up for posterity.’
‘He’s a great speaker, isn’t he?’ Sam whispered to Brooke.
‘A little on the florid side,’ Brooke said, ‘but he makes his point.’
Forsyte motioned towards the curtains to his left, and as if by magic they glided open to reveal the screened-off area of the ballroom. This was the moment the audience had all been waiting for, and they surged eagerly forwards, the buzz of chatter rising to fever pitch as they took in the awesome splendour of Neptune Marine Exploration’s haul.
Arranged like a museum exhibit were racks and units covered in a dizzying array of gold and silver plates, goblets, candlesticks, trinkets. Open caskets piled high with coins and jewels. Entire dinner sets of fine porcelain. Then there was the weaponry – row on row of pikes, swords and armour, all gleaming under the lights. Mounted on an enormous plinth, a set of bronze cannons, polished to a dazzle. At the centre of it all was the warship’s salvaged figurehead, badly pitted with age but somehow brought to the surface intact.
Nothing could get a crowd excited like incredible wealth. There were whistles and exclamations. One of the journalists gasped ‘Fuck my boots’ loudly enough to be heard by the mayor, who turned and shot him a filthy look. A scrum of photographers jostled for the best shot. Everyone was thinking the same thing, even Brooke.
‘How many millions must this stuff be worth?’ she asked Sam, who beamed with pleasure.
‘Enough to have already sparked quite a nasty little war between the British government and the Spanish treasury officials claiming ownership
